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javier-pena · 3 years

Text

bloodstain

Chapter 2 of The Hunt

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!reader

Word Count: 6.2k

Rating: Mature

Notes: First, let me start with saying that at this point taking a bullet for Dani @javierpcna doesn’t feel like it would be enough. She literally drops everything whenever I send her a new or revised chapter to look over and i cannot thank her enough! I kinda surprised myself with how quickly I finished this chapter, but that’s also thanks to Dani because the highlight of my day is sending her small snippets of what I’ve written and having her reply with “?????”. I also want to thank all of you who read the first chapter and left comments and sent messages, it means the world to me! I was so nervous about sharing this with you all, but I’m so glad I did. And finally, let me end this with saying happy birthday, Chrisann @darksber!!! I hope you have a fun birthday and I hope you enjoy the second chapter as much as you enjoyed the first one.

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The snow comes over night. The cold, clean smell is the first thing your mind registers, even before it has time to make you feel confused about the strange bedsheets wrapped around you. And then you remember.

The screams.

The blaster shots

The fire, the blazing heat engulfing you, burning your skin.

Those men on their speeder bikes, laughing, looting, taking whatever the fuck they want.

And you, unable to stop them.

The feeling of cold, all-consuming despair makes a shiver run down your spine, makes you curl up in a tight ball beneath your blanket and shake so violently it makes you feel sick. Then you cry, and with the tears comes the heat until you’re so hot you feel sweat collect at the nape of your neck and run down your back in icy beads. After yesterday, you hadn’t expected there to be any tears left, but there are, so many, and they don’t stop, they seem to be endless, like a river flowing, rushing, tumbling over rocks and down a precipice, drowning everything in its way.

You hate those men, you loathe them, you want them dead, torn apart by wild animals, you want them dead after they beg you for their miserable lives, you want them dead and forgotten. That anger and that lust for revenge that seem to take up every cell and atom in your body are what finally helps you to stop crying. They don’t help you to calm yourself – you are anything but calm – but they help you to focus your rage on one goal: kill them all.

Because with the memories of the pain and the despair and the utter helplessness you felt yesterday (and still feel today) comes the memory of him. The Mandalorian. And remembering him means remembering the hope you felt when he offered his services, when he pledged himself to your cause. Shit. You shake your head. He did no such thing. He accepted a job. He only cares about the money, he doesn’t care about the cause. Yes, he will help you achieve your goal, but he’s emotionally detached from it. And you need to remember that. You need to remember it for your own sake because as soon as you assume anything else, it’ll get messy.

And he terrifies you. He terrifies you so much, especially in the light of day. Because the morning sun makes him feel real, solid, and so much more dangerous. And you have a feeling you shouldn’t keep him waiting.

You finally sit up and roll your neck and shoulders to relieve the pain the previous day’s labors have left behind. You couldn’t defend yourself against the Mandalorian, even if the muscles in your body weren’t screaming with pain. You don’t know what’s wrong with you. You don’t know why you would trust a complete stranger like that after everything that has happened to you, why you would trust a complete stranger who could snap your neck like a dry twig. Being around him feels like being constantly held at gunpoint. One wrong move and you’re dead.

But you need him.

Maker, you need him.

You get out of bed and stretch, then run your hand over your face to dry it off. There is a bowl of water on a small table next to the bed. You have to break the thin layer of ice that has formed on the surface, and when you splash it on your face, it is freezing, but at least it makes your burning cheeks feel numb and it eases the stinging in your eyes. You know you look a mess, but you don’t care. You get dressed in your soot-blackened clothes and then leave the small room. You have no idea if you’ll ever sleep in a bed again.

***

The morning air is icy cold. Two suns have risen, but the third one still hides behind the trees. The air is foggy, misty, and clouds of smoke pass you by. The settlement is already busy. In a shop next to the inn, a man heckles with the vendor in a raised voice. Two farmers lead a small herd of tauntauns down the street, while everyone tries to get out of their way. In the distance, a child is crying. It smells like fire and snow and life. You hate it.

The everyday noises are overwhelming to you; the melody of a hammer hitting metal in a nearby forge makes your skull vibrate, the voices of people talking makes you want to cover your ears with your hands and yell at them to shut up, the reverberations of the tauntauns’ claws against the frozen ground makes you want to take cover somewhere and hide until nightfall.

But you don’t run or hide or even just turn around to take a breath. Instead, you focus your attention on the Mandalorian.

He is waiting for you outside the inn. A thin layer of snow has collected on his shoulders, a sign he’s been standing motionless for a while. Even though the morning sunlight is pale and makes everything look hazy, you see him clearly. So clearly that you have to squint your eyes when you look at him. His beskar armor glistens from the sunlight it reflects, so much that the people on the street turn their heads to look at him. The wisps of smoke rushing past shroud him, but it’s not enough to dim the dancing shimmers. He carries a long staff strapped to his back, a kind of spear you’re pretty sure he didn’t have with him the previous night at the inn. And his face is hidden behind the helmet again, which probably shouldn’t surprise you, but it does. All of this just makes him look wrong. He looks so out of place standing in the middle of this dirt-poor settlement it makes you want to pretend you don’t have anything to do with him.

So you focus on what’s behind him. In one hand, he holds the reins of three orbaks, in the other a small bundle. He presses it against his chest like he’s holding a small child, not a lifeless piece of cloth. The orbaks are big, wooly beasts, dark grey in color, with two long, dangerously pointy tusks hanging from their mouths. Two of them have saddles strapped to their backs, the third one is laden with crates, saddle bags, even two long guns. The more you look at it, the more weapons you spot. What does one man need so many for? So much baggage will just slow you down. The bandits already have a day’s head start and travelling on heavily loaded orbaks will give them even more of an advantage. But this is probably the best the Mandalorian could do – the settlement is so poor, not even merchants sell speeder bikes – who would be able to afford them?

You shudder and wrap your arms around yourself, painfully aware that the fire destroyed everything except for the clothes you’re wearing. But they’re not enough to protect you from the bitter cold. You can see your breath hovering in a pale cloud in front of your face when you exhale slowly, you can feel the snowflakes on your bare lower arms as you walk toward the Mandalorian. You have no idea how he can stand there like the cold is nothing to him. Beskar doesn’t protect against low temperatures. To you, this is just further proof of how much he’s not human.

“Here,” he says, as you stop in front of him, holding the bundle out to you.

“What’s this?” you ask with a small nod at him, the bundle, and the orbaks. You don’t take it.

The Mandalorian looks behind him, then back at you. “Supplies,” he says.

You take the bundle from him and untie the chord that’s tightly wound around it. Folding back the thin cloth, you unwrap a long, dark brown leather cloak with fur linings and a thick, woolen scarf. The scarf looks itchy but feels very soft against your skin and the coat lies heavy in your arms, like a dead animal. The sight of these clothes leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, and you don’t move to put them on. Instead, you stand there, pressing the unwrapped bundle against your chest, and look at the Mandalorian with raised eyebrows.

“What’s this?” you repeat.

He doesn’t reply, just nods and makes a gesture with his now empty hand, motioning you to hurry up.

You don’t. You just look at him, shivering more and more with each passing second. You’re not sure if it’s from the cold or from the anger you’ve been feeling since yesterday, since waking up this morning, since unwrapping the bundle; everything is stoking up the fire, feeding your flaming rage

“Listen,” you start. You try not to let your feelings get the better of you, but it’s impossible. You don’t quite know yourself why this small gesture enrages you as it does, you just know you need to set some boundaries right now. “I don’t need your pity,” you continue. “I don’t need you to look out for me. I can take care of myself.”

The Mandalorian huffs. “This isn’t a gift,” he says, his voice completely level. “I’m paying for it with your money. I’m not forcing you to wear it, but if you go on the journey like that,” he nods at you, “you’ll freeze. You’re no use to me dead.”

You feel heat rush to your face and settle in your cheeks. Without another word you put on the coat and tie the scarf around your neck. The coat rests heavy on your shoulders, weighing you down. It’s a size too big, but snug, and you stop shivering immediately. You run your left hand along the right sleeve under the pretense of fixing it, but you just want to feel the material under your fingers. It’s softer than it looks, which just serves to make you feel embarrassed and … stupid.

You feel stupid, so, so stupid. Did you really expect him to make you a gift? To look out for you? To care for you? You hired him to do a job and he’s just making sure you stay alive long enough to pay him. Much like the owner of a racing stable would do with his fathier. You scold yourself for having misread the situation. You blame it on the exhaustion you still feel, on the trauma you lived through, on the need for human connection you had no idea you even felt. There is no way to come out of this situation without feeling like a fool, so you just decide to ignore it. After all, it’s best if you just forgot about the whole thing. All you need to do in future is to be more careful around him so you don’t misinterpret his intentions again.

“Supplies?” you ask to distract yourself.

You wish you could see his face when he says, “Were you just going to follow them on foot with no food or weapons?” Because it doesn’t sound as if he’s mocking you, even though he should be. Hell, you should be mocking yourself. But he just sounds genuinely curious, as if this is a discussion about a topic you’re both not emotionally invested in, not a question of life and death.

“No,” you answer slowly, then look away. You have to admit you hadn’t thought about it yet, you were too focused on the idea of hunting those men down that you didn’t even consider you needed tools, supplies, food, and a means of transportation. “Thank you,” you add.

The Mandalorian gives you a curt nod, accepting your words of gratitude. You’re glad he doesn’t press the subject, any subject really.

Without him, you would have been dead within a day.

***

It is still snowing when you and the Mandalorian leave the settlement behind. As you begin your journey into the unknown, tiny snowflakes settle in the fur of your orbak, making it appear white instead of dark grey. It blends in perfectly with your surroundings, where everything is light shades of blue, grey, and brown. And white, so much white. You squint your eyes and yet the light still stings to the point you tear up. You envy the Mandalorian his tinted visor and you wish you had something similar to protect yourself. Alvorine’s three suns hang low, their pale blue light filtered through hazy clouds. Everything you see is blurred and too bright to look at directly – it makes you feel vulnerable and exposed. Even as you enter the cover of the trees, their bare branches do little to help keep out the light and the snow and so you lower your eyes to your reddened hands holding your orbak’s reins as you trust the Mandalorian to lead the way.

The air is cold this morning, so cold you tie your new scarf over your mouth and nose and still feel it sting in your throat. Your face, still raw from crying, stings too. Your hands are frozen shut around the reins and you can’t feel your fingers. When you try to move them, the action is painfully slow. You shiver despite the heavy coat on your shoulders as you sit hunched over to give the cold air less opportunity to cover your body with icy touches. You would never admit to it out loud because you’ve already embarrassed yourself enough for one day, but the Mandalorian was right – you would have frozen to death within a few hours of leaving the shelter of the settlement.

You raise your head briefly to look at him riding ahead of you, but he is the brightest object in a 10-mile radius, you think, brighter than your orbak’s fur or the snow-covered ground. Back in the settlement, you already noticed how the suns’ light reflects off his polished beskar armor, but out here in the forest with nothing around to distract your gaze, he is like a homing beacon, like a bright, blazing fire lit in complete darkness. This brazen display makes you shiver; he is on top of the food chain, too quick and powerful and deadly to hide his presence. He could be spotted from miles away by someone on a sentry tower and yet the person keeping watch wouldn’t stand a chance. The Mandalorian would catch them sooner or later, no matter how well they were trying to hide. Nothing can escape him, so there is no reason for him to hide his presence, to sneak from cover to cover like a thief in the night.

He frightens you.

What is also bearing down on you is the silence surrounding him, you and your orbaks. Yes, there is the sound of their hooves against the frozen ground, the swoosh of their fur every time they shake their heads, the soft thud whenever they brush up against a branch, making snow glide to the ground. But that’s it. That’s all you hear. The Mandalorian travels in complete silence. His armor doesn’t squeak or thump. You cannot hear the sound of his slow, steady breathing. Even his hands lie completely silently on the nape of his orbak’s neck, the reins resting against the worn leather of his gloves. And you envy him those gloves because the further you travel into the forest, the colder it gets, and the stiffer and more unresponsive your fingers get.

You cannot recall the last time you felt this uncomfortable. You wish there was something to distract you from – well – everything. Yes, you’re grateful the Mandalorian doesn’t ask you personal questions because you buried your old life beneath wet soil and dirt yesterday, and with it you buried any desire to share it with a complete stranger. He also doesn’t ask you about the men you’re hunting, and you feel like he doesn’t have to because he just knows. Maybe he talked to the people back at the settlement, maybe it’s the years of experience he’s had hunting people for a living or maybe it’s just instinct – he knows where he needs to be going, he knows what kind of equipment to bring along, and he knows what the best strategy is to catch his quarry.

You don’t know any of these things. And the more you stray from the bare minimum of human civilization and into the wilderness of Alvorine, the more you realize you wouldn’t stand a chance without the Mandalorian. You would’ve frozen to death if he hadn’t given you the coat. Or you would have starved, or died from exhaustion from trying to carry all your supplies yourself. You would have gotten lost and eaten alive by a wild beast. Or you would, by some miracle, have caught up with the men, but would’ve gotten killed by them because you didn’t bring a weapon. By the look of it, the Mandalorian brought enough for a small army. And the more you think about it, the more you are prepared to admit that you were never seriously planning on going after the bandits. You are prepared to admit you were just looking for a way out so you wouldn’t have to live with the pain. One or two rash decisions made from a place of hurt and despair, one or two unplanned steps can mean death on Alvorine. While wallowing in your revenge fantasies, you weren’t thinking about Brea – you were just thinking about yourself.

But somehow – and this time you’re convinced it’s because of his instincts – the Mandalorian offered you a chance at success, one you might not even have wanted. He listened to the people in that inn and decided helping you with your cause is the right job for him. You’ve never heard of a Mandalorian like that. You always assumed they were only interested in money or the thrill of chasing down the rich and the powerful, in letting them know that no amount of credits can keep them safe. But here he is, content with spending a week or more in the forests of Alvorine, hunting down base criminals for the ridiculous amount of 240 credits. It doesn’t add up. And you would ask him about it if he wasn’t an unapproachable, withdrawn man, covered in impenetrable armor. You would ask him if he didn’t terrify you so much.

You wish you could talk to him about … something, you just don’t know about what.

But he makes that decision for you. “Are you hungry?” he asks.

His voice cuts so unexpectedly through the silence that you flinch. It somehow surprises you that he is real and not just a concept you’ve made up in your mind, and idea to help you live out your fantasies of revenge and vengeance.

When you don’t answer, he turns his head to look at you. You squint when you return his gaze, trying to make up your mind whether you are hungry or not (something that feels impossible when all you are is terribly, terribly cold), but then he pulls on the reins of his orbak and brings it to a halt in the middle of the path. He glides down from the animal in one swift movement; a small cloud of freshly fallen snow rises up when his feet hit the ground but there is still no sound and this is starting to unnerve you. It takes him a few steps until he’s next to you, the top of his head reaching your shoulder, even though you’re still mounted high on your orbak, and then he says in a rough, almost unkind tone of voice, “I asked you a question”.

And you remember the deal, you remember having agreed to doing as he tells you. It’s just, you don’t have an answer for him. So you just shrug.

He grabs the rein of your orbak and you finally – finally! – hear his movements make a sound, a low creak as the leather of his glove brushes against the leather of the bridle. The orbak shakes its shaggy head but he doesn’t flinch. His visor is directed at you and you know he expects an answer from you. He’s growing impatient, you can tell from the way his shoulders tense as he lets his gaze wander over your body.

“You’re hypothermic,” he observes, and as the words leave his mouth, so does the air you’ve been holding in and you start shaking uncontrollably.

Now that he’s pointed it out, there is no denying it. You’re cold, so, so cold, frozen and raw, you can’t feel your own lips, your nose, your cheeks. Your fingers are lifeless lumps against the coarse fur of your orbak. If the animal would decide to bolt at this very moment, you wouldn’t be able to hold it back. You’re not even sure you could climb down from the beast right now. Of all the deadly dangers of Alvorine it’s the cold that has finally gotten to you. It’s laughable, and you would laugh, if you could feel your face.

“Can you dismount?” he asks you then.

This is a question you can answer. “I think so,” you say, even though you know you can’t. Your legs are like two solid bricks of ice, too stiff to be moved.

“Do it then,” he says, and it sounds so much like a challenge that you’re determined to show him you can do it.

He doesn’t watch your pathetic display though. He lets go of the rein and walks to the third orbak that is carrying most of your supplies. You’re grateful for that because as soon as you try to dismount, you feel your body tense even more until you glide down from the orbak with a disgraceful plop and land in the soft snow with a force that knocks the air from your lungs. The sounds you make draw the attention of the Mandalorian back to you, but he doesn’t rush to your side to offer you help. Instead, he turns his attention back to the task at hand, looking through one of the bags strapped to the pack animal. You’re convinced he rolls his eyes under the cover of the helmet.

You try to get up, and you manage after two fruitless attempts. Your legs are shaking, but at least they’re supporting your weight. Walking on them is another topic you’re not prepared to cover yet. And then you feel it again, that hot sting of embarrassment you felt this morning, trying to make itself known by speeding up your heart rate and adding a feeling of nausea to your general discomfort. You push it down without batting an eyelash. There is no reason to feel like this, especially if you compare yourself to the Mandalorian. Not everyone can be a ruthless killing machine, immune to environmental influences.

Then he’s back by your side, and with a gruff, “Hold this,” he pushes a heating pad into your hands. You’re not sure at first if it’s switched on because you don’t feel anything, but when you move it around in your hands looking for the on button you notice it’s cranked up to the highest setting.

“You need to tell me when you’re cold,” the Mandalorian continues in the same gruff tone of voice, while he unscrews a flask.

Once it’s opened, he pushes it into your hand with such force you stumble backwards. Your whole body tenses at the contact and you realize you’re completely alone with him. There is not another living soul around for miles except for the three animals next to you, and they won’t come to your aid if he suddenly decides to kill you. And he could. He is so strong; you had no idea how strong until he pushed you back like that with a motion that didn’t seem to take any effort at all. And with another effortless motion, he could close a hand around your neck and squeeze until there is no air left in your body. You wouldn’t stand a chance.

“Drink,” he orders.

You do. It’s a hot liquid – tea, you think – but with a bitter taste to it. It warms you up instantly, much quicker than the heating pad does. You still can’t feel your fingers.

“Just tell me next time,” he repeats. “Losing a finger to hypothermia is a nasty business.”

And now you do feel embarrassed again. You’re a burden, you’re slowing him down. You already lost a quarter of an hour because you can’t handle a bit of cold. It’s not surprising he usually works alone. No one is able to keep up with him, least of all you in your weakened, exhausted state.

But you can’t turn back. You refuse to give up so easily.

You nod to show him you’ve understood his instructions. Then you let your gaze wander around, looking for something to distract you. You can feel heat rising to your cheeks, and it has nothing to do with the warm drink or the heating pad. You know it doesn’t because you’re still shivering. But you’re not going to apologize to him. For some reason, you feel like he would just brush it off, act like it’s no big deal. But it is to you, and you wouldn’t be able to bear him acting nonchalantly. The other possible response to an apology from you would be him trying to comfort you and you definitely. don’t. want. that. The mere thought makes your heart beat so rapidly it feels like it’s going to explode any second. The mere thought of one of his hands resting on your shoulder in a comforting gesture makes you want to run. You don’t want him to care for you because it’s entirely at odds with his character, his whole being. He is here to hunt and kill, not to hold and comfort. And this is what you need right now – a killer, not a caretaker.

You take a few steps, walk past him toward a fallen tree to calm your nerves. The deep breaths of cold air you take make you cough, but he doesn’t even flinch. Good. You’re usually not like this, you’re usually not someone who can’t take care of themselves. After all, you’ve lived on Alvorine your entire life, you know how harsh the winters can be and how dangerous the cold is. But yesterday’s events broke something in you, and the realization that you might never recover from it begins to dawn on you, take hold of you with a grip icier than the snow clinging to your worn-out boots. The weight of what happened to you slams into you with full force and you have to lean against a tree, its rough bark scraping uncomfortably against your cold, bare hand.

And then you see it – the bloodstain. One single, impossibly small, impossibly red bloodstain on the virgin-white snow. And everything stops.

You lurch forward and fall to your knees to examine it more closely. Yes, it’s definitely blood. You raise your head to look around, but you can’t spot anything out of the ordinary, just trees and snow and your own footprints. Your breath comes in short, labored bursts, and you suddenly don’t feel cold anymore. In fact, you don’t feel anything at all.

“What is it?”

The Mandalorian is there, crouching by your side. You point to the small, red dot, and he raises his hand to touch his helmet. His body grows rigid as he examines it, all the while not moving an inch. You don’t want to hear his verdict, don’t want to hear the conclusion he’s come to. That bloodstain stirs something inside you, a panic with such deep roots you feel it taking over your entire body, growing like weed, choking all other feelings, all life out of you.

Something in your body language must have given away this panic you feel, because suddenly the Mandalorian turns to you and says, “I need you to calm down.”

You nod, unable to speak. Then you turn your head away from him and throw up.

“Hey,” he says, and something in his voice catches your attention. It sounds almost … soft.

You turn back to him, running your hand over your mouth. “I’m sorry,” you apologize.

“I’m going to look around,” he tells you. Then he raises his hand as if to comfort you, but you flinch away from him. His hand hovers outstretched between the two of you for a brief moment before he lowers it again. “Just stay here. Try to eat something. I won’t be long.”

He pushes himself off the ground, towering over you. You stand up too, your legs shaking, but before you can embarrass yourself more by stumbling into him, he takes off in a slow-paced run and you stare after him until the trees swallow him up. And then you’re alone. Alone with three orbaks and your panicked mind.

It’s not Brea’s blood, you tell yourself.

But what if it is? a different voice asks.

It’s not. It snowed during the night, and we’re too far behind those bandits. It can’t be hers.

It can, you know it can. They could have left her here to die.

There would be more tracks.

Then why are you panicking? Why did you throw up?

You can’t argue with that. Instead, you sink to the ground again, bury your head in your hands, and scream. You scream so loudly that even though the sound comes out muffled, the orbaks still move their heads nervously. A few trees away, a flock of birds takes off, chittering in disapproval. You scream until your lungs begin to burn, until your throat stings, until you feel like you’ve just sprinted ten miles. Then you grow quiet.

***

When the Mandalorian returns, it’s almost dark. You’re not freezing anymore because you spent the last two hours or so pacing up and down the path through the undergrowth you’ve made earlier, your mind racing with scenarios of him not returning before nightfall. You fear the nights on Alvorine and you know you should have told him about the dangers these forests hold. Because how could he have known that it’s almost impossible to survive a night out in the wilderness? Almost because if anyone could do it, it would be him.

When he returns, the pauldron on his right shoulder is smeared with dirt and his chest is heaving with silent pants, but he’s alone. You’re simultaneously relieved and disappointed.

“We’ll make camp here for the night,” he decides without so much as a greeting.

You open your mouth to tell him how dangerous that would be but then close it again when you remember the nearest settlement is miles and miles away and you wouldn’t reach it in time before nightfall. You don’t have any other choice.

He sends you to collect some wood while he moves to tie up the orbaks. You scold yourself for not having done that earlier when you were waiting for him, but you had hoped it wouldn’t take him quite as long and he would be back sooner. As you move around, picking up the driest branches you can find, you glance over at him from time to time. He is lost in his own task, tying the reins to nearby tree trunks, patting one orbak’s neck, then scratching another one’s muzzle. They trust him, stand completely still in his presence while he circles them, examining them for any injuries or anything that might cause them discomfort.

Finally, curiosity gets the better of you. “What did you find?” you ask, as you break a big, dead branch into two parts.

“Nothing,” he replies in his brusque fashion you’re slowly getting used to. “A dead animal.”

You nod, then focus on the task at hand. Your small discovery and subsequent … breakdown? … panic attack? … you don’t know what to call it, has already cost you so much time. You could’ve covered twice the distance today if he hadn’t stopped here because of you. But … this isn’t a rescue mission, you keep forgetting about that. This is a quest for revenge, and those bandits will be there, no matter how long it will take you to find them. It doesn’t matter if it takes you two days or two months to reach them.

“Did you eat?” the Mandalorian asks you, interrupting your train of thought.

You shake your head and he sighs. Then he reaches into one of the saddle bags and pulls out a ration pack, tossing it to you. He proceeds to clear away the snow around the small pile of wood you’ve collected before doing something with his arm, so flames shoot out of the vambrace, igniting the stack. You can’t help but stare in fascination because you’ve never seen anything like it.

It doesn’t take him long to get a fire going. You grab one of the two bundled up, coarse blankets from the pack orbak and spread it on the ground next to the heat source, huddling up close for warmth and protection. You tear open the ration pack and begin to eat.

“I should’ve told you before, but it’s dangerous out here at night.” Your mouth full, you watch as the Mandalorian sits down opposite you, the fire between you. The warmth spreading through your body and your steadily filling stomach make you talkative. “There’s monsters in these woods.”

He chuckles softly but you’re sure it’s just your imagination. There is no way you could’ve heard a sound like that over the crackling fire. But before you can ask him about it, he raises his hand to remove the dirty pauldron from his shoulder, and you’re so distracted by that piece of steel being lifted off the body it usually protects that you stop thinking altogether for a moment. It’s stupid, you know that, but a part of you still thinks he might be a machine, and seeing that pauldron being removed from his shoulder feels almost forbidden, like you’re the audience to some ancient, sacred ritual you have no right to observe. You lower your gaze to the flickering flames.

“I’ll keep an eye out for those monsters,” he assures you, and you’re not sure if he meant for it to sound mockingly, but it doesn’t.

You still don’t think he fully believes you.

“Alvorine is a dangerous planet,” you tell him in a quiet tone of voice. “It might not seem like it compared to what you’re used to, but to us the dangers are very real.” You’re still not looking at him, but there is no point – you can’t see his face anyway.

“I believe you,” he says. “But fire is usually enough to keep the monsters at bay.”

As a response, you nod, even though you’re not sure he’s watching you. So you finally raise your head again to look at him. The pauldron is back on his shoulder, but his gaze is directed at the orbaks.

“I’m going to feed them,” he tells you. “They’re getting restless. Try to get some sleep.”

You nod again and stretch out on the cold, hard ground. Shivering, you pull your coat tighter around yourself. The fire is barely warm enough to keep your fingers and toes from falling off, and once it dies down, there won’t be anything keeping you from freezing to death. Briefly, you’re considering pulling the blanket out from beneath you to use it as a cover, but then you wouldn’t have anything to protect you from the cold ground. With a sigh, you close your eyes, trying to ignore the discomfort. Instead, you focus on the sounds around you, on the branches brushing against each other when a cold breeze tears at them, on the orbaks huffing impatiently and almost nervously, and on the crackling fire, the heat that makes a piece of wood snap in half ever so often. And then you hear another sound, footsteps, and your eyes snap open again.

The Mandalorian towers over you, and it’s the first time you were able to hear him approach. Instead of feeling proud of yourself, you bolt upright, adrenaline pumping through your veins. Whatever happens next, you know you don’t stand a chance against him. He slowly leans down, and you try to get away from him, but your muscles are frozen stiff and don’t cooperate. His arms move as if to grab you and a strangled cry escapes your throat.

But it’s just a blanket, just the other blanket, and he wraps it tightly around your shoulders. “Here,” he says with a low grunt. If he noticed your alarm, he doesn’t comment on it.

You look at his helmet reflecting the light of the dancing flames, and you wish you knew what was going on beneath it. Is he offended? Annoyed? Or maybe just as cold and exhausted as you?

“What about you?” you ask, grabbing the coarse material to hold it tightly against your body.

“I’m not cold,” he answers, standing up again. “Get some sleep. I’ll wake you before sunrise.”

You watch him walk back to the other side of the fire and settle down on the cold ground with just his cape to keep him warm. And for the first time since you met him, his stoic presence doesn’t fill you with dread or panic or trepidation – he just makes you feel calm.

tag list: @bella-ciao, @chattychell, @darksber, @filthybookworm, @frannyzooey, @khalysa, @leannawithacapitala, @magicrowiswritingstuff, @mothandpidgeon, @mbpokemonrulez, @mrsparknuts, @mxsamwilson, @mylifeofcalculatedchaos, @pescopadral, @piscespussybabe, @something-tofightfor

#the mandalorian #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #mando x reader #star wars #din djarin #pedro pascal #fanfic #the hunt fic #lmao i'm still a coward though and currently asleep #tw: flashing gif

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diaryofastrugglingequestrian · 3 years

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Don’t blame the youth, blame the industry.

I frequently hear horse trainers complain about their young assistants. Their criticisms include things like, they don’t work hard enough, they always sick, they’re too slow, they don’t seem keen to do the work, etc. But as a relatively young professional in my early thirties, I can explain why the younger bunch doesn’t last long in this industry. I’m fortunate enough to be in the in-between ages of being a young adult but actually have some miles under my belt when it come to maturity and life lessons.

All of us in the industry are grafting up to 80 hours a week. However the lower down you are on the ranks, the more you get handed the dirty work of schooling youngsters or the rotten apples, teaching the mundane up-downers, driving manure, hay, and what’s left of our dignity for our employers while they sit on their hundred thousand Rand sport horses.

However we take one for the team with the dream that one day that will be us. This industry is not one in which will make you rich, it is one for passion. Especially when you are young, earning enough to buy bread and milk and that’s about it.

Youngsters especially school leavers are welcomed, they are eager, energetic and dumb enough to be exploited as cheap labor, with the notion that sweat equity is what it takes to make it in this industry. This could be further from the truth when it comes to “making it” in the industry. Sure some do workout the way we envision it but mostly, it’s just a case of cheap labor. The youngsters don’t see what they have is enough. Usually these positions include a live in option, where rent, water and electricity is paid for, and if you lucky enough they pay for your horses’ stable too, should you be one of the elite who may own one.

Personally my life took a roundabout way to get back to what I always knew I wanted. I only started working in the Equine industry at the age of 28, and I was lucky enough that I did. Should I have jumped into working in this industry at the age of 18/19 years old, I never would have lasted. As a kid, you want to see big bucks in the bank account, you want your own place and all that come with it. However life experiences have not yet taught you that the big sum in your account will only be swallowed up faster than you can say “ I did it” to rent, water, electricity, petrol, insurance and other bills, leaving you only with the small amount left to buy a beer here and there. Now add extra stress, demands, exhaustion onto this fact and the youngsters drop like flies as they soon figure out that their dreams are a lie.

Personally I’m not sure what the answer is here, maybe it’s to not exploit the youngens so much that their hopes and dreams get crushed and that they run far away and leave this industry in their dust. Maybe it’s not hiring them for big demanding positions until they have accumulated enough life experiences of their own to appreciate their future job, I’m not sure. But we all got to stop blaming them for being useless.

So unfortunately, many young professionals in this industry have been chewed up and spit out by the elders in our sport. The very same trainers who we look up to and respect and dedicate our lives for. Often getting judged and criticized for not doing things the way it was done “back in their day.” Which for some trainers could be further from the truth as they inherited their positions and never had to work a day in their life, and should you be so lucky to land yourself a job for one of those trainers, well you’re in for a rough ride, excuse the pun. We’ve been drilled to never complain and always be grateful for opportunities—even when they come at the cost of our physical and mental well-being.

We are brainwashed to believe that we can claim the compensation for our hard work and that should be the satisfaction of getting better. The better you ride, the more you get to do later in your career. I grew up in a middle class family, I was blessed to have my own pony and learnt to ride at an once was great school. Best years of my life I tell you. Absolutely horse obsessed, and I knew from an early age that this is what I wanted to do with my life. I never had the best horses, nor the opportunities to compete on high levels at elite shows, but I entered the equestrian industry with huge enthusiasm and hopes that the yard I’m involved in will take me to the top. Once again another lie.

The truth that I never had the money for a top show horse was apparent. Like most of us, I owned a Thoroughbred. Excited and hopeful that my new boss and trainer will take me and my horse to new heights, I came in guns blazing only to be slowly broken down bit by bit, starting with the fact that “my horse may amount to something after all” in the most sarcastic tune imaginable. On the daily I got reminded that my horse and the rest of the Thoroughbreds I ride are no good school ponies never breaking the heights of 80cm or should dare even do a dressage class. It was apparent, that not owning a Warmblood was career suicide. But let me just speak out for all the young processionals here, most of us can’t even afford a horse, but this doesn’t mean we cannot ride. We are now YOUR brand, working for YOUR legacy; we aspire to reach top goals with your guidance, on your line of progenies. We eagerly wait for the opportunity to school THOSE horses with YOUR guidance to represent YOU when we go out. But alas we were shot down as we are thoroughbred riders, we do not hold the wealth in our blood to earn the ride on a Warmblood, and we are conditioned to believe that every day of our dream job. Mentally breaking down each day at a time. It’s no wonder that hard work is not enough in our young professionals’ eyes.

One of the biggest things that have suffered since I started riding professionally is my confidence. I’m sure many young professionals can relate to the feeling of never being good enough. It’s unbelievable the things that have been said to me by some of the��people I’ve worked for.

When I was younger and just starting out, I believed that I deserved the cruelty of that criticism. All I wanted was to get better. If that was the price I had to pay, so be it.

As I got older, the words hurt me more and more. I’ve realized that no one should be spoken to in that manner. Verbal abuse seems to be commonplace in the horse industry. Sure every industry has there rude remarks but why is it so easily accepted and considered “normal” in the horse community?

I have worked to my breaking point; literally, I’ve made innumerable sacrifices for my health and family time, and dedicated my entire life to this career. It is nothing else but a lifestyle. Constructive criticism in the saddle to improve our riding and training is one thing, but being scrutinized and yelled at constantly in and out of the saddle becomes unbearable. It’s difficult to ride with confidence and have self-respect when suffering this type of treatment. People wonder why assistant trainers bounce from job to job, eventually leaving the horse industry altogether. I too was left running and I got at least 12 years on the younger guys. The vast majority do it for their own well-being!

Not only can trainers be cruel with their words, but many simply have no respect for their hired young professionals.

Many trainers say that true horsemen are going extinct, and that the old thoroughbreds are not what they once were, but you’re not giving US (the Thoroughbred and youngsters) the chance, and letting people who can buy their way to the top of the sport be the only ones to watch. Unfortunately it took me, my first job as a professional rider that I realized I was the underdog. I’m not rich, and I will always be trying to catch up to those riders no matter how many hours I work or how hard I try.

While I do have a love for hard physical work and tremendous determination, I don’t have the resources or the backers they have. The fact is it takes money to be successful in this industry. So consider yourself lucky if you happen to have money and talent, then you’re practically guaranteed success. But for the rest of us, If you have exceptional talent but no money, then you are screwed… just kidding, hang in there we may still get our chance.

#Horse Thoroughbred OTTB Warmblood Equestrian equestrianindustry Dontblametheyouth Blametheindustry Instructor youngprofessionals

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adventuresloane · 3 years

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The Wanted (Revised Hurloane Fic) - Chapter 1

Summary:

"They had nearly as many names as they had stories told about them. Ram. Raven. Red. Devil. Deputy. Outlaw. Short 'n Long. Ghosts of the Rapids."

Hurley's a bounty hunter, the Raven is an outlaw, and the desert is a lonely place.

(The 50k+ Old West Hurloane AU Where Hurley Becomes A Thief Too that no one asked for. Updates every Friday. Edited and reposted from an old version of the story--more significant changes to come in later chapters. T for non-graphic violence and discussions of death/injury/trauma.)

Read on AO3

They had nearly as many names as they had stories told about them.

Ram. Raven. Red. Devil. Deputy. Outlaw. Short 'n Long. Ghosts of the Rapids.

What happened to them depends on who you ask. Some say the Raven twisted the Ram, but then again, the Ram might have been born with badness in the marrow of their bones. They say the outlaw was a thief, that her glittering horde still lies somewhere out in the desert among the canyons. They say the deputy was a sharpshooter with twenty notches on their pistol, one for every man who tried to take them. They say they were very much in love.

Maybe they still are. People who camp alone by the river say at night, they hear too-loud whispers over the rush.

If you ask the only man who was there that day, he'll tell you the same thing every time, and nothing more: "They went over the cliff and into the river. Never found the bodies."

He won't tell you whether they were dead before they hit the water. He won't even tell you whether they were shot at all. Maybe, as some say, the two of them just tipped, hand-in-hand, falling backwards over the edge together as children let themselves fall into soft grass.

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

"I don't give a rat's ass what Bane said. She so much as looks at me wrong, I'm shooting."

Hurley heard the murmuring and looked over their shoulder. The two men were lagging, their mounts clopping along at a lackadaisical pace. Barbra and Lil' Jerry rode side-by-side and leaned toward each other in their saddles as they spoke in what could charitably be called a whisper. Hurley slowed their own horse a bit to get closer and listen.

"Yeah, as if you'd live long enough to press the trigger," Lil' Jerry snickered in response. "You couldn't outdraw a tin can."

"Oh, fuck off! I take care of myself fine."

"Ah, whatever."

"Besides, I'll have my gun drawn the whole time we're giving chase. I'm not taking chances on this one. You've heard the stories. Even saw the blood in one of those train cars that one time, remember?"

"Yeah, I remember," Lil' Jerry muttered.

"Everyone's quicker on the trigger when they know their gun's the only thing between them and the Big Sleep," Barbra declared. "That's just survival instinct."

"That poor Abernathy fuck wasn't. Quicker, that is."

"That doesn't mean you just wave a gun around if there's nothing in sight to shoot," Hurley piped up. They took more than a little satisfaction in how the two men looked at them, first with surprise and then with frustration, as if they'd really thought they were getting away with something.

"We weren't talking to you."

"You might as well have been. You were loud enough. Bane told us we have to start moving quietly. The Raven's probably in this area."

"Trust you to do whatever he tells you." Hurley bristled as Lil' Jerry went on, "This is only your first time out, so we don't need you telling us what to do with our mouths or our guns."

"I know my way around a gun just fine, and you know tha--"

"All of you," said a deep voice, causing Hurley to stop instantly, "would be better off if you paid more attention to what's around you instead of whatever bullshit you're going on about."

Hurley said, "Sorry" while the boys behind them mumbled the word vaguely. At once, they prompted their horse to pick up speed and catch up with Bane as he led the way.

When they had been riding alongside him for a few minutes, he leaned their way a little. "Though I would say," he started conspiratorially, "having seen both of you at target practice, I trust you to point a pistol the right way quite a bit more than I trust Barbra."

They snickered a little. "I'd hope so, Sheriff."

"You've got a head on your shoulders, even if you've got to be reminded to use it now and again." They looked down and smiled a little sheepishly, though the way he said it made it sound more compliment than critique. "The problem is that anyone can take a look at a thousand-dollar 'wanted' poster and suddenly decide they're a bounty hunter. They try to be heroes.”

"I don't suppose a lot of bravado does you much good out here."

"Oh, no, it can. You need to be tougher in the face of some damn tough criminals. Another reason I think you'll be good to have around." He was grinning. "But the people who come in guns blazing are also the ones who turn tail the quickest when things get to be too much for them."

"You won't have that problem with me, sir."

"No, I don't think I will. I've known you long enough to know you're here because you want to put things right. I think you and I could do that back at home, too."

"It needs it. Goldcliff's broken, if you ask me."

"Hey, now, that's my town you're talking about."

"I'm sorry. I don't mean it that way. It's just I've seen so many people there try to cheat and hustle and steal ever since I came there, and now this...murdering a man on his own doorstep in the middle of the afternoon." They shook their head. "I can't stand it."

"You don't have to. You can help stop it if you want."

"I do. And I think I'll have a much better chance of doing it with you and the law. No more of me challenging cheaters to tavern fights to sort them out," they said with a small laugh. "Thank you again, by the way, for letting me come out here with you."

He nodded before turning to address the whole group. "We're about to enter the canyon. Be careful how you go, now. It echoes in there."

Their heart began to bounce inside their chest as they thought of facing their quarry. Their horse sped up to a trot.

“Hurley.”

They looked behind them to find a stern-faced Bane and a posse that had stopped moving altogether. Trying to swallow down the blush working up their face, they got back in line behind Bane.

The four moved single-file as they made their way downward. By the time they reached the bottom, there was still no activity, not so much as a lizard skittering through the grit on the ground. Quiet filled up the gaps between the stone walls, washed over them like the long-dead rivers that had once carved out these canyons. All they could hear was the clacking of the horses' footfalls, thrown back at them louder.

At various points, Bane sometimes whispered, more often simply signalled with his hands for one of them to break off and explore another path. They would return empty-handed.

Now, Bane held up a hand for them all to stop. Hurley heard, then, just for a moment, the sound of hoofbeats that belonged to none of their rides. With the way sound played off the stone, they couldn’t determine how far it was.

It kept coming as none of them moved, noise bouncing and skipping off the walls like a mockery. Sometimes distant, sometimes nearer, sometimes seemingly next to their ears. The canyon was sinuous and full of unexpected branches and side-paths. They tried to pinpoint the source of the noises that seemed to come from everywhere, from out of the ether.

Or they did until a resounding bang interrupted. It made a couple of the horses spook and rear as it blasted apart the near-silence. This time, it wasn't hard to tell that it came directly from behind.

Everyone else turned to see Barbra holding the smoking gun, looking more shocked than anyone.

"For fuck's sake, Barb," Lil' Jerry muttered.

And then a flash of dark around a corner.

Their galloping set the whole place rumbling as they all shot off. Hurley’s horse nearly skittered on the sand several times as they whipped the reins sharply to the side. It was what was necessary to wind through the narrow passages that curled deeper and deeper into the canyon.

Whenever there was a widening of the path that might allow more than one horse through at a time, Hurley tried to shove past the others. They had to be up front. They could barely see anything past Bane, leading at the front and shouting things they couldn’t hear.

He grabbed his lasso as they came around one bend. There was nothing on his face except the same solid determination as usual, only sharpened.

The posse pulled around the corner and came to an instant halt, scraping hooves stirring sand. Hurley craned their neck to see the dead end at the end of this passage, a sheer wall of redstone. But no Raven.

Not until there was sound well behind the whole group as the dark form reappeared and shot off in the other direction.

"Dammit," he spat as he yanked the reins back hard and turned his horse around. "Stay together!"

Hurley kept pace with the rest of the group, until they didn't. By degrees, they drew their horse back into a canter, then a slow trot. As expected, the others were too fixated on their path to notice that they were losing Hurley, as they leaned low over the manes of their galloping animals. The posse twisted around a sharp corner and out of their sight.

You're thinking with your belly again, they heard their mother say, while she poked the round ball of their seven-year-old tummy.

None of them were about to outpace the Raven while she stayed three turns ahead of them. She knew the canyon, maybe so well that she knew where her pursuers were just by hearing the echo of them along the red stone walls. But if just one of them could out-maneuver...

They bid their horse to turn around and move at a quiet walk. This was not a betrayal of Bane's orders, they convinced themself. Not really, anyway. Maybe he had told them to keep up with the group, but surely the higher order was to find the thief. If they did that, he could forgive the unconventional methods.

And they would do it.

They started to pick their way through the tangle of paths. The Raven had traveled back this way, running in front of the posse, only to disappear around a bend and re-emerge behind them all. This, perhaps, was where a number of the narrow natural trails converged. They might part only to circle back and rejoin each other elsewhere. If that were true, she would be likely to stay near the place where she had a number of exit routes. This was where she expected she'd be safe.

They chose their directions nearly at random, only knowing that they wanted to roughly parallel the path that their team had been taking before. They could meet up with them and maybe head the Raven off, if they could only keep track of where the others might be. They went left, left again, right. When they reached a slot-like passage in the rock face too narrow for a horse, they bit their lip, then dismounted and left the gelding behind as they sidled sideways through.

Occasionally, the others' calls and the pounding of their horses' hooves would come to Hurley, and they would stop to hear more. By then, though, the echoes would have already receded. They still had no way of knowing where the source of the sounds could be found--they got bounced around and lost in the network of paths until they seemed entirely disembodied. They might as well have been the chattering of specters wafting their way through the cavernous, lonely canyon. Right, left. No route here was distinct from the rest. For all they knew, they were wearing circles into the sand.

Right, right again, and then, suddenly, no further. They pulled themself back behind a boulder and instinctively clapped a hand over their mouth. It was some time before they were able to make themself crane their neck back around, to determine whether they had seen what they'd thought they'd seen.

From behind, they saw a figure sitting atop her steed. Long black duster turned sepia by the caked-on dust of the desert and a wide-brimmed, jet bolero with a sharp feather sticking up straight from the hatband. She was still. Just waiting.

Their mouth felt dry. At some point, they realized that it was gaping open, and they snapped it shut. The clack of their teeth sounded far too loud in their mouth.

They took a single step around the large stone that they hid behind. The half-elf's ears swiveled around and moved to pick up on sound. They seemed to fixate on nothing, though. Certainly, she didn't look Hurley's way as they gripped the long rope and positioned it in their hands. Their every movement was measured now. With every scrape of the rough hemp coil against their fingers, they felt certain that she would turn around, but she didn't. Another step, placed on the ground deliberately. The sand did not crunch beneath them.

From where they stood behind the boulder, they did not have a clear shot at her, but they did not dare step out fully into the open. They could still get her, though. They would still get her. It probably should have been fear that sent the eager blood blazing through them--the fear that she would see them and be gone in an instant, the fear that they would be gone in an instant when she spun to blow them away--but that wasn't it. This was the familiar thrill of the final blow and the bullseye. It ran through them whenever they knew they were about to prove what they could do. They clenched their lasso as the world shrunk to what was right in front of them. What was right in front of them was an opportunity.

They threw. The Raven had a half-second to look at the loop that had snapped tight around her ankle before Hurley pulled with all they could, and down she went to the ground. When she impacted, it was with a choked noise that might have been a yell, had the wind not been punched out of her lungs.

They almost wanted to cheer as her horse spooked and ran off.

But then they turned to look at just what it was they had caught. The figure at the end of their tether lay on her back for several moments, unmoving. For a moment, they wondered if she had been stunned by a blow to the head. They saw that, certainly, she was still hurting from the way her spine had slammed into the baked-hard earth. Low, creaking groans came from the back of her throat along with her exhales.

Suddenly, as though startled awake, her eyes snapped wide open to the sky. She scrambled to push herself onto her elbows and look at the place where her ride had been, then spun her whole body around to face Hurley.

There was a bandana tied around her face, black and patterned with feathers, puffing out slightly with every breath. It covered up everything except her eyes, but the eyes were enough. Now unshielded by the hat that had fallen from her head, they snatched Hurley's gaze and held it tight. They were big, for one thing, and youthful, with the cool-toned brown skin around them unlined. What hit them, though, was how they went wide and got wider, caught bare and off-guard. Like they took in everything and understood none of it. Disbelief at being brought down so far and so fast.

They matched her gaze. They might have been smiling. Hurley liked making people believe they could do things previously thought impossible.

The Raven's eyes flitted down to the rope around her foot twice, the first time almost as an afterthought, the second with a look of mounting rage, and it occurred to Hurley just then that they had not really restrained her much at all. They tightened their grip on the lasso just as she went to stand and yanked so that she could not get her footing. She fell back onto her butt with an indignant grunt and tried again. They pulled again, becoming more aware all the while that they were just bringing her closer to them.

That was when the sound returned to them like rocks tumbling over each other. Both they and the Raven turned just in time to see Barbra and Jerry come riding up, and for possibly the first time ever, Hurley was relieved to see them both. It was just seconds before each of them tossed a rope around her torso and pinned her arms to her sides. She squirmed against the bonds for a few moments and then went still, glaring between the three of them there. That was that.

A fine thread of blood had begun to trickle out from beneath her hairline, barely skirting her eye, where she could not wipe it away. It ran all the way down to her neck. Hurley's doing. They were about to step forward when they felt a large hand press down on their shoulder.

"So you lost us a horse, it seems."

Hurley looked up in surprise, but Bane had a warm grin for them, the kind that let a person in on a joke. They smiled back, probably more broadly than they strictly needed to. "Still glad you brought me along?"

"Well, had you been a little worse at this job than I thought you'd be, you would've gone off and done something stupid and not gotten anywhere." He gave them a couple of firm pats. "But turns out, you're just as good as I thought you'd be. Better, considering you got the Raven on your first try."

"I wasn't expecting it either," they laughed.

He chuckled lightly, and then they watched him turn his attention to the captive in front of him. Barbra had her by the back of her collar and had already pulled her up to her knees. A bit of her hair was caught in his fist.

"She's younger than I thought," Hurley commented.

He gave the thief an assessing look. "Not more than a year or two younger than you, I'd say. I don't see outlaws too much older than this, quite frankly. They tend to live fast and die faster."

"I guess so," they mumbled mostly to themself as they watched Bane walk over to her. The boys weren't easing up on the lassos, and already her breathing was shallower as her chest tried to expand against the rope.

He didn't tell them off for it, though. Instead he stepped close to her so that the tips of his boots nearly touched her knees. He cast her into shadow as he stood over her, making her lean back in order to match his gaze. Then, with a forefinger and thumb, he gripped the mask around her face and pulled it down in one motion. They saw all of her hard countenance now. A pale scar ran over the bridge of her nose, another down across her lips in a perfect vertical.

With the same hand that had felt warm and strong on Hurley's shoulder a moment ago, he suddenly grabbed her jaw. His fingers pressed into the skin of her cheek, his thumb dug into the bone beneath her ear. They released a minute gasp. They could see it from where they stood, how he kept squeezing as though to wring something out of her, which perhaps he did when her mouth was forced open a bit.

"So that's what you look like," he said coolly. "You'll really get your picture in all the papers now, isn't that right?"

Her expression stayed hard and solid as stone. Her lower jaw was gritted and jutted. Hurley didn't know how she wasn't even trying to pull away. How she stood it rather than trying to whip her head out of his grasp. That was what they would have done, they thought.

"Bind her hands and arms both." He dropped his hand, finally. "And make sure those knots are damn tight. She's been known to try sneaking off."

This was the only time she fought, really. Jerry came up behind her, and she glanced backwards, gritted her teeth, got one of her feet underneath her and tried to stand before being shoved back to the ground. Bane was over there and assisting before it even occurred to Hurley that they might help their posse. A hand on her bent back, right at the vertebra where the neck met the spine. She kept struggling as her arms were crossed behind her, with each wrist bound against the opposite elbow. It was only when Barbra pulled back on the rope hard enough to make her wince that she stopped. That left her leaning over a little. Her chest and the muscles of her belly worked hard on every rasping inhale. Her breathing stayed heavy and open-mouthed when she was half-pulled and half-kicked to her feet and started walking behind the horses as they moved in the direction of their base camp.

Hurley walked too, though Bane offered more than once to let them ride on his horse while he walked awhile. On the way, they kept turning back to look. The Raven just went and went. She drove her gaze into the ground like a plough and hardly moved or lifted it, except to glare when she felt an extra tug on the ropes around her torso. Other than that, she looked almost listless. Concussed, maybe, they thought. But she wasn't uncoordinated or struggling to focus. She simply didn't react.

It wasn't until they got back to their base camp that she showed some resistance. Hurley saw as she finally picked her head up and watched while Barbra opened the padlocked back door to the wagon, with its couple of small, square, barred windows. She hesitated before the wide dark opening, tried to take a couple steps back even as she was pulled forward. But it didn't matter. Barbra yanked and Lil' Jerry shoved and Hurley saw her look backward over the boys' heads, at something far away, before the door closed and locked on her again.

They stared for a bit longer before shaking their head. "I can go untie her for you while she's in there, Sheriff--"

"No," he said even as they started stepping forward. "It'll be good for tiring her out a bit if she stays like that for awhile."

"But that's dangerous," they responded without waiting a beat.

"It's only for a few hours, Hurley. It won't hurt anything."

They tried to keep from gaping at him. "It'll definitely hurt. It probably hurts now."

There was a force and urgency in their voice that they heard too late. He half-turned his head towards them, just enough that they could see the widening of his eye and the raising of his brow. "Hurley, you caught an outlaw on your first go, and that's to be commended, but you're still new to all of this. I've been here plenty of times. Trust me when I say I know what to do here." He nodded towards said outlaw, now unseen behind the door. "You suppose we were too rough?"

"I..." They bit the inside of their cheek. Hurley was included in that "we." Only one of them among the group, after all, had made the Raven bleed. "I just think we shouldn't do anything unnecessary."

"And I agree," he said almost somberly. "I try not to, unlike some people. If another group of bounty hunters had gotten her, she likely would've been beaten by now. That's if they bothered trying to bring her back alive at all."

They shivered a little. The cold here came on fast in the evenings.

"I call them one-person juries, people that just go out to kill or punish. It's a sorry state of affairs. She's lucky." He said it as though the sentence were a conversation ender.

It wasn't, in their mind. They weren't convinced that this got a pass just because other posses were far worse, and they were about to tell him as much, but only got as far as saying, "But, Sheriff--" before he brought them to a halt again.

"Hurley," he said. The word was a quiet warning. "Let yourself learn first."

They stared at him even after he turned around to walk away. For a long time, they stood dumbly and watched his back as he strode back towards the fire pit.

Again, this was not disobedience, they told themself as they covertly unlocked the wagon door while the others ate dinner a ways off. Bane said he wanted to bring his prisoners back alive? Then they were going to make sure this one stayed alive, whether he liked it or not.

The late amber light struggled in through the tiny windows, getting caught up in the smoky dust that rose from the floor. It was just bright enough to see the way the Raven lifted her hanging head, letting the long black hair fall away from where it covered her cheek. Without turning their way, she let her gaze slice across them.

After far too long of a pause, they opened with, "Hello," since it seemed like as good an introduction as any.

Behind the airtight line of her mouth, they could tell, her teeth were gritted. They could almost hear the scrape of them.

"That looks uncomfortable," they continued, stepping forward, because the alternative was going backwards, which they never did. "I'll get those ropes off of you if you'll let me."

They kept coming towards her until they saw her pulling her leg back slowly, winding up for a kick. "Hey. Easy." They took another small step forward, still out of her strike range. Their voice did not rise above a murmur. "Easy. There's no catch here, I promise. I'm still going to have to chain your ankles, but I'll untie you so you can move around. You just have to let me, please."

When they kept walking forward, nothing in her changed, including the intensity of her glare. But she didn't seem primed to kick them anymore either, which was good enough for them.

She tracked their every motion, twisting her neck around to look at them over her shoulder as they went to undo the knots at her wrists. When their fingers brushed hers, she flinched, curled her hands up into fists. But they didn't miss the long sigh and slumping of her shoulders when the bonds fell away, the way her eyes shut slowly.

They moved so that they were back in front of her and saw, without a moment to spare, the way she eyed the key to the cuffs that had just been locked around her legs. They pulled back the hand that held it just as she swiped at it, catching only the air. Well, that escape attempt had taken all of thirty seconds for her to concoct. The three-day journey back to Goldcliff would be exciting.

"Nice try," they commented. They dropped the key into their breast pocket and reached for their canteen. "Do you want water?"

She looked at it like it was the first she had ever seen. When they held it out a little further to her, though, she brought her gaze back to them and kept it there. It didn't move away even as she took the metal container from them and unscrewed the cap. They thought, finally, that they saw something else other than the bitterness in her, even if it wasn't gone. Her head was angled curiously, to eye them as though she were looking through a keyhole.

"I'm Hurley, by the way. I know you didn't ask, which was a bit rude, but I thought if you needed--"

"It's not going to work."

They stopped. In an instant, her lips had become stretched thin into a tight smile. It stayed unchanged on her face even as Hurley searched it for answers. She didn't open her mouth, but still she laughed a low, heavy laugh, dredged up like phlegm.

"What's not going to wo--"

She held up a finger to halt them as she brought up their canteen to her mouth and tipped her entire head back. They lost count of how many swallows she took, but they did wonder whether she was remembering to breathe. Finally, she pulled it away with a loud, refreshed exhale and tossed it back into their lap, half as heavy. "You," she began, casually wiping her mouth, "are trying to make this easier on yourself. You think if you throw me a bone or two I'll be docile and not give you any trouble while you're dragging me off to prison. Well, go fuck yourself, little Red." She dragged out the last sentence like she had all day to say it. Her voice had a sing-song tilt like a head rocking from side to side, slathered in mock sweetness.

They stayed sitting on their butt in front of her. Well. In all fairness, they didn't really know what else they should have expected. They ran a hand through the short puff of almost-auburn curls on the top of their head, of which they were suddenly quite conscious. "Fine, I'll go fuck myself," they mumbled. There was no truth to what she said, but they doubted there was any way to convince her of that. "Can I at least have your name, since I gave you mine? Though it seems like you forgot it already."

"My name is whatever you think it is, Red."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"What have you heard me called? The Raven, I'm sure." She gave them a curl of her lips that was a smirk and a sneer and a snarl all at once. "What else?"

They matched her hard stare. "They call you Black Devil," they answered quietly.

She looked amused, but not surprised.

"You seem pretty nonchalant about all this."

"What? Getting harassed by people like you? Yeah, you could say I'm used to it."

They had to almost chuckle at that. "Harassment seems like a stretch. What did you expect anyway? You think people will just ignore the murder of an innocent man and an unbroken streak of robberies stretching from one end of the territory clear to the other? That's not the kind of thing you get away with forever. If not us, some other posse would've--"

"What did you say?"

For the second time, she brought them to a stop. While they had been speaking, the Raven had been staring at the spot of floor between her chained feet with slowly widening eyes. Her expression had gradually eroded into perplexion, her furrowed brow loosening into surprise. Now she turned to face Hurley directly.

They found their voice again. "What do you mean?"

"About the murder."

Her bewilderment was genuine. Hurley could not see how it could have been otherwise, with the way that she blinked fast, as though trying to clear her vision of sleep in the morning. But she should have known, at least, that the murder conviction was a possibility. "I said we can't just ignore it."

"Who..." The word came out cracked as her parched lips. She cleared her throat, then. She swallowed her spit and seemed to pull something back inside herself along with it, something that she had let spill out by accident. Her eyes didn't look quite so wild, even as she breathed more quickly. "So who do they say I killed?"

She hadn't a goddamn clue.

"Bank teller. A Mr. Miles Abernathy, from the First Bank of Goldcliff. He was killed during the burglary. A whole bunch of witnesses spotted someone with your description running from the place." They weren't sure if the last sentence was to inform the Raven or to give themself a reminder. "You don't remem--you didn't know?"

"Didn't hear that, no." She had been nodding along as they spoke, as though she were still learning how to nod.

"So you didn't do it?"

She acted as if she hadn't heard.

"Well..." They grasped at anything. "Well, if you didn't do it, that'll come out in the trial."

That brought her back, seemingly, to herself. Her eyes went cold and narrow again, squinting at more than seeing what was before her. "Get out," she muttered, not looking their way.

#hurloane #taz #taz balance #the adventure zone #the zone cast #taz fanfic #hurley #sloane #the wanted #enemies to friends to lovers #enemies to lovers #western au

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rcris123 · 5 years

Text

“Did you see that kid Kieran?” Arthur asks Dutch next day; asked the others too, no one knew a damn thing, but all of ‘em said something of Kieran being scared the O’Driscolls been stalking him.

And there’s an idea already forming...

“No.” Dutch replies, then, letting his book down: “Why do you care?”

Kieran van Der Linde is what that boy said once when the three of ‘em went fishing, but there’s more than just mere sympathy:

“If the O’Driscolls took ‘im then they know we’re here and they’re gonna blast us all to hell.”

“You really believe he ain’t just run off?”

“If he ain’t run off ‘till now, why’d he do it?” A pace away. He’s trying to convince Dutch go let them have a look – or maybe he ain’t needing no permission; him and Sebastian are enough to take down the lot of ‘em. “Besides he was still a prisoner.”

Dutch laughed: “Where you even getting these ideas from, my friend?”

Arthur shakes his head, scoffs: “Well... thanks anyway...”

“I need you to stay strong, Arthur.”

More and more those words feel somehow empty, like he’s bringing them up just so he has the last word. But Dutch’s always been like this, why is he only now taking notice of it? Was it Blackwater? Was it Isaac? Was it Sebastian and Isaac? Who the hell knows... But this doubt’s starting to itch inside him and more and more he’s feeling like he’s tearing this place apart and the reasoning behind it is as vague as a pang inside his chest and a ‘It ain’t right’ dangling inside his skull. It feels like it’s all become a chore, suffocating like this goddamn swamp and how goddamn good it felt to get out and do fishing with the kid, Sebastian. What fun they had catching that monster o’a sturgeon.

A sigh, ‘cause he’s still wanting to find out what the hell happened to that Kieran boy. He loves these people, Dutch, Hosea, John, Charles, Lenny, Sean, the women, everyone. He always did it all for them. Why stop now?... And he’d mount up, but instead just ends up giving scratches to Ghost. The bullet wound doesn’t seem to bother her all that much anymore.

If he were to go, Isaac’ll have to come with him.

“You know I saw a couple of them O’Driscoll Boys runnin’ around.” That’s Sadie’s voice.

“Oh, really?” Arthur turns around

“Yeah.” She even climbs in the saddle. “No one seems to care when I get out of camp so I followed them around a bit. Seems they’re holed up in some abandoned town in Lemoyne.”

His face lights up.

“Can you tells us-”

“I’m riding with you, Arthur. I can’t forgive them, you know that.”

“And Kieran?”

“Boy’s harmless. A bit whiny, but harmless.”

“Okay.” Arthur rubs his chin. “ ‘kay. You wait here, I’m gonna get some people.”

“The two of us is all we need.”

“I know, but my heart ain’t letting me.”

Sadie snorts: “You’re one sappy old man.”

“Very funny.” Arthur beckons as he gets back upstairs; Sadie’s got her charm about her, never once sounding truly mean spirited.

Inside Sebastian was still asleep; man barely got any rest last night, tossing and turning, breaking into cold sweat. He even managed somehow to scratch a scab away. It bled. Isaac found himself something to read, legs to chest, on the floor against the dresser by the bedside.

“Mornin’.”

“Mornin’.” His son greets back with a thin smile.

“Got any breakfast?”

Isaac shakes his head and places the book on the dresser behind him.

“Get downstairs and eat somethin’, Isaac. Pack some for the road too.”

Boy gets up: “Where we headed?”

“Getting that kid Kieran back.”

Isaac’s eyes grew wide: “Ain’t that official business?”

A look at him, a sigh: “No.”

It’s a bit too much o’a request for a boy like Isaac but his childhood’s fast coming to an end and no matter how much he tried keeping him clean from outlawing and gunslinging, the noose’s getting tighter by the day and he’s much rather know his son can fight than lose him ‘cause he ain’t been enough a man to teach him.

Maybe he ain’t ever been much of a man to begin with, all queer like he is – he heard Tilly insulting Bill like that once. She knew, they all knew, and now Arthur ain’t no different.

“Okay.” But his son still trusts him; and that’s enough.

Arthur sits on the edge of the bed, compelled to run a hand through the rough hair on the side of Sebastian’s head, lean in, whisper something for good morning.

“Good mornin’, you stubborn ol’ buck.” He did just that in the end.

“I’m middle-aged.” Sebastian muses, a smile drawing on thin lips.

“And I’m a grandparent.”

A snort. A flutter of brown doe eyes, then an inhale as Sebastian tries to turn on the other side:

“Good morning to you too.” A stretch, then a grunt and the man rolls back to face Arthur: “What you up to?”

“Finding that boy Kieran. I want you to ride with me.”

“Always.” It’s soft the way he says that and once more Arthur finds himself running fingers through the rough hair on the side of the man’s head.

“Managed to catch some sleep?”

As hand threatens to let go Sebastian catches it into his own; holds it.

“Not really...”

“What kept you up?” A sigh; he looks away and Arthur squeezes his hand. “Talk to me, would you...”

A huff, a tug of the arm closer: “I’m afraid... That they gonna take it all- and then I remember I have nothing left anyway...”

“That ain’t it, Sebastian.”

“If this counts-“ another tug of the arm. “If this is me having something how do I know it ain’t gonna end up the same. You. The kid. Why are these fucking things up again-” He growls, suppresses a sob, the closes his eyes and exhales with difficulty.

“Sebastian...” And the man draws him closer in. “You gotta trust ye’rself. And you gotta trust this poor ol’ fool’s luck, ‘cause he ain’t died just yet.” It’s absent minded again how he touches the medallion, ‘cause it dangles heavy from the neck, and Sebastian catches that.

Looping an arm around Arthur’s back the man props himself up with yet another groan.

“I ain’t seen anyone more stubborn than you.” Arthur speaks up again.

“Yeah. Me either...”

He liked that: looking at him. He’s handsome and not deserving the shit this world gave him.

“Now let’s get that kid Kieran.”

“Yeah.” Determination grows on Sebastian’s features.

Downstairs they couldn’t help running into Sean; boy’s been frantic trying his best to keep up with camp chores and whatnot, but somehow still ended up sleeping somewhere in some uncomfortable pose. He ain’t gonna question that. And maybe that was for the worst ‘cause now Sean tagged along with them and the moment he saw Isaac there lad knit his eyebrows and felt like he swore on Christ and the Virgin Mary not to let any harm come to the boy. And that’s just hoping trouble ain’t finding Sean first.

But Sadie ain’t protested so it’s the 4 of them and the kid that set out and for now he ain’t as scared as he could be.

The road takes them past Caliga Hall, towards the Kamassa River, they follow the water’s bend, until he recognizes the Eris Fields to their left, and further up ahead he remembers that bridge: took towards the Marshes, Bluewater were they called? Sadie rode hard the entire time. Sean tried talking, maybe ‘cause he ain’t doing good in the silence, but silence’s what he got.

“If we’re lookin’ for a spooky place that one’s pretty much fittin’ the description.” Sean spoke again.

It looked like an abandoned town. He’s passed here before, he remembers that collapsed church, the graves. Isaac read them all –all died 1893, just a month after it was all built. And at that moment Isaac looked at him:

“Ain’t this?-”

Sadie jumped down from saddle: “We take it from foot here.” She took her gun.

“We sure there’s O’Driscoll’s there?” Sean wasn’t all convinced. “It’s lookin’ pretty quiet for the lot of ‘em if you ask me.”

“There still looks to be guards out.” Sebastian intervened. “Look. There.”

A man in the characteristic green, slumped over with what looked like a riffle for support. He ain’t looking at all lively. Something felt off.

“Me and Sadie go up ahead.” Arthur said. “Sean, Sebastian, you hang back for support in case there’s more o’em coming from behind-” Sean almost protested. “Don’t want a word of it, Sean. Isaac, you too, go with ‘em.”

His son picked out the riffle that was now stored on Big Sir – it previously belonged on Ghost.

No turning back now; Sadie already went up ahead. It’s with big steps that Arthur follows behind, one pat on the revolver’s bed, synching his movement for a quick draw. Hands quickly return to holding the Repeater.

It’s Sadie that shoots first; there was no opposition from that guard except one panicked jerk up. Body falls. She rushes inside. Arthur takes one more glance back at the other three before heading in himself. There’s already gunshots. A scream from Sadie. Guns blazing, there’s already 2 dead inside. Arthur adds another to the count.

“There’s more in the other room!” Sadie shouts, and indeed O’Driscolls pour out.

One’s shot right in the doorframe; the one behind stumbles over it. He meets the same crude fate with a bullet to the head. Arthur took care of the 2 other left in that main room.

There’s gunshots outside now too. And a muffled scream for below the floorboards. Kieran? Sadie caught that too: her gaze darts downwards.

“Guess he’s in the cellar-” Arthur speaks but he ain’t getting to finish that.

Sadie rushes by him joining the gunfight outside. A peak out: there’s at least 13 of them. But he ain’t sure about the rest of ‘em.

They gotta hold out.

“Com’on.” Arthur psyches himself up while darting past the battlefield.

There’s a few stray bullets that try to get a hold of him. Better luck next time. He searches for the entrance to the cellar- Another O’Driscoll jumps out, knife in hand. Arthur darts back; the tip of the blade cut his vest. Arthur ducks and tackles the other with force to the ground. Man swats the knife, before dropping it on impact. Fists come raining and the O’Driscoll ain’t moving soon, face a pool of blood.

It’s only now he notices the rashes on the man’s skin. The fact that he had a gun he ain’t used... Heart sinks. He turns the downed O’Driscoll’s face with the tip of his boot as he stood up, the sin looked like that of a carcass and that can’t all be his doing...

He gotta find that Kieran soon, that if these bastards ain’t eaten him alive, or worse yet, left the job half finished.

There’s the cellar. He blasts the lock open with the sawed-off shotgun and dashes inside. There ain’t no light down there and Arthur’s feelin’ like it takes too goddamn long until he fumbles the lantern alight. There’s growling around him.

And when he shines light into the room he sees no less than three O’Driscolls drooling and clattering their teeth, hogtied with rope, as if they belonged in an insane asylum. And then there’s Kieran, bound and gagged with an arm bleeding. When seeing Arthur boy struggles against the restraints.

“I gotchu now, stay calm.” Kieran relaxes onto the chair as he goes to cut off the rope and take the gag out.

One glance is spared for that wounded arm: someone gnawed at it. Jesus Christ! Poor bastard... And as soon as he’s free Kieran clutches that arm against his chest with his other one. A hand on the back to guide him out. The gunshots stopped.

“Th-thank you, Arthur.” Kieran mutters on the stairs.

“Don’t you worry ‘bout it.”

“Y-you saved my life...”

“You saved mine once before, it’s the least I could do.”

“I... Thank you.”

Arthur pats the boy on the back: “It’s okay, kid.”

“Arthur!” That’s Sean calling, he came running. “Sebastian’s calling for ya’.”

Arthur strides forward, letting go of Kieran, then before he forgot turns to them: “Sean, help him up on Big Sir, would you.”

“Sure.”

When he reaches around the house, Sebastian was buzzing from place to place like an angry hornet while Sadie stared at the barn doors. They were sealed shut and it read: STAY OUT PLAGUE. A hand rushes up to cover his mouth and rub his beard. Christ. So a plague is what caused them undead.

He goes to meet Sebastian, whose head was in the ground, deep in thought; man wanted to shake Arthur off when he put his hands on his shoulders.

“Look at me.” Arthur tells him quietly. “Sebastian-”

“That Cajun was right.” Sebastian growls, muscles releasing the tension they were holding before. “If only I was here back then-” Arthur holds him firmer. “Joseph might still be-”

“Shshsh...” Hand switch from cupping the man’s shoulders to cupping his face, but Sebastian grits his teeth and grips Arthur’s collar between his fists.

“You don’t get it. I let this happen. It’s my fault-”

“You ain’t lettin’ it happen again.” His voice raises only to meet Sebastian’s volume.

“PA!” Isaac shouts from somewhere, and his attention’s fully focused on that now; and so’s Sebastian. “Com’ere a moment!”

They both rush to do so.

There’s more writing on the walls of that home: BEWARE RUVIC, though he ain’t sure if that’s an C or a K ‘cause half of it is missing’, the other smudged off at the corner. He also ain’t sure if RUVIC’s two words or one. Arthur takes out his journal and the engraved pen from his satchel to start drawing it. The blue lines hold out better.

“You think that’s a name?” Isaac asks.

“Could be.” Sebastian muses. “Or some abreviation.”

“From what?”

“Don’t know.”

“We gonna find that out.” Arthur scratches his beard again, “But first we gotta take Kieran back. Those undead took a bite outta him.”

Isaac’s mouth hangs open, while Sebastian’s scrunches shut.

“He’s on your horse, Isaac, you can go on ahead.”

Boy nods, springs up and sprints away.

Sadie hands back and so does Sean:

“So what the hell’s this all about?” Sean speaks up.

“It’s some disease.” Sebastian says, mounting up. “It turns people idiots and deranged.”

Isaac’s off already, Kieran holding onto the boy for dear life ‘cause Big Sir sprung straight to a swift gallop.

“So they lose the ability to speak and go wild like animals?” Sadie asks.

“Pretty much.” Arthur chimes in. “Saw a couple of ‘em chained up in the basement next to Kieran.”

“And they gain a taste for human flesh.” Sebastian elaborate further.

“Jesus!” Sean and Sadie alike.

“Ain’t sounding like it’s anythin’ natural.” Sean throws out his opinion.

“Are people even capable of doing that?” Sadie ain’t fully convinced.

“If RUVIC’s anything to go by,” Sebastian starts. “I’d say it’s a human. Or a bunch o’em.”

Sadie sighed: “Then it’s a good thing we got rid of ‘em, I say.”

“Yeah.” Sean chimed in.

The road back feels faster, mind’s a’gallop, runnin’ to catch some coherence before it goes entirely insane. It ain’t no wonder such things are making Sebastian toss at night. They tortured him once before and now came for seconds. And for that man’s sanity and the hope that the world ain’t entirely gone to shit they gotta find some reason to this – the man, or men, behind it all.

And for that they gotta set out again.

Only their welcome back ain’t one reserved for victors.

“What you done now, Morgan...” Micah cackles from where he was leaned on a tree, sharpening something with a knife.

He ain’t replied, but Dutch glared at him as if he just murdered a gang member. He can’t stand it, and soon neither can Dutch:

“Did I tell you you can go fetch him, Arthur?” Tone’s low and scolding.

“I told you why.”

“Not that you were actually going through with it?” Dutch stepped forward, eyebrows drawn together. Arthur squared his shoulders. “What the hell happened to you, Arthur?...”

“Could ask the same of you, Dutch...” They’re measuring each other up with glances. “What happened to taking care of folk?”

“And what happened to loyalty, son?...”

“Been loyal, Dutch. Always.”

Dutch slowly backs away as if he’s letting Arthur have this, but no, now he spoke louder: “Then don’t you trust my judgment!?”

“Well, me and Sadie felt different.” Arthur retorts.

“Then what next!? You gonna feel different and put a gun to my head, Arthur?”

“Now that ain’t true.” Sean butts in. “Ain’t you heard him, he cares for folk. It’s why we all went to get that other Irish bastard. Can’t stand the focker but I ain’t standing Micah either ‘n Arthur busted that walkin’ shite outta prison anyway.”

Dutch’s scowl could have murdered on its own. Arthur holds Sean back before either of ‘em draw or throw a punch.

And in all o’ this Hosea was quiet. But Sadie wasn’t:

“Unless you wanted to fight diseased, half dead, feral O’Driscolls I’d say we did you a favor.”

“The what?...” Now Hosea spoke up.

“Yeah.” Sadie continued. “The bastards that came and took Kieran were more dead than alive.”

“Found 3 of ‘em chained up in the basement growling and drooling like animals.” Isaac chimes in.

Dutch’s eyes grow wide.

“Ain’t you seen the bastards bit chunks of that boy’s arm off?” Sadie continues.

“... I guess in that case... thank you.” Hosea at least had the dignity to accept defeat. Dutch didn’t, just stood quiet where he was. “Arthur... Maybe you should keep an eye out for that.”

“Already on it, me an’ Sebastian. Found this person, RUVIC, his name on the walls where Kieran was held.”

“Okay...” Hosea sounded half terrified. “I’ll see if I can poke my nose into it too.”

“Thank you, Hosea.”

#arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #rdr2 tag #rdr2 fanfic #kieran duffy #isaac morgan #sebastian castellanos #sebthur #and zombies #and :3c ruvic

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shyeehaw · 5 years

Text

Children of this Land: Ashes to Bone

Supernatural AU - Chapter I

I would like to thank @shethenightwolf , @famderlinde , @kaziklubaby and @crabby-abby for bearing with me and helping me with my first long fic, hope yall like it <3

This is the story of your birth, my son. It’s an adventurous one, filled with love, but also great sadness and loss. It speaks to us as well, children of this land. We know no home, and neither do you. The same land that created us now is doing the hunt.

The wooden wheels were rolling, and that hellish sound kept screeching on their ears, a sound so cruel that reminds them why they are moving in the first place. A feud as old as time, ignited by the most primordial motive: food. Then, finally, a dead man lying on the road.

When on the run, there’s no time to feed, as fugitives don’t get any rest. Time unfolded as a yarn, and Hosea’s eyes were kept glued to the small portrait in his hands. They had infuriated too many people, both gangs and law. Still, the strong scent of the corpse got them jumping out of the wagon, facing its empty eyes. Dutch approached the dead man, assaying the state of his own skin over the new one. Fresher, better. A grip around his wrist and a screech of the harpy’s throat; That’s how they knew it was an illusion, a trick. There weren’t enough roads to put distance between the Driscoll's and the Van Der Linde gang. And now, as the evening shadows and he sits on his ragged tent, Dutch watches his sons as they heal, with growing hunger.

The flames licked Abigail’s legs, and still, she wouldn’t wish to be anywhere but there. It was a flesh-eating blaze consuming her feet, her core. Yet, the only hurtful sting was their piercing gaze. Her agonized figure was a reason to cheer, to chant, around her, hearts full of hate gleamed like burning coal. Their indifference allowed her to once more, feel the depths of cruelty. What they couldn't wrap their minds around was judged, and tonight, Abigail was the defendant.

She wouldn’t scream, wouldn’t give them that satisfaction, raising her chin up, Abigail breathed the smoke two or three times, the crescent moon as her single witness.

“We are gathered here tonight to send this whore back to her Master’s arms”, said the Cleric, holding a cross against her direction, “Begone, foul creature! Leave us, good people, free of your bewitched venomous words.”

The crowd cheered, oblivious to the ferocity of the fire, as she was reminded, once again, of how she was used, tricked. It was a savage world, and still, Abigail was no more inhuman than those who smiled upon her burning body.

“See! She won’t even deny it! Promiscuous! Sorcerer!”, those were the words used by simple-minded men to describe women who owned themselves, who dared to be free, only to have their freedom sworded by their hypocrisy. Speaking softly to the flames, she asked them to be done, to consume her. Ash and bones. Rolling her head back, and her eyes even further, Abigail chanted a last time, the old forgotten words folding her tongue in a familiar way, praying to whichever God birthed her to claim her soul. She embraced her fiery fate.

Red, carmine - the vivid colors flashed through their collective mind. John was the first, howling at his packmate to stop, something wrong in those woods.

“What are you fools stopping for?”, Bill stomped his hoof, “Dutch is waiting on us!”

With a growling sound, Arthur followed John, his bent legs opening way between the dense forest.

“Ahh shit!”, Bill turned around, chasing the two immense shadows by the night. A smoke scent filling their lungs.

It was a sorry scene, indeed. Those creatures, those humans, once again burning what they couldn’t understand. Out of sight, out of mind. How long until is us burning, John? the thought invaded his mind as if was his own. Adrenaline rushed through his veins, spreading quickly, bristling his fur. John jumped at the nearest peasant, munching on his torso, breaking bones.

“You goddamn idiot!”, Bill was furious, his horns now glazed on dripping blood, making his way through the crowd. And how they screamed, running in circles only to meet Arthur’s massive open jaw. Marston, you idiot! Dutch will geld us, those intrusive thoughts were buried under his primal goal, an instinct hard to refuse.

Fire shook his claw-hand as an agreement, John Marston slashed the ropes, freeing the witch’s body from the stake. She was alive, breathing. Barely.

Retreating to the camp, John was the one carrying the sorceress’s burnt body, his nose flaring to the smell. We should hurry, those Driscoll demons are still after us, he looked at his brother - blood on his fur from the confront, humans and their damned guns, their own way to feel powerful. The night was as silent as death, just the sound of crickets guiding the weird party home.

“Absolutely not!”, Dutch said taking a single look at the wounded girl, “As far as we know humans are burning their own under the accusation of witchcraft. No!”. He left the tent in a hurry, only to stumble upon Hosea, who seemed very much concerned.

“What’s going on here, Dutch?”, He peeked through the open tent flaps, where Ms. Grimshaw avidly worked, the girl seemed like a rag doll compared to how big and feathery Ms. Grimshaw was.

“Is she a witch?”, Hosea asked.

“We reckon”, said Arthur, his beastly shape now a bit more under control.

“Dutch, we can’t just send her away! Are you so caught up with Colm and his demon hierarchy that you missed the news?”, Hosea looked at Ms. Grimshaw, as asking for her to back up his stories, “Night folk are gone!”

“They had it coming for them, going around attacking people.”

“And how do we feed again? We need to eat, and soon! Or we ain’t healing.”, Hosea crouched beside the girl, placing his hand with a cautious gesture on her forehead, “Saint Denis is just about the same, vampires being hunted down. Towns are being watched day and night, Dutch!”

“That’s exactly why I say to take no more folk, we have bad as it is!”

The gang was already used to seeing the pair arguing like this, Strauss was barely lifting his milky white eyes from his newspaper, watching their discussion with a detached interest.

“Alright Hosea! we’ll have her if she pulls her weight! And if she’s not some human mistook for one of us.”, he said putting a saddle on The Count, “Now, we need to tend to the urgent matters, these wounds! Strawberry?”

The face of his partner turned blank by the absurd proposition.

“Jenny, Mac, Davey… I miss them too, you know? They were fine people. But we can’t go looking for revenge, Dutch, Colm’s army is growing as we speak, I thought we was going to lie low”, Hosea said, placing his hand on Dutch’s shoulder, “I would rather we go to Valentine.”

His dark eyebrows furrowed, that livestock town was like going back to his origins, feeding on farmers and travelers. Still vexed, he nodded just to humor his partner, like he did so many times.

An eternal life granted them a non-verbal communication, much like John’s and Arthur. More than that, they merged into one. Hosea became more ambitious and lively, Dutch learned to consider risks, put others needs along his own. What one did the other was there to complement, like a synchronized dance, opposites, but working together. And how far they came, finding friends along the way, watching them turn into family.

As Ms. Grimshaw and Strauss helped them packing things to get to town, John stood still beside the girl, wondering what was her name, and if it was possible from the top of her slumber, to have cast a spell on him. People would soon start wondering why he wasn’t back to his original form, since there was no longer danger around. But the fear that was haunting him had nothing to do with something that could be fought using his teeth.

“Mister? What is you called?”, a crooked lady asked Dutch.

She was the only one still wandering through those muddy streets, stopping right on her tracks when she saw the man’s face. A frightful sight, they must have been. In a group of four, they walked in pairs, the wolves behind, as shadows enlarging the danger on the careless steps of the first two, who walked sure that nothing there could kill them. Except for each other.

“Aiden O'Malley is the name, my lady”, he said with a flourish, old ways never really died. Hosea glared, doubtful, at his partner.

“I’ve seen you before… but no, not with that name, I would recall.”, said the crone, her white tuft of hair escaping from the scarf. She looked so old her memory was doing a favor by still working.

“You must have mistaken me for someone else ‘mam, excuse me.”, a collective sigh and the group left, entering the dim-lighted alley on the right.

With a single gloved hand, Dutch raised the glass window, leaving enough space for him and Hosea to slither in the warm home. Gesturing for the boys to stay behind, they began their millenary ritual, plucking breaths as fruits from a tree. Glowing yellow eyes and fluid movements would never be seen by those who quietly slept. And if they were… their skin would become his.

But Hosea never liked that, the ugly crawling feeling he got when harvesting an innocent skin, no. He and then, Dutch pledged to only take the skin of those who had not done it right.

Still insatiable, drinking the slumbered breath, they heard footsteps. It was not unusual to find a restless human walking around their houses, but sharing a concerned look, the pair hid, mixing their silhouettes with the shadows.

“Who's there? Face me, ya cowards!”, the high-pitched voice floated across the room - disembodied.

With caution, Dutch draw his gun, human or not, a bullet would always slow it down. And the trigger was almost pulled when an almost toothless smile greeted him. And then headbutted him to the floor.

Gliding across the room, Hosea placed his barrel against the thing’s head.

“Easy boy! We are the same as you.”, he spoke slowly, trying to hold the creature still.

“Oh no, that’s my way of saying hello! Hello there!”, he pushed Hosea. And in a blink of an eye, the trickster vanished, leaving both men looking around, in a neurotic state. “Now ya see me!”, he resurged sitting on a chair, “Now ya don’t!”

“Alright! We are leaving!”, Hosea declared, having his sentence finished by Dutch, “We didn’t know this house was guarded…”

“Guarded? eh, not really. Folk here give me only musty bread and milk, that’s nothing if they want to count on me mighty protection.”, the red-head swung his legs from the bed, getting up on a jump, “ Give me beer, whiskey, would’ya? Back in Ireland, I was a fucking king! Know what? Eat them, I don’t care”, he spoke too fast, leaving Hosea’s ears buzzing.

“Ireland? So what are you? Leprechaun…?”, he asked, making his way to the door.

“Pff, ya american creatures! I’m irish so I can only be those fools? Nah, I’m a Clurichaun! Related to those famous bastards, yeah, but way better.”, he said, stuffing his chest as he followed them around.

“Alright, nice to meet you, mister. Goodbye now.”, Dutch said, meeting the inquisitive eyes of John and Arthur.

“I’m Sean!”, he said shaking their furry hands, unbothered, “Say, can I join ya fine fellers? It’s awful boring in that old house.”

Dutch was about to protest, but it took just Hosea dismissive gesture for him to not be bothered, for what he saw of Sean, he had the attention span of a puppy, and would be soon off their hair.

“Great, so as I was saying…”

With their ears filled by the heavy accent, in the length of one street, the gang learned all fae hierarchy, their taste for music and booze. When Arthur could swear his arms were going through the transition just to grab the boy’s neck, they stopped.

“Alright boys, keep your eyes open. Dutch and I are coming in.”

It’s hard to draw a clear distinction between good and bad, with that thought in mind, Hosea signaled to his sons to get working on the jail’s door. Arthur slashed the fragile doorknob, his paws kicking it open, their jaws clenching to the sound. The wolves and Clurichaun kept their guard outside the door, as the couple entered, greeted by moldy walls that held a quiet interior, where all prisoners snored just as much as the deputy on charge. All but one.

“Ay! What’s going on”, a whisper was heard, “Mary-Beth! Wake up!”

Dutch quickly found the source of it. The murmuring pair was sitting at the cold tile floor, ash crosses draw on their foreheads. His eyes lingered a bit on the man’s tied burnt hands. Sharing a look, Hosea and Dutch understood what that meant.

“If I were you, I would look away.”, Dutch said, much to Hosea’s displease.

“No need, sir. We both seen things that would shock you.”

“That I doubt very much.”

Squeezing through the bars, Dutch crouched on the asleep prisoner's chest, his long fingernail slicing the flesh, separating muscle from skin. He did that with precision, with a bored look of who committed this atrocity thousands of times, like he needed it to survive.

“Sir, you seem kind enough. Would you help us getting out of here?”, the soft voice of the girl pleaded to Hosea, “They… burned my tent, and I might be next.”

Ignoring the conversation, Dutch kept slicing.

“I…Of course, my dear”, he glanced at his partner whose frown was getting worse by the moment, “John, Arthur get over here and open this cell would you?”

Struggling but a moment with the lock, the two were free, rubbing the crosses off their heads.

“And then what Hosea? Are we keeping two more mouths to feed? We don’t even know if they are like us!”, Dutch was no longer keeping his voice low, which made Sean fidget with anticipation of that deputy’s sleep being interrupted.

“They clearly are! Look at their markings!”, his voice was firm, “We can’t leave them behi-”

The words were concealed under a freezing scream, one so excruciating and cold that sent shivers down their spines. Dutch’s sloppy movements as he argued caused the man to keep screaming, his skin being ripped off. It was like watching a stagecoach crash, in slow motion but yet unable to stop it.

An iron net, and guns. Hosea’s liquid fear, filling his eyes like never before, unable to move. Among the warning bell sound of the town, he searched for the portrait that he could swear it was on his pocket. He had but a moment to undo that, and failing to find it there was nothing left but to say goodbye.

But not Dutch, his nails went through the throat of the closest policeman, as his sons fought against the others. The girl, Mary-Beth, was unlocking a chest, weirdly enough grabbing a guitar and untying the hands of the man with her.

“There’s no point, my dear…”, Hosea talked above the confusion, “Take them and go, please. Do this, for me.”

With a second chime from the bell, Valentine was filled with it’s citizens. An angry mob following them, There wasn’t enough time for goodbyes. Fugitives don’t get to say “I love you” back. Their furious steps cracked the glass of the picture, Dutch’s smile immortalized beside a beautiful lady.

“I told you I knew you, mister.”, the crone said, accompanied by his old friend. His red mustache and unmistakable black hat. On top of that, the fiery sword embroidery stitched on his cassock.

“Hello, Dutch.”

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ask-de-writer · 5 years

Text

The next WIP is a LONG one. Here, I am only including the last few chapters, along with a link to the start of DARING DO AND THE COMPASS OF DISCORD.

This story is rated YA, having some violence and death.

DARING DO AND THE COMPASS OF DISCORD

WIP : MLP Fan Fiction : Cover art by Wind the Mama Cat

Daring Do is given a unique quest by a most unusual patron. She must find and recover the ancient Compass of Discord before its misuse can wreck the world of Equestria. Of course it would be easier to do if ANYPONY, even Discord, knew WHERE IT WAS …

DARING DO AND THE COMPASS OF DISCORD starts here.

Chapter 7 Voyage to Kuduspar

The reality was slightly different. As Amber pointed out over a complex game of cards and dice which Morail was winning, “When ships have adventurous voyages, bad things have been happening! We want a nice, quiet voyage.

“We will be making for Kuduspar, on the north coast of the Eland Republic. We are not going all the way to Degrate, on the Forgotten River, in the Zebra Confederation.”

Daring Do discarded. Both Amber and Withers rolled dice. Withers picked up the card and added it to the layout in front of him. Morail promptly laid her entire hand across his layout and, grinning, raked in the chips from the pot!

As Daring Do watched Morail in bemusement, she offered, “The way that you play this would convince anypony that you are a Diamond Dog, for sure. You have to grow up playing this game to be as good as you are, and only Diamond Dogs do that.”

Morail grinned. “<I am a Diamond Dog! I was raised as much by the Ruby Drift as I was on the farm. Only blood separates us. I earned that Drift Supervisor and Mining Explosives Expert certification!>”

Amber grinned too. She dealt the next hand. Dice rolled and cards were laid down, picked up or added to growing layouts in front of each player.

Leaning on the railing and watching sea and sky as the Malachite sliced through the waves was another pastime. Out on the open sea there were few birds but they did occasionally see one.

Pointing with excitement, Morail exclaimed, “Look at the size of the wings on that one! What is it called, Doctor Do?”

Smiling at Morail's excitement, Daring Do replied, “That is called an albatross. Some sailors claim that they never land, except to nest and raise their young. They do dive for fish to eat. Whether they land for anything else, you would need to ask somepony besides me. I have only seen them flying or on the water.”

Morail was almost bouncing with her present freedom. “Amber has released me from studying the ship's operations for the next two days!”

Interested, Daring Do and Withers asked her, “What does she have you studying, Morail? Can you tell us?”

Smiling, she replied, “Some of it, anyway. I have been learning modern fire control systems! These bigger guns and being on a ship make it all really tricky!

“Besides that, she has me studying the theory of modern Mage/Tech ship engines. I really can't tell you much about them. The history of them is fun, though. The Mage/Tech interface and first engines were invented by the Equestrian Rom, of all beings! They used them to power prostheses for their sick or injured Horses so that they could still pull their caravans!”

Withers nodded. “I can easily believe that, Morail. They invented the modern Magic Net too. Rather their foals did, so that they could stay in touch when bands were far apart. Old Marchhare claims that they used it to, and I quote, Plot against their elders, end quote. When their elders found out about it, they used it too, but made sure that the youngsters had a private part of it so that they could still plot and scheme!”

Daring Do chuckled, “That sounds so like the Rom! They say that the young have to get away with things. It builds character.”

The Malachite made her way from the Eastern Sea, south, just past the Equator, into the Stonewall Strait. The land fell away north to the continent of Epona. To the south, the land was the northern coast of the continent of Sorica, home, among other nations, of the Zebra Confederation. Separating the two continents was the Medial Sea, leading on through to the Poniesian Isles and the Great Western Ocean.

The days of the voyage passed without incident until they raised the lighthouse of Kuduspar in the Eland Republic. A swift, lightly armored patrol vessel flying the Zebra Confederation banner tried to intercept them. It had a small 50 mm cannon in a forward turret and fired a warning shot across their bows.

The Zebra ship demanded, “You must divert to the port of Degrate to have all of your cargo and goods evaluated and taxed. Any beings aboard who do not have Zebra Confederation travel documents must pay a fine and have proper documents issued before they can be permitted to travel further!”

Amber returned, “Nils Downitall does not own the Medial Sea! We are going to Kuduspar and you will need to learn to swim if you try to stop us!”

Morail was operating the fire control board. The Malachite's forward turret of 125 mm guns swung to bear on the Zebra ship. Morail was wearing the headpiece and speaking softly through it to the ship's turrets. Each of the three guns of the forward turret shifted their aim a little.

The captain of the Zebra Confederation apparently failed to notice, or he was following a script! He demanded, “Apparently our warning shot was not enough! Prepare to be boarded and all of your cargo seized!”

Amber's paw dropped in a slicing motion! Morail tapped her fire control board. The forward turret's guns blazed with flame and smoke! The ship shuddered under the recoil of the heavy shells blasting out to the opposing vessel!

Almost instantly, the small turret of the Zebra patrol ship erupted! A huge hole from an exploding shell tore apart the forward superstructure, just under the flying bridge! The third shell made a hole in the side of the boat, just below the smokestack! A sudden roaring wash of mixed steam and smoke back out the hole and bursting up out the stack told of the end of the patrol vessel's engines.

Amber sent back by Magic Net, “Apparently, OUR warning shot was enough! You were warned that we are going into Kuduspar. You have only three choices.

“First, you may abandon ship and we will sink the hulk.

“Second, we can tow your vessel into Kuduspar. By staying aboard, you retain a claim to the ship after paying us for the tow.

“Thirdly, you may abandon ship and we will claim the wreck as a prize of combat.

“We will pick up your survivors in either abandonment scenario.”

Sourly, the captain of the damaged Zebra vessel decided, “We will take your tow to Kuduspar. How will you get the tow line to us?”

Amber answered, “We have a pegasus traveling with us as a passenger. She will deliver you a light line to pull over a hawser for the tow.”

Soon Daring Do was bridging the gap between the two vessels trailing a light heaving line to the now wrecked Zebra Patrol boat. She dropped the line across the bows and left the rest to the crew of the boat.

In short order, the convoy of ship and hulk was back underway, headed into Kuduspar.

At the harbor entrance, the Malachite was taken by a harbor pilot and the wreck was taken under tow by a tug.

Chapter 8 Import License

In the harbormaster's office, Daring Do was explaining the ostensible purpose of the expedition and the reason for some of their more “unusual” supplies.

She offered, “You see, Sir, what the Spinel Drift Enclave, near the southern end of the Selene Mountains, has found appears to be ruins of what may be the root civilization for the famous Nil Eya civilization. The news of this possibility has severely upset the Downitall Party. They hold, as a core belief, that it was a ZEBRA civilization that sprang full blown with brilliant writing systems, stone work, and architecture due to the pure genius of the superior Zebra kind.

“If this find bears out, as the true Nil Eya root civilization, it will totally destroy one of the basic claims by which the Downitalls hold power.”

Daring Do made a twisted face as she observed, “For some MYSTERIOUS REASON, they don't like that and do not want us to succeed.

“The Downitalls totally fail to grasp what success is to an Antiquarian. It will not matter whether what we find is the root beginnings of the Nil Eya civilization, a later thing built by survivors of the Nil Eya slave revolt, or something else entirely. The only real gauge of success will be uncovering the truth of an ancient civilization.”

The window pane frames made a fine shadow play with the harbormaster's tall spiraled horns as he gazed out at the Zebra Confederation's shot up patrol boat being maneuvered into a drydock. He gestured out at his nearly empty harbor and replied, “I see. Look what their declaration of the Medial Sea being a Zebra pond has done to our trade. Under the circumstances, I am granting the import license to you directly and noting that it has the formal backing of both the Supreme Matriarch of the Diamond Dog Council of Enclaves and the Joint Crowns of Equestria as well.”

He pushed a small stack of papers across his desk. Daring Do began to fill out and sign where necessary. He took the packet and sorted out sheets which he neatly folded and sealed, returning them to Daring Do.

“Best of fortune on your expedition, Doctor Do. There is a fair amount of Discordian activity in the area that you will be investigating. I hope that they do not cause you too much trouble.”

Dryly, Daring Do replied, “I fear them far less than the Downitalls. That is why we have the special equipment that you have just authorized. We thank you.”

She gathered up her papers and fit everything neatly into her saddle bags and left.

She had barely closed the door than she was confronted by a bulky zebra resplendent in a Downitall Party uniform! He demanded, “I am war trained! I am a big zebra and you are a mere pegasus, so don't get any funny ideas! Just hoof over those papers for a Zebra Confederation stamp on each page! Fifty bits gold for each stamp and any page I don't like gets torn up AFTER I stamp it, so you still owe, got it?”

Daring Do wasted no time on chit-chat! A fast poke at the zebra's nose caused him to shy away sideways! As he was shifting his weight, she kicked the foreleg that was taking his weight, up high, dropping the stripy on his side, like a broken sack of oats! She followed up with a double buck to his exposed gut, driving the wind out of him!

Turning to the door, she informed the harbormaster, “There appears to be some black and white garbage out here. It is obstructing your walkway.”

“I see it, Doctor Do! Thanks! I will make sure that it is taken care of!”

Happily humming the Funeral March for Kings from the ancient Nil Eya civilization, Daring Do went down to the Malachite's dock. The head stevedore examined the papers and ordered his crew, “Begin off loading everything! It has all been cleared! Be careful with those ammo boxes!”

Chapter 9 On The Eland Veldt

The buildings of Kuduspar were far behind. The surrounding farms, managed by the many industrious kinds of antelope that made up the population of the Eland Republic, gave way to semi open veldt with large patches of woodlands.

Morail was watching all in fascination. “I was just getting used to the idea of ponies with one horn! Now there are all of these antelope with TWO horns! This whole area is so different from the veldt across the Selenes, where my Drift is!”

Withers looked up curiously, from the map that he was studying. “Your Drift? Morail, how much of what we have heard is real and how much is Amber taking advantage of this expedition to further her own plans for the Diamond Dogs?”

Morail, continued to look out the window eagerly as she replied, “My spell locked ID as Morail Ruby Drift pretty well nails part of it. I was not really a Veldratten. I was Morail Blum Fauntin and did go down into the Ruby Drift so much that they DID adopt me.

“Sometimes I would spend as much as a week or more down in the Drift. The Diamond Dogs took really good care of my education and taught me. I earned my mining and explosives certifications.

“My family sent me to the Royal University but the Ruby Drift was paying half of my education costs.

“The Downitall Party killed the rest of my surface family and claimed WITH DOCUMENTS TO PROVE IT, that I was killed too. That let them seize the farm for one of their hacks.

“This is where the story gets really funny! You see, I did play tricks on zebras above, about being a Diamond Dog adoptee that did not even know how to speak Zebra. Tried to buy things with Diamond Dog gems and pretended not to know about Confederation Marks!

“The ZC Ambassador called Ruby Drift's Matriarch Topaz and she confirmed that I have been a Diamond Dog since fillyhood and knew Morail Blum Fauntin. She told him about some of “our” tricks. He bought it all.

“Nils Downitall actually had the story checked. Since I did do those tricks, there were lots of good Zebra witnesses to the Zebra orphan raised by the Ruby Drift. Now, that is the official line!”

Daring Do spared a glance from her driving to flash a grin. “So, you did tell Princess Luna the truth, that you already were a Diamond Dog! How old were you when the Drift adopted you?”

Morail snorted cheerfully, “About six! Vater was both proud and mortified at the same time!”

Glancing back, Morail suggested, “Pull off the road in the next patch of trees, Doctor Do. We are being followed by a truck flying Zebra ensigns. We need to set up our special equipment.”

Daring Do simply nodded and began watching the road sides as they entered the shade of the patch of woods. The truck swerved, bounced fiercely and skidded to a stop!

Morail and Withers leaped out and pulled the canvas top clear of the back. Withers, with practiced ease, opened the crates holding parts and began the assembly.

Morail opened another case and began to remove blocks about five centimeters on a side. She was affixing things to them and setting them aside. In moments, she was out near to the road, stabbing a tool into the sod, prying it up, setting a block in the hole and stomping it snug, then repeating the procedure.

Daring Do checked the action of a semiautomatic rifle and loaded in a big curved magazine. She made sure that her throwing and combat knives were ready and that her big Spiderly 13 mm revolver was loose in its holster.

Seeing that Withers was done setting up the MT84 quickfire cannon, she passed him the rifle. Cannon set up, Withers made way for Morail to take the big gun's aiming handles and took cover where he could aim back the way that they had come.

They had only a small wait. The big boxy black and white saloon style car roared almost past their position, screeching to a stop and backing up. The Zebra Confederation flags on little staffs on each front fender fluttered in the breeze. It crossed the roadside ditch at the same place that they had, bumping to a stop as soon as it was clear of the roadway.

Sitting quietly up by the MT84, Morail smiled and pulled out a small device. It looked a bit like a Magic Net mirror.

The car's doors opened and two soldiers in Zebra Confederation Army Uniforms hopped out. They held the door for a portly Zebra in his Downitall Party uniform.

Daring Do pulled a tight smile of recognition. This was the same Zebra that she had walloped flat back there by the harbormaster's office! She also, and very ostentatiously, pulled her big 13 mm Spiderly revolver.

He did stop, as he stared down the unwavering barrel of the big pistol in Daring Do's grip. Arrogantly, he gestured toward her and one of the uniformed Zebras went to one knee, starting to aim his rifle at Daring Do.

From the brush off to one side, there was the crack of a rifle firing! The Zebra fell squalling his pain! He had facial cuts and one fore hoof was bleeding! His rifle lay in two shattered fragments! The other uniformed Zebra sprinted for the roadside ditch!

Morail, grinning ear to ear, barked in Diamond Dog, “Mistake!”

She tapped her mirror like device!

Along the ditch and several places closer, explosions tore craters and scattered sod, tossing the second Zebra to the middle of the road! The exploding mine under the Zebra Confederation car lifted its rear end up almost two meters! The right side rear wheels went flying, to crash into the brush as the car flipped up! It fell heavily onto its left side, the undercarriage starting to burn!

The aghast Downitall Party uniformed Zebra picked himself up from where the blast from Morail's mine under the car had thrown him. He gave a wild look at his fallen soldiers and the wrecked car, now ablaze.

Faced with massively superior firepower, he still tried to assert his “authority!” “Doctor Do! You must give over this expedition! It has been forbidden by Nils Downitall himself!”

Daring Do raised her eyebrows and, incidentally, her big Spiderly revolver. That last, she brought to bear on the second button of the Downitall Party uniform, just over his heart.

“For starters, sirrah, your precious Nils has overreached himself for a second time. This is the Eland Republic, not the Zebra Confederation.

“Additionally, we are not even interested in the origins of the Nil Eya Civilization. We know, from wall paintings and from written evidence that has survived, that the Zebras did play an important part in building it. AS SLAVE LABOR. The genius that guided the labor was not Zebras.

“What we are now going to check out is an apparent temple complex found by workers from the Spinel Drift, here in the Eland Republic.

“You may tell Nils that his minuscule navy has upset the Chineighese Empire with the interruption of free trade from Equestria, Prance, Saddle Arabia, Epona and parts of Sorica.

“Qushi Han Lee, the Pirate Queen, has dispatched a fleet to take care of the matter.”

He started to scoff, “Pirate Queen? Our modern gunboats ...”

From her vantage point behind the MT84, Morail interrupted in her heavily Diamond Dog accented Zebra, “Qushi Han Lee's yards built the Malachite, our delivery packet. You know, the ship that sank your light cruiser Das Capitin and blew the engines out of your patrol ship. She is sending two battle ships, four heavy cruisers, six Hunter Destroyers and a pegasus carrier strike ship.

“They have been ordered to sink your entire navy and destroy every ship yard in the Confederation.”

The official drew himself up and snapped, “They cannot do that! It violates International Law!”

Daring Do, tilted her head and scratched an ear, while suppressing a chuckle. “Really? And your criminal blockade of the Medial Sea does not violate the same laws?”

He snarled, “Not at all!! Nils Downitall has declared the entire Medial Sea to be our waters to regulate as we see fit!”

Morail barked, “Then he can have no recourse to International Law! Setting aside Free Passage in the Medial Sea breaks those same laws!”

She brought the barrel of the MT84 to bear on him too.

Daring Do pointed north. “Kuduspar is only about two to three day's walk that way. I suggest that you gather your fallen zebras and start walking. Since it is illegal for them to carry those guns in the Eland Republic, I would suggest leaving them behind unless you want to spend time in a Republic jail.”

Gathering his uniformed zebras and starting to walk, he shouted back, “You have not heard the last of ONDER OTTARHOOF!”

Chapter 10 A True Discordian

The expanse of the Eland Veldt passed behind Daring Do's party. They entered a range of broken, upheaved strata ruptured by the speckled gray of granite. The road began to twist and double back as they climbed the gray broken rock of the hills. Smaller brush and tall trees began to dominate the area. The road led into a defile that opened out to a small valley with a tiny town.

It was a simple “wide spot in the road” sort of place. There were only seven buildings, including a little store and an Eland Republic Government Station.

In a small cloud of dust, they pulled up in front of the Government Station. Their hooves resounded hollowly on the dry, knotholed boards of the porch as they trooped inside.

The antelope behind the counter looked up at them with interest. Daring Do noted a modern, desk mounted Magic Net mirror in its frame. There were papers stuck onto three standing spikes and some stacked into In and Out baskets.

He looked up and mildly stated, “I am Meridian Courser. May the Path of Chaos bless you all. Are you the famous Doctor Daring Do?”

Daring Do stopped cold. “I am she. Are you really a Discordian?”

He nodded, his long spiraled horns making short arcs as he did so. “I am indeed. Following Discord or Eris, as she often is, is a lawful and proper religious choice here in the Eland Republic.

“I did have a reason for asking your identity, Doctor Do. A number of complaints have been lodged against you by Ondar Ottarhoof, Chief Consul of the Zebra Confederation.”

Daring Do nodded. “I expect so. He seems to think that this is the Zebra Confederation. At least, he acts as though the word of Nils Downitall is law here.

“Have you any means to verify the truth or falsehood of statements?”

The station master smiled as he busied himself doing some unobtrusive things to a document on his desk. “I have, Doctor Do. I have applied a non equine magical truth test to this document. It contains the accusations against you.

“Your replies will appear as shades of color according to the truth of your answers.”

He turned to Morail and offered, “You appear to be a Zebra and might have to answer to the Confederation courts of law for some of the accusations in this case.”

Morail shook her head negatively. “Appearances are deceiving. I am a Diamond Dog.” She held out her spell locked ID for the Station Master to examine. “I will be happy to explain my part in the recent action against Ondar Ottarhoof. That way, it will be a part of your truth tested documentation.”

He returned her ID and observed, “I will want your information as a part of this investigation. It sounds like it will be of interest.”

By the time that Meridian's questions were done, the document of accusations was showing the yellows and oranges of evasions or half truths and the brilliant red of outright lies.

The answers of Daring Do, Withers and Morail showed the clear green of truth. A few of the questions about the origin and reasons for the expedition showed the yellow green of incomplete but true answers.

After Meridian closed his official questioning, he asked, “Doctor Do, are you aware that the followers of Discord are no more monolithic than, say, followers of Celestia or Luna? There are many sects of us. True Discordians of all sects respect life, just as Discord him/her self does.

“We are not so arrogant as to think that we understand the subtleties of his/her Chaos. What we do is observe his/her Chaos and record both its nature and its results. To us, it appears that his/her Chaos is a major driving force for beings of wisdom to develop both in mind and civilization.”

Morail asked him, “What of those Discordians who think that they have found where Eris is creating her Chaos and rush in, often violently, to 'help her spread Chaos'. What of those who killed my friends in the Blum Fauntin farm, over in the Zebra Confederation?”

Meridian leaned back and steepled his split hooves. “Those are actually two questions. First, those who rush in to 'help' Discord, whether violent or not, are not ones that we count as True Discordians. They are so arrogant that they believe that they can grasp and assist the plans of a being more than three thousand years of age, with experience, cleverness and subtlety to match.

“Second, the Blum Fauntin attack, in spite of appearances, was not done by any sort of Discordians. We used to buy a good deal of our supplies from across the mountains, especially from the Blum Fauntins. The killers used automatic weapons, a thing that is anathema to all Discordians. Since the farm was hoofed over to Downitall cronies, I personally suspect the Downitall Party of those murders.”

He shrugged. “I have no real proof of that, however. I wish that I did. Whoever it was blackened the name of all Discordians and that of Eris/Discord itself.”

Daring Do offered, “Meridian, sir, I have spoken with Eris herself and to her trusted assistant, Cyrene. Cye feels as you do, about the Blum Fauntin attack. I do think that she would not mind your sort of worship.”

Meridian smiled and said, “You were blessed indeed. You may go on your way unhindered by the Eland Republic and, according to the documents sent to me, with the blessing of Amber, Supreme Matriarch of the Diamond Dog Council of Enclaves.

“May such Chaos as you encounter further your goals.”

As they drove away, Morail pointed to a lesser used road. “Let's go up there, Doctor Do. That way will take us to the northern most entrance to the Spinel Drift. I will feel far safer, once we are underground.”

They only got a few kilometers up the road. Daring Do stopped the truck. They could hear rifle and light artillery fire up ahead.

Saying only, “Those are my friends that are being attacked,” Morail got out of the cab and went around to the back of the truck. The vehicle rocked some as she climbed up into the bed. Daring Do and Withers nodded to each other and began loading and checking their pistols and rifles.

When Morail tapped on the truck's roof to let them know that the MT84 was ready, they began to advance cautiously up the road. Rounding a bend, they found the way blocked by a Zebra Confederation military half track truck.

Chapter 11 The Battle At Spinel Drift

Daring Do quietly set up a Magic Net call. Meridian's face appeared in the Mirror. “What is it, Doctor Do? I hear what appears to be a military action in the background.”

She nodded. “It is, here, take a look.” She held up the mirror so that Meridian could see the half track that was blocking the road. “As you can see and hear, the Zebra Confederation has illegally entered Eland Republic territory and are attacking the northern entrance to the Diamond Dog's Spinel Drift. It appears to be a small number of attackers.

“We are requesting permission to assist the Spinel Drift.”

She could see the conflict in Meridian's face. “We understand your distaste for the use of automatic weapons, Sir. Still, the Zebras are using them and, as you know already, we possess an MT 84.”

Heavily, he nodded. “This is not Discord's Chaos. If you feel it necessary, you have permission to enter the fray.”

“Thank you, Sir. We appreciate how heavy a decision that was.” She closed the mirror and nodded to Withers.

“This is your area of expertise, Withers. As of now, you are in charge.”

Withers nodded and directed, “First back up until we can't be seen by anypony in the half track. We need to scout their position before we enter the fight. I hear at least two guns that appear to be old MT 81s. Obsolete does not mean harmless!”

While Withers was talking, Daring Do was backing their truck down the road and around the bend, out of sight from the battle ahead of them.

As soon as they were safe, Withers got out, taking his rifle with him. He told Morail, “I need you to stay here with the MT 84 to protect the truck and Doctor Do. I am going to scout the location of enemy. I will be back soon.”

Morail nodded her understanding. Withers quietly went into the roadside brush and seemed to vanish. Watching his professional skill, Daring Do smiled tightly and wished him well.

After a wait that seemed interminable but was really only about ten minutes, Withers came back. Gathering the others to him, Withers took paper and and began to sketch out the Zebra position.

“They have three MT 81s. Two are on these high points, to fire down on the Enclave entrance. The last one is down here. We need to remove or get around the half track to be able to take it out.”

Daring Do asked, “How well guarded is the half track?”

Withers replied, “I saw only the driver. The Zebra leader does not appear to be too well trained. He has all of his forces committed to the attack, except for the half track driver. While I was scouting, his attention was entirely on the action around the entrance.”

Morail pointed to the roadside where the half track was parked and inquired, “From my visits to the Spinel Drift when I was younger, I seem to remember that this is a longish slope. Am I right?”

“It is. What do you have in mind?”

“I will want you and Doctor Do to cover me while I sneak up and plant a pair of remote detonation charges on the half track. Don't shoot unless he spots me.

“Then we will come around the bend. I will open fire on those two high point MT 81s. We should be able to knock out both of the high positions, since we are taking them from behind. Their own half track will shield us from the lower one.”

Morail grinned savagely. “Until I blow those charges. They should flip it onto that slope without much damage to the road. We should be able to mop up the other gun without too much trouble.”

Withers nodded acceptance. “I will take those rocks up to the right. When you two start your move, I will pepper the lower MT 81 to keep them from turning its mount to shoot at you.”

Tense, Daring Do took the wheel of the truck. Morail got two of her explosive blocks and set the detonators into them. She crawled away up the road and around the bend.

It was not much later that she returned the same way. Climbing into the truck bed, behind the MT 84, she rapped the top of the cab to let Daring Do know that she was ready. Withers ghosted off through the brush and climbed into position behind the granite boulders.

With his high sign, Daring Do charged the truck around the bend! She felt recoil make the truck shudder as she heard Morail's three round bursts from the MT 84! A shell from the Zebra Confederation's MT 81 nest on the left exploded in the road!

The driver of the half track had his rifle out and started to shoot at their truck's windshield! Twin fireballs eruped under his vehicle! The blast lifted him from his feet and hurled him aside as his machine lifted up and slammed back down, teetering at the edge of the rocky slope!

Hoping that Morail would have the sense to hang on tight, Daring Do, aimed their truck at the damaged half track! The impact jolted them to a brief stop! The flaming wreck tumbled down, bouncing as it rolled, scattering burning debris.

Steering as best she could while peering through the spiderweb of cracks in her windshield, Daring Do sent their truck careening down the road into the Zebra position!

She was reassured by the recoil shocks and muzzle blasts coming over the cab top. Morail was still busy back there!

There fell a sudden silence! Daring Do hit the brakes, preparing to leap out to Morail's assistance when she made out the frantically waiving white flags from the Zebra positions!

The solid gates of the Spinel Drift yawned wide to release a small horde of Diamond Dogs carrying arms! One group detached themselves from the rest and charged up the road toward the truck!

Daring Do was too shaken to clearly follow Morail's rapid barking of Diamond Dog as she explained the situation.

Chapter 12 The Spinel Drift

Morail leaped down from the back of the truck and embraced one of the armed and armored Diamond Dogs! Daring Do could easily follow her barking now.

“Matriarch Moonstone! It is so good to see you! Did you get Amber's dispatches about this expedition?”

The Matriarch replied, “I did. Besides this little war problem, we have some real trouble in Shaft 73. We were following a pegmatite seam that was loaded with first rate emeralds. It has either petered out or we somehow lost it.

“Could you find the time to take a look? Your skill at following gem drifts is legendary.”

Morail nodded in full understanding of what was important. To Diamond Dogs. She turned to Daring Do and requested, “Can we spare the time to look over this problem for the Matriarch? It will give us a lot of good will with the Drift.”

Daring Do smiled. “I do understand that the Drift has priorities that are different from us on the surface. If it won't hold us up for more than a few days, I can't see how it will be a problem.”

The Matriarch's relief was obvious. Her response was generous. “We will see to the repair of your truck, Doctor Do. We will replace your ammunition and restore your supplies of explosives and detonators too. Anything else that you need to further your expedition's aims, just let us know. If we can do it, we will.”

In spite of the many places that Daring Do had been to, seeing the inside of a Diamond Dog Drift was a new experience for her. It was obvious that Morail was right at home. She was utterly relaxed and barking jokes and light banter with the others around her.

They had hitched Diamond Dogs to pull the truck into the drift. Matriarch Moonstone explained, “Engines like yours can be really noisy inside our tunnels. We will see to it that your truck gets to the proper exit as soon as it is repaired.

“It would be a good idea to get out any personal things that you will need for the next few days. We can easily provide you with food appropriate to zebra and antelope kinds. We do quite a lot of trade with the surface and often entertain trade delegations.”

Daring Do and Withers promptly gathered packs with notes, note taking supplies and clothes. Daring Do had no expectation of needing it but packed along her beloved Spiderly revolver and a box of ammunition. She was mildly surprised to see Matriarch Moonstone nodding with approval.

Morail and the Diamond Dogs were leading the way, deeper into the Spinel Drift. Daring Do was half expecting a place of darkness or torch lighted gloom. It was nothing of the sort.

Clear light shone like the daylight above them, illuminating the whole underground complex. The source was panes like large magic net mirrors. Looking into one showed blue sky and some clouds drifting by.

Fascinated, Daring Do asked Matriarch Moonstone, “Is that really the sky overhead that you are transmitting down here for light?”

She nodded agreeably, “Yes. As soon as we found out about the magic net sending images, we adapted it to lighting. We use it for a lot besides communications. I am sure that Supreme Matriarch Amber would appreciate your not mentioning this in your book on this expedition.”

Daring Do thought that over for only a moment. “I shall run the manuscripts past her to be sure that they remain both accurate and preserve anything that you wish kept secret.”

Matriarch Moonstone paused in deep thought for a bit and offered, “If you wish, you may accompany our party to Shaft 73 and watch Morail at her real work. Depending on how that idiotic business with the Oathbreaker Downitall plays out, some of what you see may have to be kept secret. That will be Supreme Matriarch Amber's call and since you have already agreed to her approval of the manuscript, I can see no reason to keep you from it.”

The party set out deeper into the drift. Everywhere that she looked, Daring Do saw walls and pillars that had been exquisitely finished, the stone's natural colors and forms lovingly enhanced. No compromise with strength had been tolerated. Besides the unexpected light, she was surprised at how quiet so many Diamond Dogs could be.

Soon they passed out of the residential and industrial areas and into tunnels that were rough hewn from the native stone. There was none of the careful decoration of the other areas. Rails laid along the floor allowed carts full of stone to be removed or empty carts to return to the various work faces of the extensive mine.

Matriarch Moonstone stopped, gesturing at an area of shaft wall that had a deep cut into its side. “See, Morail? The whole fine seam of pegmatite just seems to peter out.”

Morail held out a hoof for a mirror that was shining a good beam of light. She put her head into the cut and shined the light around some. She backtracked up the tunnel to where the seam appeared to start out over a meter thick. She wriggled into the starting area of the whitish pegmatite. Using a small one hoofed pick, she dug into the several faces of the stone around her.

Backing out, she put a fairly large broken emerald into the Matriarch's hooves. All smiles, she announced, “No use following the seam further down shaft from where it ended. However, if you dig DOWN along this fault,” she pointed with an educated hoof, “you should encounter the other half of the seam where it was split by the fault. I would guess, about two to three meters should do it. You will be following it back that way.”

She paused and looked around at the collection of diamond dogs before asking, “Would you like me to help with setting charges?”

#DARING DO AND THE COMPASS OF DISCORD #MLP Fan Fiction #Work In Progress #Written by De Writer

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