#i draw a lot more hooved folks there :)

[amaiguri]

Fantasy Ecology (Worldbuilding of Yssaia)

Buckle in, folks -- I got fantasy creatures AND etymology for you <3

While I'm not the biggest ecology/spec evo person, my friend Jay is. She's figured out how the grasses evolved and why there aren't rodents in Yssaia and she's commissioned SO MUCH art on my behalf, I just 🥺🥺🥺

So, today, I'm going to showcase some of the plants and creatures she has made or influenced throughout Yssaia, since I def don't have time to do it all. But if you want to know more (and you don't mind that my website's images don't work) you can always visit tinyurl.com/Yssaia and read basically everything.

Plants — South vs. North

Euthalia's Flower Pamphlet gives you a pretty good idea of the humid, temperate environment of the Isle of Telethens and the North Coast of the Aftokratoria. The plants, overall, can spread out their leaves and blooms to absorb the sun without worry about freezing. Meanwhile, Vivinne's Pamphlet of Northern Plants paints a pretty stark contrast of gothy black plants whose pigment is designed to absorb light waves closer to infrared and ultraviolet because there is simply not a lot of that direct, white sunlight under the Upper Continent. Notice that the plants can't be as water-filled -- they'd just freeze in the eternal snows. Since Ysse magic is a thing, I'd like to think Northern plants have evolved shapes that increases the heat around them, making them ideal for shelter-creation too.

Rumateurs, the "Llamas"

Rumateurs are llama-like (and less alpaca-like) creatures with ossicones (like giraffes!) instead of horns! Think like 300+ lbs, thick muscle, smarter cuz they're pack animals (not herd animals) and need their toes clipped cuz they grow continuously. Their big noses evolved to heat the air with their body heat before it enters the rest of their system in their cold climate. They have split toes to make it easier to climb. Northerners rely on them for transportation in the craigy valleys and for their wool, meat, milk, hooves, and bones. FUN FACT: Only one of the rumateurs in my game will let you pet it, and other one will spit on you because it hates rich people.

Flavoneite, the Void Beasts

Flavoneite are six-legged, cat-sized, slug-like parasites who feed primarily on blood and Ysse crystals. Due to their jaw-shape and circulatory system, when they bite you, you lose the ability to perceive them -- as they manipulate your Ysse and thus, your central nervous system. Flavoneite hosts can last weeks or even months before disease and infection overtake, but will quickly become irritable or even hostile if you try to remove the Flavoneite. Talented mages can draw a Rune of Opening on the back of the Flavoneite to remove it but given the difficulty of getting close to the hostile hosts, sometimes it's simply easier to kill the Flavoneite before the host dies and its needs a new one. Entire villages have had to be burned to try to be rid of these things. Without a blood supply, however, Flavoneite can survive on Ysse crystals alone for up to six months -- they are extremely difficult to get rid of, once they are around.

Nonetheless, Senator Diacaius Praefori keeps a pet Flavoneite. He promises she doesn't bite. Much. And for some reason, he can still see it just fine...

Sandworms

The Sandworms of the desert, related to the Flavoneite, Eleftegos, Maret, and Shagbeasts also on this list, have evolved alongside the Sha Hir'za. The Sha Hir'za have bred them for companionship, protection, hunting, transportation, and terraforming. They all have ivory shells that guard their back and heads, though the exact size and shape varies by the specific breed. Note the purple hue on their bellies -- this is a special cell that helps sustain the Sandworm with photosynthesis when they don't have a lot of food. They primarily filter feed on microbes in the sand, but they can eat basically anything if it's small enough -- from insects to seeds to salt crystals.

Notably, Sandworms are not the local equivalent of Kosher.

Dageos, the Houndlets

The Dageos is a fast, pack predator with lop rabbit-like ears, fangs, and an extremely lithe body -- maybe weighing around 80 lbs at the biggest. They fill a similar niche to foxes and some Svanihk villages let them roam around openly. Dageos will sometimes hunt lone eleftegos but generally prefer to scavenge other meals or hunt smaller prey.

Eleftegos, the Ivory Beast

Eleftegos are omnivore filter-feeders with eat algae, plants, and small fish if they're able. Humans have never domesticated them, but they're so docile and intelligent that a well-meaning human can teach them to carry them around. While some Tsars might just traumatize their companions into subservience, most Tsars and Witches revere and love their livelong companions -- and while no one can talk to them, the assumption is that Eleftegos think humans are really really human and like to carry them around places (much like you would carry your own fluffy companion everywhere, if you could!)

Eleftegos actually means "Ivory Beast" because the Telethenians who named them traded Ivory before they had the creature, and then just named the creature after that. (You can harvest the Ivory without hurting the beast! They seem to be cool with this, once they realize it doesn't hurt.) The Svanhik folk have their own name for them that has nothing to do with their ability to produce Ivory.

Maret, the Slugbunny

Marets -- named so by the Svanihk folk for their six legs or six eyes (Ok, I just realized that makes no sense to you but roll with it lol) -- fill the ecological niche of ocelots. They hunt small animals, like voles and smaller lagomorphs, and fish, but end up as prey to larger predators. In the wild, their slimey pelts(?) are usually brown and gray with a couple of bright spots on their underbellies to impress their mates and to seem poisonous, but humans have bred them to be more different and bright colors.

Also, Arlasaire's seeing-maret, Fuafua, is purple for a very specific reason that I won't get into because it's spoilers. But, you gotta trust me. BUT ALSO, Fuafua is purple because my favorite color is purple and she's the mascot of Yssaia! Every franchise needs a cute animal mascot, right? Fuafua is perfect <3 <3 <3

Meuu and Meuu'otes, the Bunnygoats and Goat-bunnies

Okay, lemme tell you the story that Jay told me: On some island in the Mediterranean, there were a bajillion rabbits. Then, the ice age happened and goats came to the island. Well, after the ice age ended, the goats outcompeted the rabbits... but then, they started looking more and more like rabbits.

Thus, meet the Meuu (pronounced "Mew") -- the goats of Telethens. They're Bunnygoats. That being said, since Telethens haven't had rabbits for millennia probably, the word for "bunny" is "little goat", basically.

Telethenian Natural Philosophers note that, around the world, there is a tendency for everything to evolve back into a rabbit. (You know, like how carcinization says everything is evolving into a crab!) This may have something to do with how Ysse impacts the creatures of Yssaia.

Dandelion Fields on the Upper Continent

The Upper Continent is home to fields and fields of dandelions, as the grasses haven't arrived up here to outcompete them yet. These dandelions are frequently considered to be a symbol of human desire, hopes, and rebirth -- and they're a welcome backup food source wherever they grow.

Shagbeasts

Maybe TW: Arachnophobia but no spiders, Shagbeasts are fucking horrible.

Shagbeasts are the primary grazers inhabiting North Chrysig. They feed by raking their beak-like mouths across the ground to shovel the topsoil into enormous throat pouches before filtering the dirt out by shaking it through numerous pores in the throat.

They may seem docile and sweet from a distance. But, as they filter feed, their pores become clogged. They ooze a thick yellow mucus that coats the obstruction until it hardens and becomes smooth enough to be passed.

This mucus has an unbearable stench that shagbeasts are always coated in a pestilent aura that can sicken any unaccustomed to the smell. But these hardened pearls of shagbeast mucus have quickly become a valuable alchemical ingredient -- akin to whale ambergris.

But even more monstrous are their winged offspring: The Vampyrlings. The Vampyrlings are flighted, juvenile shagbeasts. They roost by hanging upside down from the shoulder-antlers of their parents. Unable to produce milk, shagbeasts feed their young by allowing the brood to parasitize their own flesh.

Without crucial hormones found in the blood of a host shagbeast, vampyrlings are unable to mature, and so, despite being able to fly, they are unable to venture from North Chrysig to colonize South Chrysig or the Lower Continent.

Vampyrlings will also violently swarm any creature that ventures too close to their host, and unless half or more of their number are killed, the swarm will not abate. But when it does, they will choose the easiest source of food yet: their fallen siblings.

The alleged "Land of the Gods" has done nothing to burn away the monstrousness from these beasts.

That's all for now folks!

Something that's important to remember, with the names of all my creatures (and yours) is that... language has power. If you have a conlang/fantasy name, which culture got to name the creature? I've tried to give all my creatures Englishy names so that you don't feel like one of my cultures' languages is more important than another (although there's many cases where I've just named them in only one language because I am LAZY lolol) but it's just something to consider.

BTW Idk if I've mentioned it elsewhere yet but all my work is available under the Creative Commons 4.0 license, meaning it's irrevokably okay to borrow and/or steal, as long as you credit us! I'm a big proponent of the free spread of ideas so if you want, you can use any of this in your own work -- even if it's commercial! Let me know if you do <3 <3 <3

#spec evo #fantasy creature #creature design #speculative evolution #speculative biology #worldbuilding #fantasy world #fantasy plants #fantasy writer #Yssaia #Amaiguri

[xaallo]

Bit of a follow-up to another post I did a while ago.

Been meaning to do this for a while: the many different inspirations that went into the Margaven! Margs come in a variety of forms, but most margavens are dancers. Here’s your standard marg of ambiguous gender. We make a lot a jokes here about what they are, but within those jokes there seems to be a discrepancy about margs are based on. Some people see a cow, some people see a deer, a horse for some folks, a lion for others, and some people even see a fuzzy dragon. I think that’s all very interesting (and an indication that I mixed my species pretty well if no one animal sticks out!) So, without first ado, let’s take a look~

1 - The Ridge Mane is actually based on equines, particularly zebras and horses. The neck and tail may be connected by a dorsal mane.

2 - The Horns or Antlers are primarily based on Deer or Bovines, but can ultimately be inspired by anything with antlers. The comb antlers were the product of me thinking “what if they had sideburns, but horns instead of hair”. Ironically, I don’t draw many comb margavens lmfao. Like reindeer, both sexes have antlers and like moose, the more symmetrical the rack, the more attractive the wielder.

3 - Margaven ears have a variety of shapes, but they are generally canid in shape. This lad, and Xaallo, both have ears inspired by the god Anubis, who is a jackal. Dobermans were also an inspiration; some margavens with naturally floppy ears will actually get them cropped. It’s considered professional and intimidating.

4 - The eye of the margaven is perhaps it’s only feature that hasn’t changed a bit since the very first iteration of the margaven. They are actually a combination of Kerrigan from Starcraft and Bonobos, the lesser known cousin of the Chimp. The shape of the iris comes from Kerrigan and the black sclera comes from the ape!

5 - The barbels sometimes found on margavens come from both catfish and eastern lungs, moreso the dragons through. Margaven were supposed to be the oldest of the species and the whiskers sort of give them a majesty and implied wisdom the other aliens don’t have (ironically, only Xaallo has barbels at the moment lol). While we’re here, the head shape of the margaven was loosely based on Aladar from the Dinosaurs movie, just mostly fuzzy. Not sure why I kept the snout scaley...

6 - Speaking of Majesty, the wreath mane comes right on down from lions! As a former fan of the lion king, it was only natural one of my favorite animals made it into my original species. The wreath mane would encompass both blue and red lines.

7 - The forearm scales were actually pulled directly out of the furry fandom off of the lesser seen and depicted anthropomorphic avian characters. In particular, from a certain blue jay and griffon.

8 - Naturally, though, I put my own spin on the forearm scales but having them end in cloven claws rather than avian talons. Margavens weren’t birds nor were they true mammals. Cloven hands were borrowed from minotaurs of mythology, particularly the ones from the first Narnia movie.

9 - The body of a Margaven is actually supposed to be more lycan inspired (though my art may not be expressing that very well...). Particularly, the Van Helsing werewolf. I was obsessed with that movie as a kid, and that werewolf is still the best depiction of them, over 15 years later. Margavens can shift from two the six limbs as needed, similar to the werewolves. The decision to add four arms came from Goro, Kintaro, and Four Arms from Mortal Kombat and Ben 10 respectively. Ironically, my main lad only has two arms lmfao

10 - The hooves of the Margaven are primarily reindeer-like; large and wide to prefect sinking in snow or sand. However, they can be full-hooved or one-toed, like a horse, but this is uncommon. Only about a third of the population have this hoof type and the majority of those are clashers. Hooves may have feathering, which of course comes from horses.

11 - And finally the tail. Looks like a wolf, but it’s actually more long-haired feline; like a maine coon. Most margs have big, bushy tails, short tails, or heavy tails.

#meta #margavens #mun art #'we have dragon at home' #the dragon:

[sexcell1]

How to draw a kawaii unicorn

1. Introduction: Want to learn how to draw a kawaii unicorn? This video is for you! The Kawaii Unicorn was launched to the entire world in 2014 and is widely noticed as a new design and style design that is attaining reputation amongst youthful ladies and women. What is most substantial about this unicorn is that it’s a one particular-of-a-sort design, a exclusive development. The unicorn itself is produced of four areas: the human body, the head, the legs, and the hooves. The components are arranged in an intricate sample that provides it an practically 3D search. This fashion is not your daily style craze it is a new sort of style that will be ongoing to evolve into even a lot more kawaii styles. We are confident that you will uncover one thing you can relate to or stand out inside of these patterns we hope you appreciate finding out how to draw a Kawaii Unicorn Type! 2. What You may Need to have: All you want is a piece of paper and anything to attract with. If you are questioning what in the globe a “kawaii girl” is, this submit will hopefully be able to support. I assure. All it takes is a piece of paper and some crayons or markers, but regardless of whether you are searching for a unicorn, cat or any other sweet animal drawing design, we have you lined with our selection of kawaii female drawings. kawaii clothing that we have shown listed here are cost-free to obtain and use! Just follow these methods to obtain and save them: 1. Go to our web site ( http://www.kawaii-drawings.com ) two. Click on on "Drawing" on the prime right corner of the page (the place it states "Browse" then simply click on "Drawing" again) 3. Simply click on any picture 4. Decide on your favored style (unicorn, cat, horse etc.) and click on on it 5. Save your drawing by clicking on the orange + icon at the bottom of the screen that says "Preserve Drawing as..." (You'll know when you've saved considering that the monitor will switch into a sq. a single) three. Stage by Phase Directions: Comply with together with the video and you are going to be drawing your personal kawaii unicorn in no time! Kawaii, the adorable and elegant anime female fashion, is the most well-known character style in Japan. A kawaii girl is a kid-like woman that has a sweet face and dimples. She is generally portrayed with curly hair and pink or pinkish-purple eyes. You can check out this type by pursuing these methods: Action one: Attract your unicorn's physique shape one.) Attract a rectangle in your artboard which is at least as extended as your unicorn’s human body length (on the right aspect of the photograph). two.) Use your pink circle to draw a circle all around this rectangle. three.) Use your pink sq. to attract an oval around this circle. 4.) Use your pink triangle to draw an oval all around the oval you just drew on leading of the circle you manufactured in Step one. 5.) Use your black dot to hook up all 4 corners of this oval. 4. Guidelines & Tips: Listed here are some additional tips and tips to aid you out. Kawaii is a Japanese term for sweet, and this is our consider on it — a sweet unicorn. Traditionally, unicorns are considered to be wonderful, stunning creatures with the horn of a horse. Traditionally they ended up imagined to be creatures from the land of Narnia and they have been stated to be magical creatures as properly as currently being very good pals with horses. Nonetheless, over time the notion of unicorns has been absorbed into Western tradition in diverse techniques which can make them much more relatable for non-Asian folks who are intrigued in Japanese lifestyle. In terms of drawing, a unicorn is not as simple as adhere figures — you must consider about two things when portray one: • The eyes: A bit like how you would attract people’s eyes if you want your character to search happy and enthusiastic then you require eyes that are huge and bright • The nose: The nostril (or nostrils) is in which the air passes by means of — this may well not be what’s intended by “unicorn” but it’s near adequate that we can use it listed here To attract illustrations like this a single you can use our free of charge on the internet unicorn tutorial generator listed here .

#kawaii clothes #kawaii #kawaii fashion

[absynthe--minded]

Could I beg something about your “Aragorn’s Upsetting Haircut” headcanon? No pressure of course!!

(this is going to be presented in more than one installment, but I couldn’t resist sharing! a few things: this fic is consistent with the rest of my personal canon, and it draws upon the headcanon that Aragorn and Arwen married by elvish standards upon Cerin Amroth but still consider themselves betrothed by Mannish standards.)

When Arwen came down into the Valley again, the Sun was low in the sky, hovering just above the tops of the Chithaeglir and casting long shadows across the trees and the river below. She could tell, immediately, when she crossed their borders, passing through the wards easily. There was Song here, bound into the rock and the roots of the mountains, curling about her and pulling the weariness from her body. Celeg seemed easier too, slowing from a trot to a walk; she knew he could feel the change just as surely as she did. Come home, the Song whispered, threads of melody pulling her along the path toward the gleaming lights of her home. Come home, and be healed of your pains. 

It would be easy - too easy - to slip the bounds of her body and bone, to cast herself upon the shadows and ride the winds down to her own bedroom window. The thought was tempting, and even more tempting when she considered the ache in her hip that hadn’t ceased since the skirmishes three weeks past had left her with a deep and ugly wound.

Her lord father had sent her out in search of four hobbits and - perhaps - her betrothed, her secret husband, all wandering in the wilds while ulaer pursued them. She was not alone, though she had departed first, weeks before the others. It was foresight that had driven her father to speak with her, and foresight that pushed her to saddle Celeg and leave Imladris under cover of darkness. Glorfindel had been the next to leave, far later, keeping close to the Road, traveling westward and anticipating that the servants of Sauron would not have left it far behind. Last were her brothers, abandoning their errantry, making for what Men called the Angle where Mitheithel and Bruinen met and merged. It had been her lot to travel north, and north she had gone, albeit in a disjointed, somewhat defiant fashion, moving from the Ettenmoors to the North Downs and then at last down to Sarn Ford and the Dúnedain she knew would be there.

Her guess had been that her betrothed, if he was with the hobbits, had met them at that border of the Shire, and had accompanied them up the Greenway to Bree before striking out into the wilderness. None of her travels had given any sign of him, and so it was in frustration and defeat that she had come to the encampment, seeking some tidings that might guide her, and found it in disarray.

Aragorn had been there - days past, departing after a disastrous attack by the ulaer that had left three men dead and four wounded, with Halbarad trying valiantly to maintain order and hold the border. He had left in a great haste, as if fleeing from their enemies, saying only that he was making for Bree. He was followed shortly after by Mithrandir, who had come and gone from the Shire like a grey cloud blown back and forth by a storm. It had been her aim to seek them out, and offer her strength in song and sword against the darkness.

Fate had not been so kind. 

Sarn Ford had been attacked a second time while she was there, the enemies assailing it now flesh and blood. There were still evil Men who dwelt in the North and recalled the name of Angmar, and their blades were as formidable now as they had been in centuries past. Her voice had been needed, the night and the river turning upon the would-be intruders and her ancestress’s blood sparking in her veins to claim the borders, but she was no true soldier for all her skill with a blade, and her body was ruled by the limits of the Incarnates. The fighting had reached her, while she stood thigh-deep in rushing water and twined her words through its echoes of long-ago music, and someone now-dead had plunged a dagger into her hip. The wound would have been fatal if not for Halbarad, who had pulled her back from the thick of the battle and seared it closed with the flat of a pan from the smoldering cooking-fire before she could bleed out. She had not ceased her singing, and her assailant found himself dragged beneath the surface of the Baranduin and drowned. 

Two days were all she could spare, one to recover what strength she might and another to force her legs to obey her will. Halbarad had begged her to stay - what wrath their Chieftain might bring down upon them, he’d said, if his Lady died in the wilds when they might have saved her! But she was Lúthien’s heir, and would not be kept from his side, and no words would hold her in obligation. Celeg, for his part, was uninjured, having been kept from the fighting by his own good sense, and he gladly bore her northward a second time. 

That had been twenty-one days ago, and each day had been fruitless and empty. She searched through the North Downs again, and the Weather Hills, and the Coldfells, growing more and more desperate with each setting Sun. She could feel the ulaer on the move, dreaming of their horses’ hooves thundering over the hard-packed ground of the Road even as she slept, and she could not ignore the fear rising in her like a spike that sought to pierce her heart. Her betrothed was a valiant man, and canny, and careful, but there were terrors that sought him out unlike any he had faced before, and the hobbits were almost certainly inexperienced travelers.

At last, she had been forced to admit defeat. The year was truly turning cold, and her food had been exhausted, and it had been nigh on two mortal months since her departure. She had hoped that whatever tenuous thread bound her to Aragorn would have led her to him, but the world was dark now, shielded by evil mists that clouded her thought and her heart, and the closed wound on her hip had begun to fester beneath its scar. So it was to home she had turned, leaving the fells behind her, coming back down into Imladris from the north. She had not slept in three days, blind almost to all beyond her body.

A fine daughter I am, she thought as Celeg made his way down the ridge, careful and steady. A fine wife, for that matter. But daughters of Lúthien did not pout, and they certainly did not cry from exhaustion. 

The Valley was unusually quiet this afternoon. As always, the Bruinen sang, and the birds welcomed her, but her own folk were strangely absent on the pathways and in the trees. The wards still stood, so she knew there had not been some calamity, and there was no whisper of a siege on the air - it felt almost as if Tarnin Austa had arrived a second time in the same year, and all who dwelt within their borders had come into the house proper to celebrate. 

Or to mourn, she thought, and made a face and refused to dwell on that fear. 

The stables were just as quiet as the rest of Imladris, and she was able to dismount and lead Celeg back to his stall in peace. The great black gelding had borne her without complaint through the long weeks, and yet she could see in his ears and the swish of his tail that he was glad to be home. 

“I know,” she murmured, opening the door and stepping inside, watching him look at her expectantly. “You’ll get a full grooming, I promise.” And then it’s a long bath for me, and a visit to my father regarding my hip. 

“Allow me, my lady,” a second voice said, cutting through the silence. She flinched, shrinking back against her horse for half a heartbeat - it had been days on end since she’d heard another’s voice, and she was suddenly acutely aware of how detached from herself she had become. But she knew that voice, and shock and surprise were quick to take the place of fear.

“Glorfindel?” she asked, peering over the door to see her father’s captain leaning against a post. He was standing in another stall directly across from her, alongside Asfaloth, who was contentedly making short work of some hay. “You - !” Dismay stopped her, silencing her joy. There was only one reason he would have returned after so short a time away - he, too, had failed.

“I?” the ellon asked, raising an eyebrow. “What about me?”

“You didn’t find them,” she said. “You’ve the same tale to tell as I.”

His face grew serious and yet lost none of its joy, and he opened the door to Asfaloth’s stall and stepped out of it, closing the latch behind him. 

“No, my lady,” he told her, eyes shining as he spoke. “I’ve a different tale.” 

“What?” she asked, motionless, unable to look away from him. She could see now that he was dressed for merrymaking and revelry, clad in bright scarlet and deep blue, his tunic gleaming with passing thread and his hair braided through with well-placed gems. “But - I found nothing, and surely I would have known if - !” If he were slain, if he lay dead, if the ulaer claimed him for their number…

“My lady,” Glorfindel said, one hand reaching out and taking her gloved one carefully. “I found him in the hills, and I have brought him home.”

Tears filled her eyes, and she sat down hard, sinking to the floor of the stable as her hip protested and relief flooded every inch of her body.

#absynthe's fanfiction #lord of the rings #tolkien #aragorn #arwen #nikosheba

[anonniemousefics]

The Nine Terrifying Moons | Chapter Three

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight | Chapter Nine | Chapter Ten

Fandom: The Folk of the Air | Jude + Cardan

Synopsis: Based on the response to this post. :) Jude’s not sure what she expected motherhood to be like, but it isn’t this.  

(SO MUCH FLUFF HERE. Really. Just. The fluffiest. I can’t help myself.)

Chapter Three: The Third

I think maybe I am meant to be a cautionary tale, not a happy ending.

I think that someone who has manipulated and lied and schemed as much as I have is destined only for tragedy.

And now it’s finally come for me.

I think this over and over again, like a spell I’m chanting to grant myself some measure of grim acceptance, while Cardan and I ride a ragwort horse all the way to the mortal realm. It’s the best course of action we can come up with in the moment of panic.

The moment I knew we were facing a potentially devastating complication, I wanted – no, needed – a human doctor.

Pregnancy is rare among the Folk, and I now find I’m not interested in trusting faerie midwives with a decidedly human condition. If there is something wrong with me, or with our baby, I want to know what it is, everything about it. I don’t trust anyone who might want to strike a deal for my child’s wellbeing or concoct some potion that, while saving the pregnancy, also gives our baby a third eye or snaggle-teeth or an appetite for blood. I’m also having flashbacks of a conversation long ago with Oriana, when she divulged details of Oak’s horrific birth. How there’d been complications that had cost Liriope her life. How Oriana herself had carved the baby out of her friend’s stomach.

I shudder hard at the recollection and press my cheek hard against Cardan’s back as we ride, my face between his shoulder blades. Hard pass. On every bit of that. Just – one massive hard pass. We are finding a real doctor.

Cardan didn’t even argue. Though he insisted it was time to tell The Court of Shadows, if only for safety reasons while we made an unannounced, unplanned emergency run to the mortal realm.

Nothing goes like either of us had hoped. There are no tears of joy. There are only tight, grim expressions and tense words while plans are made. How we will prevent our enemies from learning of the child and our absence. How we will remain protected while among mortals.

I have hardly a word of help to offer, and that alone is horrifying. I have always schemed and survived – it’s what I am. But there, instead, I can only sit with a hand at my flat stomach, my sole focus on willing this little rebel in me to hear her mother’s first command.

Don’t go. Please. I love you.

Please stay.

Please.

I’ve resented this for weeks, and now I’m begging for the nausea, the aches, the exhaustion to stay – all of it. Any reassurance that I’m not losing this newfound love before I’ve even really gotten to know it.

But I also wonder if I should just accept fate. I have always felt from the beginning that I did not deserve this. That I am stealing a happiness that I have not earned.

“How are you faring?” Cardan asks me over his shoulder, the whine of the wind in my ears. We’re somewhere over the sea, jostled by the roll of the ragwort horse’s gallop beneath us.

“The same,” I answer. Sick. Dizzy. Terrified of what comes next. Unconsciously, I grip his body to mine harder. He’s tense, every muscle on edge. This is unlike any journey we’ve made yet. There’s nothing to fight, and still everything to lose.

“Nearly there,” says Cardan, but it sounds like he’s saying it more for his own benefit. He hates the journey over the sea, the precariousness of ragwort horse travel. I’m not in any state to offer reassurances, or even tease him to lighten the mood.

Sure enough, the clouds part, and the city lights along the coast of Maine wink up at us. It’s evening, and dark beneath a heavy rain cloud, and as soon as we’re low enough, we’re being pelted with sheets of rain. By the time the ragwort horse alights its oaken-hooves on the pavement, Cardan and I are both soaked to the skin.

We dismount, invisible beneath a glamour, at the far end of a hospital parking lot. The sign at the entrance glows with a red cross and the name, Down East Community Hospital. It was the best I could think of to do at a moment’s notice: instruct the ragwort horse to find us an emergency room.

I wrap my arms around myself as Cardan holds out a hand to gather up the horse. The leaves of its mane and the bark-like coat of its body begin to curl in on itself, like a plant rolling in on itself for the night. A moment later, it’s only a few leafy twigs that Cardan can hide in his pocket.

We both look absurd, and I’m just now realizing it. We look like we’ve just run out of a community theatre dress rehearsal for a low-budget melodrama. Cardan’s tried to dress down, but he’s still Cardan, and he’s wearing tight black trousers and tall boots over his calves. He’s thrown one of the zip-up hoodies I keep in my wardrobe for trips to the mortal realm over a loose white shirt. He also must have been feeling particularly festive this morning after last night’s romp, and he’d gone and added a bit of kohl to his eyes before I’d woken up and shit hit the fan. And he’s still wearing gold rings all over his fingers and in his pointed ears. Combined with his soaked, inky hair, he looks a bit like a member of an 80’s rock cover band who’s recovering from being pushed into a pool.

It’s kind of nice. He rarely looks a mess. It makes me feel like we’re in this together, at least.

For my part, I didn’t let Tatterfell braid my auburn hair today, and now it’s just long and windblown, so I’ve tried to pull it all to one side to keep it managed. I’m wearing a simple pair of brown trousers with little silken flats that were my least flashy pair of shoes. I’ve got a shirt and olive-colored vest on beneath a hoodie similar to Cardan’s that was supposed to keep me warm, but now it’s sopping wet.

We both pulls the hoods on our sweatshirts up over our heads as we make a mad dash for the automatic sliding doors of the ER, racing against the onslaught of rain. Once we’re inside the vestibule between sliding doors, I stop a moment to grab Cardan’s arm and gather myself. He puts a bejeweled hand over mine, his expression tightened in concern.

“I’ve never done this before,” I confess, breathless. Hospitals, emergency rooms, doctors. It’s all foreign to me.

“I’ve done it even less.” Cardan’s looking more pale by the minute. The rising terror in both of us is palpable.

“I should call Vivi,” I spout, and Cardan’s nodding furiously in agreement, for once graciously not pointing out how he’s been saying this very thing for weeks.

But when I look around, there’s not a phone in sight. There’s only a poorly lit waiting room on the other side of the glass vestibule, and bored-looking nurses waiting at intake windows. Shit. Shit. How do mortals do this? How to they get treatments for mortal ailments and weaknesses and not fall to pieces fretting over their inherent, inevitable vulnerability in the process?

Suddenly, the surety of immortality is looking rather cowardly by comparison.

“Maybe one of the nurses will let me commandeer a phone,” I mutter, and I let my fingers slide from Cardan’s arm to his hand. My palm is starting to sweat when he laces our fingers together, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

The glass door to the waiting room slides with a hissing whisper, and inside there are people crowded in the cheap chairs lining the walls. Somewhere, a toddler is wailing out of sheer boredom while the evening news anchors jabber on a TV mounted in the far corner above a potted plant. Cardan’s already drawing stares with his ominous, messy appearance. He found a beanie in the pocket of the sweatshirt to cover the pointed tips of his ears, but there’s still kohl streaking his prominent cheekbones. I’m gonna need to clean him up at some point.

Right now, all I’m focused on is slipping into the first open intake seat and figuring out how in the hell I’m going to see a doctor for the first time in my mortal life. I am going to be brave. I have trained for nothing less.

“Hi, how can we help you today?” says a warm-looking middle-aged nurse behind the desk. She has short grey hair and floral scrubs, and a pair of readers perched on the bridge of her nose. Her badge says her name is Josie.

“Um.” My mouth feels dry, but I push on anyway. “I am—I am pregnant, and, um, I’m having some…” I draw in a shaking breath. Why is this so hard? “Some bleeding. I think I need to see a doctor right away.”

“Of course, honey,” Josie says, and peers over her readers. “Have you spoken with your OB?”

“I don’t have one,” I shake my head, my face starting to flush as Josie’s concern increases. I’ve never felt like I belonged in the mortal realm, and it’s never felt more apparent that I’m an outsider.

“Okaaay,” Josie says, slowly, adjusting her readers as she turns to her computer. “Let’s get you registered. Name?”

I hesitate again. I’ve never given my name in any sort of official capacity here among mortals. Especially not since I’d gotten married. What do I want to be called?

“Jude Duarte-Greenbriar,” I hear myself answer. From the chair beside me, Cardan titters a little amused laugh to himself and then bites it back when I shoot him a look. He likes the sound of it, too.

“Okaaay,” Josie says again, pecking at her keyboard. “I’m gonna need you to spell that for me, honey.”

I appall Josie further as the registration process yields the fact that I have neither a driver’s license nor an insurance card. With each of Josie’s judgmental sighs, I can sense Cardan stiffening with repressed irritation next to me, and it’s only stressing me out more. I should have had a talk with him first about promising not to curse anyone. I’m half-expecting Josie to sprout cat ears at any minute.

“While we can’t legally decline services based on insurance,” Josie says, doing little to suppress her concern, “I will need you to sign this agreement that says you understand that, since you are not presenting insurance today, you will be personally responsible for the entire cost of today’s visit.” And she shifts a clipboard toward me.

“Oh, look, love,” Cardan suddenly chimes in. He slides a wet leaf from his pocket across the registration desk as his voice takes on the heady, dangerous quality of magic. He’s conjuring a glamour. “I think you can see all of the insurance information you require here.”

“Oh, good, you found your card!” Josie exclaims, delighted, as she takes the leaf and begins happily clacking away at her keyboard.

“Do not get carried away,” I hiss at Cardan while Josie’s distracted. “That should be a one time thing.”

But Cardan just slits his kohl-lined eyes at me, looking like the smug bastard he’s always been, and leans an elbow on the registration desk, throwing Josie a coy smile. The glamour in his voice when he speaks again is just as sinfully seductive.

“And Josie, my sweet,” he says, “you’ll let my wife borrow your phone to speak with her sister, won’t you, dearest?”

“Of course, Mr. Greenbriar,” Josie replies, with the charmed-sweet smile of the glamoured. She shifts her desk phone to me, handing me the handset. “Just press nine for outgoing calls, honey,” she tells me.

I’m frowning at Cardan’s wicked smirk as I accept the phone.

“I don’t think that was entirely necessary,” I whisper to him while Josie types away. He grins at me. I don’t really want to admit that he’s just been pretty useful, and he knows it.

Regardless of how ill-gotten this privilege is, I do need Vivi. I dial her cell phone, one of two numbers I know, and wait while it rings.

And rings.

And rings.

“She might be screening her calls,” I say to Josie, sheepishly. “Her father is…” Oh, how to describe what Madoc is like these days. “…over-bearing and tricky.” And I hang up and try again. Josie gives a tight, uncomfortable smile, peering over her readers.

“You are not concerned about how unusual this is,” Cardan tells her, the glamour dripping off his voice, and I smack his arm to get him to stop. Josie settles again as the phone keeps ringing.

I have to hang up and dial two more times before Vivi finally picks up. She sounds irritated when she answers.

“Vivi, this is Jude,” I say, slumping in relief that she’s finally answered.

“Jude? Seriously? What?” The annoyance in her voice vanishes as she’s scrambling to understand. “You’re calling me? Where are you? Are you ok?”

“I’m at the Down East Community Hospital emergency room,” I say. “Can you come?”

“Oh, my God.” It sounds like Vivi’s suddenly frantically looking for her keys. “Yes, I’m coming. I’ll be there. Why are you there? What’s going on?”

“It’s a lot to explain over the phone,” I say, slowly, white-knuckling the handset. “I’m ok, and Cardan’s here, but I just really need you.” I hate it more than anything, but I can’t keep the frightened younger sister out of my voice now that I’m actually talking to Vivi about this. The first rush of relief hits me when Vivi replies without hesitation:

“Ok. It’s gonna be ok. I’m on my way.”

I let out a long breath as I hand the phone back to Josie.

“The nurse will call you back when they’re ready for you,” says Josie, and gestures to the crowded waiting room. “Have a seat.”

“Or--” Cardan starts, leaning forward, and I know he’s about to throw out another glamour to speed things along. In the blink of an eye, I clap a hand over his mouth before he can say another word.

“Thank you,” I tell Josie, through a gritted smile, and urge Cardan to move along.

“Your moral stance on glamours ought to have a loophole where our child is concerned,” Cardan gripes as we shuffle to the nearest available two chairs.

“You Folk are like addicts with glamours,” I snap back as we take a seat. “You don’t know when to stop.”

“I believe I’ve proven myself capable of great restraint,” Cardan says, looking miffed for a moment until a People magazine on a nearby table catches his eye and his curiosity of mortals gets the better of him.

He has the right idea, I think. Distraction would be the key to getting my mind off the blood and not falling apart right now. I’ve done everything I can at this point, and now we must wait.

I busy myself for a moment by wrapping the cuff of my sleeve over my fingers and wiping off the rain-splattered streaks of kohl off Cardan’s face, so that the father of my child looks less like the troubled D-list celebrities his People magazine is trashing. He’s not drawing any less attention, but there’s not much either of us can do about that. If you’re not accustomed to the allure of the Folk, it’s nigh impossible to not stare and stare and try to decipher what it is about them that’s so otherworldly. But at least now they’re staring for the right reasons and not at his ruined eyeliner.

With nothing more at arm’s length to distract me, I rest my head against the wallpaper behind me and let my vision go unfocused in the general direction of the TV in the corner. I don’t want to think about the whining toddler in the room, who’s mad at his mother for not bringing the right stuffed animal with them to the hospital. What would I do with a half-human child in Faerie who fell ill or wounded? What would we do? Would the land let Cardan heal him? Would we have to make this journey again? What if I forgot the right stuffed animal, too??

Amazing that I’m suddenly assuming this child is going to survive whatever’s happening now, I realize, and this worry spiral is helping no one.

Once upon a time, I’d been the girl determined to become a thing feared. What has happened inside me, that I’m now this terrified woman? I hate it. I hate it, and I don’t know how to stop it.

“You’re not afraid of that everything will change?” I remember asking Cardan, three moons ago. I had thrown out the last of my birth control that day. We’d snuck away from a revel to lie beneath the massive tree that grew out of the top of the palace of Elfhame, staring at the stars above and dreaming of what they could hold.

Cardan looked to me, his hands behind his head in the loam, his crown slightly askew. He smiled, and the moonlight made him almost too beautiful to bear.

“I cherish every change you’ve ever brought me, Jude,” he said, and he stretched out a hand to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers softly lingering at its rounded edges. “I don’t see why this should be any different.”

“You’ve not always felt so gracious about the changes I’ve foisted upon you,” I pointed out. “And you don’t get to exile me now if my parenting pisses you off.”

I’m not sure what I thought he’d think of such a statement, but it was out in the night air anyway. His gold-rimmed eyes darkened as he pulled his hand back, folding it over his chest. I watched him as he stared up at the stars again, waiting for his response, and with each second, regret began to sink in.

“I consider myself fairly thick-skinned,” he said at last, “but that was uncalled for.”

“I was teasing--” I started, but he shot me a dark look.

“There was a measure of truth in your voice,” he countered. “You don’t lie as well as you think you do.”

“I don’t see what you’re so put out about,” I huffed, pulling back to glare at the night sky. “You weren’t the one living in exile.”

“Not this again,” Cardan groaned, scrubbing his hands over his face. “Five years, Jude. It’s been five years,” he sighed into his palms.

“And now we’re discussing children, and it’s a very large and potentially aggravating change,” I said. “Maybe I am a little wary.”

“Of me?” The moment I saw the unguarded devastation on Cardan’s face, it was like I’d slapped him, and not in the fun way. I wanted to be swallowed down by the loam, covered in a grassy grave. Everything about this was awful. I wanted children with this man. Why was I dredging up ancient history?

But Cardan had been right. There’d been a measure of truth to it. It’s been a deliriously wonderful five years, but we are not entirely new people. We have a terrible past. And I feared what demons a significant change like this could summon.

When I didn’t answer right away, Cardan sat up so his back was to me, burying his head in his hands.

“Cardan…” I shifted so that I was propped up on my hands.

“What else can I give you to make this right?” he fretted to the ground in front of him. “I have given you everything. Every part of me, everything you see before you. It was wrong for both of us to take our games as far as we did, but I would have thought by now--”

“It was an off-handed comment made in poor taste.” I wanted to put a stop to everything that was happening. Rewind the whole evening.

Instead, he looked over his shoulder at me, visibly aching.

“I will not be like my father. I refuse it,” he retorted, and when I cocked my head to the side, not understanding, he went on. “Eldred collected consorts and sired children the way some people curate shoes: to suit his vanity. And I have that in spades already; there’s no need to spawn more. What I would want for a child, more than anything, is to not know what it is to grow up as an accessory. To not fear that his mother will be discarded. Jude, if you cannot trust so little of me, then this is poorly timed. Perhaps we need another five years. Or ten. Or however long you require.”

I sat up and scooted next to him, tucking my chin against his shoulder.

“I trust you,” I assured him in a whisper, and, as if he couldn’t help it, his eyes closed as he leaned his head towards mine. He smelled like oakwood and leather, like everything I’ve ever wanted. “I would not still be with you if I did not trust you.”

I wanted to push back the thick curls from his forehead, and so I did. And held my palm against his jaw as I leaned my forehead to his while the stars twinkled overhead.

Five years later, and sometimes we’re still finding little bits of armor that need to come off. For me, becoming a fearsome thing is not an option for handling motherhood, just as Cardan refuses to mirror his father’s vanity. But when I take off this bit of armor, this need to be feared and respected, it feels as if there is nothing underneath yet. Only vulnerability. Only terror.

I think of it now, in the ER waiting room of the Down East Community Hospital, while I snake my arm through his, looking at him while he’s ogling People magazine. He looks a mess, and there is no one I trust more. I’m still not convinced we’re shining examples of excellent would-be parents. But I’m afraid and vulnerable in the worst ways, and there’s no one I’d rather see me through it.

“Eldred would never have done something like this for any of his consorts,” I point out to him in a whisper, and he looks back at me with a pleased smirk.

“You are my wife,” he indicates, and gives my cold knuckles a swift kiss before turning back to whatever filth is engrossing him in People.

“Jude Duarte-Greenbriar?” There’s a nurse at the emergency room door calling my name. I draw in a breath. Here we go.

The nurse in blue scrubs takes my vitals and makes us somewhat comfortable in a makeshift space where we’re surrounded by taupe-colored curtains on three sides while I wait on a hospital bed. There’s a squeaky grey plastic chair for Cardan to sit on, and no more TV or People magazine – just the assurance that a doctor will see me soon. And then we’re left with our dread to stare at the taupe curtains around us, listening to the squeak of hurried shoe soles against linoleum and the occasional beeping of hospital pagers. The air is acrid, like someone’s tried to scrub it clean, and it’s making my stomach lurch. It must show on my face as I swallow hard against the rising bile, because Cardan swiftly hands me a blue plastic barf bag that the nurse has left him in charge of. He’s wary of my empty threats to aim for his shoes.

“Jude, are you decent?” calls a voice from the other side of the curtain. “You have visitors.”

The curtains scrape against their tracks on the ceiling, and I can’t hold back a relief grin at the sight of Vivi and Heather.

“Oh, my God. Oh, my God.” It’s all Vivi can say as she sweeps in to wrap me in a hug.

“Hey,” Heather graciously greets Cardan while the two are awkward to the side. She’s looking effortlessly cool, with her shoulder-length pink hair in soft waves. She has holes in her jeans in all the right places, and she’s wearing a breezy, colorful boho top that shows off her brown shoulders. I try to give her a wave while Vivi is squeezing the life out of me.

“What are you doing here?” Vivi demands when she pulls away, holding me by the shoulders. She’s given her golden hair a short, edgey chop that almost hides the pointed tips of her half-fae ears when it falls the right way. She tends to favor t-shirts and jeans, but today she’s in tight black pants and a grey v-neck under a jacket, and I’m hoping I haven’t interrupted a date.

“Well.” I shift a glance between the two of them, simultaneously gladdened that they’re here and nervous with how I now I have break the news. “This isn’t how I wanted you to find out…” And then Vivi gasps.

“Are you pregnant?!” she squeaks.

“Oh, my God, V,” Heather rolls her eyes. “You can’t ask people if they’re pregnant.”

“She’s right, though,” I interject. “I am.”

“Jude!” Vivi exclaims, fondly, and takes my face in her hands, and, for a brief moment, I realize this is all I’ve been wanting for weeks. I grin, sheepishly. Then Vivi narrows her cat-like eyes at Cardan.

“You knocked up my sister?” she jabs.

“Bold of you to assume it’s mine,” he quips back, and Vivi feigns a disgusted gasp as throw the empty barf bag at him.

“Force of habit,” Cardan tells Heather with a shrug.

“Congratulations, Cardan,” Heather replies, giving him a pat on the shoulder.

“But why are you here?” Vivi turns to me again. “Does Taryn know? Does Madoc?”

“No on both counts,” I shake my head. “It’s early. And we’re here because--” Ugh, I hate this. I hate this. “I started bleeding.”

“Oh, no.” Heather’s face is etched with genuine concern. It’s been a roller coaster of a few minutes.

“But why are you here?” Vivi tries again, and I see what she’s getting at. Why not be seen to by the royal midwives?

“I’m mortal,” I say, quietly. “This is a mortal thing. I felt like I needed a mortal doctor.”

And Vivi takes my face in her hands.

“I completely, one-hundred-percent agree,” she says, whole-heartedly, and there’s relief there, too. She’s always wanted me to spend more time in the mortal realm.

We crowd around the hospital bed for a while to catch up. Heather makes a run to the vending machine to bring back some snacks, and soon the tightness in my chest is releasing and unwinding. This was the distraction I needed. For a few minutes there, I could almost forget what had brought us to this weird, curtained-off corner to begin with.

But then the curtain scrape on the track again. There’s an orderly waiting there in blue scrubs, pushing a wheelchair.

“They’re ready for you in ultrasound now, Jude,” he tells me, and indicates that I’m supposed to ride in the chair. I bristle at the gesture. I’m not sure of the last time I’ve been asked to do something so vulnerable and humiliating. I am not ill. I don’t need this.

Vivi notices and puts a hand at my arm.

“It’s just standard hospital procedure, Jude,” she says, in her tone of voice she uses to convince Oak to eat vegetables.

So I comply. Heather and Vivi tell us they’ll wait for us to get back, and then we’re off. Cardan follows the orderly, and every once and awhile, I hear him having to jog to catch up – he’s easily distracted by what all the mortals are up to in this place.

I’m wheeled into a dark room with an exam table. Next to it is a bunch of strange equipment I’ve never seen before – screens and wands and all sort of buttons. A technician waits for us there, a woman in pink scrubs with a badge that says her name is Brenna. Her dark, curly hair is pulled back tight against her scalp, and she has kind brown eyes that smile when she tells me to make myself comfortable on the exam table.

“And is this Dad?” Brenna wants to know, cheerfully waving Cardan in to have a seat on a grey plastic chair next to me.

“Not my dad,” I say, not understanding the question at first. Then it dawns on me. “I mean, he’s the father, yes. Of the baby.” Oh, my God. This is off to a great start. Cardan’s trying very hard to not laugh outright at me and failing miserably. His laugh comes out like one long snort.

“Happens all the time,” Brenna says, with another cheerful wave, which makes me wonder why she’s still asking it, then.

“First baby?” Brenna now wants to know, making small talk while she’s queuing up her equipment.

“First everything,” I reply, hoping that will explain my nerves. “First baby, first ultrasound, first try.”

“Oh.” Brenna sounds impressed and looks to Cardan as she wheels around in her swivel chair. “Nice shootin’, Tex,” she tells him, with a wink.

“Thank you, Brenna,” Cardan accepts graciously, puffing out his chest a little. I roll my eyes.

“This may be the only time I’m ever complimented on my marksmanship,” he tells me. “Let me have this moment.”

“All right!” Brenna interrupts. “Let’s see what you’re cookin’ in there, mama.”

She rolls up my shirt and tucks in some scratchy paper into my leggings. Then squirts some cold gel across my abdomen. I watch in fascination while she rolls her device over my stomach, and then she turns her screen to us.

“And here’s your little guy,” she says. “Or gal. Can’t tell yet, obviously.”

For a moment, time stops.

Next to me, Cardan draws in a breath.

Something squirmy and alive curls and stretches in the grainy black and white pixels of Brenna’s screen. It doesn’t look quite human. Or fae. It looks kind of alien, if I’m being honest. But I can see its tiny limbs and the outline of its perfectly round head, and it’s moving. Like a manic little seahorse, our little shrimp is bobbing all over the place, alive and well.

“Looking good,” Brenna says, and Cardan barks out a surprised laugh. I’m smiling so hard my face might break.  

“Oh, I was sure I’d stabbed it,” Cardan sighs in relief, slumping in his seat, and it’s my turn to laugh.

“That’s not actually possible,” Brenna tells him, and maybe now he’ll believe it. “Let’s see if we can hear the heartbeat.”

She clicks and clacks at some buttons, then turns a knob. Pushes a little harder on my abdomen.

A fluttering, steady whooshing sound fills the speakers in the room. I don’t know when I grabbed Cardan’s hand, but I’m squeezing it hard now. I glance at him. He’s utterly transfixed on the screen, his dark eyes wide, his lips parted. He looks like how I feel when I’m in bearing witness to great and ancient magic.

This isn’t all vomit and exhaustion. This is happening. This is real.

We are making something new. Something entirely unique. Like magic.

“Ok, this might be your issue.” Brenna breaks the enchantment, zooming in on something dark on her screen. My heart, which moments before felt like it might burst, squeezes and contracts in panic now.

“This is a sub-chorionic hematoma,” she says, pointing to the screen and making some notes. “The doctor will explain all this to you.”

“What is it?” Cardan’s voice is tight, panic thinly-veiled. “Is it dangerous?”

“They’re pretty common,” says Brenna, not looking at us while she takes measurements and notes. Like she drops these kinds of bombs regularly. “It’s basically an accumulation of blood between the uterine wall and the fetal membrane. It can cause bleeding, especially as the baby gets bigger and jostles it around. They usually resolve without much issue.”

“Usually?” Cardan’s not assuaged.

“Well, again,” Brenna says, looking at him sidelong, “the doctor will read this and give his advice. But it can increase the risk of miscarriage in some cases. Not always, though. The doctor will tell you how he wants you to treat it, but it usually involves some bed rest or limited activity, nothing too strenuous or crazy. Don’t go horse-back riding!” And she laughs as if only a crazy person would get on a horse while pregnant.

I look to Cardan. He looks to me. It’s hit us at the same time.

The ragwort horse.

How the hell are we getting home?

“Huh.” I barely had time to digest my realization about the ragwort horse before Brenna was back with more. She swivels the device on my stomach around some more. Cocks her head to the side.

“Are either of you a twin?” she asks.

Cardan points at me like I’ve done something wrong he doesn’t want to be blamed for.

“Why?” I ask, slowly, cautiously.

“It does run in families,” Brenna says, and turns the screen to us again. “And I’m seeing two babies here.” She looks back at Cardan. “And on the first try, Tex,” she says, looking impressed again.

Now, nothing feels real. I think I might leave my body. There are two squirmy aliens in the black and white screen, the lazier of the two now floating into view. Brenna adjusts the knobs some more to bring the new heartbeat into focus, just as strong as the first.

“Jude.” I can’t decipher what Cardan’s feeling now. He looks unlike I’ve ever seen him before. Something between elation and sheer dread is warring between his wide eyes and furrowed brow. He grips at the beanie over his hair like he’s trying to keep his own head from flying off.

“Are you and your twin identical?” Brenna asks. I nod, stupidly.

“These, too,” she nods, and points at the screen. “See: they’re sharing a sac.” She draws in a deep breath. “This does elevate the risk more, with the hematoma. The doctor will go over all of this with you. But I’ll bet he’ll want you on some kind of bed rest. Weekly check-ups. That sort of thing.” And then she squints hard at the screen. “What is that?” she wonders aloud. “Is that a tail?”

“You don’t see a tail,” Cardan says, but he’s so flustered and shell-shocked, he’s forgotten to use the glamour.

“I think I might, though.” Brenna squints harder.

“You don’t see a tail,” Cardan says, louder and hurried, this time with the weight of magic heavy in his tone. “Everything you see looks normal to you.”

A glamoured smile flutters over Brenna’s pleasant features as she lifts the device from my belly and clicks off her equipment.

“Everything looks normal,” she hums, happily. “Congratulations, you two.”

“Everything but the hematoma, right?” I cock my head to the side as she rolls away her swivel chair. “The doctor will speak to us about that.”

“What hematoma?” Brenna’s still smiling as she stands with her clipboard. “Everything looks normal. I’m going to call an orderly, but pretty much you’re free to go. Congratulations!”

“Cardan,” I accuse under my breath as she leaves, leveling a glare at him.

“You are carrying twins.” He’s just agape at me, either unaware or unrattled by how the poor wording in his glamour just muddled everything.

“The doctor won’t know about the hematoma now!” I exclaim.

“We’ll scrounge up another one somewhere,” Cardan waves me off. “Jude. Twins.”

It’s not helping me feel any better, him saying it over and over again. I slump into my hands, weighted by disbelief and frustration. What am I going to do? This can’t possibly be real, can it?

“I am going to get so huge,” I moan into my palms in self-pity. I know it’s vain, but at the moment, it’s all I can think. In the land of willowy Folk, I already stick out like a sore thumb. Now I’m going to be a sore and massively swollen thumb.

Cardan’s shifted to stand in front of me on the exam table. And he runs his hands up and down my arms, almost reverent.

“You are magnificent,” he reassures me, softly, and presses a kiss against my head.

“Why are you not freaking out?” I ask, and pull him by the hoodie pockets so I can hug him again if I need it. I think I may need it. “This is two babies. We don’t even know Thing One about taking care of one baby, and now there will be two.”

“We may require a few more house cats,” Cardan jokes, and when I scowl, he asks, “That’s still not amusing? I shall persist. One of these days.”

“You know, I hear that’s a mortal fatherhood trait,” I point out. “Persisting over and over with the same unamusing joke to the embarrassment of everyone around you.” And I wrap my arms around his waist as I look up at him. He’s warm, and everything is a little more bearable when he’s close and smiling.

“I think you are implying that I’m excelling at fatherhood so far,” Cardan grins down at me, and I’m surprised to see it looks as if his gold-rimmed eyes are glistening.

“Are you all right?” I ask, softening at the sight. He blinks, furiously, as he buries his long fingers in the hair at the nape of my neck, holding me close as he looks over my face.

“I just--” His voice is hoarse when he starts, so he clears it and tries again. “This is more than I ever dared to consider,” he says. “I did not dream that this kind of life would ever be an option for me. Family that looked after each other, that loved each other – that always seemed to me to be a strictly mortal gift. As if the Folk had bargained for everlasting life long ago and forsook all hope of familial love in the process. I had accepted that it wasn’t mine to have. But you.”

He shifts his hands so that he holds my face, and I feel swallowed by the adoration in his admission. All I can do is close my eyes as he holds me. I can think of nothing else when his nose brushes my forehead.

“I am overcome by all you have given me,” he whispers, and I think I might cry. My hands twist in the fabric of the sweatshirt he wears.

“I love your words,” I whisper back, “but you give me too much credit.” I pull back to look at his mirthful, glistening eyes and say: “If it were left up to me, I would never have given you twins.”

He laughs outright, unguarded and thrilled.

“Lucky for me, then,” he says, and kisses me.

I have kissed him hundreds, maybe thousands of times. We have shared passionate, unbridled kisses and desperate, devouring kisses. We’ve kissed at quick partings, and we’ve kissed with soft, gentle comfort. I like everything about them all. But this is something entirely new, something that surprises me still. It’s filled with gratitude and promises and dreams of the future, and though it is intimate, I would not have felt ashamed if someone had walked in.

It’s the kiss of complete trust, and in that moment, I feel assured that, in Cardan, I have not made a mistake. There is much to figure out still. But this is right.

So, we will have twins. I will meet this challenge with resolve. For right now, anyway, the quantity of babies is the least of our concerns.

“How in the hell am I supposed to get home?” I ask, the moment we pull apart. Cardan rests his hands on my shoulders, screwing up his beautiful mouth in thought. The ragwort horse. The bed rest. The doctor we must scrounge up somewhere. There are a dozen new bullets swirling on a to-do list, and none of them lead us back to Faerie any time soon.

“I haven’t the foggiest,” he confesses. “Which further complicates matters, because there is absolutely no chance that I am leaving you here.”

“I was afraid you’d say that,” I say, and press back a smile. “And also glad,” I add.

Cardan meets my smile with a little wicked smirk of his own.

“Is it time we scheme together once again?” he asks.

We cannot get home until this is resolved, and we cannot leave Faerie ungoverned. I have no idea where to even start on this problem.

But that’s certainly never stopped us before.

There’s a knock at the door. The orderly has arrived with the wheelchair to take us back to Vivi and Heather. I give Cardan a secret, knowing smile.

“I suppose it is,” I agree.

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

Tag list! Let me know if you’d like to be added: @yellowavocadopit, @dagypsygirl, @ireallyshouldsleeprn, @booklover-sleeplover, @mwejh, @courtofjurdan, @faeriequeenofwest, @sugawsites, @loveyourselfsolid, @owl0y0s, @feelinglikecleopatra, @akaloto, @charrise, @persephxnecoven, @raging-bisexual-alert, @rteme, @nahthanks, @emmabookworm08, @elorcanislife, @snusbandxknifewife, @poeticbrownmermaid, 

#the folk of the air #tfota #jude duarte #cardan greenbriar #jurdan #jurdan fanfic #vivienne duarte #the cruel prince #the wicked king #the queen of nothing #post-qon #babies! #baby fic #pregnancy fic #fluff #jurdan fluff

[hungarianbee]

Way of the Witcher: bits of lore

Disclaimer:  Post contains spoilers to the Witcher games These things may be canon-typical, but the following trigger warnings apply if you want to check out the cards: gore, monster dismemberment, needles, body horror, insects and spiders

“In a world plagued by horrors and monstrosities humanity desperately needed a new type of weapon to turn back the tide. Created by ingenious Alzur, witchers — professional monster slayers of exceptional strength, speed, and agility were tasked to end the threat once and for all. Organized into different schools they honed their craft and passed their knowledge onto novices in training. Some of them were destined to become the legendary heroes and protectors of humanity. Others — the very thing they were supposed to fight…”

Since the gwent expansion was anounced I followed it with rapt attention; every bit of lore is a gem in my eyes. I decided to write down my thoughts of the cards and lore pieces revealed in a post. Share that knowledge around, amirite?

The post references Gwent cards which were leaked (2020 november-december). The theme is mutation and everything that comes with it; namely sweet-sweet lore of the lesser known witcher schools: the Bears, Cats, Vipers and Griffins.

Tucker in, under the cut there is 4.5k analysis of each card that came out.

We’re starting with a theme, then work our way throught the 4 schools (each contain the following:  a leader, a mentor, an adept, a general witcher, a specific job, an item, a school relevant monster, 2  known witchers and a location), then go through a Witcher 1 throwback, Salamandra, and round it with a few new monsters and neutral cards. 

While I describe most of the cards concisely and all the known witchers and locations are on my blog, you might want to look the cards in their (small) glory: [DO IT HERE]

Sounds good? Here we go!

Edit: [this source is better]

The theme is mutation - be it monsters created by transmutation, witchers or salamadra

If that is true, there are monster cards that seemingly stand out: the Succubus and the Phooca

If we are to believe that they do connect to the mutation theme, then

(1) we can conclude that Phoocas (a rare, and more dangerous form of Nekkers; they can pull your head off by sheer force, watch out) are a natural mutation of the original species,

(2) but we’re still left with the Succubi (an inherently demonic creature). They might have chosen it because of its appearance: succubi have horns and goat-like legs. (Note: in the graphic novel “House of Glass” the succubus character has wings, but lacks hooves. In that sense, she could be mutated.)

Breaking it down into factions/schools (some of the cards can be paired up; these cards are interpreted together):

School of the Viper: starting with the vipers, because they are my favourite

Viper Witcher Mentor & Viper Witcher Adept: the flavour text says that the Viper mentors are exceptionally cold and ruthless, and that’s underlined by the story the art tells: the mentor busies himself with sharpening a blade, and in the background we can see the adept attempting to kill his best friend goat, as was ordered. The mentor watches this from the corner of his eye. Young Vipers are to kill their pets (which they nurtured for years) before becoming a fully-fledged witcher. The latter could mean that the boy depicted on the card hasn’t even gone through the Trial of Grasses.

Viper Witcher: On the card we see an unknown Viper crouching over a royalty he killed. I feel like this type of card is meant to represent what we think a general Witcher of said school would be like. Apparently Vipers just like to slay the nobility *shrug*. The flavour text informs us, that Vipers call their two swords “fangs”, and that their style consists of fast and furious attack aimed to overwhelm the enemy.

Viper Witcher Alchemist: Every school has a specialty; Vipers are proficient in potion or poison making. The right side of the alchemist’s face seems to have healed burn marks; a blown up concoction might have caused it.

Ivar Evil-Eye: So far there’s little to know about Ivar. He was either the Master of the Viper Keep, or the founder himself (gwent suggests the latter). He’s described as heavily scarred (facial scars suggests burns and slash marks too), and each of them has a terrible story to tell.

Warritt the All-Seeing: Warritt is a (newly introduced) Viper with heavy disfiguration to the upper part of his face: his eyes are sealed shut (possibly by burn marks, though his hair remains intact). The art shows Warritt drawing a modified version of the Supirre sign in the air to help with his loss of sight. As the wiki says: “Supirre is a Sign used for eavesdropping. Drawn on a solid surface, it allows the people near this surface to listen nearby conversations which would be normally inaudible due to the distance or background noise.” It was only used in Sapkowsky’s second volume of the Hussite trilogy (not yet translated to English), which is entirely separate from the Witcher novels.

Kolgrim: Fate laughed at this Viper. As a kid he was swapped by a weeper, saved by a witcher, than rejected by his own mother who believed that the fake child was the real one. Later, as a grown witcher Ivar instructed him to find a lost weapon diagram. On his journey he was accused - ironically - in White Orchard of kidnapping a child. Invoking a Temerian law, Kolgrim was told to cleanse their crypt (as seen on the card) then he can go. The truth is revealed in Witcher 3 - Kolgrim was beheaded by the villagers before he could even step into the crypt. To add insult to injury: the child was eaten by a drowner. The gwent card therefore shows the optimistic outcome: that Kolgrim reached the crypt and passed in battle. And what’s up with a crypt full of wraiths anyway? White Orchard is shady, guys. (Lil’ trivia: Kolgrim’s eyes are yellow-green.)

Vypper: Basically an overgrown snake that likes damp marshes (they even fight the local kikimores for territory). They only relate to the mutation theme by their nature - they resemble the “school’s animal”.

Gorthur Gvaed: The Bloodgate Keep is located in the chasms of the Tir Tochair mountains. It’s built so high were you to look down from the bridge leading into the keep, you would only see fog (one could wonder how the vipers trained in these conditions). The bridge is made so that you’d have to cross the lookout tower - it might have served as a check in spot. The post itself is circled by the stone coils of a snake; the top is open and has a huge lit bonfire in the middle for warmth-keeping and possibly signaling. Unluckily, it didn’t stop the Usurper’s army from destroying the keep.

Coated Weapons: They leaned heavily into the alchemy and assassin side of the school. Vipers coat their blades with an acidic liquid, so they can kill a man with a nick of it.

School of the Cat:

Cat Witcher Mentor & Cat Witcher Adept: On the adept card we can see a young Cat walking the tightrope blindfolded (they start with close to the ground and slowly increase the distance with time); the mentor is looking up at him. Like the Vipers, Cat mentors are nonchalant about risking the kids as seen from the flavour text: “If you fall, it’s over. Your nine lives are up, kid.” Furthermore, the background of the Cat Witcher Adept card shows the not yet destroyed Stygga Citadel. The Cat Witcher Mentor is in the same scene and we can see lots of potatoes and cabbages; cats definitely eat their veggies.

Cat Witcher: The card shows a Cat in the heat of battle mid-jump; his hood is up, blood is flying everywhere. The flavour text emphasizes that cats are known for their mad bloodlust, not stopping killing even after the enemy capitulated.

Cat Witcher Saboteur: A Cat perches next to the window, a smoking bomb in hand, eavesdropping on nobles. A rope is hung from somewhere out of the pic, possibly for a quick exit. Vesemir comments that these are many-a deeds the cats did that taint the reputation of witchers.

Gezras of Leyda: Gezras is a not yet known redheaded Cat witcher. Following the pattern he seems to be the founder of the Cat School. His flavour text shows that even back then (when the mutagens made Cats emotionless) they were inclined to dislike humans: “Take a contract from Aen Seidhe over a dh’oine any day, as you’re far less likely to receive a knife between the ribs in place of coin.”

Brehen: Now this cat embodies the Cat madness. He’s known as the Cat of Iello because he massacred everyone there. He was consequently shunned by all the schools, and he was even convinced that Vesemir put a kill order on his head. He met Geralt later in the 1240s on his way to claim the bounty for the princess. Thinking that Geralt was there to rob him of his chance of the bounty, Brehen took a priestess as hostage (this is what we see on the gwent card). Geralt managed to convince him to put away the blade, and they parted without crossing blades. When meeting with the striga he scoffed into her face that “she won’t be his first royal”. But his luck ran out. The Temerians buried him and fabricated the story of a cowardly witcher stealing their coin. I’m halfway convinced we see Brehen in the netflix series.

Gaetan: This boy broke into the fandom like a bulldozer. After the folks in Honorton cheated him of his pay and tried to kill him, Gaetan flew into rage and killed everyone there except Millie, a girl who reminded him of his sister. That’s the scene we see on the card. And then Geralt robs/kills him.

Saber-Tooth Tiger (Stealth): Another huge animal/monster related to the school. It’s story is this: “The prized possession of royal menagerie, until a commando of Scoia’tael assaulted the exhibition, released the beast, and set it upon its cruel masters. Since that day, it has acquired a selective taste for human flesh.” Another cat turning against humans.

Stygga Castle: An outside view of what we already saw on the Cat Witcher Adept card. It’s located on a cliff, and the sun shines into it just right (so that the Cats can bask in the light). The walls form a circle where they shelter the inner grounds, and a bigger tower emerges in the middle. The Castle could be reached by the thin bridge connecting it to the mainland, or by the cliffs (if one is brave enough).

Making a Bomb: Cats seem to have a specialty in bombs. Guess where Lambert got his interest from *winkwink*

School of the Griffin: lots of pairs in this one

Griffin Witcher Mentor & Griffin Witcher Adept: Compared to the other schools, this pairing is tame - the adept is climbing a tree to retrieve a crossbow bolt. We can see the mentor in the background. On the mentor card the adept waves down with the retrieved crossbow bolt in hand. It shows a kind of comradeship that’s not present in the other 3 schools. The flavour text emphasizes the importance of knowledge. Students are afforded to choose their final Trial: recite the entire Liber Tenebrum (Book of Shadows; one of Keldar’s favourite books) or steal a griffin’s egg. Noone’s chosen the former.

Griffin Witcher: The witcher is shown shooting down a griffin. According to the flavour text they prefer hunting with silver-tipped arrowheads instead of swords.

Archgriffin & Griffin Witcher Ranger: On the Griffin Ranger card we see the witcher crouching over track marks. On the archgriffin card he found the albino (or very old) monster, who’s already killed someone (probably a lumberjack, judging by the axe). According to the flavour text, Griffin Witchers are trained to be professional trackers; nothing can stop them to reach their prey. Even though archgriffins are considered the embodiment of courage, loyalty and fighting spirit, the gwent card corrects the notion that the Griffin Witcher were named after the monster. In truth, they got the name in honour of their founder’s mentor, a knight named Gryphon.

Erland of Larvik: Continuing the trend, Erland is the founder of the Griffin School (one of the two that are confirmed 100%). He’s from the first generation of witcher, mutated by Alzur himself. After the Order began fracturing he had a confrontation with Arnaghan (who’ll be the founder of the bear school). Arnaghad almost killed one of his brothers, slashed Erland across the face then parted ways with the Order and left Morgraig Castle with his own group. Seeing that the the remaining witchers couldn’t go on like that, he grabbed his 13 best friend and left to Kaer Seren, where (after purging it from spectres) he founded the Griffin School which focused on magic, preparedness and flexibility. His teaching emphasized knightly values (mimicking his long-dead mentor, a knight named Gryphon) in hopes that it would make future witchers’ life easier. It didn’t.

Coen & Keldar: The cards are mainly connected by background. Coen is finished killing what appears to be an albino arachas (but it’s definitely an insectoid), while Keldar’s taking notes. We can rightly assume that he’s updating their bestiary, since he’s one of the teachers/mentors who focus on gathering and sharing knowledge. Coen’s flexibility shows in the flavour text: “There is no such thing as a fair fight. Every advantage and every opportunity that arises is used in combat.” Not very knightly, is it?

Kaer Seren: The “Star Keep” Erland and his friends fled to. It was used by the Order’s mages to mutate witchers (that’s why it was haunted by spectres). It’s located at the edge of the Dragon mountains by the sea between Poviss and Kovir. It’s said to possess the great library, which later mages tried to get for themselves. They messed up: by bringing down an avalanche on the Keep, that knowledge was destroyed. The keep was badly damaged and many witchers died.

Target Practice: The Griffin School’s specialty is their precise aim - they “can split an apple in two from a hundred paces”.

School of the Bear:

Bear Witcher Mentor & Bear Witcher Adept: The adept card shows that young witcher are taught to catch fish by hand (just like their school relevant animal). On the mentor card the elder witcher leads a group of younglings in the mountains; possibly out to teach tracking. The cards are connected by flavour text. The young Bear witcher-would-be’s need to complete the Trial of the Mountain, which consists of them climbing Mount Gorgon (also known as the Devil Mountain; it is the highest peak of the Amell range) to retrieve a runestone. The Trial often ends with the kids frozen to death. The Bear Mentor card’s flavour confirms it: “If you’re unsure of the way, just keep a lookout for markers - the frozen corpses of would-be witchers.” This sounds ominous - don’t they collect their fallen?

Bear Witcher: Bears are solitary hunters as seen in the flavour text: “life alone can be tough”. The witcher in the pic just dismembered what looks like a ghoul (with a tail?).

Bear Witcher Quartermaster: This one I like. The Quartermaster is an amputee (missing one of his arms, which was taken by a bear; must have won that fight one-handed), yet they still found a job for him where he can be useful. His flavour text suggest he likes Mahakam mead.

Arnaghad: The founder of the Bear School, he never felt kinship with his fellow witchers. After attacking a witcher named Rhys over a contract, wounding him deeply from shoulder to waist, he returned to Morgraig, attacked Erland then left with his possé to found the Bear School - Haern Caduch - in the Amell Mountains. Later he almost died in a betrayal, which resulted in another schism and the foundation of the Viper School.

Gerd: Gerd’s a legendary witcher who fled to Skellige after allying with a Usurper instead of his daughter, who later issued a warrant for his arrest. He has a busy time in Skellige: first slaying a dragon, befriending the Jarl Torgeir, killing a bunch of sirens, losing so many weapon diagrams you wouldn’t believe, losing half his pay and silver sword on gwent, escaping Nilfgaard and managing to slay a striga, killing some of his pursuers, only to be caught up in the siege of Torgeir’s castle, where he died in the ruins. On the card he’s showing Bear-typical strength: he’s tearing apart a siren with his bear hands.

Junod of Belhaven: Junod had a dubious background, but was thought to be the child of a brave dwarf and a giantess. He’s a huge man, with a big bushy beard and bald head. His sobriquet is false; he took it after Ivo, because he liked the ring of it. He was known as a strict haggler and a bit of a gambler. In 1243 he took a contract in hopes of cash (he wanted to forge the Grandmaster Ursine Armour). The subterranean monster was said to live in the caverns. Junod drew bear signs and wrote a warning on the wall (this is the scene we see on the card). He was however ill-prepared; the beast turned out to be a shaelmaar (a type of relic Gaetan slew once) that killed him in that very cavern.

Dire Bear: Once again related to the school in question, the Dire Bear is stuck with so much weaponry that it looks like a walking armory. Lots of witchers must have tried to slay it, yet it still kicks - just like Bear Witchers, it’s resilient till the very end.

Haern Caduch: Built into the side of the Amell Mountains, it’s the coldest environment of all the schools. As with the other schools, the Bears were forced out of it due to folk riots. It was left in disrepair to be buried under snow and ice (as seen on the card). It’s name could be translated as “Piercing Whiskers”.

Armor Up: As Bear’s are more likely to stand in the way of attack than dodge, they need to wear a heavy armour at all times.

Salamandra:

Roland Bleinheim & Gellert Bleinheim: Witcher 1 characters. They are thought to be brothers, leading the Salamandra organization. As drug lords one heads the fisstech operation in Vizima’s sewers (Roland), the other in the swamps (Gellert). The flavour text pretty much matches: both of them wondering what the other one is doing.

Salamandra Mage: The art itself was already leaked in China around 2 years back, and there were a few theories. One of them was that the man depicted is Zerrikanian, and I think that’s correct. Both the facial tattoo, darker skin, thinly braided hair and fire magic points in that direction. Azar Javed (a known Salamandra fire mage) happens to be a Zerrikanian escapee too.

Salamandra Lackey: A girl with the Salamandra-stapled mask runs from a city guard. The flavour text says the following: “Lackeys are expected to perform their first five jobs for no pay, demonstrating their passion for the gig.” The organization monitors from the beginning that only those remain who are extremely loyal to their cause.

Fallen Rayla: A little background for those who are unfamiliar with her: Rayla of Lyria was a veteran of the Nilgaardian Wars. She harbours anti-nonhuman sentiments after she was captured by Scoia’taels and severely maimed. The Rayla we see on the card is a mutant - in Witcher 1 she was supposedly shot down by Scoia’tael, and Salamandra found her close to death, subjected her to mutation. She was killed by Geralt.

Salamander: The card shows a bright blue spotted salamander. It has two tails and heads (possibly grown together?). The Salamander is a symbol of the organization. Metaphorically speaking it could mean, that Salamandra thought of itself as something untouchable: “best to avoid petting them, as the salamander, when threatened, secretes a deadly toxin”.

Failed Experiment: The card - ironically - thrives when it’s poisoned. The “experiment” only resembles a human in shape. It’s clutching the table ends, as if trying to escape still.  It’s fair to assume that they later dissected it: “even failed experiments can serve a purpose”.

Salamandra Abomination: A step further from the failed experiment - we see the results of pushing science’s boundaries. Only the skull is left intact, everything else of the body is covered with insectoid-like growths.

Stolen Mutagens: Gruesome organ harvesting. The witcher heart (?) glows, which is either an artistic decision (probable) or the mages sent magic into the body, and the mutagens light up (like angiographia). Three types of mutagens can be harvested: red (strength), blue (magic) or green (resilience). I headcanon that the amount they inject of the three types can vary - that’s how you get strength inclined witchers like the wolves (red), or big ass mothers like the bears (green).

Salamandra Hideout: There are multiple hideouts in Witcher 1 (outskirt of Visima, crypt in sewers and one in the trade quarters). The one depicted here is the fisstech lab in the sewers. It shows a dimly lit, cobwebbed room. There’s an elevation where a body lays on the table. The elevation’s floor is gridded, so the blood and other fluids can freely flow down into the sewer water, where many bodies are already discarded recklessly.

Neutral:

Alzur & Viy & Koshchey: Alzur was a charismatic mage and spell inventor, who created many horrible monsters, like the koshchey (with the spell: Alzur’s Double Cross) and the Viy (a huge centipede-like insectoid). He was also the one who did the lion’s share of work with the witcher’s mutation.

Cosimo Malaspina: Cosimo was the teacher of Alzur. He was known for his knowledge in hybridization and genetic modification. Him and Alzur were the true creators of the witchers sect. On the gwent card, three man are shown prodding at a mutated body. Cosimo (the old dude) is in the middle, Alzur might be the one on the left and that leaves Idarran on the right. His flavour text paints him as cold and clinical, someone without empathy: “Children keep asking him for gifts. He doesn’t know why, but it really helps with finding subjects for his experiments.”

Idarran of Ulivo & Idr & Wererat: Idarran was one of the contributers of the witcher experiments. He’s an expert in hybridization and genetic modification, whose teacher was Alzur. He was a pale kid who lived in the canals of Vizima and experimented on rats at the age of 5. He found beauty in gruesome creations, like the Wererat (a human-sized rat on roids) and the Idr (a big centipede-like insectoid). He’s disdained by Geralt for his many monsters.

Triangle within a Triangle: It’s a magic spell used to introduce a series of mutations and to greatly increase the mass of a given body. That way they can create huge monstrosities, like the koshchey. Adepts often confuse it with a pentagram which can lead to infernal disasters.

Selective mutation: The card shows a close up of a young man’s eyes - one mutated (catlike) one human. His skin shows his high toxicity level, ashen with prominent veins. He’s held down as alchemists prepare to inject a yellow concoction into the human eye. It’s possible that after the success of witchers the mages tried to recreate the changes in smaller scale, then unmake it in turn, unsuccessfully.

Witcher Student: This is not really a card, but I included it anyway. The card’s ability is - ironically - doomed, and to add insult to injury, its flavour text is the following well-known fact: “Four out of ten boys survive… at most.” It’s also a point for black humour that the gwent commentators added: the Trial of Grasses card boosts this unit significantly.

Berengar: He’s a Wolf School Witcher who blamed his school for denying him a normal life and consequently abandoned them. In Witcher 1 Geralt can decide to kill or spare him. In a letter he admits that he was a coward because he betrayed Kaer Morhen and worked with Salamadra in hope that they can undo his mutation. His card references a questline in Witcher 1, where he tried to reason with the vodyanoi (~lovecraftian fish people) to spare the village’s prize-winning cow, named Strawberry. This is non-canon; in the game Geralt takes over the quest to do this instead.

Leo: Another Witcher 1 character. He was an orphan taken in by Vesemir. He was a kind-hearted but hot-headed man, who had all the training but not the mutations and the experience - he never killed a man. The flavour text of his gwent card kind of mocks his death: “He would have caught the arrow if he only had some heads-up.” He’s burned on a pyre and his cenotaph can be found south of Kaer Morhen.

Geralt: Quen: The last classical sign that wasn’t yet a card. In the art, Geralt is wearing the Manticore armour

Snowdrop: She’s a not yet seen character; impish looking female bard with light blond hair (flowers braided on the side) who plays a medieval version of the fiddle to a rooster. There’s a horseshoe hanging from the hem of his pants. She’s also seen in the gwent: journey #3 launch trailer. She’s narrating that she was saved by Alzur. Alzur told her about his plans of creating witchers to fight the beasts of the Continent, and she admired him so much she spread his story (”let me tell you about the greatest sorceress to ever lived”). Their story will unveil in the next week, I’ll probably update accordingly. It’s also interesting that Alzur says in the gwent intro (regarding witchers): “Bards will toil to do justice to their feats.” As if his own successes and experiences will be mirrored in his creations. Projecting much?

Monsters:

Viy & Idr: both of them are centipede-like insectoids conjured by infamous mages (see: Alzur and Idarran)

Wererat: same can be said about this one. Idarran experimented on Vizima’s sewer rats since the age of 5. This human sized abomination was the end result.

Succubus: We already discussed how the “Succubus” doesn’t fit the theme. Other interesting thing is the surrounding of her - in the background we can see a skull full of some kinda of dark liquid; she’s also holding a goblet. I’m not saying she’s drinking blood, but if she does, it would shed some questions as succubi don’t need to drink blood at all.

Phooca: As nekkers’ rare big brother, phoocas are ogroids that have the strength to rip a man’s head off with their bear hands. According to the wiki, in Celtic folklore they are regarded as shapeshifting fairies.

Koshchey: A witcher 1 boss, koshcheys are spider-like abominations summoned by mages. The woman standing her ground in the picture is Visenna (Geralt’s druid mom). In the story she’s the one to kill the first koshchey ever created.

Spontaneous Evolution: Under the Red Moon the wolf mutated into an amalgamation of eyes and teeth. Malaspina possibly added something to the mix that proved unstable. The card’s name is kind of ironic - this change is not spontaneous (it was induced) but could be related to evolution (it would imply that this form is somehow advantageous to the current environment and helps adaptation). (Note: in my opinion spontaneous generation would be a better term: it’s the thought that living creatures could arise from nonliving matter.)

Hybrid: the card shows a two-headed wolf or dog. Pretty straight-forward.

Chimera: A creature created my Cosimo Malaspina. He combines the genes of a fiend and griffin, then added a trace of insectoid and wyvern. It kind of looks like a furred wyvern with antlers. Interestingly the frightener (an insectoid; a rare result of magical experiment) is also called a chimera.

Dol Dhu Lokke: a new monster lair location. The depending on how you translate “lokke” the Elder can be read as “black valley place” or “alluring black valley”. It’s so dangerous - housing many-a horrors - that even a witcher thinks twice before going near it.

Interesting tidbits

Coen has hair, which is weird because so far he was described in all sources as bald.

There used to be a card  that was also called Viper Witcher, which is now referred to as “Kingslayer”

The Bear Witcher’s face was drawn after one of CDPR’s employee.

The Koshchey’s card title has a typo: “Koschchey”.

Easter eggs (mainly in flavour text)

The Spontaneous Evolution card references The Powerpuff Girls intro: “Professor Malaspina accidentally added an extra ingredient to the concoction - compound X.”

The Bear Witcher card might reference a song of Baloo from the Jungle Book (The Bare Necessities): “Life alone on the road can be tough - be sure to bring all the bare necessities.”

#my shit #the witcher #gwent #witcher meta #witcher lore #i worked really hard on this #i hope it shows lol #if y'all have any thoughts i'd be happy to hear about them #cross my heart i don't bite

[minubell]

Maybe Khamul? Or pippin from lord of the rings? Just options I thought to put out there ^^;;

I read this and immediately had an idea for an AU where in the Shortcut to Mushrooms scene in the first movie Pippin took a smidge too long getting off the road because he was focused on getting all those mushrooms, so when Khamul shows up, Pippin is still on the road and is completely ignorant to who this really strange dude is and why is he asking about Baggins? 

An Alternative Route to Mushrooms

The tumble down the cliffside had been unexpected, but things were already looking up. The bag Pippin had brought along intending to fill with ill-gotten gains from Farmer Maggot’s fields were being filled now with mushrooms freshly plucked from the side of the road. It was a lucky find, a shortcut to mushrooms indeed, and almost worth the loss of the vegetables they had pilfered from the fields above.

“…-the road, quick!”

“Yes, yes,” Pippin replied with a hum, grabbing another mushroom and shoving it into the bag with the rest. “Just a minute, now.”  There was a shuffle from behind him, but he only had a few more mushrooms in the bunch, so he took the extra few seconds to quickly shove them into his bag and draw the chord up tight, giving the bag a little pat. 

“There,” Pippin said with a hum, standing up and turning around, about to take a step forward only to find his path blocked by a dark wall that he was fairly certain had not been there before. He hesitated then took a step backwards, looking up at the large, black horse standing before him. seated astride the massive animal as it huffed and pawed at the soil, jerking its head occasionally, as a figure wearing a black robe. The stranger’s hood was drawn up over his head, covering his face with shadows.  

A wind swept between them, sending a chill through the air. Strange, considering it was only September still and not quite fall, but then again the road was covered by trees here and the shade did make things a bit cooler. The chill certainly explained why his hair was standing on end, at least.

“Mushroom?” Pippin offered politely, reaching into his bag and holding one out to the stranger. A very nice one, actually. Perhaps he should give him a little smaller one. After all, he was going to share these ones with Merry, and probably Frodo and Sam since they just ran into each other and would want some as well. 

Actually, a quick look around told him that all three of them had suddenly vanished, and were mysteriously absent from the road.

Huh. Where did they go?

“Baggins?” The strange man hissed suddenly, voice inflected up as if asking a question, and he leaned down off the side of his horse until it nearly looked like he may fall right off the side and tumble to the ground. Still, he somehow managed to remain seated in the saddle, and although Pippin now had what should be a clear view to the stranger’s face, all he could see beneath the hood was swirling shadows. 

Likely because it was already dark on this part of the road, due to the aforementioned trees. 

“Took, actually,” Pippin replied cheerfully, dusting dirt off of his sleeves that had clung there after his tumble down the cliff, Frodo and the others temporarily forgotten. A bug scuttled over his foot and scurried away quickly, almost as if it was running away from the large horse. Understandable, a bug wouldn’t stand a chance against those hooves. “Although, my great grandmother was a Baggins. Rosa Baggins, to be exact. Her father, Ponto Baggins, was the son of Balbo Baggins, who was the first Baggins there was, which was very interesting. Lot folks in Hobbiton are related to him, you know, and-“ 

His voice suddenly cut off and his breath lurched as the ground dropped away from his feet. The bag of mushrooms fell to the ground with a soft thud where they remained, looking much farther away than they should. It took him a moment to get his bearings as he found himself suspended by the back of his shirt, as in one quick motion the stranger had decided to take it upon himself to lean down the rest of his way off of his horse and grab ahold of him by the jacket and lift him high into the air. Pippin had the very distinct feeling he was being watched, but his attention was quickly drawn to the metal gauntlets the stranger was wearing, one of which he could just make out the wrist of if he turned his head ‘round far as it could go to look at what was holding him up. Those were very neat looking, but would be nicer if they weren’t currently holding him up several feet off the ground.

“Baggins.” The stranger hissed again, this time its inflection level and more pointed, as if making a statement. As if declaring him a Baggins, and hadn’t he been paying attention at all?

“Took,” Pippin corrected with a small shake of his head. “Pippin, even. Not a Baggins at all, so can you put me down now?” 

The stranger was silent and his head...er, hood tipped to the side appraisingly, for a few moments before complying…and placed Pippin down in the saddle as well, returning his hands to the reigns and trapping him between both of his arms. Not that there was anywhere he could go even if the arms were not there, because this was a very tall horse and he wouldn’t even know where to start to get off of it. 

Uh. Hm. 

“On the ground, if you please,” Pippin quickly stated because this was not what he had in mind when he asked to be put down, but he went ignored as the stranger lapsed into silence. “Excuse me?” With a lurch of its head, the horse took a step forward, then another. “Hello?” A sharp tug at the reigns had the horse pulling to the side, turning around, and walking back the way it came, away from the Shire. He turned around, trying to peek beyond the dark cloak to look back at the road, only to come to a startling, horrible realization.

“My mushrooms!”

#khamul #pippin #peregrin took #ficlet #spades-of-indigo #Khamul is like welp this one is good enough #It is daytime out and i cannot think well #he said hes related to a baggins and something is better than nothing #Pippin out here like oh yes there are many baggins actually did you want a specific one or just in general baggins?

[outlier-rookie]

Of Blood and Greatness - Chapter 2

Chapter 2/?? - Money Trouble

AO3 Link https://archiveofourown.org/works/26305741/chapters/64050937#workskin

***

*repeatedly bonks head against wall*

I split the original chapter one into two parts to cut down the word count but it got even fucking longer

***

A lone jackrabbit darted across the ground as four horses broke through the trees surrounding Horseshoe Overlook. The constant rhythm of their hooves mostly drowned out the natural ambiance of the world around them as the horses thundered down the worn dirt path. Despite having only just gotten back to camp, Arthur couldn’t find himself complaining about being back out on the open road again. With a click, he nudged Admiral on and spurred the horse to pull ahead of Charles and Javier until he was alongside the teen.

“So, where exactly are you leading us?” He asked as the kid lead their strange little group down a less-traveled path along the base of Horseshoe Overlook. As they started down the shallow incline of the land, Arthur could easily make out the shimmering waters of the Dakota River ahead of them.

“’s a place called Cattail Pond.” The teen responded. “It’s a nice little area. Good for fishing and the water’s fresh from up the mountain. Fortuna likes it a lot up there. Don’tcha girl?” They continued, giving their horse, apparently named Fortuna, a loving pat long her neck. Fortuna nickered in appreciation, lightly tossing her mane as they rode on.

“Can’t say I’ve heard of it,” Arthur admitted. “Sounds like a decent place.” (Y/N) made a noise of agreement and nodded along to his words.

“Sometimes, a couple of deer will show up to graze and get a drink!” Arthur nodded and turned to look away from the kid as a small smile graced his features at the excitement dancing in the kids' words as they spoke.

“Ya hear that Charles? If we’re lucky we might be able to bag some deer for Pearson since he’s always going on about not having enough meat.” Arthur called back.

“It’d certainly save me from going hunting tomorrow.” Came the other man’s reply. The conversation petered off from there, and Arthur was content to let the silence hang between them as the teen continued to lead them along the Dakota River.

Arthur found himself occasionally looking to the teen as they continued along the horse worn roads. Once again he found himself taking note of their ratty hat, too-big shirt, and tangled, dirt covered hair. Unconsciously, Arthur found himself thinking of things better left in the past. About Mary and her choice of a clean society life over him and his life of killing and thieving. As much as it had hurt him to his core all them years ago, he had long come to terms with the fact it was the right choice for her in the end. A life on the run as a killer's wife was no life he wanted for her and by god did she deserve better. And what if they’d had a kid? Would that kid have grown up to be like (Y/N)? Dressed in clothes slightly better than rags, listening to folks in town talking, hoping for a sliver of promising information? How soon before Dutch started insisting they run jobs like him and the others? Would he have had to bury his own kid after a shootout gone to hell?

What about Issac?

His boy.

His beautiful little boy who would forever be barely older than Jack was now.

Arthur was forcefully brought out of his self-pitying thought spiral when Admiral cried out, rearing up and unceremoniously throwing him from the saddle. A cry of warning that probably came from Javier rang in Arthur’s ears as he landed heavily on his back, the crash stealing the air from his lungs. His world spun something fierce and he was vaguely aware of the feeling of the earth rumble beneath him as he lay there trying to breathe. Groaning to himself and muttering a quiet, pained curse, Arthur gingerly sat up as Charles appeared at his side offering a welcome hand up.

“You alright there Arthur? I almost ran you over.” Javier asks as Boaz came to a halt.

“Yeah, I’m alright.” Arthur replied, grunting as Charles pulled him back to his feet. He back protested as he carefully flexed his muscles, trying to lessen the pain racing up and down his back.

“You alright mister?” Arthur looked up and caught the worried look (Y/N) was sending him and nodded with a grunt as he looked around, quickly finding Admiral ten or so feet away, ears flicking back and forth. Arthur could hear the stallion’s huffing even with the distance between them. Sighing, Arthur called out calmly to his agitated horse, gently drawing Admiral’s attention to him as he shushed and soothed the animal. Seeing his human approaching, Admiral dutifully strode over to Arthur and less than gently shoved his entire head against the man’s chest as soon as he was within range, snorting as Arthur ran a hand along his neck.

“Yeah. You’re ok boy.” Arthur said softly as he fished out a peppermint as a reward for calming down so quickly and returning without much fuss. “Now why’d you go a buck me off like that boy?”

“Did you not hear me when I said to look out for the snake?”

Arthur looked up again at (Y/N) spoke and felt a tiny bit of heat upon his cheeks.

“Ah. No, sorry. Was lost in my thoughts.”

“That’s not like you Arthur. Everything alright?” Charles’ deep voice was like a welcome balm on his bruised pride. Still, Arthur waved off the other man’s worry with a small smile.

“Well, we’re nearly there so mount up and let’s get going.” (Y/N) commanded, turning Fortuna back around to the direction they were headed.

“Pushy kid, aren’t ya?” Arthur commented as he swung himself back on to Admiral’s back.

“We still gotta ride all the way back to camp. And besides, Cattail Pond may be out of the way but it isn’t completely untravelled.”

“Alright, alright. Let’s get going then.”

The remainder of the ride was again spent mostly in silence, as Arthur winced with every jolt of Admiral’s gait. The trip from then on out was almost entirely uneventful, save for the poor fella they passed who was yelling every profanity under the sun as a lone wolf chased his horse. Taking pity on the poor man, (Y/N) drew their repeater and without commanding Fortuna to slow, fired a few warning shots at the wolf, who decided his fleeing target was no longer worth the effort and fled the way he’d come. The rider didn’t even look back.

Arthur was mildly impressed at how at ease the teen was when needing to shoot from the saddle and when he commented as much, they simply shrugged and replied “Like I said, I can shoot any gun and I don’t miss. Those bullets hit right where I wanted them to.”

It wasn’t too much longer before (Y/N) was leading the three outlaws up the slope of the mountain.

“We’re coming up on where I hid everything.” They called back. “There’s a little abandoned house near Cattail Pond. The whole thing doesn’t look like it’s been touched in years.”

“And you’re sure it’s secure?”

“I sure am Mister Arthur!” They said, turning back to look at him. “Only way in is a window with loose boards but it’s too small for adults. Especially you and Mister Smith.” They finished with a laugh. “There it is!”

Arthur turned his gaze from the cheerful teen and true to their word, a smallish boarded-up house sat perched upon a ledge.

“Uhh, shouldn’t there be a pond? It was in the name…” Javier asked in confusion.

“It’s a bit further up and just over the rest of this part of the mountain.” (Y/N) clarified. Fortuna came to a halt with a tug on her reins as (Y/N) dismounted, the three men following their lead. Arthur briefly checked his ammo out of habit, noticing from the corner of his eye that Javier and Charles had done the same before following the teen up the mountain path. Naturally, the house had seen better days. The door and windows were all boarded up and almost looked more secure than several prisons Arthur had found himself inside for one reason or another.

(Y/N) walked with a purpose to one of the windows that looked just as inaccessible as the door, yet without pausing they grabbed one of the board and gave it a few tugs.

“Charles, could you give them a hand?” Arthur asked.

“No no no! I got it!”

“You sure kid?”

“Yup!” They replied, punctuated with another tug. “It comes off! I promise! I just made sure it wouldn’t fall off on its own while I was gone.” Arthur nodded as the teen grunted again as they struggled with the board.

“Almost got it-!”

With a final groan, the board finally came loose and sent the teen stumbling back into Arthur. He caught the falling teen with ease and barely more than a soft ‘oof’ at the collision.

“Told ya it comes off.” (Y/N) grinned. Arthur rolled his eyes fondly as they (h/c) haired youth dropped the board to the ground and went back to grab the next. As suspicious as he was of them when he first heard their claims, he found the teen had grown on him in the very short time he’d known them. A little voice in the back of his head whispered that they could still be planning some sort of trap but he tampered it down. He could not for the life of him explain why, but whenever he looked at them a strange feeling welled up inside of him. It was warm and kind of tingly but it also made his chest tighten and made his lungs feel like they weren’t working properly. Again he was brought back to the haunting blue pools of their eyes.

Arthur continued to watch silently as (Y/N) removed two more planks of wood until there was enough of a gap for them to fit through. Slinging their repeater off their back and placing it against the house, (Y/N) pulled themselves through the newly opened window. Javier and Charles silently fanned out to scan the surrounding area while Arthur watched (Y/N) through the window as they walked over to the fireplace and reached up the chimney, pulling a satchel from its hiding place. Next, they walked to a nightstand and pushed it away from the wall, revealing a hole with an old saddlebag sitting inside. Arthur let out an amused chuckle at the sight. The kid was pretty smart to have split up the money inside the hiding place.

“Grab this for me, will ya?” (Y/N) said from the window, holding a lockbox out to him. Stepping back and lifting the lid, Arthur felt himself grinning upon seeing the neat wads of cash lining the interior of the box. He looked up as the kids dropped two old saddlebags and the satchel out the window, all bulging at the seams with money, and onto the ground before once again crawling through the window.

“Good work kid.” Arthur smiled. The grin the kid gave him reminded Arthur of a cat that had gotten the cream or eaten an entire salmon on its own. “How much would you say is in those bags?” He asked Javier and Charles. “I think there’s around five thousand in this little thing.”

“Close to ten in the satchel, I think.” Came Charles’ reply. Javier let out a long whistle.

“At least thirty between the saddlebags. Certainly heavy enough to be that much.” Arthur nodded happily.

“’S good. Real good. Alright, let's load all this up then.” The packing away of the newly retrieved money was a quick affair and it wasn’t too long before Admiral, Boaz, and Tiama all had their saddle bags stuffed as full as possible. Still, there was some that still needed putting away. Arthur put most of it into his own satchel but decided on a whim to hand the kid the old satchel with a few thousand in it. “We’re trusting you not to betray us now kid.”

“Course not!” they replied with a scoff. “Like I’d damage the goodwill I’ve worked up with you now!”

“Right then. Well, where to next?” He asked as he prepared to mount Admiral. “We’ve gotten a good amount of our money back, is the rest nearby?”

“The rest?”

“Yeah, the rest. We got nearly fifty thousand right now but we’re still a long ways off from the total.”

The silence that followed was near deafening before the kids' quiet voice spoke up.

“B-but. This is everything!”

Arthur’s gaze shot over to the kid, their eyes wide as all hell as they repeatedly opened their mouth to speak only for the words to get stuck in their throat.

“You said you had all our money!” Javier interrupted angrily as he stepped closer to the scared teen.

“I did! I, well, I thought I did!”

“What do you mean you thought?” Arthur asked, his voice soft, despite the mild sting at the idea the kid had lied to them.

“I mean when I went to grab the money, this is all that was hidden there! I didn’t know there was more than this!” Arthur bit out a curse and ran a hand over his beard, thinking about what he should do next. The kid seemed genuinely upset at the revelation that they hadn’t actually gotten all of the gang’s money.

“You gotta believe me Mister!” They begged. Tears were starting to gather in their eyes and the sight made Arthur’s heart clench. “I-I swear! I thought I had gotten it all! I- I didn’t know! I-“

“’S Alright kid, I believe ya.” Arthur sighed, walking over and giving what he hoped was a reassuring pat on the kids shoulder. “Let’s just get back to camp so we can figure things out from there.” With a gentle push belying his anger, Arthur guided the distressed teen back to their horse, quietly telling them to mount up before swinging himself back onto Admiral’s saddle.

The ride back to camp felt slower. The horses all seemed to pick up on the less than cheerful moods of their riders and showed no desire to speed things along. Arthur was about to reassure (Y/N) that everything would be fine when the loud crack of a gun startled the horses and sent Arthur into fight or flight mode.

“Thems Dutch’s boys! Get em’!” A nasally Irish accented voice called out and Arthur heard Javier say, what was probably a curse, in Spanish. Arthur frantically looked around for somewhere to take cover but they were as good as sitting ducks. Yelling out a one-word order, he spurred Admiral into action, drawing his revolver as the stallion raced across the trail.

“Ride!”

The O’Driscolls whooped and hollered as they gave chase, firing wildly at the retreating men and teen as they made their mad dash over Cumberland Falls. One shot hit too close to Boaz and the horse reared, nearly bucking Javier from the saddle. As Admiral was practically running up Boaz’s behind, Arthur had no time to react and the two collided with such force, Arthur once again found himself flying from his saddle. With no time to catch his breath, Arthur sprang back up, running to the bank where several large rocks sat and slid down behind one. Taking a second to compose himself and draw his gun, Arthur peeked out from behind the rock and the world seemed to slow as Arthur picked his targets and lined up his revolver with the men trying to kill him. He breathed out slowly and squeezed the trigger and nailing one of the O’Driscolls right between the eyes. Sweeping his gun and gaze across the horizon, Arthur sent three more bullets flying towards his enemies with each hitting their mark in the other fella's chest.

A burning pain slashed across his upper arm of his off-hand and sent him ducking back behind cover, allowing him enough of a reprise to give his arm a once over. A tear in his shirt sleeve showed that he was little more than grazed by the bullet. Swallowing the pain dancing up his arm, he poked up from behind his measly cover again and prepared to return fire only for the O’Driscoll he was aiming for to go down with a spray of red mist as a bullet tore through his skull.

Chancing a look in the direction of the shot, Arthur was surprised to see (Y/N) behind another rock glaring down the barrel of their repeater, nailing O’Driscoll after O’Driscoll. The dumb Irish bastards, not expecting a majority of their forces to be taken out by a teenager, stagged and balked giving Charles and Javier, who had recovered from Arthur and Admiral crashing into him and Boaz, plenty of time to take down the rest of them.

When the last O’Driscoll fell, only the sound of the waterfall echoed around them as Arthur breathed out a sigh of relief.

“You alright there Arthur?” Charles’ deep soothing voice called out.

“I’ll live, just a graze. Stings more than anything.” He sighed, feeling the sudden tension and adrenaline fade from his body. Tiredly, he whistled for Admiral and quietly patted his neck. “You’re alright boy.” He muttered quietly before turning back to the others. “Any other injuries?”

“None here.” Javier replied, Charles nodding silently beside him. Arthur nodded and turned to ask (Y/N) the same only to see them staring at one of the dead O’Driscolls.

“Y’alright kid?”

“Hmm?” (Y/N)’s eyes stayed fixated on the dead body, a thin ribbon of pinkish-red water trailing from the hole in the man’s head.

“Come on.” Arthur said gently, guiding them towards Fortuna who perked up at her approaching rider and quickly attempted to eat some of the kids hair drawing a laugh from the quietly distressed youth. Arthur left (Y/N) to gather themselves as Javier silently signaled him over.

“We got a problem.”

“Besides the O’Driscolls?” Arthur said, gesturing to the dead bodies in the river.

“I can’t find the saddlebag you gave me.”

“What?”

“I think it might have fallen off when Admiral ran into Boaz.” The Mexican gunslinger continued. “If I had to guess, it went over the waterfall.”

“Shit.” Arthur spun around and walked up to Admiral, seeing that he too had lost the saddlebag filled with some of the money. “We can’t stay to look. Someone likely heard the shooting and I’d rather not be around if some lawmen show up.”

“What are we going to tell Dutch?” Charles asked, calm as ever, as Arthur swung himself back onto the saddle. “We already had less than believed and now we have lost even more of it.”

“Leave Dutch to me. Let’s just get goin’.”

Within a matter of minutes, the four of them were back on their way to camp, the air quiet like before but with a completely different feeling in the air. Gone was the jovial hope and promise of a fat stack of money awaiting them. Instead, a quiet disappointment and unease hung around them; especially from (Y/N). Silently, Arthur waved Charles and Javier ahead and slowed Admiral down till he was side by side with Fortuna. (Y/N) didn’t respond to Arthur’s presence, quietly fiddling with a few strands of Fortuna’s mane, their hands barely holding the reins. Arthur took a moment to note that Fortuna made no attempt to throw her head or wander elsewhere as her rider neglected to guide her.

“Hey.” He spoke up quietly. “Y’all right?”

(Y/N) shrugged one shoulder, not looking up from their fiddling, but stayed silent. Their ratty hat was pulled low over their face obscuring their eyes but Arthur got the feeling that the kid was doing their best to not cry in front of him.

“Hey.” He said to them, voice still far gentler than he’d heard himself sound in a long time. “Look at me.”

(Y/N) peaked out from under the brim of their hat and just like Arthur suspected, their eyes were wet with unshed tears.

“It’s goin’ to be alright. Dutch’ll understand.” The kid didn’t react and Arthur got the distinct impression they didn’t believe him. Were Arthur a different man he might have been bothered by the fact the kid had little to no hope of things being alright. The world was a dangerous place, especially for kids all on their own. He knew it, John knew it, and countless others too. Still, something he couldn’t put into words made him want to reassure the kid and make them believe in those words again.

God, he was acting like a damn a sentimental fool.

“Shit happens in life kid. But you know what? You still got us a good amount of money.” When the kid replied, Arthur had to strain his ears to hear their mumbled reply.

“I lied though.” They sniffled. “I said I got all your money but I didn’t! And then, most of it fell off the damn waterfall. All because of those damn Malakas!” The last word didn’t sound like English and had a weird foreign quality to it and Arthur made a mental note to ask the kid about it later because it definitely wasn’t a polite word. Realising he was starting to tune out (Y/N), Arthur snapped his thoughts back to them just in time to hear them complain more about the O’Driscolls.

“What happened with those O’Driscoll bastards weren’t your fault kid. Dutch won’t hold it against you. And besides, you helped us take care of em. You’ve definitely proven yourself as a capable person, despite your youth. I’m sure Dutch will be more than happy to have you with us.” The last sentence slipped out of his mouth before he could think better of it but the way the kids eyes shined with hope stopped Arthur from physically kicking himself for practically promising such a thing.

“You really think so Mister?”

“Course!” He continued with a hearty laugh. “You weren’t kidding when you said you didn’t miss. Nailed all three of those O’Driscolls right between their eyes! Poor bastards didn’t know what hit em’.”

The kid made half chuckle noise of agreement but frowned.

“Wish I didn’t have to prove my sharpshooting like that. I was thinking more about hunting for food. Not, killin’.”

Before Arthur could stick his foot in his mouth again by saying something stupid again, Bill’s gruff voice called out from the forest making Arthur realise that they were back at camp.

***

Thank you for reading!

If you have a spare 5 seconds please consider leaving a comment. It helps my motivation and encourages me to write more when I can see proof people like my stories.  A like and reblog also let me know people are enjoying this story.

#rdr2 x reader #rdr2 x male reader #rdr2 x female reader #rdr2 x gn reader #rdr2 fanfic #red dead redemption 2 x reader #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #of blood and greatness #RDR2 crossover

[laurasimonsdaughter]

What more tales do you have (or can point me to) about the baobhan sith? I'm planning a story that they might fit perfectly in, instead of more traditional vampires--basically, all magic and magical beings stem from spirits that I'm currently imagining as the fae (i.e. werewolves are closer to possession than to disease)--but the only thing I'm able to find is that same one story where the "hero" hides among the horses. I can't imagine that's the only thing about them on (or off) the internet.

This is actually a rather difficult question. One that’s probably gonna need a read-more...

As far as I understand it “baobhan sith” (pronounced baavan shee?) is a term from the Highlands and it just means “fairy woman” in the same way that “banshee” also means “fairy woman”. But when this particular wording is used, it is usually to refer to a specific type of seductive, blood-drinking fae.

However, I have a lot of books with Scottish tales and the baobhan sith just does not feature in any of them. Brigg’s mentions them in her fairy encyclopaedia and they feature in some of my vampire books, but always with the same story you referred to.

The original written source for that one story seems to be Robertson’s Folk-Lore from the West of Ross-shire (1905), later retold by Mackenzie in Scottish Folk Lore and Folk Life (1935), which is the version most widespread now.

It does seem like there were actually many stories about the baobhan sith, but they may all have been so similar that they were not interesting enough to collect. This seems at least party corroborated by the fact that there are multiple endings to the story Mackenzie retold and that Campbell featured one in Superstitions of the Highlands and Islands of Scotland (1900) five years before Robertson. I’ve seen several variations mentioned:

They all start with some hunters camping out in the Scottish wilderness at night, but in some they sing and dance and in others they just talk and tell stories.

Some stories feature all the men wishing for female company, other versions make them wish for their wives (making them guilty of adultery on top of mere lust after the fae show up to grant their wishes) and in some the protagonist does not join in these wishes (thereby proving he is worthy of salvation).

The baobhan sith show up to provide the wished for female companionship, sometimes enticing the men to dance while they slowly drain them, sometimes just going straight for their throats.

In some endings the survivor of the encounter (often the singer or musician of the company) hides among the horses (where the iron of horseshoes protects him?). In others he is protected by his dog and in others he simply flees and manages to get away.

All stories have in common that once the sun comes up, the protagonist knows himself to be safe, and he finds his companions dead and drained of their blood.

In these stories it is always mentioned that the baobhan sith are beautiful and clad in green, but eventually reveal sharp claws with which to draw blood. Additionally, they often have deer hooves instead of feet, which are hidden under their long skirts. Another attribute generally repeated is that they can shapeshift into a hooded crow or raven, but they never seem to do this in the stories. Other details I have found are that they can speak any language, albeit with an ‘otherworldly accent’ and that they rest in an underground dwelling in which they can be trapped by stacking stones on top of it (a technique that features more often in various vampire lore). I have not found clear sources for either, though.

Most fae do not drink blood and ‘normal’ vampires are not very common in Scottish folklore either, so the baobhan sith certainly stands out. Powerful fae clad in green are common, but even when blood is involved they tend not to act the same:

In a story from (presumably) Cromarty, a demonic (?) woman dressed in green carrying a baby with claws for fingers, steals into people’s houses to kill their children for their blood. She is not called a baobhan sith, though, and she uses the blood to bathe her demon child, not to feed it.

I have no idea how old the baobhan sith are, nor if they have more meaning than simply being a succubus-style horror story for men. The Irish dearg due and leannán sídhe share some traits with them, but they’re definitely not the same. If anyone does know more about them, I would love to hear!

#scottish folklore #vampires #sorta #fae #baobhan sith #anon #laura babbles #I hope this is at least somewhat helpful for your story anon! #Anonymous

[fancifulwhump]

Pssst jaskier prompt if you're interested: I'm a sucker for geralt being soft and caring while refusing to acknowledge it - so a fic where there's something wrong with jaskier - maybe he fell into an icy lake, or is getting sick or something, and geralt takes care of him like a total tsundere? *angrily shoves blankets at him* *stoically checks his temperature* *gruffly makes him soup* *WE'RE NOT FRIENDS BUT ALSO I WILL SIT AT YOUR BEDSIDE NURSE YOU BACK TO HEALTH UNTIL YOUR SINGING AGAIN*

@hurt-comfort  asked:   Hey hey! Loving your writing. I'm @hurt-comfort. I would love ANY Jaskier whump (use any prompt on my blog). I'd love to see like, Geralt just needing to comfort Jas (because he WANTS to even though he has the social IQ of a potato.) "When the whumpee is in like a daze, just sitting and staring at nothing because of something traumatic. Then someone forces them to either eat, get changed, or just move. Like shellshock" and Geralt has to be like "Jaskier, listen, it's okay"

AN: okay, okay, there was a lot to work with here, but hopefully I hammered it into a scenario that makes sense? “Falls through thin ice” is such a great whump trope and also a real nightmarescape of mine, so… let’s all enjoy the trauma together, guys!!

It’s not as though Geralt doesn’t care. That isn’t it at all. If he cared less, Jaskier probably wouldn’t get into scrapes like this   ---  he’d find his own trouble, of the ‘incensed husbands and fathers’ variety, but would cross paths with far fewer monsters. If Geralt didn’t care at all, he’d have abandoned the fool in some insignificant village long ago and never thought twice on the subject.

If he didn’t care, he wouldn’t have fished Jaskier out of the damn lake.

Fine. That’s... not true. He would have done it anyway. The terror he felt when he heard the ice crack  ---  that heart-plunging, vein-chilling terror  ---  he could have gladly gone without. Instead, he was almost frozen by it. From the ominous creak of the ice beneath their feet, to the sudden sharp scent of unfrozen water, to Jaskier’s half-hesitant  “Geralt ---”

Before the ice gave way.

It took him too long to move. Too long to spring into action, too long to force his body to cooperate with his racing nerves. Witchers are trained to never be caught unaware, to react on instinct  ---  a slow witcher is a dead witcher  ---  but he wasn’t fast enough to catch Jaskier before he plunged through the ice.

Where he vanished, only a hole remained  ---  and the water underneath, black and churning, small chunks of ice bobbing like forgotten fragments amidst the inky depths. Nothing thrashed; nothing moved. Geralt plunged both arms in, ignorant of the cold. His lone thought was catching something  ---  an arm, a foot, the collar of a jacket, anything to prove that Jaskier was down there. Yet as he groped through the murk, he found nothing. 

“Jaskier!” he bellowed, the sound echoing across the frozen lake. If the bard could hear him underwater, he gave no indication. Beneath Geralt’s knees, the ice creaked alarmingly, but Geralt fought through the natural instinct to retreat. Not without the damned bard. Dead or alive, he wouldn’t leave Jaskier beneath the surface.

He began to scramble, clearing snow from the frozen laketop to reveal the hardened ice beneath. It was like looking through a mirror into another world. Above was all he knew, all he’d ever known; below lay a foreign realm of darkness and desolation. Some battles even witchers could not fight, and a frozen lake was one of them.

Jaskier was nowhere, nowhere. Nowhere at all. Beneath the ice was a vortex of blackness, no thrashing body in sight. He must have sunk, Geralt’s furious mind realized, sunk right to the bottom, dragged down by that damned lute, and that’s the end of him  ----

With a roar of fury, Geralt’s fists slammed down on the ice. “Jaskier!”

For a beat, nothing happened. And then the ice broke.

This time, Geralt’s reflexes served him well. He scrambled back, finding his feet half a second before the frozen ground he’d been kneeling on shattered. Back, and back, the ice splintered and broke, widening the crevasse of churning water. No longer was it safe to stand on; the ice would not tolerate any more weight. Geralt took a step back, gaze fixed on ice’s open mouth, gaping and hungry…

There, a movement.

There, something white and fluttering, like a bird in its death throes.

There, a fucking hand.

He moved too quickly for even the ice to catch him  ---   but Geralt caught Jaskier, and that was the important thing. In one swift movement, he hauled the thrashing man up, out of the water and onto solid ground. Not solid for long, though. Even at the weight of Jaskier’s body flopping onto its surface, the ice groaned and gave way some more. A hand still locked around Jaskier’s forearm, Geralt seized hold of his companion’s other. There wasn’t a second to waste, even to make sure he was alright. Heaving Jaskier’s pliant body up and over his shoulder, Geralt ran.

Ice breaks fast. Witchers run faster.

He would have tried to save Jaskier anyways, Geralt thinks as he sets the bard’s limp body down on solid ground, but it would be so much easier not to care. At the moment, he cannot stop caring. The crack of ice still rings in his head, dogging him like one of Jaskier’s songs; though he takes little notice of the water’s lingering chill, it’s obvious in the stark whiteness of Jaskier’s face. Somewhere in their mad flight, Jaskier vomited up any water he swallowed. Now, he simply shivers in his damp clothes, still gasping like a fish on land. Something in the icy air doesn’t agree with him, because he keeps coughing, and he’s trembling —

Geralt does care. That’s the difficult thing. Because caring for humans is a fragile process, a risk with limited possibility for reward. Humans are so breakable, and there are so many things that can go wrong.

Caught in a moment like this, he isn’t sure how to care for Jaskier.

“You’re fine,” is what he settles on, drawing back to survey Jaskier’s shaking form. “Damned ice.”

It wasn’t Jaskier’s fault, of course. For once, he wasn’t blindly catapulting himself into mortal peril. Even Geralt hadn’t realized the ice was so thin… which is the real bitch of it, because Geralt should have known. He’s the one with heightened senses, with the ability to smell damned ice in the air — Jaskier couldn’t have known, but he should have. He should.

“You’re alright,” he says again, awkwardly patting Jaskier’s shoulder. Even under his touch, the bard quivers… but he’s still in wet clothes, and the afternoon is frigid. Right now, they need to get him warm.

Surely that will bring the blood back to his cheeks, and chase away that expression — a wide-eyed, blank look, so utterly unlike Jaskier that it’s unnerving. His open mouth still gulps in greedy lungfuls of air, which he proceeds to choke on. Any chance of regaining his composure is clearly beyond Jaskier right now, so it’s up to Geralt to drag him back.

Literally, as it turns out. When, after a few minutes, Jaskier tries to find his feet, his knees immediately give out on him. He winds up crouched on the frozen ground, hands digging into the dirt, practically curled in on himself. His head ticks against his chest as he trembles, eyes squeezing shut. Geralt waits a moment, weighs the cost of Jaskier’s dignity against his own, and finally offers a hand.

Jaskier doesn’t take it. He doesn’t even look up.

“Damn it all,” Geralt grunts. This was exactly what he didn’t want to do — yet it seems there’s no choice. Either he leaves Jaskier to freeze in the middle of a frozen wood, or lead him along like a child. Since Jaskier isn’t in any condition to give his preference —

Tucking one strong arm around Jaskier’s shoulders, Geralt hauls the bard to his feet. For one frightful second, his legs seem ready to give out beneath him again; but Jaskier slumps into Geralt, trusting his weight, and manages to stay upright. Geralt takes one step forward. Jaskier manages to follow. Another step, and another, and soon they are walking. It’s not much — Geralt is basically Jaskier’s walking stick, used to ground him despite his violent shivering — and Jaskier still hasn’t found his voice, but it’s enough. It gets them where they need to go.

When Great grunts and nods to the horse, it’s enough of a shock to resurrect Jaskier’s voice. “You —“ he croaks, then clears his throat with a wince. “You w-want me — t-to ride —“

“Get on the horse,” is all Geralt says, turning away. Chances are, he’ll regret it. Chances are, Roach will resent him for it. But with Jaskier riding, they’ll make it to town within the hour. Given the choice between an inn’s roaring hearth or defrosting over a sickly campfire, he can guess which one Jaskier would prefer.

By some small shred of common sense, the bard doesn’t hesitate. After a few pained grunts — which Geralt does not turn around to investigate, because it’s not his damn job — Roach lets out a huff of her own, and Geralt starts walking. The steady rhythm of hooves behind him reassures that Jaskier manages to make it up.

His estimate isn’t far off, either. They make it to town within the hour, riding past rows of dreary brick-and-mortar buildings towards the heart of town. Usually, Geralt is welcomed with stony silence by suspicious village folk; today is no different. Having Jaskier as a companion does come with rare advantages; he burns so brightly and appears so guileless that people can’t glare at him the way they do at Geralt. When Jaskier rides into town at his side, they are often given far warmer reception. Jaskier charms cart-vendors, smiles at children, winks at passing ladies (and gentlemen)... he makes himself welcome wherever he goes. Geralt May be a far more imposing presence, but he finds himself swept up in Jaskier’s tide, carried with him where he goes.

At the moment, however, Jaskier is in no state to charm and cajole his way into a dreary town’s good graces. He simply hangs low on Roach’s back, head bowed, as they ride through the streets. His shoulders still quake with the occasional shiver; his breaths are a bit too heavy for Geralt’s liking, and he’s too quiet. Somehow, Geralt finds himself more preoccupied with Jaskier’s state than the hostility radiating from the wary villagers.

The local inn has a spare room for the night, a warm bed, and a bath. It’s good enough for Geralt. He slides their coin across the table, steps back outside to collect Jaskier off of Roach — he’d trembled too hard at the notion of coming inside — and makes short work of hustling him up the stairs. As soon as the door closes behind them, Geralt guides Jaskier to the bed, form hands pushing both shoulders down. Jaskier doesn’t even bother with a token protest.

“Your clothes,” Geralt says. When Jaskier stares at him blankly, he curses. “They’re still wet.” Frozen, in fact, hardened with a thin sheen of frost against the night air. Leaving them like that is guaranteed to lead to problems later on; Geralt has no desire to leave town tomorrow with a pneumatic bard trailing behind. He reaches out, giving the sleeve of Jaskier’s jacket a tug. The leather is stiff, sending a hail of ice crystals raining down onto the mattress, Jaskier doesn’t react at all. 

So, that’s how it’s going to be? 

If Jaskier won’t do his own damn job, Geralt will do it for him. Scowling, he manhandles Jaskier’s jacket and jerkin off. In moments, he is left in nothing but his undershirt. That’s soaked through too, but the fabric isn’t as frozen; Jaskier could easily shrug out of it on his own. Still, he makes no movement to.

“What’s the matter with you?” Geralt demands.

Jaskier says nothing at all. His gaze shifts away from Geralt, across the room towards the closed window. Something about him — be it his hunched posture, eerie silence, or the far-off look on his face — feels as though he isn’t here at all. Jaskier has wandered off without Geralt noticing, going somewhere far away. Wherever he’s gone, Geralt doesn’t know how to get him back.

After a long moment, he sighs, casting the half-frozen clothes aside. When he strides across the room, his footsteps resound against the wooden floorboards. It’s easier to fill the silence with something instead of nothing at all. Somehow, it leaves him feeling less alone. The inn’s portress has filled a metal tub with steaming water, leaving it right outside their door; Geralt makes quick work of dragging it in, grunting as he goes. By the time it’s set up, the floor is littered with puddles, and his pants are uncomfortably soaked — but the memory of Jaskier emerging, white as death, from the black depths stifles any complaint instantly.

Looking back up at the bard, he’s shocked to see Jaskier showing signs of life. He’s found his feet again, and even removed his undershirt. Now, his hands fumble at the laces of his breeches, but they’re shaking too hard to manage.

Geralt allows himself exactly half a minute to settle on absolutely not, before caving in. It’s either this or watch the bard bathe half-dressed, which would be even more pathetic. That’s what he tells himself, at least, as he roughly shoved Jaskier’s hands aside and undoes the laces himself.

“You — you don’t h-have—“ Jaskier’s murmured protest cuts off. The job’s already done. Geralt looks back up at him, unconsciously seizing one of his wrists; automatically, a hiss escapes past his clenched teeth.

“You’re still freezing!” Geralt has met ice wights with more heat in their bones. No wonder he’s trembling so badly — shock mixed with potential hypothermia is a dangerous combination. Either one on its own can be debilitating, but both of them bad enough could be lethal.

“Bath. Now,” he orders brusquely, giving the bard a shove towards the steaming tub. Still dazed, as though caught in a waking dream, Jaskier stumbles into it. He doesn’t even whimper as the hot water envelops his freezing limbs, though it has to hurt. His thousand-mile stare shifts away from Geralt and down to the water. After a moment, Jaskier goes utterly still.

“You need to soak. That won’t stay warm all night.” When Jaskier gives no indication that he’s even heard, Geralt grunts in frustration and kneels at the side of the tub. “Hey!” He gives Jaskier’s shoulder a jolt, and he jerks to attention abruptly. The blatant fear in his eyes takes Geralt aback. He expected exhaustion, even irritation, but not — whatever this is.

“The water closed over my head,” Jaskier exhales, and evening his voice sounds a thousand leagues away. “It happened so fast… like I was swallowed. And I couldn’t — I couldn’t breathe, Geralt, I couldn’t — couldn’t swim. It was so cold —“

“Jaskier.” His hand is still gripping a bony shoulder; now, Geralt’s hold tightens, pulling his companion towards him. When Jaskier tries to pull back, he won’t let him. “Look at me. Hey.” Jaskier is still trembling, but Geralt grounds him with the contact, forcing him to meet his eyes. “You,” he says slowly, “are safe. This water is warm. It’s not going to hurt you. Nothing’s going to hurt you as long as I’m here.”

“It almost—“ Jaskier starts, then cuts off. Geralt understands anyway. It feels like a blade to the gut.

“I know,” he says after a long moment. “I’m… sorry.”

“Sorry?” Jaskier blinks at him, as though slowly awakening from a deep sleep. “Geralt… you saved me.”

But he wasn’t fast enough. “Still.”

Slowly, Jaskier shakes his head. His legs relax in the water, fully submerging, and he sinks up to his chest. Finally, finally, he’s no longer trembling. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

It’s not what Geralt deserves, but this day has given Jaskier nothing he deserves either — not a near-death in a frozen lake, not the clumsy care of a brute who has no idea what he’s doing. This bath is the first nice thing to happen to him all day… and suddenly, Geralt is determined that Jaskier shall enjoy it.

Reaching in, he cups a palm full of water, and releases it over one pale, bare shoulder. Unwillingly, Jaskier lets out a gasp. Steam rises and quickly evaporated off of the chilled skin, but the mere touch of water is enough to make Jaskier want more. He quickly sinks down, submerging himself up to his chin. Geralt watches carefully, intently, just in case.

He will not be too slow to save Jaskier this time.

After a long moment, the bard shifts in the water and says, in a small voice, “Thank you.”

Geralt has no idea what he’s being thanked for; he simply huffs and turns his head, looking away.

#the witcher #jaskier #whump #Anonymous

[shythesheep]

The silvertounged fool and his golden hearted king

 Content warning: descriptive violence and angst, lots of it. Whump.

Summeary: Merlin has known that everything has prize in life, and only the people in power has the means to pay it. He isn't one those people. Gifted with magic and a destiny unknown to him, he is ripped from his mother by a warlord and sold to Cenred to be trained as a sorcerer for his war against the other kingdoms of Albion. There is always a prize to pay, and in a time of war Merlin is the means to tip the scale of power. Too bad no one is fighting for him.

Chapter 1

Humble beginnings

Every life has a humble beginning. Be it the willful seeds that will grow to a proud harvest or the humble acorn that with the caring hand of time will grow into a wise oak, that gives shelter to all the creatures of the forest. Even legends as the one that is about to unfold, started out humble. It started out with a woman. A woman from the village Ealdor in the young King Cenred’s kingdom. In this little hut of hers, she sat with the bundle of joy that she called son. This was a time in which the only pain she foresaw for her child, was the burden of being a bastard, but the universe has its ways, and this bastards of hers was going to bear a burden heavier than most. The child’s name was Merlin.

v•v•v

“Merlin!” his mother grabs his shoulder and hides him in her embrace as she pulls him into the backyard. She signals him to be quiet and with shaking hands she makes him hide in the wood stack that leans up against their hut. There is a small crack that he is precisely tiny enough to squeeze into quietly. From his hiding spot he can see nothing, but non from the outside can see him either, so only his mum and himself knows where he resides. He can hear the clip clop of hooves against the dirt roads in the villages, and from their heavy breathing Merlin can imagine their frantic eyes, waiting for their rider to guide them through the unfamiliar terrain.

Horses are always a bad omen, even at the mere age of seven winters, Merlin knows this. Only knights and Kanen’s men have horses. Horses only bring bad men that makes his mum cry and takes their rations. Merlin would love nothing more than to make Kanen fly away, with all his evil minions, and the knights too. But magic is not something to use, not when curious eyes and running mouths are present. His mum says that even the walls and trees have ears, which is silly and scary. There are always eyes on him, not just his mother’s loving gaze, but eyes that belongs to greedy souls of men that would love nothing more than to exploit his powers or sell him to highest bidder. Even at this age Merlin understood the concept of danger that the magic inside him brought with it.

Magic cannot exist in this world where it only brings his mother worries and missing fathers, he knows that that is what he should think. But when he is alone, sitting under the oak in the early spring, the magic inside of him only creates friends for the beautiful butterflies that flies around him in a playful dance of the seasons. In the moments of bliss, he feels the earth and moss under him vibrate with life. It’s not tangible, but it is there, in the roots that run from the trees and the air that lays heavy with the smell of bark and moist grass.

The forest and butterflies seem so far away now, with him squished in between wood pieces and the cold air of late autumn filling his lungs. His hands are red from the cold, but he dares not move, hence he should make a sound. The horse’s hooves are quiet, but their riders are not, and neither are the villagers of Ealdor. He can hear the arguing, but not the words. He knows one of the voices, Matthew, he is always nice to Merlin and Will, even when old Tom accuses them of stealing eggs from his chicken coop. They never actually took any eggs, but when an adult accuses you, you rarely get out of the situation without a scolding, but not when it is Matthew, he just reassures old Tom that nothing has been taken and smiles to them. He is a nice man. Not like Kanen.

Merlin has only seen his face once in passing, and it’s a face that can only belong to a man like him, with a rotten soul and violent temper. It’s a face that only suits the likes of a child’s nightmare. But Kanen was as real as any and not just a nightmare but a menace to the villages that lays in the outskirts of Cenred’s kingdom, and the young have never cared for the poor folks, as long as he still owns the land and it isn’t outside kingdoms’ men that attack, then he won’t do anything.

Merlin strains his ears and Matthews voice pierces through.

“We don’t have anything left Kanen, the profit from the harvest this year was meager, we will starve as it is.”

“Then you will starve, but I know you have more to give than this.”

“We have nothing, you’ve- “

“Huni- “

“No, Matthew quiet. We have nothing, you’ve taken everything Kanen.”

Merlin gasps. It is his mother speaking. Curious as any child, he crawls out of his hiding, to get a better look at the confrontation. He is still hidden partially, and he is certain non can see him if he just stays quiet.

His mother his standing with her chin up, her face dirty with sod and mud from working all day, her hands are tightly fisted at her side, and they aren’t shaking. Merlin looks with his mouth slightly agape, admiring his mother that he thinks resembles an angry dragon.

He puts too much weight on his front leg and his foot slips on the muddy ground. He grunts and pushes himself up to meet the eyes of his mother, that in an instant change from being filled with bravery to big and round with a look of terror painting her face. It’s not just the eyes of his mother that is weighen down on him.

Kanen gets down from his horse and sounders towards merlin with his sword drawn, Hunith chokes out a tearful scream, but a few of Kanen’s men are holding her and Matthew back.

Merlin doesn’t move as Kanen lifts his chin with the tip of the sword, pressing it dangerously rough against Merlin’s soft skin. A tickle of blood runs from where the blade meets skin.

“Hunith’s boy I assume.” Kanen smirks and turns to Hunith with a laughter. “Not so brave when your little boy is under the blade huh?”

“Leave him be! He is just a boy!” Hunith is crying. Her body hunched over as she fights against the heaves, her eyes never leave Merlin.

“Don’t worry I won’t hurt him.” Kanen crouches down, removes the sword from Merlin’s chin and clutches it with his strong hands instead. He turns Merlin’s head slowly back and forth, inspecting him as if he was a mouse and Kanen the cat toying with him before the deadly pounce. “After all, I can’t sell damaged merchandises.” This makes his men chuckle and laugh. Hunith on the other hand, tenses up and gets quiet. Her face grows cold and her eyes fills with storm clouds. As quick as any mother would be with their child in danger, she hits one of the men with a fist to the nose and dives for his sword. She manages to get a hold of it and charges at Kanen.

Kanen draws his sword and easily manages to block Hunith’s barbaric swing, he pushes her back when their blades clash and Merlin sits frozen as the scene unfolds. His mother screams so hard that the strain on her voice is clear. But Kanen smiles non the less before the angry mother. The fight is over just like that, with Hunith clutching her bleeding arm, and the sword laying discarded at the side. Kanen points the sword at her, but the finishing blow never comes. The sword’s shaft heats up until it glows, a sizzling of burning flesh can be heard as Kanen yells in pain and drops the sword. He looks angrily towards Hunith, then he follows her gaze to Merlin. He just barely sees the glowing of the boy’s eyes as he turns. A crooked smile mix with his painfilled grimace.

“You got magic boy. No wonder your mother hid you.”

“Please! I’m begging you, let him be! He is just a child Kanen!”

“A child with magic, which is something that would fetch a high prize from any interested party, but a prize too big for you to pay I am afraid.”

“Kane-“

“We’ll take the boy as compensation for the damage and missing payment.” He smiles and turns towards Merlin. Merlin looks to his mother and feels himself starting to heave and tears form in his eyes.

“RUN!” Her mother screeches.

And run he does. He dashes towards the forest with the yells of men not far behind him. Then he hears the horses. Horses are always a bad omen.

“ahhh!” he screams loudly as someone pulls him up by his shoulders, the sound of hooves and yelling floods his senses and everything is thrown into a chaotic jumble of his beating heart and fast flowing blood.

“Sit still or I’ll drop you and the horse will trample you to death.” It isn’t Kanen but one of his men that has pulled Merlin up onto his horse. He is holding Merlin close to his chest as he rides towards the others who are roaring in victory as if Merlin was their hunting prize.

It goes quickly after that. Merlin’s hands and legs are tied with rope, and a cloth bag is loosly tied over his head as to obscure his sight. He screams for his mother, for matthew, anyone to help him. His movements are frantic as he fights against the hands holding him stomach down on the saddle. He can’t hear his mother, only the turmoil of screams and roars, who is yelling what he doesn’t know.

“Let’s get going, I want to set up camp before we look for a buyer.” Says Kanen in an indifferent tone and a low rumble of agreement is heard from the man holding Merlin.

“And make his weeping stop, it is giving me a headache.”

#merlin #bbc merlin #merthur #angst with a happy ending #angst #whump #whump fic #merlin fandom #merlin fanfic

[huihuiheart]

DnD SFW Series: Part 3 - PICK Your Poison

Series Masterlist - For other chapters or NSFW Version

Pairing:  reader x Knight! Chan, reader x Dark Prince! Hyunjin, reader x Thief! Felix, reader x Fairy! Jisung

Warnings: Love triangle (kinda?), honestly just a complicated jumble of feelings between characters (it’s only getting worse from here folks), mention of a haunted forest. 

Word Count: 1,093

Previous Part _____ Next Part

“C-Christopher - “ You start to try and speak up, despite not being entirely sure what you’ll say to the man who’s fixing his sharp gaze on both you and Felix. You get cut off though as he puts his hand up to you.

“Don’t Y/N. I mean I know we were never anything official, but I didn’t expect you to go for the likes of him.” Chan huffs, running a hand through his hair and effectively messing it up, “I mean is that what you want a troublemaker? You like bad boys?... you know what that’s fine, but you didn’t need to lead me on like I meant something to you. I would have gotten you away from Hyunjin either way...at least now I know that I’m just your second choice.”

Felix smirked, looking like he was ready to throw some smartass remark back at Chan until you shoved him out of the room and closed the door. Leaving just you and Chan as you take a shaky breath trying to steady yourself.

“Whoever said you were my second choice?  I know I certainly didn’t.” You counter softly, palm moving to rest of Chan’s cheek and making him look at you, “You aren’t my second choice Chris, never have been.”

“So what then? You’re playing Felix? I don’t understand…” Chan’s eyes finally meet yours again as they glisten with fresh pain, making you sigh and shake your head softly, not sure you’d be able to give an answer that would satisfy him...or either of them for that matter.

“It’s not that simple, unfortunately. When are feelings ever simple though? What I do know though is that I have feelings for you and Felix. The same feelings at that, but for entirely different reasons...which makes it hard to compare you two in terms of who I should be with. It’s so complicated it makes my gut feel all twisted and like my anxiety is up to my chin...like I could drown in a mix of that and emotions at any point.” You try to explain to the man in front of you hoping not to lose him or make him any more upset than he initially was.

When you finally meet Chan’s gaze again, it’s soft as he leans in to press his lips to yours for a moment, “The heart can be like that sometimes. It’s alright though, you don’t have to explain that anymore to me if you don’t want to...I know it’s not always easy to decipher what your feelings are and what you want. Just know that I’m always here, okay? And as long as you aren’t lying to me about how you feel about me then that will never change.”

Chan moves to open the door and tell Felix he can come back in, but upon opening the door Felix falls onto the floor, being caught eavesdropping on you two. Making Chan cross his arms and look at him with a brow raised, disapproving of his actions.

“What? I wanted to know if she cared about me too.” Felix shrugs, picking himself back up and dusting himself off before looking at you. He coos softly at your worried face, both from the emotional stress of the situation between the three of you and from watching him practically fall onto his face. He comes and cups your cheeks looking over you softly, “I think you’ve had enough stress for one night. Besides, it’s getting too late to safely travel around here right now. Let’s spend the night here and set off again tomorrow.”

“Can we really do that?” Your words are barely there, still, there’s hope in them. More than ready to take a small break and recharge after the chaos that this unusual world had been putting you through.

Chan smiling softly and leading you to sit down, “We should be okay for the night, we had quite a head start. You just relax and let us take care of everything, you’ve been through a lot.”

You nod, hearing his concern laced into his tone, not having the energy to argue even if you wanted at this point. Chan heating water to draw you a bath, so that you can clean up after the chaos of escaping and running through the forest last night, as Felix works on cooking something for the three of you. And for the night, everything was perfect despite being in a world that wasn’t your own and your boys being so familiar and yet different.

Yet, that perfection couldn’t last forever, and as morning light started to flood into the room, you knew it was coming to an end just as soon as it had come to you. Fear settling into your heart at the sound of hooves and shouting racing closer to Felix’s hideout, despite your best efforts, Hyunjin was about to find you much faster than you three had anticipated. Racing for a time as you scrambled to grab only the necessities and make it out to the horses. Felix tosses Chan his sword before strapping one on himself.

“Have you had one the whole time?” Chan questions the thief realizing he perhaps had misjudged him more than he thought.

“I did, but killing you both was never something I wanted.” Felix softly nods, “I also don’t want Hyunjin to get his hands on us again, so we best go. They sound close enough to spot us anyways, we’ll have to hope we can find an escape and that the horses you got are fast.”

Chan nods, and you three slip out, him lifting you onto a horse before getting on one himself. Felix pulled himself up last, but the first to head off, leading the way towards a forest that seemed eerily dark even in the bright morning light.

“If they’re dumb enough to follow us in there, we can easily lose them,” Felix calls, glancing back at Hyunjin and his men as they follow behind, slowly closing the gap between you.

“That’s because no one wants to go into that forest,” Chan responds, seeming uneasy for once as he seems to debate if it’d be worse to face the forest ahead of you or the soldiers and angry prince to your rear.

“Why is that?” You question nor caring if you sounded dumb for not knowing. This was not your world, you couldn’t remember anything about it. Not even aspects it seemed you needed to know about. The boys exchange a look before glancing back at you.

“It’s haunted.”

#dnd series sfw #reader x bang chan #reader x hyunjin #reader x felix #reader x han jisung

[snowbellewells]

The Lawman, the Thief, and the Outlaw

by: @snowbellewells

(Here we are, at long last!! I am so excited to present the Rio Bravo AU I have been thinking about and wanting to write for so long.  As we are now just a little under three weeks away from Netflix’s “Heartstrings” and seeing Colin as a cowboy, I had to get going on this and channel that excitement.  If you have ever seen the old John Wayne/Dean Martin/Ricky Nelson/Walter Brennan Western “Rio Bravo”, then this will follow a lot of the basic plot points, though I will take some of my own twists and turns as well. I definitely have to give it some inspirational credit, as well as @theonceoverthinker for her help with a few plot issues I was trying to wrangle, and for the lovely ladies on the Discord chat: @kmomof4  @profdanglaisstuff @ultraluckycatnd @darkcolinodonorgasm @teamhook @wellhellotragic  for helping me with title suggestions.

Please enjoy, and I’d love to hear what you think of this opening!!)

Summary: Sheriff Killian Jones has done his best to leave behind a troubled past and bring law and order to the town of Blanchard Ridge. However, when he upholds his duty in the face of the most feared and dangerous outlaw gang in the area, allies are few and he dreads trapping them in the same situation he finds himself. The small Western town is about to become a powder keg, and one lawman, his deputies, and a resourceful woman too stubborn for her own good are all that stand in the way of bloodshed and lawlessness...

Chapter One

Sun beat down brutal and unyielding from the hot August afternoon sky onto the packed dirt of Main Street in Blanchard Ridge while the town was sleepy and still; not even the bark of a dog or the clop of hooves from a passing rider disturbed the dusty hours before the evening meal. The stage was due in at four, but as far as Killian Jones’ sharp gaze could reach from where he sat, chair tilted back on the wooden slats of the porch, appearing relaxed and lazy, nothing moved in the time of the ‘siesta’ as their neighbors just a few hours south in Pioche would call it. 

Though all appeared normal - more still than normal, even - in the sleepy little town he was meant to watch after, Jones was not about to drop his guard; he had learned long ago that calm could turn to chaos on a dime, and he aimed to be ready when the storm came. Idly, he flicked his pocket knife along the grain of the whittling stick he worked as he sat surveying the nearly deserted street, hoping to convey boredom despite every sense being keenly attuned, nerves jangling in a way that warned him something was coming - even if he didn’t yet know what it might be. He hadn’t survived as long as he had, nor gained the reputation he possessed, by growing careless, and he trusted his instincts. He slowly let his hand slide down casually, almost without notice, making certain his favorite Colt Single Action was in its holster, before going back to the soft humming and carving he’d employed since he took up his seat just past the noonday meal, upon his return from lunch at the Nolans’, and since his deputy, Scarlet, had taken off for the afternoon. 

Reflecting for a moment as he watched heat shimmer in waves before his eyes, Jones knew that he was far from the typical lawman, even in these rough territories, and the irony of his ending up here wasn’t lost on him. He didn’t give himself leave to think much on the twists and turns his life had taken, and he tried not to waste much time debating whether or not he deserved the opportunity and trust he had been granted, seeing as how neither did anyone a lick of good. But on long, lonesome afternoons such as this one, when the parched brown earth and flat, monotonous chaparral stretched before him as far as the eye could see - such a contrast from the verdant rolling hills and cool breezes of Ireland, from whence he’d immigrated with his father and brother more years ago than he could rightly count - he did sometimes wonder how he had wound up here in the desert. He was a haunted man, and he didn’t like to leave the gate open to thoughts of the past any longer than he could help it, so he slammed it closed before they could go much further. Suffice to say, he’d been offered a second chance on the right side of the law, to be part of something that wouldn’t lead to jail, lynching, or death in some back alley from a knife in the back, and he had taken it.

There was only one inmate in the jail behind him, but it was one more than usual in the peaceful settlement where folks generally got along and abided by the few simple laws there were. It had him on edge, this Felix Nightshade in their cells, and it was why he had sent Will out for a few hours when he had, so they would both be around once night fell. They’d bunk in the jail, just to be cautious. Nightshade himself might only be a bank and stagecoach robber, interchangeable with any other, but word had it that he was the lieutenant to Pan Malcolm himself, the feared and bloodthirsty outlaw who had lead the notorious Lost Boys gang terrorizing the state for some years. Killian expected a rescue attempt to come before the Federal Marshals came to fetch Nightshade and take him into custody, and if so, he reckoned they  would strike under cover of darkness. It was what he would do himself.

He was standing to stretch his long legs and lean frame from the stiffness of sitting in one position for too long when the ground beneath his feet began to tremble and there was a rumbling sound like distant thunder suddenly drawing near. A cloud of dust kicked up on the horizon and drew ever closer, until Killian began to think that he had been wrong to surmise his adversary would wait for nightfall, when he recognized what was coming. His stance eased and his hand once more slid away from his six shooter as ‘yips’ and ‘haws’ rang out with the sound of hooves and the lowing of cattle. A train was driving their herd into town.

From under the awning, the sheriff waited to see if he knew any of the riders, but it was the distinctive brand on the cows themselves as they jostled into view taking up the whole street in a lumbering river, that let him know whose livestock had arrived. The ornate “O” interlocked with a “Q” told him the whole lot of them were a former compadre of his, Robin Sherwood’s, and coming from his ranch out on the Rio Bravo river, a prime bit of real estate that had been in his second wife’s family for generations. Another former immigrant, and once ne’er-do-well like Killian himself, Rob had found love, married a powerful heiress and become one of the most prominent cattle ranchers around, going respectable with impressive style and giving his spread the name Outlaw’s Queen.  Jones didn’t know Rob’s wife all that well, didn’t even see his friend that often, as the ride out to their land was long and he didn’t often give himself days off, but she was rumored to be quite the lady. Robin truly did treat her as royalty… and was happy to do so.

Chuckling, Killian moved forward as the herd cleared through, driven into the holding pens down by the livery kept for such wagon trains passing through, then came down the steps to meet Sherwood as he swung from the saddle, smiling widely and already calling out a greeting.   The rest of his riders, including the young orphan he had taken under his wing upon hiring him as a ranch hand back in the spring, moved the cattle on, slowing them as they neared the large corral and began to guide them through the gate.

Killian had started down the weathered plank steps of the boardwalk to the packed dirt of the street, and already had his hand out to shake Rob’s, even as his old friend moved forward in a similar fashion, when the loud crack of a gunshot ran clearly in the afternoon air. Even over the lowing and stamping of the herd, the sound was unmistakable, ricocheting off the buildings and startling everyone nearby, who ducked instinctively. Unfortunately, the bullet had already found a target. Whether its intended one or not, the damage was the same, and Robin Sherwood listed to the side horribly, crashing to his knees at the foot of the steps, his hand going almost dazedly to where blood was already seeping through his shirts at the ribs.

“Rob!” Killian called out an alarmed warning too late to do the other man any good. Even as Killian hurried the last few steps to where his friend was slumped in the street, still breathing, though painfully labored, but unable to right himself from his knees where he had crumpled. “Mate, hang on,” Jones added fervently, as he knelt to survey the damage. Where the bullet had entered, if it had exited cleanly or was still inside, played a huge part in what could be done for the rancher. And even as he looked, Killian was also remaining in a crouch himself, hoping to make as small a target as possible for the unseen gunman, and keep an eye on their surroundings in case more shots were yet to come.

Chaos had erupted around them at the crack of the gunshot; the straggling cows not yet in the corral threatened to stampede in fright, and the rest of Sherwood’s riders darted here and there, whooping and hollering to keep their animals in line. All except one of them -

Killian swallowed back an unwanted lump of emotion trying to burn its way up his throat at the sound of young Henry’s cracked voice crying out an anguished “No!” over the melee, his horse thundering up to the hitching post near them and his gangly legs swinging into Killian’s view as he dismounted and slid to his knees beside them, looking to the sheriff for some sort of reassurance. Killian honestly didn’t know if it was the living hope still alight in the youth’s wide brown eyes - not yet having lived long enough in the crooked old world to have lost faith in things turning out alright - or if it was the vivid flash of horrific memory, bringing his brother’s pained face, as he last remembered seeing it, swimming with ghastly clarity before his eyes too quickly for him to fully shutter it away. Jones didn’t have time for sentiment; the shooter needed to be found. He also needed to be certain no other citizens were hurt, and see to Rob’s wounds once the dust settled. It looked as though the injury had been a clean through-and-through shot, and if he could get Sherwood to Nolan’s without his losing too much blood, he thought David’s pretty, fresh-faced wife: cook, seamstress, and pretty much anything else a person could call for, could stitch him up while they got Doc Hopper to make sure no infection set in. 

The melee around them seemed to be settling down; the riders herding the rest of the cattle into the pen safely and no further shots coming from wherever the assailant’s hiding place had been. The thought that the bullet in Rob’s side had quite probably had his own name on it, was another thing Killian Jones had no time to ruminate on. Clearly the shooter had turned tail when they’d botched the job of taking the Sheriff out of commission, and ridden back for further instructions rather than risking discovery. From what Jones had heard of Malcolm and the precision with which he expected his orders to be followed, the law man reckoned that bloke had every bit as unpleasant a few hours in front of him as Robin did with people poking and prodding at his side.

Pushing all his numerous worries and concerns back for the moment, Killian met the eyes of the lanky young man before him, “Henry, isn’t it?”

The boy nodded, not saying anything, but acknowledging the sheriff’s words with a determined furrow of his brow, trying manfully to hold in his obvious fear and worry for his adopted father. Killian was grateful for the youth’s gumption, even if he hated asking more yet. He knew well how much Sherwood must mean to the lad. When Henry had arrived in town back in the spring, by far the oldest child on the Orphan Train that had driven through seeking homes to take their charges in, it had been clear that a boy of nearly fourteen was not the age most childless families were hoping to start out with. Robin, however, having lost a first wife and young son who would have been about Henry’s age to the influenza years prior, hadn’t hesitated for a second when Killian had mentioned the boy’s plight to him.  It did some good to even Jones’ toughened and grizzled outlook on the world to see that the arrangement had worked out better than he could have hoped. Aiming to put some semblance of encouragement in his tone he added, “I think he’ll recover if we can stop the bleeding and get him sewn up,” he offered. 

Moving to brace Robin on one side, and gesturing Henry to do the same under his arm on the right, between the two of them they got Sherwood to his feet, thought unsteadily and leaning on their combined strength. In a shuffling walk they had soon guided him across the way to the inn and restaurant, finding its proprietor, David Nolan, already at the door and coming to help usher them in to safety, his petite, dark-headed wife Mary right behind.

In a better moment, Killian might have shaken his head and laughed at the pair of them, never far from one another and both with hearts as wide as the Rio Grande itself, always trying to do what they could for anyone in need who came to their door. He’d had Mary’s cool, soft hands fluttering over him more than once after some on-the-job injury in the line of duty, and so he knew the woman must already be itching to get her hands on Rob and do what she could to ease his pain.

To speak his mind plainly, Killian would have been forced to admit that he’d often wondered how two people as fine as the Nolans, whose very nature and bearing spoke of class and manners unheard of this far West, had ended up in this rugged New Mexican outpost. They both were too kind, too open and trusting for their own good, and Killian spent more time than he would admit to hoping they weren’t robbed or taken advantage of by whatever rough characters might come riding through. Yet beneath the surface, where he sensed there may once have been a sheltered, easy life that would never have been enough for either one of them, he had long since decided the pair must have a wealth of strength he hadn’t at first been able to see. They’d come to Blanchard Ridge and opened the inn not long after Killian had pinned on the Sheriff’s badge, and neither one seemed to have a thought in their heads towards leaving. 

Once they got Rob laid out on a bed in the closest possible empty room, Mary began preparing hot water, clean washcloths, and other materials she needed, while her husband set out with the young ranchhand to fetch the Doctor. Sherwood had clung to his senses as long as possible, but he seemed to be drifting away from awareness, now that he was settled and had reached relative safety. Killian made sure the lady had no need of his assistance, to which she shooed him away to go watch for the others’ return.

Striding out in the main dining area, Jones set up watch at the door, not as much for the doctor, Nolan, and Henry as to see what was happening in the main street. Gunfire was as unusual as he could possibly make it in the center of their small outpost, and so after the ruckus of the last hour the dirt thoroughfare was deserted, people having no wish to be caught in the crossfire - whatever was going on.

His first instinct, the gunfighter’s fire within that had pushed him along until settling there and seeking out a modicum of peace, even if he had to keep it himself, had him edgy, chomping at the bit to get out after the culprit firing on himself or his townspeople in broad daylight. But the lawman he had become had to allow his temper to subside; he couldn’t lash out with the need for vengeance and retaliation. And, if the shot hadn’t been meant to kill him outright, then it had no doubt been meant to send him chasing after shadows rather than staying on guard with his prisoner awaiting the Federal Marshall.

The only thing that was stirring as he continued to stare out at the street before him was the cloud of dust drawing closer and signalling the arrival of the four o’clock stagecoach. They pulled up down the way by the post office, before heading on to the livery, for those horses to be watered, brushed down, and a new team hitched up before the stage headed on to the next settlement. One rider jumped down from up top to run the mail pouch in to the postmaster. The whole routine carried on exactly as usual, until a dainty booted foot stepped out onto the wooden boardwalk from inside the stage. A deep green traveling dress, accented in places with an overlay of black lace, drew his eye up to a stunning, pale feminine face, a strong chin and pert little nose, though the rest of the unknown woman’s visage was hidden by an artfully tilted hat with wide brim to shade her face. Now that was unusual; visitors to the Ridge were exceedingly rare.

He tried to move on from the arrestingly lovely sight, as the woman surveyed her surroundings and then began walking in his direction towards the inn, an enticing sway in her step. No call to be gawping at her like some untried greenhorn, no matter how long it had been since --   No, no time for those thoughts either. He was standing lookout over the main way in and out of town, the jail, and his friend; that was more than enough to focus on.

However, as the lady neared the entrance, Killian did open the door for her, touching the brim of his hat slightly, with an easy dip of his chin and a simple, “Afternoon, Ma’am.” 

She raised her head enough for beguiling green eyes to be seen from beneath her own chapeau. They twinkled with some bit of mischief and humor, as she replied, “Why thank you, Sheriff,” with a pointed glance to his badge. “Good afternoon to you.”  She then brushed by him so closely that he felt her warmth, making the small hairs on his arm stand on end, and caught the inviting scent of apple blossom, and the cold mix of leather and cinnamon along with it.

Was it only an hour or so ago that the town had appeared sleepily uneventful? Sheriff Killian Jones sensed now that his trouble was just starting, and in more ways than one.

Tagging some who may enjoy: @resident-of-storybrooke @hollyethecurious @let-it-raines @revanmeetra87 @linda8084 @jennjenn615 @searchingwardrobes @laschatzi @effulgentcolors @thisonesatellite @whimsicallyenchantedrose @snidgetsafan @shireness-says @spartanguard @winterbaby89

#cs au mc #cs western au #rio bravo au #chapter one #sheriff!Killian

[vminity21]

Lush

Pairing: Jungkook X Reader

Word Count: 3.3k

- BTS Aesthetic - Jungkook -

~ Just some fluff to make your butterflies flutter ~

Vegetation.

Red tomatoes dangle from their stems in countless rows before you, encircled by thick, plush trees. The vegetation surrounding the scene abundant that the sun barely shines above it instead remains covered leaving shadows of swaying leaves along the ground. Yellow butterflies flutter amongst the grass, landing on colorful flowers spread across the land. Faintly, you hear cautious hooves rummaging through the forest, the movements lightly crunch along the piles of leaves though you hardly register what it may be. Taking a step forward, your fingertips brush one of the shiny, plump fruits, the red glistening beneath what little sun is protruding through.

The dirt beneath your feet indents leaving a trail of your journey behind you. Gazing at the tomatoes, you're in awe of how a simple seed can grow into something so beautiful along with many other plants that enrapture your soul. When the field of tomatoes seems to come to an end, a bright light piques your attention, your feet shifting onto freshly mowed grass. Something about the light really draws you in, especially with it nearly blinding you. Inwardly, you urge yourself to continue forward, your hand resting above your forehead to dim some of the brightness.

A large tree appears in your vision once your eyes adjust, mossy patches gather along the end of the trunk, a gray stone rests above where the tree roots are buried deep into the earth. Your eyes pan over the sight until they land upon a figure dawned in white clothing, back leaned against the stone, fingers fiddling with what looks to be a flower. You tilt your head, consumed with the way his eyes remain focused on the floret, his thin lips murmuring to himself with each petal he removes, them swaying to the ground or onto his raised knees, and noting his soft pink hair waving on his forehead and long enough to cover the tips of his ears.

The entire moment is angelic to you. Heavenly in a sense. His countenance without the knowledge of your presence moves you to the point you want to call his name. If only, you realize, you knew it. When he reaches the final petal, you instinctively step forward, your lips parted in preparation to speak when the jolt of a doe breaks your concentration, the boy lifting his head with widened eyes, turning to see who has entered-

Running a few errands, you forgot to bring a water bottle along with you which primes you to run by a dollar store with the plan of purchasing water as well as a few other things before returning home. For some reason, you are extremely thirsty today, the summer sun hasn't given a break enough to be able to breathe properly. Either way, you're thankful for your day off, though you can't wait to return to work tomorrow. The greenhouse you work in on the weekends has been a dream, holding numerous flowers, other buildings holding different vegetables or fruits, a backyard filled with a cornfield and a strawberry field- the plantation so immense that it gained popularity from the folks living in your small town. Every employee is assigned certain positions. Yours happens to be with the flowers, though your coworkers love surprising you with baskets of vegetables or fruit whenever there's a lot left over after the harvests.

Monday through Thursday though, you work in an antique shop as a manager. You're the biggest workaholic you know, but art, plants, and the realms of nature have been your passions your whole life. Walking along the isles, you finish retrieving what little items you need, and you head to the register. You're uncertain of why your head feels so foggy, but once you pay for your items, you waltz out the door, zipping your wallet and placing it in your pocket.

"Ma'am!" Someone calls, "Ma'am wait!"

It takes you a moment to realize that the deep voice is calling for you. Turning around, you see someone approaching you, waving an arm in the air until they capture your attention, the sound of a plastic bag clashing with each step.

"Sorry, ma'am. You left this," Your eyes land on the bag holding the items you just bought. Embarrassment immediately flooding your features.

"Oh, my word," you breathe, reaching for the bag, "Thank you so much, I can't believe I left without-"

Your heart halts when the familiarity of the man's pink hair floods your vision. Bright, brown eyes meet yours, your shoulders tensing at the recognition of his face. Someone that appeared in your dreams the night before.

"It's no problem at all," He smiles, his eyes timidly keep your gaze, his hand falling to the side once the bag is hanging from your stiff digits.

With a terse nod, you grin, "I hope you have a nice day." Your heart pounds as you brisk to your car, the strangeness of the whole situation nearly floors you. Have you seen him before? Is that why he somehow crept into your dreams? Either way, you buckle your seatbelt, igniting the engine and driving toward your home, brushing off the whole thing as nothing more than just a mere coincidence.

Maize stalks aim for the sky, the leavings tickling your figure with the light breeze whisking between the greenery. The golden cobs peek from where they're held, the sky a light blue as cirrostratus clouds hover in sight. Your fingertips brush the smooth, yet numerous rows of kernels amazed by the beauty of such a grain- how they grow in rows to feed the world along with many other plants. You spring forward, skipping through the cornfield to find an entrance to the shining light ahead. When you find yourself exiting your previous adventure, the scene before you is breathtaking- the sun brightening the earth as you notice the vacant tree with the stone sitting next to it appearing in your peripherals.

What captures your vision brings a small smile on your parted lips. A lone doe grazes along the grass, her light brown fur evident amongst the colors of the plantation. As if aware, she raises her head, flicking her ears as the wind picks up- her black nose twitches, abruptly turning her head to meet your entranced stare. The doe stiffens at the discovery of your company, but remains in place, firmly planted in the one dwelling she feels safe.

"It's okay," you try to speak, but no words are heard- raising your hand just enough to show her you will not do anything to hurt her. The doe's eyes stay locked on your being, even when pink flower petals softly brush your skin. With furrowed eyebrows, you lift your head to see a shower of them falling from the sky in slow motion, covering the terrain like a blanket of snow. When you turn to find the doe, she's gone. Your assumption is she skittishly ran away which brings an ache to your heart, but you understand her instinct for flight. The sunlight trails to the tree and stone- beyond them your eyes see him. The silhouette dressed in white- his back facing you, yellow butterflies sparsely cling to his clothing, their wings fluttering just enough to enchant the air with their magic. When his figure shifts, you see his hands are raised in front of his chest, his fingers poised as you see two butterflies resting on them. His vision never leaves their beating wings, smiling down at them with the mindset of friendship. You want nothing more than to join him, basking in the glory of the sunshine and the gentle nature of the butterflies, the frolicking of deer in the fields yonder, and catching flower petals replacing rain.

You watch him carefully, not realizing the forward motion you're making. Nearing him, a butterfly flutters from his shoulder to fly in your direction, the man turns to follow the Lepidoptera- eyes enlarging in surprise when he sees who it's traveling to-

Watering the daisy section brings the conversant scent of water and dirt, a fragrance you never want to lose. Reds, pinks, yellows, blues, and purples brighten the greenhouse, a few fans above bring a cooling breeze to the plants, along with relief from the humidity lingering outside. You love the smell of plants which is why you're thankful you only work here on weekends, that way everything remains fresh with every shift. You saunter to the rose section, taking a whiff of one of the deep red emblems with a smile spreading across your face. You're so mesmerized by the attar, you hardly notice the door closing signifying a customer is in the midst. You reach to sniff a pink rose this time, a low hum sounding in your throat.

"Hello, I came to see if-"

Your hand flies to your chest as your eyes widen- the thrumming of your heart evident.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you," The deep voice says, which then you apologize for jumping like you did. When you raise your head to meet the customer, you freeze. It's the same person who not only appears in your dreams but is also the same person who rescued you from leaving purchased items behind.

"It's okay," you reply, gaining your composure, "How can I help you?" You smile, trying to ignore the faint attraction withering within you. You notice he squints his eyes at you in wonderment, trying to figure out where he may have seen you.

"You're the one from yesterday," he then says, snapping his fingers then shyly chuckling, not meaning to avoid your question, "I remember now. I didn't know you work here."

"Just on weekends," you nod, your demeanor timid when he tilts his head with interest.

"Are you in college?"

"Oh no, this is actually my second job. I'm a manager of an antique shop," you mention, then pondering what brings this handsome stranger to the greenhouse of all places. "What about you?"

"I work at a wildlife rehab center." He grins, your eyebrows raising in surprise, "I work with animals that have been injured or animals that were found abandoned as neonates, so we raise or rehabilitate them until they can be released,"

"That's- that's amazing," you stutter, the memory of your latest vision clouding your mind. The face of the doe flashes, and you can't help the astonishment on how much your dreams of this stranger align with his reality.

"Recently, we released a doe we rehabilitated from a wounded leg," he murmurs, sadness in his brown eyes as he slips his hands in his pockets. "I just hope she doesn't go through anything like that again." You're uncertain of what to say other than apologizing once again, though you're very happy to hear of her healing, also hoping she remains in good shape and health for the rest of her life. "By the way, I'm Jungkook." He offers his hand, formally introducing himself.

"I'm [Y/N]," you say, firmly gripping his warm hand in yours with a swift shake.

"Sorry, for the distraction. As far as why I'm here, I'm wanting to send a floral arrangement to my mom's work. It's her birthday today," he grins, revealing what flowers he would like and rattling off the address as you swiftly type up everything, packaging the flowers neatly, and Jungkook signing the store copy of his receipt.

Before he turns to leave, he glances at you one more time, his diffident expression imaging yours,

"It's very nice to meet you."

You're flattered especially when he slightly bows in respect to you.

"It's very nice to meet you, too," you bow in return, Jungkook nodding sweetly, soon disappearing out the door, your thumping heart still echoing in the atmosphere.

Strawberries. Vertical lines of strawberries decorate the ground, the triangularly shaped fruits appetizing as you prick one loose from its stem, the sweet taste of it satisfying as you close your eyes. You're not sure how many you've eaten, but you can't seem to get enough as you follow through the field until you reach the opening where the meadow no longer bears fruit. Your lips are stained pink from the binge, though you can't see it, you can feel it, especially when the crave for more remains on your mind.

Glancing ahead, you pause, your smile widening at two deer frolicking a distance away from you. The two playing at each other as they bounce in different directions- completely in their own little world unbeknownst of your presence. When a tapping on your shoulder causes you to gasp, you whirl around to see the wide-eyed gaze of the pink haired gentleman. Apologetically, he stares at you, his lips parted for he didn't mean to frighten you. Bringing a finger to your lips, he follows your gaze to the deer dancing behind you, his heart melting along with yours at the view.

When you turn to face him once again, it's like the world around the two of you disappears, just two individuals lost in a large world, yet held together by the nature that brings happiness to each of your lives. He raises his hand, swallowing in fear, gently settling his palm along with your cheek, the softness of his skin soothing to you as your fingertips brush his wrist. He inches closer, pausing just enough to where his breath sweeps along your lips, the desire building nearly knocking you off your feet.

When you close your eyes waiting for his kiss, he speaks,

"Love me or love me not-"

You've always been incredibly shy. Which is something you've accepted about yourself a long time ago, you decide as you carve at the wood you've been working on the past week. It's starting to resemble a deer, the ones appearing in your dreams almost every night since your first dream about Jungkook. Your coworker is tidying up the floor, taking care of customers, checking in on you from time to time to make sure your current projects are turning out the way you've hoped. As you whittle at the timber, you smile fondly at it, proud at the detail you're able to create.

It's just- as you twirl the current piece in your hand, you elect to not sell it. Instead, you originally created this project with a different intention. Courage revealing itself, you finally conclude that you're no longer going to cower. Taking a quick break, you lean back in your chair, excitement for the following weekend to arrive.

Shrub surrounds you though in the distance clusters of blueberries bring a peaceful feel to the ether, the dark blue reflecting beautifully with the green stems. You sprint toward the fruit, the sun following you as you twirl with the heat of the breeze. Monarch butterflies flap their orange wings, swarms of them tackling the bushes to enhance the scenery with their aura. If rain exists in this utopia, you'd never know, not with the sun bringing such a euphoric feel to this world you love to escape to.

Laughing joyously, you skip through the blueberry field until you appear in the meadow, the grass tickling your ankles, your heart searching for the constant who gives you a sense of sanity. Without missing a step, you turn to see him, shining so vividly in his white attire, you're nearly breathless when you reach him, tapping his shoulder, him facing you with wide eyes- he relaxes when he sees it's you. He gulps, shifting his gaze momentarily before returning to meet yours.

There's nothing you want more than him. This longing for him doesn't make any sense with him being a stranger, but when do visions from deep slumber ever do? You reach for his hand, resting his palm upon your cheek, him closing the gap between you two just enough to where the tip of his nose brushes your cheek. You know what's coming when his lips part, but it's not a kiss he's about to give,

"Love me or love me not?" he mouths, but you don't answer with words.

Instead, you smile, reaching your free hand to cup his cheek, leaving a soft peck on his lips. In that one second, something powerful astounds you, and you pull away breathless. Without hesitation, he kisses you again, the trampling of a multitude of hooves sound in the distance, the rush prevailing like the bravery exuberating from your entity. Kissing him once more, the both of your hearts beating to the rhythm of the trampling hooves, the gentle touches of falling flower petals encompass in a kaleidoscope of colors, vegetation blooming luxuriously across the land. As he wraps his arms tight around your back, your arms rest around his shoulders, letting the sounds of earth envelop the two of you in a blissful imagination.

Weeks pass before you ever see him again. Twirling along the different sections, you've already watered the plants for the day, helping a few stragglers here and there until you find a moment of peace. The dream you dreamed has you in a daze you can't explain, but something about this human enchants you in such a way that you can't seem to think of anything else, but him. As the hours' tick by, you lean across the register in hopes that a crowd will bustle through the doors, but nothing of the sort happens. When closing time nears, you begin to check on everything until the sound of the door alerts you that someone has entered the facility.

Turning on a heel, you nearly faint when you see the light pink hair of Jungkook, looking around the store, before his eyes land on you.

"Hello," you greet with a small wave, "How are you?"

His lips pull into a side grin revealing small dimples you never knew he had. You approach him slowly, folding your arms across your chest as you timidly pause next to the register.

"I'm doing well," he says, "How are you?"

"I'm doing well, too," you say, the two of you trying to gather words to speak, but neither of you seems to be able to let it out.

"How's work-"

"How's the flow-"

Both of you begin simultaneously, chuckling at the awkward situation.

"You first," he smiles widely, your heart fluttering in reaction.

"How's work?" You repeat, Jungkook nodding as he replies,

"Good. I got to see the deer we rehabilitated the other day," his eyes light up, "Decided to visit the meadow not far from here, and there she was."

What he said sparks the reminder of what you've been waiting to give him for weeks now.

"One sec," you lift a finger, turning to ruffle through your purse until the wooden figurine is within your hand. Facing Jungkook, a timid smile adorns your lips, his eyes widening in sweet surprise as you lift the wooden figurine of the doe in his line of vision. "I know we hardly know each other. But what you do for animals, and your story really inspired me. So, I want you to have this," you hand the carved doe to him, his fingertips brushing yours as he accepts it, his mouth ajar.

"Th-thank you," he breathes, "It's perfect. You made this yourself?" You nod, him continuing to express his amazement on your talent. After a few moments, he then lifts his head, his pink hair covering his forehead, silver earrings exposed from the tufts of hair fluffing over the tips of his ears, "I don't know what time you get off work, but if you're up for it, I'd love to show you the meadow," Jungkook's eyes are hopeful as he holds yours, your heart melting in return. "Maybe we will get to see some deer, too."

"Honestly," you begin, your gaze never faltering from his kind, brown eyes, "I wouldn't dream of missing it."

#jungkook #jeon jungkook #kook #kookie #bts #bangtan #bangtan boys #bts jungkook #bts jeon jungkook #bts kook #bts kookie #jungkook fluff #jungkook one shot #bts imagine #bts aesthetic #bts imagines #jungkook imagine #jungkook imagines #aesthetic

[thejamesoldier]

A Single Frayed Rope

AO3 Link :)

Prologue

A/N: So Arthur's got his own horse (of course not poor Boadicea) like the other gang members do and not that Tennessee Walker pinto you get in the start of the game bc reasons and artistic license :)))))))

Chapter 1 ~ Colter I

The Northwestern Peaks of Grizzlies East, Ambarino ~ Unknown Date

You know for sure you're dreaming this time.

Blue clear skies reign above you, a mountain sleeps below you, and green grass rolls gently over the steep rock inclines on either side of you. Wildflowers humbly greet the sun as dawn breaks the fasting cold of night, life slowly awakening as light hushes into the world. An eagle soars a few leagues above you, great wings flapping as it lowers itself with its talons extended to a rock that sits behind what looks to be a, a simple grave.

Something draws you forward, a single rope tying you irrevocably to whatever lies in the distance -- whatever is on the other end. You pick your way slowly across the uneven terrain as sweeping curtains of warmth brought by the proud dawn part before you. Despite the sun tingling against your skin, you hold yourself tight to brace against the stubborn morning chill nipping at your heels like loyal hounds, urging you to move faster towards the inevitable. There's a silence that settles around you then, broken only by the sound of your footsteps that crunch against the gravel as you walk. You stop a respectful foot in front of the humble resting place unsure of what to do but strangely not questioning why you're here. Flowers the exact color of sunset are planted in a thoughtful cluster around an erected cross, a circle of wood rounding atop all three protruding ends of the cross distinguishes it from a normal grave. A sentence is carved there while a name is displayed on the horizontal center plank.

"Arthur Morgan," You whisper softly after a moment, reading the name carefully but lovingly etched into the fresh wood. The name feels foreign on your tongue but none the less it yanks on that rope anchored deep in your chest.

Before you can read the rest of the epitaph the eagle takes off with a cry as the wind picks up suddenly, startling your gaze away from the grave. The wind doesn't gust into you as you expect it to by the swift way it lifts the eagle high into the sky. Instead it sings, harmonizes with itself, as it banks against the mountain face behind you after dragging chilled fingers along your cheeks. Its as if speaking the name of the man who rests here evoked something within the surrounding nature, the moment feels sacred somehow, and in the distance you notice a stag -- proud head lifted high as it faces you. He's about a mile off, standing in a large green valley that rests just after the mountain's sheer incline gentles into sloping hills. A thick heavy morning fog curls about his hooves, the sun barely reaching him as it crawls slowly over the jagged line of the horizon and glows softly within the frame of his antlers -- a phantom of strength and beauty. Even after you meet his gaze and hold it, exposed and stripped of everything material, the great beast remains unshaken.

Maybe this isn't a dream.

Maybe it isn't dawn but its dusk.

And maybe...maybe this is a memory.

--

A Glacier Northwest of Colter ~ May, 1899  

Arthur doesn't understand what he's seeing at first.

Javier gives pause beside him too as they spot John and then notice the curled up form beside him. They both sway slightly on their feet when they eventually work out its a naked unconscious woman. Arthur's body jolts him forward on its own in order to begin working his way down to get her -- John, to get them both. John doesn't even seem like he knows she's there as he calls for Arthur in that raspy familiar voice of his, the sound of it reopening a wound deep in Arthur's chest that he's been constantly attempting to repair ever since John returned to the gang.

He left us.

Arthur clenches his jaw as he approaches him, shoving the hurt away as violently as he can even though he knows it'll float back up through his subconsciousness and haunt him later. Worry, of all things, takes his sorrow's place as he really assess John's condition. But as soon as John meets his eye, spirit nearly broken as his body is, Arthur feels his familiar wall of anger spring up around him at the vulnerability, swiftly separating him from the world, a veil against his reality -- his coping mechanism polished and efficient from years of use against pain and loss. Arthur offers John a few clipped words of comfort as he bends to collect John's nearly frozen body. Its not until he heaves him -- albeit a little more roughly than necessary -- up over his shoulder and starts to pass him to Javier to carry out of the small sunken ditch they're in, that John even acknowledges the woman lying a few feet away.

"The girl, the woman-n A-Arthur, the woman, she ain't dead, t-take her too." John gets out through his violently chattering teeth.

Arthur doesn't quite know how to respond to that as he was already planing to take her with them so he doesn't, just wordlessly bends down and gently pitches the woman up into his arms, trying to avoid looking at her nakedness as he does so.

How the hell did a woman end up running about on a frozen mountain alone and naked, of all things?

Putting her over his shoulder didn't feel right, made her seem too much like a corpse, so instead Arthur carries her bridal style and holds her as close to his chest as he can as he minds his footing while navigating his way off the ledge to higher more solid ground.

Once they reach their mounts Arthur speaks over the wind that's starting to pick up again,

"Marston! Where did she come from?"

John winces as he gingerly adjusts himself behind Javier on the back of Boaz,

"Dunno, I was r-runnin' from them wolv-ves and we kind of found each other. T-Took to the high cliffs to escape."

Arthur only grunts in response as he struggles to loosen his saddle enough to pull the wool blanket that served as a saddle pad out from underneath the leather seat. Once he's wiggled it free he quickly covers the limp woman in his arms with it, hoping the heat from the worked horse settled deep in the fabric would help her thaw or at least stop her from losing any limbs if she hadn't lost them to hypothermia already. He lifts her up onto his mare Sabine after re-tightening the saddle, hushing at her when she nickers in protest at the loss of her blanket, before mounting up himself. Arthur's fingers shake with the cold as he unbuttons his thick layers of coats and pulls the woman tight against his chest. He does his best trying to button the both of you in together, forcing the stiff worn fabrics to stretch.

"Why the hell is she naked?" Javier asks, since no one else was willing to, as he turns Boaz in a direction that looks like it holds the safest path back to camp.

John shrugs only to instantly regret moving, the deep open wounds on his face pulling themselves wider as he lets out a shout of pain.

"Let's just get back to camp and ask questions later," Arthur orders as he positions the woman's body to curl in to him, hooking her legs over to one side of the horse and guiding her head to rest in the pocket of warmth between the side of his neck and the thick fur of his coat's flipped up collar. Any of her skin that isn't covered by his coat Arthur tucks the saddle pad around.

He pushes aside all sense of propriety as he feels Javier and John watching him maneuver her as they wait -- not judging Arthur, just uneasy with the overall absurdity of the situation. Every inch of her is pressed against him, uncomfortably so, in favor of making sure she doesn't die. He knows bare skin against bare skin is the most efficient way to share body heat, he knows this is a life or death situation going by the fact that she's starting to chill Arthur to the bone with how cold she is. The severity of her condition helps him ignore his bashfulness and follow Javier's lead with his head high as he guides the small group back to camp.

Arthur promises himself he can be embarrassed and furious about all this later.

--

Colter ~ May, 1899

The first thing you register is the absence of the cold. It's strange because you had grown so used to it, you felt oddly naked without it.

And that becomes the second thing you register: course fabric against your skin.  

You slowly stir yourself into consciousnesses, feeling like you have molasses in your veins and a heavy stone for a brain. Your body protests sharply though as you attempt to sit up once you understand you're in fact alive and no longer freezing. The pain is a deep stabbing ache that seems to have no origin but just exists in every cell of your body, and it bullies you back into stillness. Once your suffering ebbs a touch, your other senses take over.

"Is the lost lady waking up?" A small nervous voice asks, a child.

"Dunno Jack, but if she does she's in enough pain that I reckon she couldn't hurt us even if she tried." A responding voice hushes, tone firm but comforting and intimate. The mother.

"Okay."

You keep your eyes closed at that, thinking maybe you should pretend to be asleep a little longer (and you don't think your eyes could handle any form of light right now anyways). Your head throbs as being awake starts to prove to be painful and exhausting, your tongue lies heavy and dry in your mouth, and you agree with the woman -- your limbs feel like lead, so heavy you don't think you could lift your pinky finger.

Weak, you feel so weak.

And with that thought you're pulled back under the dark surf of unconsciousness.

--

"Dutch, Dutch we got a lot of folk to feed now," A man's worried voice accompanied by a door banging open yanks you out the grey fray you were lost in, "If you keep savin' lost souls and taking hostages then we gotta act accordingly. We're responsible for them now and we gotta take care of everyone else! We can't do that if you go gallivanting off with the strongest in our gang robbin' trains and shootin' up O'Driscolls!"

"Hosea I don't know what to tell you, I've said this a hundred times, we'll be fine. We always are. We made it back alright from that O'Driscoll camp, and we will make it back from this train robbery in tact and that much richer. We need this money. How are we gonna move everyone to a safe place without cash?"

"We at least need to leave the goddamned snow, Dutch! Once we get to country that's inhabited by people then we can think about a big take, but right now food and not freezin' to death are our main concerns."

"Arthur and Charles found us some food, we'll be fine --,"

"No we are not fine. The two stags, both of which were starving too by the way, aren't going to last us. Arthur and Javier brought back John and a half-dead woman who we know nothing about, and then on top of that you found poor Mrs. Adler and now another O'Driscoll! Christ alive Dutch, half of us are dyin' we can't afford to risk --,"

"Hosea," The sound of hands grasping shoulders fills the pause between the man's words, "Hosea have faith in me, trust me to get us all out of this alive."

Silence reigns then. You figure you're in a small room by the way their voices don't carry too far in the space. Wind howls outside, banging on doors and rattling windows fighting to get in. The confusion that hits you once you really catch on to their conversation alarms you so severely you begin to shake.

Gangs?

Shooting?

Robbing?

What the fuck is going on? Where are you? Who in Gods name are these people?

"I trust you Dutch, you know that, but think about this, please, for me. Think about all the people that need to be the priority right now, Colm will still be there, trains and coaches and rich people to rob will still be there, but John might not make it, the woman with him who was naked mind you and already half dead when they found her will probably not make it, Mrs. Adler might not make it. Davey died, Dutch. Jenny is dead. We've got family missin' too, Mac and Sean --,"

"You don't have to remind me Hosea!"

"Okay, I know, but we gotta think about them and who is left. We gotta put the gang first, and ridin' out like this isn't going to help or save anyone."

"I've, I've made up my mind Hosea. This money is what we need, it will help us be comfortable once we've left the mountains."

"Dutch there are other ways to help, I know you're desperate to do something -- anything that's useful, but this isn't the way to go about it --,"

"It's too good a chance to miss and I'm taking the risk."

"Dutch!"

The door bangs open again and the two pairs of angry footsteps leave. The wind bursts in as they exit and lathers you with its icy breath, making you shake harder as the door closes and leaves you alone with the cold and a growing sense of unfathomable fear. With more effort than it should take, you finally open your eyes, your lids sticking a bit as your irises protest even in the dim lighting of the room. Once you're able to take in your surroundings your panic only increases.

A bare wooden cabin that looks like it could be blown over if the wind pushed a hair harder turns out to be the room you've been in, a pathetic fire struggles in a fireplace with strips of cloth, twigs, and stray handfuls of hay to serve as its logs in the corner nearest to you. You're laying on a cot of some sort with no blankets, just the fabric of your clothes to shield you from the cold seeping through the generous cracks in the wood-plank walls. You finally sit up after four separate attempts once you realize you're alone. Your head swims with the change of position and your stomach gives a nauseating drop but you firmly ignore it as you try to quell the panic that's slowly inflating in your chest like an iron balloon, inch by inch it doesn't yield, growing steadily -- inevitably -- and stealing your sanity.

The urge to run spikes in your system, your flight instinct kicking in as savagely as it did when the wolves chased you.

You grunt as you make yourself stand, swaying dangerously on your feet you grip the splintering mantle of the fireplace to stop yourself from collapsing. Struggling to fight the buckling in your knees, you feel the adrenaline slowly feeding strength into your dead muscles, injecting you with empty energy causing you to shake and shiver like a crack addict but none the less giving you the push to get your body into motion. You stagger to the door and wait as you hear the sound of muted hooves thunder away, a small stampede charging the smirking maws of the mountains. When the voices left behind simmer down and everything seems quiet enough, you crack the door open an inch to get a look outside. You recoil almost immediately at the brightness of the sun reflecting off the blanket of snow covering everything. It takes your eyes a good ten minutes to adjust and for you to really get a sense of your situation.

No one seems to be out, though you know people are in the cabins that line both sides of what you assume is a street or main path in the center of this small cluster of sad buildings. Everything is dilapidated and falling apart, well tread paths clue you in to which buildings are most heavily inhabited. Horse hitching posts stand lonely and bare a bit ways down and your mind struggles to wrap its head around everything.

Where are the cars? The street lights? The telephone poles? Or any sign of genuine civilization?

You swallow against the bile that rises from the back of your throat as panic only suffocates you further. Its bare of people outside so you could probably sneak out, but how the hell are you supposed to survive out there in nature by yourself? Especially in your condition. It's not like you could make a phone call or steal someones cell phone as you spotted none in the room on the way to the door. It's not like you could escape by stealing a car, or a... a horse since that's what these people used instead of technology. Are you on some sort of farm? Is this a Mormon colony? Is there a driveway or garage further down the snow covered road you just couldn't see? All the questions swirling in your brain distract you so much that you don't hear the door that connects this room with the adjoining one open.

"You're awake,"

You startle and collapse to the floor as three people behind you raise their hands in surrender while you shake with your back against the wall. Its the man you nearly froze to death with, a woman, and a child -- a young boy.

"Woah okay, you're okay," The woman says in what sounds like a heavy southern accent, though it registers as slightly different from what you remember a southern accent sounding like. You can't put your finger on it.

The woman doesn't attempt to move closer to you as she is supporting the weight of the man, but she does push the boy who you assume to be her son behind her with her free hand. You just stare and shake, unable to do much else. Now that you're on the floor it seems impossible to try and get back up, like all the adrenaline you had before has now twisted into fear and its paralyzing you instead of helping you move. They're all dressed like they're straight out of a western film, or like they're part of some high budget reenactment. The theory that this is some sort of Mormon colony dissipates like smoke in the wind because you're pretty sure established Mormons don't wear tattered rags and live in poverty like this. This only adds to your confusion and mounting anxiety. It's not until you wrap your arms around your knees that you realize you're wearing almost the exact same thing the woman is, a dull coarse frock of some sort with a heavy shift and thick skirts.

"W-What," You croak out of your unused throat, beginning to hyperventilate.

Why are you also wearing old fashion clothing?

"Hey, okay you're okay, you're safe," The woman tries to emphasize gently like she's speaking to a wild animal, but you don't really hear her as your heart starts to beat too fast, your breath turns to ash in your lungs, blood rushes from your head, your ears start to ring, and all sense of reality slips from you.

--

"Poor thing," Abigail murmurs, glancing over at the woman in the cot adjacent to John's while she unwraps the bandages on John's face.

Abigail had moved her with the help of Miss Grimshaw back to her cot after she blacked out on the floor.

John stays silent but does look over at the stranger too. The wild desperation he saw in her eyes the first time he met her on that mountain had morphed into a kind of savage panic. He feels sorry for her as she lays there exhausted and weak and scared, and is reminded how lucky he is Abigail gives a damn about him. He couldn't imagine being alone right now, being as vulnerable as he is and being on his own. He never should have left Abigail and the gang -- never should have left his family.

"That would be me if it weren't for you," John finds himself whispering to Abigail, voice thick with rare emotion that echos out through the deep earthy brown of his eyes.

Admitting out loud that he needs her strips John down to a state of vulnerability he has never exposed to Abigail or anyone before. John knows how horrible Abigail and him are at telling each other how they feel, its endless guessing and fighting and passion and push and pull and sex and hate and give and take. This gentle moment between them is precious, and John knows Abigail recognizes this as she tenderly brushes some of his tangled matted hair away from the swollen scars on his face. Abigail avoids his gaze, afraid to shatter the moment -- afraid to scare John and this fragile intimacy away -- and only dabs gently at John's facial wounds with a cloth drenched with near frozen alcohol. A forcefully neutral expression strains her pretty features as the true weight of his words settle in her heart. John knows he is nowhere near forgiven but he's wanted, as painful as it is for her he knows she wants him. Wants him to love her in the way she deserves, wants him to love Jack, wants him to let her love him, wants him to be a good man...

"I like her." Jack offers offhandedly, breaking them out of the moment as he stares in his own little world at the sleeping stranger with that fearful curiosity of his.

John wants to say something to stomp out the magic in Jack's eyes, to erase the air of mystery around the woman, but he manages to bite his tongue. He hates when he has urges like that, urges to destroy everything that brings Abigail's boy some semblance of joy or wonder.

A good man? John thinks bitterly, the word good doesn't even exist in my vocabulary. 

--

Returning from the successful train robbery should feel like a victory, feel good, but Arthur just can't manage to gather any ego under him as he spots Hosea talking fiercely with Dutch by one of the cabins. Hosea always knows when shit is going downhill, is the brain behind Dutch's colorful brawn, and when Hosea is worried its usually a good sign that everyone should be worried. Arthur had felt hesitant about the robbery job too, but he trusted that Dutch knew what he was doing. Hell he'd follow Dutch off a cliff if it was asked of him.

"That's it girl," Arthur murmurs at Sabine, his wild Hungarian Halfbred mare he managed to tame as the gang had been chased up into the mountains. He missed his Boadicea but this mare has an air about her, has so much fight in her he originally had thought she was a stallion. With a solid black coat that shines like polished onyx in the sun and a build that towers over everyone and everything -- even Bill's Adrennes, the majestic audacity of her stuns him almost everytime he looks at her.

Arthur guides his girl over to the hitching posts and stiffly dismounts, the cold making his muscles clamp up a bit. He brushes her as best he can with the saddle on still trying to get her used to him. He has to be really strict with her, has to really use his legs to get her to listen (especially in tense situations) since being heavy handed on the bit and tearing her mouth up would only enrage her, not encourage her to work with him. But he knows that once he's earned her trust and they both work out their special language of physical and verbal cues, that she'll make one hell of a partner in crime. Arthur sneaks her a stale oatcake he found at the bottom of a barrel Pearson had stashed in the makeshift kitchen, and pets her thick glorious neck as Dutch and Hosea's unintelligible arguing carries over the clearing to him. It sounds like its really starting to get heated and it makes Arthur's heart heavy. He sighs before giving Sabine one more rub behind her ear, getting a hard snort of attitude for his trouble, and heads toward the cabin he knew John and Abigail were holed up in.  

--

You have been awake and pretending to be asleep for what feels like hours now and its due to the fact that you're terrified to face reality. You keep convincing yourself that if you listen in on one more conversation everything will finally make sense. But honestly, the more you eavesdrop the more confused you become.

"It sounds like Hosea is gonna try and move us soon, probably tomorrow since the storm has finally broke." The woman who tried to comfort you during your panic attack earlier -- the mother -- says earnestly. You've since learned that her name is Abigail.

"Well good, I never wanna be cold or see snow again for the rest of my life." The man who had almost froze to death with you replies, his name you discovered is John.

Their son (or at least Abigail's son, you weren't sure if John is the father; the two of them argue quite nastily about it whenever the boy sleeps), who you eventually figure out is named Jack, has been silent for awhile. Though when you hear a rustling of fabric -- small hands readjusting their grip in his mother's thick skirts to keep warm, you know he's still in the room.

The door is thrown open before Abigail can respond and you hope no one notices how sharply you flinch.

"Still alive there Marston?" Comes a new voice to accompany the freezing draft that's let in, one you don't recognize but still sounds familiar somehow.

"It'll take more than a couple of wolves and a snow storm to get me out of the picture." John immediately shoots back, tone defensive -- completely losing the softness it courted when speaking with Abigail.

"Yeah, I reckon you could find a simpler excuse to cut and run again than that."

"Arthur!" Abigail snaps and you realize that this isn't playful banter between friends, its a roomful of predators bearing their teeth at each other, "I will not have you speak of that again!"

"My apologies Abigail, I just haven't forgiven the fool as quickly as you have."

"He is a fool you're right but he's my fool, he's Jack's fool, he's ours. And I'll have you remember he was your fool too once, you were brothers --,"

"Abigail stop!" John cuts her off in nearly a shout, the rough texture in his voice a sign that dangerous emotional territory was just breached.

Before anyone can say anything more though the door opens again.

"Everyone get packing, we're moving out tomorrow at first light!" It's a woman's voice, older -- a bit scratchy, kind of reminded you of a vulture's caw, "Miss Roberts you organize John and Jack's things, Arthur you come help me ready this woman for traveling."

"We're taking her with us? Has she even woken up yet?" The man you now know to be Arthur asks but doesn't argue.

"Unfortunately yes, Hosea and Dutch's orders. And I believe she's had bursts of consciousness so we'd be killin' her if we left her here."

"Doesn't Dutch think she's an O'Driscoll spy? Why would he want to keep any more of them rats alive, we already got one why keep another?"

"I don't know Mr. Morgan, if it was up to me I'd shoot them both and be done with it."  

Your heart freezes over as you realize with mounting horror that they are talking about you.

A spy? What the actual fuck?

You petrify with fear as two pairs of footsteps, one quick and determined and the other heavy with intent and the promise of violence, approaches you. If you woke up now it would be obvious that you were listening in and it would make them trust you even less than they apparently already did. Who automatically assumed a naked lost woman on a frozen mountaintop was a spy? Who were these people?

"If you wouldn't mind moving her to the ground while I take apart this cot that would be a great help Mr. Morgan."

"Why do we need the cot?"

"Bill wants it. Says he can use it to torture the two O'Driscolls on when we get to warmer country."

Your blood runs cold at that before solidifying into ice as big hands grab you, manhandling you like you are a cheap rag doll, and hauling you up into the air. You force yourself to remain limp in his arms as he holds you bridal style, trying not to cower and flinch as you're not so gently adjusted in this man's grip. You're ready to be lowered back down again presumably on the floor but you remain firmly in Arthur's arms. But this does little to pull you from your worries.

Now they're talking about torture?

You hadn't thought your terror could get any worse but you were oh so wrong.

While Arthur is warm, a great furnace wrapped in what feels like thick coats, it does nothing to comfort you. In fact tears line your closed eyelids and slip out of the corners of your lashes. The physicality of being in the arms of someone who wanted -- or at least didn't care if you were tortured, left here in the cold, or died made everything too real. Made the fear that has plagued you since you woke in that silent forest naked and alone crumble what little control you had maintained in the mock safety of the Marston family cabin.  

"She's shakin'," You hear Arthur murmur under his breath, tone as deep and vast as the bottom of the sea, sounding like he hadn't meant to speak out loud. Then deliberately, "She's shakin' and cryin'," And when that doesn't get him a response, "Miss Grimshaw?"

He sounds unsure, edging on panic ironically enough. Probably just ready to be rid of the discomfort your display of manifested terror is giving him.

"She'll be fine Mr. Morgan, she's just weak is all. It's better this way anyway, we'll get more outta her faster when she comes to enough to interrogate."

"She seemed real scared when she was awake," Abigail intercedes from what sounds like the opposite side of the room, "I don't think she's a spy."

"Well then if she's not a spy for the O'Driscolls then she is most definitely one of their whores." Arthur tightens his grip on you at this, "Who runs around as naked as the day they were born like that? There was probably an O'Driscoll camp near by," There's a short sound of hollow metal being dragged across the floor, "And she wandered too far away. There is no one else living up here, where else would she have come from?"

John mumbles something about you then but you don't hear it as you spiral yet again into another full fledged panic attack.  

"She's really breathin' hard are you sure she's alright?" Arthur says with a quality of alarm in his voice you don't have the mental capacity to analyze right now.

"Mr. Morgan I really don't understand why you're so bothered, let her suffer, easier to break her when she wakes." There is a tense pause, the sound of rusted metal joints dislocating and folding, then, "Alright, toss her on the floor there. We'll move her to the cart that will be carrying the other O'Driscoll in the morning."

You can't help but tense a little as Arthur starts to shift under you, but instead of tossing you to the floor as this Miss Grimshaw had suggested, Arthur sets you down with thundering gentleness. It shocks you so much that it brings you out of your panic for a second, wrenches you so swiftly from what you believe your reality to be. Your chest heaves out a sob as your head, cradled like fractured glass in his wide calloused palms, is laid carefully down atop the worn wood of the floorboards after the rest of your body has been transferred from his arms. His fingers linger a second on either side of your face near the cliffs of your jaw, and it makes you sob again. He withdraws all touch from you at the sound like you had burned him, like he thought he might be the reason for your pain. And in a way he is, but largely the universe is at fault.

Time traveling is not of mortal grace, something Greater is to blame for this. Since you don't know what or who is responsible, you curse them all, curse everything you can think of. Because as you sob and shiver on the floor in some cabin in the middle of nowhere surrounded by dangerous strangers in a time you have slowly come to realize is not your own, you arrive at the notion that survival is least likely. But damn it all, you will survive. Out of spite you will survive. And heaven help the force that tries to keep you from success.

--

It's the middle of the night and the people in your cabin -- John, Abigail, and Jack -- are all asleep trying to get some rest before traveling tomorrow. You manage to find a full waterskin by a few other pouches in front of the fireplace, and you down the entire thing in one go, not realizing how thirsty you were. The next thing you scavenge for in the dark room is food. Sick and tired of feeling like you'll collapse any second you silently grab one of the pouches and find that inside is what you assume is the leftover salted venison you over heard the men called Dutch and Hosea arguing about a day or so earlier. You're not sure how long you were under after passing out on the mountain, but judging by the weakness in your body more than long enough. You recoil at the taste of the jerky but gnaw at it anyway, giving up on chewing it half through and just swallowing it whole out of desperation to nourish yourself.

You're a bit shocked you haven't woken the small family (if that's what you could call them) yet, but you don't question your luck as you move as quietly as your uncoordinated body will allow after being still for so long. You scan the black night once you crack the door open enough to get a good look and struggle to see anything. After a few minutes of letting your eyes adjust you spot a row of horses hitched to posts farther down across the main road. They're huddled together for warmth, a few blankets thrown over their backs to protect from the cold. There's only one that is saddled though, its a giant black horse that seems to be the most awake too. It's odd that its saddled but again, you don't question your luck you just hope its a snowball effect and things will just keep working in your favor. It's the least you're owed for the level of fuckery you've had to endure these past few days.

You wait another beat before slipping out as quietly as possible and streaking across the path to the horses. All the rest seem to ignore you except the saddled black one that raises its great head and snorts a warning at you. To be fair you know close to nothing about horses but you do know that this one will definitely pitch a loud fit if you don't calm it down. You quickly come to the realization that you don't know how to calm a horse down and the momentum you were running on to escape wobbles dangerously under your feet. You want to cry in frustration and fear but your body is too dehydrated to produce actual tears, so instead your sinuses burn like Satan himself took up residence in your tearducts, stirring the headache you have been nursing these past few days into a full fledged migraine. Also even with the night so still, the chill in the air is deathly cold as it pierces right through your shift and skirts. With a growing sense of dread you know you won't last out there like this, whether you manage to steal a horse or not. You also don't know where you are and where to go if you did escape. Your plan disintegrates like cotton candy in warm water as you once again are slapped across the face by the reality of your situation: you are well and truly fucked and you are a prisoner with no hope of immediate escape.

You need to be smarter.

The intimidating black horse gives a harsh whinny as you slowly approach it. The saddlebags attached to its side look quite full and you figure are worth checking before retreating back inside. You know nothing about picking locks or what not, but you figure it might not hurt to snatch anything you could find that might provide you an out when you're inevitably treated like a spy or prisoner or worse starting tomorrow. You don't think you can get away with faking unconsciousness any longer. If the situation gets dire enough, anything be it hairpin or bottlecap could be the one thing keeping you alive. You'd watched enough of those survivalist shows to at least understand that.

"It's a yeet or be yeeted world, and I refuse to be the latter." You declare mostly to yourself but also to the horse that's started picking its front hooves up in mini rears and stomping them back into the snow, clearly pissed that you're not backing off.

--

Arthur concludes after a couple of beats that the woman had indeed spoken some form of English, but he can not for the sorry life of him derive any coherent meaning from what she just said. He watches her debate with herself in the middle of the dark courtyard, absolutely sure she is not an O'Driscoll spy. She had completely missed Arthur leaning against the wall just inside the makeshift kitchen directly facing the posted horses. She stands not six feet from him and is totally unaware he's there.

Some spy.

Arthur has always liked night shifts when its his turn to take watch, and observing her trying to approach Sabine, who is seconds away from alerting the entire camp that something is wrong, is the most entertaining thing Arthur has witnessed in a long time. When he finally cops a glance at her profile in the hopes of gathering some clue as to what in God's name she thinks she's going to accomplish, he eventually puts together that she's apparently attempting to steal from his saddlebags. Arthur is dizzy with perplexsion and amusement as he watches her struggle to hush Sabine who's nickering louder and louder at her in warning, tossing her head and snorting hard through her nostrils as she paws the ground and flicks her tail -- all signs that a horse is about to teach you a goddamn lesson in personal space. The aggressive streak his mare has on top of the fact that she's green (freshly broke) and still wild in spirit only makes this situation worse, Arthur knows no amount of panicked shushing is going to get rid of that look in his girl's eye. He's tempted to let Sabine bite and or kick the shit out of the woman but something in the way she grapples for the buckles of his saddlebags -- frantic and desperate -- convinces Arthur to confront her instead of leaving her to the mercy of his mare.

"Ma'am," He says as he heaves himself out of his causal lean against the wall and steps out into the open, announcing his presence to her and trying to keep the curl in his voice that drips with his amusement neutral and intimidating instead.

The woman jumps like she's been struck by lightening, and before she's even turned all the way around to face him, an apology is ripping its way past her lips.

--

Yes no maybe so? Idk this chapter kind of came together in a weird way so forgive me if it kind of read weird too. Let me know what you think if you want to, or message me if you feel like freaking out over anything RDR2 related bc im so down and also I need to know that everyone else is suffering too bc arthur morgan deserved better :''''')  

Chapter 2

Masterlist

#A Single Frayed Rope #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x fem!reader #arthur morgan x y/n #arthur morgan fanfic #rdr2 fanfic #angst #fluff #humor #eventual smut #my writing #mine #thejamesoldier #rdr2 #red dead 2

[outlier-rookie]

Of Blood and Greatness - Chapter 1

Chapter 1/?? - The Kid In The Camp

AO3 Link

https://archiveofourown.org/works/26305741/chapters/64050937

***

“Who’s there?” John’s rough voice called out as Arthur rode back into camp.

“It’s Arthur! You dumbass.” He yelled in reply, receiving a huff in return.

“You’re back. Dutch wants to speak to ya.”

“What’s he want this time?” Arthur asked, drawing his horse to a halt in front of the other man.

“Ask him yourself.” The scared man replied, walking right past Arthur to continue his patrol.

Grumbling under his breath, Arthur guided his horse, a proud Andalusian he’d taken to calling Admiral on account of the stallions headstrong and commanding nature, over to the hitching posts. As he rode over his eyes were drawn to an unfamiliar horse hitched by the camp entrance, waiting patiently and grazing on the tufts of grass at its hooves. It was a gorgeous Missouri Fox Trotter with a clean golden coat and a rich dark mane streaked with blonde. He didn’t spend long studying the horse and instead picked up the buck he’d stowed on Admiral’s back and began trudging over to Pearson’s wagon.

But for the second time in as many minutes, an unfamiliar sight drew his attention. Sitting at the circular table and looking very out of place was a kid. Arthur took a moment to study them as he passed wondering what a young one such as themselves was doing in the middle of a camp of outlaws. The kid couldn’t have been older than thirteen or fourteen and was on the thin side. They weren’t that tall either, wearing a shirt too big for their thin frame with the sleeves rolled up in an effort to make the ill-fitting garment more wearable. In their hands they fidgeted with a ratty old hat and their hair was mattered and dirty giving the impression the kid hadn’t had so much as a bedroll to sleep on. An old memory of when Hosea and Dutch first took him in, and later John, drifted into Arthur’s thoughts as he passed. He’d barely handed the buck over to Pearson when Dutch approached him.

“Arthur, good to see you back, son.” The dark-haired man smiled as he clapped Arthur on the shoulder, directing the younger outlaw back towards the kid sat at the table.

“So what’s going on?” Arthur asked, “John said you wanted to talk to me ‘bout somethin’.” As the two men approached, the kid raised their head and locked eyes with Arthur. Arthur was nearly at a loss for words as the kid stared right into his soul. Their eyes were an almost unnaturally vivid shade of blue; much more intense than his own. What stuck him as odd was the weary look they held. It was the same look he’d sometimes see in Hosea’s eyes. Tired, haunted eyes like that had no place on some kid. Standing, the kid placed the ratty hat on their head and continued to stare at the two men as Dutch started to introduce them.

“This here is, uh.”

“(Y/N). My name’s (Y/N).” The kid filled in.

“Yes, this here is young (Y/N).” Dutch continued, leaving Arthur’s side to stand between him and the kid- (Y/N). “Bold little thing. Road right up into camp saying they wanted to talk to the leader of this gang and wasn’t taking ‘No’ for an answer.” He explained, chuckling lightly as he did. Arthur nodded as he hooked his thumbs into his belt, shifting his weight into a more casual stance.

“Why you coming out here to talk to a bunch of outlaws like us?” He asked watching with a critical eye as the kid hesitated for a moment, their eyes flicking to the ground as they brought their hands together and started picking at the skin around their nails. It took a few false starts before they finally got the words out.

“I want… I want ta join the gang.” Their hands dropped back to their sides and once again Arthur found those piercing blue eyes staring intently at him once more.

“I dunno Dutch.” He started, barely managing to break his gaze away from those haunting blue eyes. “They’re awfully young to be, runnin’ with folk like us.” He said, waving his hand and gesturing to the likes of Bill and Micah.

“I ain’t that young!” (Y/N) snapped.

“Kid, you can’t be more than fourteen at the oldest.”

“I’m fifteen! And I can take care of myself!”

“They why you want to join up with a gang? We ain’t some orphanage kid and we ain’t good people.”

“Now now Arthur.” Dutch cut in, raising his hand between the two. “You were the same age when Hosea and I took you in. And John was much younger.” He argued, drawing an aggravated sigh from Arthur.

“I still don’t think it’s a good idea Dutch. Look at em. They’re just a kid. And the world’s changing, cracking down on folks like us. It ain’t safe-”

“I ain’t safe on my own either!” The kid interrupted. “I ain’t been safe since the day I was born. And besides,” They continued, crossing their arms and leaning back on their heels, doing their best to stare down their nose at Arthur, “I don’t come untrained. I can shoot any gun and hit any target and I don’t miss unless the gun fails.”

Arthur stared incredulously at (Y/N) as Dutch let out a hearty laugh.

“And that ain’t the only thing I have to offer.” They continued. “Them fellas, uh. The special lawmen, the uh, the um-”

“The Pinkerton’s.” Dutch supplied.

“Yeah them! The Pinkerton’s are looking for you and are crawling all over Blackwater. But they ain’t looking for me.” Arthur narrowed his eyes and crossed his own arms.

“Whatchu getting at kid?”

“They’re saying, Arthur, that they can get into Blackwater and get our money. We can get out of here and be on our way!”

“I don’t know about this Dutch.”

“I’m with Arthur.” A fourth voice joined the conversation as Hosea strolled up to the three of them. “You’re an avid reader Dutch. Haven’t you ever heard the phrase ‘If it sounds too good to be true, it probably is’?”

“Come on old friend, think of what this could mean for us! All that money we lost at Blackwater, back in our hand. Valentine is only a temporary stop and we need to move soon. With the money from Blackwater back in our hands we can do a hell of a lot more than what we were originally hoping!”

Hosea sighed and continued to argue against it with Dutch when the kid cut in once more, drawing the attention of just about everyone in camp.

“I already got it!”

Dutch and Hosea froze mid-argument.

“What?” Dutch asked and Arthur swore he heard a note of confusion in the older outlaws voice.

“Your money from Blackwater. I already got it, so even if you sent someone back there and they managed to avoid running into the law, you won’t find it.”

Dutch’s earlier lax and cheerful demeanour disappeared as he stepped closer to the kid, his voice low and dangerous. “And how, exactly, did you find out where we hid it if we are to believe you.”

“Adults don’t pay a lot of attention to kids. Even less so if they’re street kids like me. Heard some of them, fancy-looking fellas, talking ‘nd saying they was investigatin’ you and thought they might know where you hid your valuables in case something happened.”

“And you just happened to get there and find it first?” Arthur growled, arms dropping to his side, right hand hovering by his gun. (Y/N)’s eyes followed Arthur’s movements as they too came to rest on the handle of Arthur’s gun.

“Yeah. I did.” They replied sharply, raising their own eyes back to meet his.

A tense silence filled the air as the camp went quiet.

“Stay. Here.” Dutch’s voice finally broke the silence. “Hosea, Arthur, with me.” The three men trekked away towards Dutch’s tent leaving the teenager alone at the table; a quick signal to Javier had the Mexican man nodding as he set himself up to watch the (h/c) teen while the others talked. Once the flaps to the tent had been drawn and fastened, Arthur exchanged a worried glance with Hosea while Dutch rubbed at his chin, his eyebrows creased with thought.

“What’s the plan Dutch?” Arthur softly questioned a hint of worry colouring his words.

“I’m not sure just yet Arthur. Hosea, what do you think?” Hosea huffed before replying.

“I think we continue with the plan to get away from Valentine. We’ve just about outstayed our welcome and it’s time to move on. I think it far more likely that this kid is part of a Pinkerton trap set to catch us.”

“And if they are telling the truth? If they really have gotten our money out from Blackwater and it’s now within our reach? It a lot of money Hosea, if we had that back then we could get the hell out here.”

“Is the slim chance that they are telling the truth worth the lives of everyone in camp Dutch?” The older outlaw returned. “We’ve already lost the Mac, Davey and Jenny. If this kid is luring us into a trap, who else will we lose?” Dutch brought his hand up to his mouth and nodded solemnly at Hosea’s words, though the crease in his brow suggested he was less than happy with the answer he was given.

“And what do you think Arthur?”

Arthur scratched at his stubble, drawing a hissed breathe as he thought about their options. He strongly sided with Hosea. This whole deal of a random kid wandering into their camp, claiming to have possession of their money was already a wild tale. Add on to that the fact they were apparently willing to just hand it back over to them in return for a place in the gang was just confusing. Anyone with half as much brains as Marston who found the money would have taken it for themselves, and yet this kid was here and offering to give it all back to them with not a lot in return. And yet something was stopping him from outright refusing to consider the kid might be telling the truth.

“I want to ask the kid something first.” He finally said. “They gotta have a reason for wanting to join up with folk like us. This kid could have set themselves up for life if they were smart with the money but instead, they’re trying to return it and get in our good graces. I want to find out what that reason is first.” He finished.

Dutch and Hosea were silent for a spell before the eldest outlaw smiled and clapped Arthur on the arm. “And you claim you ain’t a thinker boy.” Arthur tugged his hat a little further over his face as he averted his eyes, muttering a half-hearted argument under his breath before making his way back toward (Y/N). The teen looked up at Arthur as he stopped by the table, silently regarding the young teen before him. Silently, he pulled out a cigarette and lit it as he kicked a leg up on the short barrel that acted as a chair. The two stared silently at each other as Arthur puffed away before taking the lit cigarette from between his lips and addressed them as Hosea and Dutch watched a short distance behind him.

“Why do you want to join the gang?” He asked slowly, his drawl weighing his words down heavily as he spoke. “You could’ve taken all that money for yourself so why go to all the trouble of bringing it down to us? Worse people than us could have found you and they wouldn’t have had any qualms about robbing and killing some half-starved fifteen-year-old kid sleeping out alone in on the plains.” He paused, taking another drag and lazily blowing out the smoke. “Whatever you want from us must be worth a lot more to you than money.”

(Y/N) didn’t answer straight away. They squeezed their hands tightly and Arthur could barely see them biting their lip from under their ratty hat.

“M’ Dad.” Was the soft reply. Arthur stayed silent and watched as the kid drew a shaky breath. “My auntie. She said that my Daddy is an outlaw. Said that- that he knows the Van Der Linde gang. I just. I want to meet him.” They finished with a shrug.

“What’s your Daddy’s name kid?” Dutch asked, coming up to sit beside the teenager who was suddenly looking much smaller than they did when Arthur first spoke to them.

“I- I don’t-” Again the kid tightly wrung their hands as if it would relieve the emotional pressure they were feeling. “I know what he looks like. That’s all I need. I don’t care if he wants nothin’ ta do with me. I just want him to know that I exist, I suppose.”

Arthur stubbed the end of his cigarette and dropped the butt on the ground, turning to look at Hosea and Dutch who shared a mildly surprised look. Arthur mulled over the information in his head. Fifteen years ago when (Y/N) would have been born, it was mainly Dutch and Hosea finding jobs that he’d sometimes join, while Susan and Bessie looked after John. Uncle might have been around then too but Arthur failed to see any similarities between the drunken old man and the kid who currently looked like they wanted the ground to swallow them.

As Arthur was mulling over everything, Hosea stepped up and took a seat by the teen.

“You mentioned your Aunt earlier, but what about your mother?” he asked gently.

“Don’t have one.” Came a barely legible mumble. Silence once again fell over the group but no one seemed eager to break it this time. Just as he was about to say something, anything really, Dutch beat him to it.

“How far away did you hide the money?”

“W-West of Valentine.”

With a nod, Dutch turned his attention to Arthur. “Arthur, I want you to take Javier and Charles with you and the kid.” Turning back to the kid he continued. “I trust that you aren’t going to lead my boys into a trap.” He said. “If you stay true to your word then there’ll be a place for you among us.”

The kid's face lit up at Dutch’s words. “Yessir!” They cheered; face aglow in the afternoon sun as they turned to Arthur. “We should leave as soon as possible. To be back before the sun gets too low, ya know?” Arthur grunted in response and waved for the kid to mount up. They only took a few steps before spinning back around. “Can I get my gun back?” Dutch shrugged and nodded.

Arthur strolled back over to Admiral, running a hand along the steed’s neck as the horse noses at the satchel hanging by the man’s side. Feeding the stallion a fresh apple, Arthur doubled checked his saddlebags for ammo and supplies while he waited for Charles, Javier, and the kid. Not even five minutes later he was joined by the kid, repeater slung across their back, with Charles and Javier at their heels. They boldly strolled up to the Fox Trotter, smiling brightly as the horse nosed at their offered hand before the kid swung themselves up onto the saddle.

Sparing a place at Charles and Javier and seeing the two men also sat up in their respective horses, Arthur nodded at the kid. “Alright then, lead on.” He instructed with a wave.

“Follow me, gentlemen.”

And with that, they were off.

***

Thank you for your patience! The first chapter for “Of Blood and Greatness” is finally finished!

As a reminder, this is a Red Dead Redemption 2 crossover fanfic as it contains elements of Percy Jackson (you don’t need any prior knowledge of PJO,)

#rdr2 x reader #rdr2 x male reader #rdr2 x gn reader #rdr2 x female reader #rdr2 fanfic #red dead redemption x reader #red dead redemption #rdr2 #of blood and greatness #RDR2 crossover #red dead redemption 2