#grindwheel

[briannysey]

Like obviously I don't believe that all higher education Creative Writing programs and lessons are bad (I'm in one rn for the record).

BUT! If you enter higher education without being able to preserve or seek your own voice, style, aesthetics, taste, and joy in writing, you're gonna have a really bad time.

[thepseudowoodo]

Iiiiiiiit's FANFIC TIME.

This is a multi-part disaster that I wrote completely out of order and will be posting as I get things edited and comprehensible. Eventually it'll go up on AO3 but you'll see it here first, folks! However, as I am a terrible old person who got her fanfic start on ff.net back before the dawning of Fandom As We Know It Today, my formatting here is probably going to be trash. Please be patient while I learn the ways of Tumblr.

Title: Measured With Blood

Rating: M for themes of canon-typical violence and sexual content

Summary: Hans reflects on his relationship with Henry and how it is viewed by the people around them.

1: Hans

Hans was an expert at denial. It was perhaps the only true and consistent thing about himself, he felt. Of course, he would never say that out loud. But he knew, deep within his churning heart, that he was extremely good at ignoring things he did not want to acknowledge.

He had first noticed it in Nebakov. Well, no. That wasn’t true, but Hans wasn’t willing to admit that he’d actually observed the phenomenon happening not long after Henry had been assigned to serve him. But he had ignored it because Hans was, as previously stated, an expert in denial. Which was why he found himself watching in fascination as Henry ambled around the fort making himself useful, and that was probably the secret to it. Hans was decorative. Maybe that was the second true thing about Hans; his use was limited and everyone around him seemed to know it too. Except Henry, who seemed to value Hans higher than anything else.

Henry made friends everywhere. Even in places that, by all rights, should be extraordinarily hostile towards him. Hans didn’t make friends. But Henry did, and Hans had the feeling he didn’t actually know even half of the adventures and mischief he’d gotten up to while Hans was away from him To begin with, Henry had very plainly already had an in with that herbalist, Klara. She had greeted him with relief, and they chatted like old friends as she listed all the many things she had to do. Henry had promptly offered to tend to some of the wounded for her, and Hans had wondered briefly when Henry had developed his medicinal skills. Then he had seen Henry speaking hesitantly with the blacksmith whose name Hans had never bothered to ask. The man had an aura of belligerent busyness that encompassed the entire smithy and Hans had reflected that actually, his armor didn’t really need those minor repairs right now. When he had wandered past barely an hour later, Henry was hammering away at something on the anvil as the smith sat at the grindwheel, the two of them shouting a conversation back and forth over the noise of their work.

It was like his special power or something. A blessing from God, maybe, to make up for his unfortunate beginnings in life. Henry could charm almost anyone simply by being himself, and those he couldn’t charm he managed to get around anyway somehow. Hans, on the other hand, barely seemed able to charm anyone as himself. Oh he charmed them, definitely. He was good at it, even. But he charmed people as Lord Capon, as the reasonably rich noble Lord of Pirkstein. No one was ever charmed by Hans.

Except Henry.

Henry, who laughed at Hans’ jokes, even the stupid ones. Who asked for his advice and seemed to actually place value in it, considering what Hans had to say before making a decision. Henry, who did small things to make Hans' already easy life even easier, just because he liked when Hans smiled. Henry, who genuinely seemed to actually see something worth caring about in Hans Capon. It was baffling. Henry could have had anyone in the world, gone and done anything he wanted on the power of his sincerity and smile alone, and he chose… to stay. With Hans. A useless, stupid, spoiled brat of a man. He just didn’t get it.

Hans was no stranger to feeling inadequate. It was one of the things he was the best at ignoring. He had grown up spoiled, sheltered, held apart, never given anything of substance on which to value himself. Oh, he believed Hanush had his best interests at heart, but Hans also believed that Hanush had his own interests even deeper at heart, and Hanush’s interests didn’t involve Hans actually growing into a person worthy of taking charge of Pirkstein and Rattay. And so Hans had been raised into a somewhat indolent, idle prick of a man, and it wasn’t until Henry appeared in his life that Hans began to truly see what he was becoming. Because he knew. Hans knew exactly what was happening to him, but he had also never been taught to care so he ignored it. Then some impertinent peasant boy had stood in front of him, unwilling to be cowed by the title or threats of violence. Hans had been confronted by a mirror, a reflection of himself in Henry’s angry eyes. And it was terrible, waking up from that warm slow existence to the cold truth of his own insufficiency.

So he kept ignoring it. He went on as he had been, treating Henry more or less poorly, even after he had saved his life more than once. Because he was still in denial. Hans had been in denial about his situation all the way to the moment at the Semine wedding when he found himself launching a punch at a man approaching Henry from behind. Found himself thinking that was his bodyguard, damn it, how dare they try and hurt him.

Then they’d come to in the Trosky dungeon and Hans was staring down his own inadequacy again, seeing his own pathetic reflection in Henry’s eyes. His apology had been poorly executed and Henry had accepted it anyway, forgiven him for everything at the drop of a hat, and that was also the moment when Hans realized he was well and truly fucked because he hadn’t planned on this. Hadn’t planned on falling in love with the god damn impertinent peasant boy who looked at him like he was worth something.

When he had been younger Hans had heard a visiting lord say that a man’s worth could be measured in blood, and Hans had assumed he’d meant the strength of the noble blood. Or that perhaps it was meant to describe soldiers, and the amount of blood a man shed from his enemies. But now? God in heaven, now Hans knew. Whatever that lord had meant, he knew that he could measure the worth of a man by how much blood he would shed to keep him safe by his side, forever.

Hans would shed a lot of blood, to keep Henry safe with him. Because God have mercy on his sinning soul, Hans was in love with Henry, and he had spent all the rest of his time since that moment trying to become the sort of man Henry deserved by his side.

[end pt.1]

[pandappuccino]

House Calls - Chapter 1

"We need a Doctor of Chaos." That was the instruction provided by the IPC representative who had approached Ratio, ten days before he would travel to Penacony to join Aventurine in a negotiation to bring the glamorous Planet of Dreams under the "care" of the Preservation. That was the instruction provided as the representative handed Ratio the invitation to the Charmony Festival, a ticket into the dream where they would attempt to take control of the planet through peaceful means. Ignoring just how the IPC was aware of his status as a Doctor of Chaos (perhaps it was merely a guess, a bluff, given his title as Dr. Ratio), Ratio attempted to puzzle out just why they would need a Doctor of Chaos specifically. A regular doctor, he could understand; there was little and less love lost between many planets and the IPC, and the odds of some sort of hazard befalling one of the illustrious Stonehearts weren't nil. Having a doctor on standby in case of a medical emergency, especially one as knowledgeable and connected to the IPC as himself, was a sound and logical move. The less time they would need to find a doctor, the better. However, a Doctor of Chaos was no mere physician. Anyone who knew anything of the Nihility knew that. They treated not the body, but the mind and soul, mending the broken pieces shorn away from an encounter with THEM. Penacony held no ties to the Nihility--it was a planet unified under the Harmony--and the need for a Doctor of Chaos was baffling, to say the least. Still, it was rare that Ratio was given the opportunity to work alongside Aventurine. He was one of the few who could properly stand alongside the doctor, even if his brazen acts and flagrant lack of self-preservation grated upon Ratio's nerves as a grindwheel. It would be a lie to say that he minded working with Aventurine, really. And so, he accepted the invitation and made his preparations to meet with Aventurine, first outside of Penacony to discuss his plan of action, then to the resplendent Reverie itself to put the plan into action.

[READ ON AO3]

[socksbro1]

Date: uhhh, what goes here?

CodeRat here!

Spent time on the grindwheel, no nose though. Whiskers would get caught. Tried that. It hurt.

Memoir going well. Probably will be done when Tester gets back. Love writing!

Um, figured out what Pisa is. It’s a place. Not a food. Has good food though. It’s called Pizza. That’s the thing.

Not used to this language. Too few characters. Some words sound weird. That’s ok. I like weird. New experiences. Thank goodness for the type helper thing. What’s it called?

Otocorrect?

That is very nice.

Let me give you a poem:

A life remade

In the image of none

Two minds one body

A new life begun

How’s that? I like that!

Poetry feels like my language. It’s like those pretty languages on the side of the little white boxes of food. I like those languages.

Cubes good. I’m good. Think all’s good.

Have good day!

CodeRat

[akihatohnoofficial]

Wow, you were broken by the mill that grinds the world to dust? Pick up the pieces and reforge yourself stronger, girl. Thrust yourself upon the grindwheel, and have it break first.

true… I gotta do that…

[dolly-macabre]

Grindwheel - Lich King

[kendrixtermina]

(implosion in the acid rain)

I fucking hate everything

I fucking hate everything

I fucking hate everything

I fucking hate everything

I wish I had never loved or cared about anything and anyone least of all

any of the stupid fucking things that I ever cared about

or was stupid enough to derive joy from

or delude myself into feeling understood by

its just the last fucking straw,

fucking why

fucking why is everyone on this planet a fucking cruel uncaring callous fucking

grindwheel of an entity?

Can't say I'm much better honestly

The entire human race deserves to be

cooked in the heat of its own entrails

during one last big global wet bulb event

I almost wish I had never let myself care about anything at all.

I wish was born some solitary slug-eel and never had to worry about

anything to do with touch and the associated capacity to hurt others.

Everything in this world is just so fucking

ugly and low and debased and lacking in redeeming features,

including, it seems, some of the few people that i thought understood this

I cannot do it anymore

blah blah blah in defense of

someone who never fucking cared about

me feeling understood by them

or what I in my idiocy

chose to make them symbols for

of course not, as I always knew

that they never fucking cared about us

just like nobody else ever fucking cares about anyone

everyone just wants their fucking dicks & clitorises sucked

and their ego praised

and their precious benjamins

do not forget them

i fucking hate fucking everything

especially whatever stupidity compelled me to

invest any emotional attachment into some stupid idea of something beautiful

meaningful

it’s not the first time that I got it rubbed in my face how much

nothing of me is special or has any meaning or is going

into any significant sort of direction

but it’s the first time that I’ve really understood:

no one cares no one understands we are all utterly alone screaming in the uncaring void

everything is shit

especially the little things that I in my blind folly mistook for

things that were not shit

this universe is but one grand diseased fucking colon

it’s not the ones who say I’m wrong,

but the sorts of types who said I’m right

that showed me well why I can’t be

you pull apart this story until its meaningless gibberish

but only in one direction

you dont know what happened either

what makes you think its not the ones I loved that are the liars?

but its not pleasant to admit how one was duped into actually caring

and that the beautiful art you thought you saw was just an illusion

heck, theyre probably all just assholes

both the ones agreeing and the ones shaking their heads

i wish this fucking universe would implode already

for i dont hate them,

thats the funny part

i cant bring myself to hate them,

i just dont fucking care about anything anymore

And they have the gall to whisper in my ear

‘Is it not better to have love and lost’? The cliche-acity!

Let me interrupt you right there.

Its better not to love.

100% definitely zero doubt

if my life taught me one thing its this

it is better not to love.

everything you love is like a joke the punchline of which is going to be your fucking feelings

still, if you asked my counsel,

I was probably going to tell you that

i wouldnt destroy the art quite yet,

maybe just put it away for a moment

while you can’t look at it.

its much harder to un destroy

You were my favorite, you know?

With your calm, knowing words and your windward hints of music,

blond hair and thick glasses and the smell of old books

and beach sand in creases

There is nothing good in this world.

I'm just

not going to have any fucking opinions anymore

and never get attacked to another work of art ever again, o

or love anything fucking else ever

I understand now that I am not special,

that I am not part of no narrative

and that I’m going nowhere

I am just going to fucking die

and it will mean nothing

all the dreams I had will probably

go well enough unsung

I am nothing, nothing, not ever going to be anything

the sad thing is that despite everything,

i cannot help but feel that there is still a little bit of you

that is beautiful.

[bigboobyhalo]

https://www.tumblr.com/bigboobyhalo/719870976164233216/so-dapper-died-in-grindwheels-once-right-ive

Yeah he fell into the wheels but it kicked him as soon as he died so there was no option to revive so they didn’t count it!

OHHH okay !! well I’m glad that it didn’t count. dapper the unkillable

[dzpenumbra]

11/13/22

In bed before 3:30?! Gonna need it. I swear to god, on those "I can't sleep until it's light out" nights, I get like... one hour of daylight after I wake up. It's just miserable. This time change really fucks nocturnal PTSD folk like myself.

I slept pretty poorly last night, I've been nodding off since like midnight, but Max's hyperthyroid meds need to be done every 12 hours and I've been doing them at the 2's(ish). So here I am, tryin to reset my sleep schedule a bit.

There's a homemade candle place in town my mom and I are hoping to go to tomorrow to see if they have any raw beeswax I could get for sealing wooden beads. Today, I sanded down a big piece of layered greenstone/quartz into a sorta soapdish so I could use it as a mortar. I scraped off some incense resin and ground it up into a fine dust, and mixed it with the wax/honey/propolis stuff. Unfortunately, that stuff is more like a petroleum jelly consistency than wax, so it was pretty hard to mix properly. I imagine heating up wax to a liquid state and mixing in powders is much easier than trying to grind it into a gel with a rock. But it worked. Another unfortunately, the wax gel stuff has its own scent, which is pretty strong, so it kinda competes with the incense smell a bit. It's not bad, but it's not ideal. So hopefully I can get my hands on some good wax to play around with.

I tried the wax gel mix on a new handcarved bead, it definitely took a darker stain and the darkest of it went into cracks in the wood, accenting the grain, which was a nice touch. But I'm not sure it's really penetrating the wood the way a legit heated wax would, I'm afraid it's kinda just sitting on the surface. I made a few more blanks too. I broke out the old box fan grindwheel thing I jury-rigged a while back. I can speed up the grinding process pretty quick with it, but... I really just wish I had a lathe. I'm doing it all backwards. If the bead itself is stationary and spinning rather than the sandpaper, then I can get much cleaner symmetry. Right now, I'm really shaping it blind and praying I get it right, and it's not really necessary. I decided to take a tip from the internet and grab an old allen key I'm not using that fits into my portable rotary tool and sawed off the L section of it, just making it a straight shaft. Unfortunately, the bit is just... too small. The bead blanks just fly right off the end of it when I try to shape with it. :( So... might be looking into some kind of lathe or something? Something quiet, maybe even manual.

While my rotary was charging for that whole trial-and-error adventure, I went to the bathtub and sanded a bunch of softer stones with pretty cool color pattern in them into what will hopefully be beads. For like... and hour and a half. And my fingers are damn sore after that. I figured with softer stone, I can probably just use my portable dremel to drill a hole through. It's just gonna be tricky using a vice on something as small as like the tip of my pinkie finger.

So yeah, today was a lot of trial and error in using found materials to try and build up a stock of kinda... filler materials? Like... not centerpieces for jewelry, but accompanying beads, accents and such. Or centerpieces for simpler pieces. Figuring out a process is exciting but it can get a bit frustrating and it can really feel... unproductive. Because I have no idea if this process is even going to stick. But that's just how it goes, you have to try things to find out if it works for you or if it's not your thing. I think the wood beads are much easier to make than I thought and I can do those pretty easily anywhere. Stone might be trickier without making a ton of noise. Unless I take the tumbler route. But I'm really not sure how that's going to go over if I have neighbors... and I still would have to drill the holes. I don't know how I can make that not loud.

I have to go up to meet with my new landlord (at least someone who works at the building) next week. I'm a bit concerned because I'm not really sure how I'm going to work around Max getting her meds. If I give her the 2PM meds... then I drive up immediately... I'm getting up to the new city around 4:30ish. I guess that's not too bad, but it's the earliest I can get there, and I'm going to have to head back later that night too. So I might as well take a load of stuff with me when I go, I guess? I'll have to brainstorm that tomorrow. The move is starting to get real. It's 1/4 exciting, 1/2 scary and 1/4 no feelings because I'm not really processing it fully. Could be worse!

I played drums again today because skating didn't work out. I didn't record, but I did jam out and it was pretty damn good today. I remember very clearly one sorta hip-hop beat that I was absolutely killing it on. It's such a cool feeling when you really get in the groove and are just locked in. I've never felt that with actual people while on drums, but I imagine it's pretty crazy. I just wanted to share that moment because it was really a highlight of my day.

My Rimworld colony is heading into their second winter and we rescued in a 4 year old boy and 7 year old girl, both orphans. It's... odd... having children around a grim survival situation, but they're doing great and the growth and learning system in the new DLC looks very interesting. I'm curious to see how things turn out. The colony is very stable right now, we even have a solar grid, batteries and a heated greenhouse so that (hopefully) food can be grown even when it's -30F out, cutting down that dreadful reliance on hunting in the winter, which can be pretty rough. We have a good stockpile of food, a reliable power supply that's not dependent on fuel, tons of hay for the yaks (plural, and Savannah, the original yak, has a mate and a child now) and the cows (I think we have 3 or 4 now). This colony has had a lot of twists and turns, it never goes how you plan. The new DLC is pretty cool I guess, it's just kinda weird when you think you're fighting a dude and then suddenly he just starts breathing fire at you and you're just like... "what the fuck are you, dude!"

Time to catch up on sleep. Fingers crossed for a sunny day tomorrow, I'd love to get the board out a few more times before the snow hits! Then out comes the snowskate!

[aerospace-agenda]

so, like, my views on the whole... “trans ban on the military being lifted” thing are... kinda complex, and honestly i don’t feel super qualified to really argue one way or the other considering my distance from both america and military stuff? outside of my general opinion that, like. in a society which is built on abuse, any expansion of the rights of the marginalised will, to some degree, also be an invitation to join in turning a grindwheel on the downtrodden.

but... like. seeing people argue that it’s bad, because “anyone who joins the military is a fucking dog.”? i feel like that’s a significantly simpler argument

i feel like anybody coming from the perspective that people who joined the military is apparently to be considered subhuman? is... not considering the fact that, the military is, kinda, yknow.

an institution that systematically preys upon marginalised and vulnurable people, who often feel like they have literally no other options, and proceeding to abuse and traumatise them, if not outright getting them killed, while often leaving survivors without ways to recover from the aforementioned abuse/trauma?

i’m reminded of that post that went around a while ago, where someone joked about doing lots of fireworks to trigger veterans, on a post that talked about how many of them have trauma relating to explosion noises which the military left them with, and the criticism towards that from people pointing out that, by and large, many people who joined the military were victims of it, too.

[ravensinq]

The way of flows.

Voices walk in storied halls, different moods cast venerable shadows. Prose of masters cunning and sly. Innervating the tapestry with threads glowing merged chaos. Weaving tales and observations, lucid trouble discomfiting the mind with arbitrary contradictions. Perusals deep and scant wending pathways through the jungle growths of our comfortable understandings treating the obstacles with intentional indifference. Our forefathers had no clue to the level we could sink in apathy. The roads hold the same amount of casually ignorant travellers as they always have. Our conservative herd has shepherds wearing cobalt tinted specs. Yes I want to see your lease. Your not from round these parts are you? And the blues play just at the edge of hearing, blending legitimacy and outright skullduggery. Pirates run the numbers, concluding the obvious flaws within the plan. The thoughts and sequence rhythms goad our senses into accepting blatant horrors with a smile. And have you ever stopped to realize this bohemian bazaar was created for your enjoyment? We crest the wave as information starts to tumble regarding the true circumstances behind the events leading to blah blah blah. I mean you'll forget about this long before it's impression ceases to affect your ragged nerves.

The way of flows.

Our argument starts the way they usually do. Misinformation lacing threads and trends. It always comes down to your comfort or my misery. Years of nonresponsive reactions. Eternities in silence. Was I ever part of the plan? Did you want something more? Too late to change now. Yet you push levers seeking a yield on my part. The grindwheel only smooths the rough edges it doesn't reform the object ground. The time of compromise passed ages ago. We are far beyond the buoys, floating in unfamiliar straits. Drowning at this depth would not go amiss. Old solutions have no effect. Time to walk away with no tears given or offered. All things come to an end eventually. The credentials you have don't get you in this gate. Try back in the morning. And yet it seems that every time you have it in your hands you don't seem to know it. Or what to do with it. Why do the questions cascade on me with such trend? Answers we can't countenance, mysteries to be maintained out of fear. Our fates riding on the roll of the dice.

The way of flows.

Voices raised, celestial heights of grace and reverent depths. Dust motes dancing in sacred light. Oh priests with your pious faces, your rites and ceremonies crumble away. Shadowed cloisters, glowing stained glass, these never fooled the guilty. Characters colorless and somber. Promises of heavens and hells, no one is sinless. No one carries piety and graciousness. These are forgotten virtues. Our sinners are far more cosmopolitan in their' transgression. Righteous damnations, unworthy pardons. There is no sin worth the genuflect. Please remember the atheist is polite before attacked.

The way of flows.

We come to the edge of tomorrow without sanity or succor. Our travels carry us farther and farther away from the soil of our decampment. We ran away years ago, fearing to follow the painful failings of those who stayed. The city, grey and concrete. No life in those geometric inanities, soulless straight edges. A mathematical perfection leading to utter stagnation. The sure path leads nowhere. Ever present doubt that remains, like a film on stagnant water, reminding one that even the ego has its drawbacks. Hubris it seems is not without its own sense of humor.

The way of flows.

[thepseudowoodo]

Still arting away at this. Have decided yellow is a bullshit color and Hans is a criminal for wearing so much of it.

Also, here is a fic preview because that is also in progress when I am tired of staring at so much fucking yellow. Find it after the cut.

Hans was an expert at denial. It was perhaps the only true and consistent thing about himself, he felt. Of course, he would never say it out loud. But he knew, deep within his churning heart, that he was extremely good at ignoring things he did not want to acknowledge.

He had first noticed it in Nebakov. Well, no. That wasn’t true, but Hans wasn’t willing to admit that he’d actually observed the phenomenon happening not long after Henry had been assigned to serve him. But he had ignored it because Hans was, as previously stated, an expert in denial. Which was why he found himself watching in fascination as Henry ambled around the fort, making himself useful and that was probably the secret to it. Hans was decorative. Maybe that was the second true thing about Hans; his use was limited and everyone around him seemed to know it too.

Henry made friends everywhere. Even in places that, by all rights, should be extraordinarily hostile towards him. Hans didn’t make friends. But Henry did, and Hans had the feeling he didn’t actually know even half of the adventures and mischief he’d gotten up to while Hans was away. To begin with, Henry had very plainly already had an in with that herbalist, Klara. She had greeted him with relief, and they chatted like old friends as she listed all the many things she had to do. Henry had promptly offered to tend to some of the wounded for her, and Hans had wondered briefly when Henry had developed his medicinal skills. Then he had seen Henry speaking hesitantly with the blacksmith whose name Hans had never bothered to ask. The man had an aura of belligerent business that encompassed the entire smithy and Hans had reflected that actually, his armor didn’t really need those minor repairs right now. When he had wandered past barely an hour later, Henry was hammering away at something on the anvil as the smith sat at the grindwheel, the two of them shouting a conversation back and forth over the noise of their work.

It was like his special power or something. A blessing from God, maybe, to make up for his unfortunate beginnings in life. Henry could charm almost anyone, and those he couldn’t charm he could manage to get around anyway somehow.

"Everyone Simps for Henry" aka "Hans Is Jealous But Won't Admit It"

[usdskate]

Grinds, jumps, slides… aggressive inline skating is challenging, intense and always a lot of fun – no wonder kids love it! The USD Transformer is the perfect way for kids to get into aggressive skating. The USD Transformer has a durable boot with a supportive cuff and comfortable built-in liner that provides plenty of cushioning when landing jumps or gaps. Kids grow quickly. The USD Transformer is size-adjustable, so the skate grows as your child does. Having a familiar skate to master the basics and build confidence as your child grows helps them master the foundational moves and tricks of aggressive inline skating. The Transformer features a Kizer Junior frame, which gives your child all the tools to learn how to grind, slide and even get some big air. Rolling on an anti-rocker set-up with long-lasting 57 mm USD wheels on the outside of the frames and 100 A grindwheels on the inside, the skate gives you plenty of space for grinds like royales and frontsides, while still being fast and stable, which is important when learning how to do big airs and spins. Try it once and they’ll be hooked! The USD Transformer is the ideal skate for kids getting interested in getting into aggressive inline skating. #usdskates #usdskate https://www.instagram.com/p/CVS_FYOAPNy/?utm_medium=tumblr

[wander-verse]

Fool’s Errand 2/2

Inside the barn it was warm, much warmer than outside. Clumps of snow fell from the drainpipe, and little flurries blew in through the open door, reaching for Azar’s loft-corner nest, but never quite succeeding. He curled tight against the cold, wrapping the blanket close.

Some months ago he’d stitched a scrap of fabric over the Southern King’s emblem on the center, just so that old men would stop accosting him in the street, reaching for his hands and pressing loaves of bread into his chest. Now, without a Royal Infantry blanket and the soldier’s tunic, he blended in as well as he could in the region.

While snow blew in circles around the horses and mules on the bottom level, Azar slid his knife into a boiled potato, cutting thick slices off and eating them immediately before their warmth could seep into the air. The previous two potatoes were soggy, dissatisfying things, but he’d made a point to save the best one until all the others vanished; now, puffing steam into the air, he remembered the early-winter farm, sleeping under a chill, how peaceful it looked in the night while he uprooted their final potato harvest and slipped into the silo for a sack of oats. The potato tasted like normalcy and his family and the Eastern Islands and walking south farther than what his pilfered map showed.

“Put it out of your mind,” he told himself, exhaling steam from his nostrils. With a sigh, he finished off the last bit of potato and removed a scrap of paper from his breast pocket.

He’d scrawled notes down on one side about the city of Onbirikhzi itself: how many individual guards he’d counted passing through each area, how complacent the citizens seemed, which sheds belonged to old, near-blind couples. On the other side he marked a crude map and a route, carefully labelled “Going Home Plan.”

In the center of the map was Vaingold Blacksmith, owned and operated by a single woman with a limp, a lined face and a broken fencerow. He’d spent entire days observing her, making sure that she couldn’t chase after him when he finally sprung his plan. Azar scrutinized the namesake, Vaingold herself, as she swatted at stray chickens, groaned in pain as she stood up from her stooped position over a grindwheel, took her meagre lunches sitting by the forge for heat. 

But inside the smithy, behind the frail woman’s watch, there were gold-trimmed axes and silver-piped swords and statuary that looked like a thousand different fertility gods. Vaingold Blacksmith was perfect. It was his ticket home.

Tonight, now that his food stores were depleted and his cobbled-together satchel was as light as possible, he’d slip into Vaingold Blacksmith and relieve her of some of the finest weapons. Beneath the counter he could pick up raw blocks of material—surely that would sell, even if a buyer recognized Vaingold’s work somewhere else. And he’d snatch a bite to eat while he was at it. Then he’d walk down the road until he came across a shop big enough to offer decent prices and stupid enough to take stolen goods.

He waited for night, folded and unfolded his plan a thousand, ten thousand times while the sunset turned the snow silver. He waited with a hand over his mouth when the lazy stable-girl finally poured grain into each box, swatting at the mules that reached for her grain bin. He waited until the snow stopped and the sound of horse feet died down and the birds flew back to their nests in the eaves.

He waited for his heart to still, then rolled up the worn-out blanket and packed it away.

--

The first thing he noticed was the feeling of sun on his left arm. Groggy, he glanced down to inspect it—wasn’t it night?—and found, sure enough, a shaft of light playing off the grey and black hair and the tan skin and the worn rope.

Worn rope?

He pulled at it, but found it tight, holding him fast despite the frays and discolorations. It wrapped around his forearm several times and disappeared behind a barrel—for the first time, he registered the feeling of the barrel’s chilly ribs pressing into his spine.

“Awake finally, I see,” came a thin voice from above him. Azar tipped his head back, fighting a feeling of sluggishness, afraid to confirm the speaker.

Vaingold, leaning heavily on an ornate cane, shook her head gently at him. “Don’t move too much, little thief,” she said. “You won’t be free for a few more hours.” The morning light glinted on her eyes at this angle and revealed serpentine eyes; looking into them for even that brief time made him feel weak and nauseous, and he let his head drop to his chest.

The silence seemed like hours, but the motion of the sunbeam onto his folded leg and into his lap said it was really only a few minutes. Vaingold’s feet shuffled on the floorboards, then he made out footsteps, cut with the gentle taps of her cane, disappearing into another room. Moments later, her footsteps returned with an accompanying scrape—she was pulling something, albeit something light, across the floor. Azar felt a trickle of sweat fall from his hair to his collar. A sword didn’t need to be heavy to kill. A length of wood could be a weapon with the right placement. Especially when the target was paralyzed.

The legs of a chair peeked into his view of the floor, and Vaingold’s feet with them. Wood groaned only slightly as she sat down, and her canetip settled between her shoes.

“I’ve never seen you before this month, thief,” she said. “You’re too dark to be from Onbirikzhi. You’re too young to be a travelling worker. And you have this blanket—” the tip of the cane swished to the right, indicating his belongings in a pile nearby, “—which you’ve sewn up, but I know what it is. I’ve seen deserters before.”

“So tell me, child. Where do you come from?”

Azar’s mouth felt cottony and his voice caught in his throat when he tried to speak. He tried again, again, and felt tears prickle in his eyes.

“Just nod when I say it. Charmurlu? Meshullam?”

It took her several minutes to wind her way through the northwestern cities into the central ones (“You can’t possibly be from Turka Büyük,” she said, “the King would be insane to send a child from his own city. Political suicide,”) and finally through the southern coast. He flinched at Tiguerout, and she watched his tears come thicker when she mentioned Ouaïnnkanou. Passenso. Diban. He nodded at Diban—it was as close as she’d ever get. Diban, with the black thatch roof over the town hall and hundreds of tiny streams crisscrossing the city, filtering out to the ocean.

“You’re Dibanese,” she said, “so you won’t have a last name. Let’s see, it was the name of your island in the Eastern regions, right? Given name of so-and-so island?”

He finally found his voice, a weak, trembling thing that said “Azar, vf’Tilsu.”

“Tilsu? Your island is named in Turkan, child?” He heard hair fall around her shoulders as her head swung from side to side. “It’s bad enough they stole your language. And a Turkan first name, too—”

“—family’s Turkan,” Azar managed.

“Turkans all the way in the Eastern Isles?” She whistled, then sucked in a deep breath. Her feet shifted, and one lifted off the ground; she’d crossed her legs. “Stranger things have happened.”

She guessed his story for half the morning, with a break midway to feed him a fistful of preserved fruits and to fix herself some bacon. Sometimes she seemed to already know his fate: without hesitation she recited that he was a child no older than sixteen, recruited from a poor family to the infantry in the King’s service, sent to Tiguerout for training, then to Béla Crava for orders, then to the Halflight front (though she couldn’t place exactly where in the region he’d gone). She scrutinized his physical state and said that he’d been on the run for several months, living off handouts and then stolen goods, and that he’d arrived in Onbirikzhi about three weeks ago, spreading his sticky fingers thin among many townsfolk to lengthen his time there.

“How did you know,” he asked once his voice returned and the heavy feeling in his legs evaporated, “how long I’ve been here?”

“Stupid child.” Vaingold took a little bite of her bacon; she ate slowly, as if each swallow hurt her. “You think you’re stealthy, hiding under bare bushes and watching my shop? Leaving footprints in the snow? The town guards aren’t much use—Gods, half the time they’re dead drunk the whole day—but I know a thief when I see one. Helps when you have the history.”

“You?” he asked. The smell of bacon flooded him as she leaned forward, and he tried not to stare at it.

“Me,” she replied. After a short hesitation she held out the last piece of meat, close enough that he could take it in his teeth, weak though he was. “Dinae Vaingold, the legend of East Ketharous. Come now, don’t look so offended. I haven’t seen Kethar lands for years, and good riddance. Nothing worth seeing there, not since the West Kethars set fire to the East.” She leaned back in her chair and folded her arms. “That’s a story for another day.”

Azar looked down at his lap for a minute, pondering her story. How did an East Kethari thief wind up in the crook of the Turkan Yuza mountains, running a smithy with a bum leg? Did all Kethars have those terrifying eyes? How did his plan go wrong? How does someone go home after they’ve been caught?

Surprisingly strong hands reached around him, and the rope tightened for a split second before loosening entirely. Vaingold unwrapped the ropes from his forearms and began coiling it around her elbow, making a tidy circle. “Little thief,” she said, “I trust you didn’t come here to rob me because of some evil in your soul.” He snorted, and she swatted at him. “Listen. You want to eat, don’t you? You’re strong, even though you’re small, and I have a job I need done.” She grabbed his hands and helped him to his feet, and he felt the callouses on her palms—that weakness in her legs wasn’t affecting her arms.

“Come with me,” she said, and pulled Azar outside to the forge.

--

Weeks passed like water, and the snow melted into puddles that made Azar’s chores a struggle. The shed ceiling leaked snow runoff onto the basket where he kept his materials—Dinae insisted that he begin his own toolkit and supply hoard—ruining some lengths of cheap leather, so he climbed up to the roof to patch it. Then the overhang by the forge. Then the roof of the storefront. Then the one over Dinae’s kitchen. He made pocket money patching their neighbor’s roof, then some more selling the sturdy nails he made on the lengthening afternoons.

For a year he could only sell nails and the occasional set of handles and door-pulls. Dinae’s regular customers accepted him, patting his early-greying hair when they saw him at the grindstone, but none trusted him with their work.

“Let them be,” Dinae consoled him one day as his tears stained a set of new tongs. “You’re young. You just started. Stop rusting your work and keep building.”

In the earliest mornings and the latest evenings, she taught him other skills. Dinae made him read any book she could get her hands on, tried to teach him figures and numbers (though he never quite caught on), lectured from the Magistrate’s history texts on the rise of the Turkan Empire and the royal families and the plague and the discovery of the First Rift and all the other little ones after it. If he worked hard enough, she regaled him with stories about her past in East Ketharous, where magic was still alive and, at one time, thriving; the time she stabbed a lich king and left him to die sprawled across his cursed treasure, the day a minotaur shattered her left knee, leaving her with that lifelong limp, the day she slayed a basilisk and drank its blood to steal its paralytic magic.

The next year, he grew taller, his last streaks of black hair vanished, and the townsfolk started buying his metalwork. His mother wrote frequently about his little sisters and their progress at the boarding school in Diban, though she thankfully never asked how exactly he got to Onbirikzhi. For his siblings’ birthdays he made them little trinkets out of bronze and sent them by courier down south; it was expensive, but what else did he buy but materials?

Dinae retired from regular work the year after, and he took over in her place. Business was bad for a while (some of her clients didn’t want to buy from a clearly-foreign youth with long hair and a body that didn’t fit into its clothes yet), but she slaved hours over the books until he understood her figures, gave advice until he could build back the clientele. The city paid her a handsome pension as thanks for some arcane task she’d performed years ago (a story she swore to never tell Azar, to his annoyance), and Azar poured all his profits into finally paying off the house and the workshop.

One day just before he paid the last packet of coin to the city, Dinae joined him in the workshop. She slid her fingers through his hair, pulling loose all the knots it had worked itself into during the day, and set about braiding it out of his way. “Can you make a crown again?” he requested, and she answered by pulling little strands of hair away from his temple in the start of a coiling crown-braid.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, attended by the sounds of Azar’s hair slipping through itself and the gentle scrape of sandpaper and the calls of late-summer birds. “You know,” she said, “just because you’ve been called a man before doesn’t mean you need to stay one.”

He considered for a second, then bent forward to blow metal shavings from the awl he was honing. “I don’t want to be called a woman, either.”

“It’s not a one-or-the-other choice, child.” She tied the braid off with a thin leather strip and reached into her shawl for a flower from the front garden, which she tucked into the crook behind his ear.

“True.” Azar reached for a tin of metal polish and began shining the awl’s shaft. “I don’t think I want to be either one.”

Dinae shrugged as she moved to leave the workshop. “Then you aren’t, little thief.” She paused, then turned back over a shoulder. “I’m going to see if the butcher has any rabbits today. Keep the kitchen fire stoked until I get back.”

Quietly, over the next few months, Dinae instructed the townsfolk to call Azar “they” instead of “he.” Some folks resisted, as she expected, but for the most part they couldn’t fight too hard. Azar was Azar, and if the townsfolk wanted good tools and well-tempered knives, they did what Azar wanted.

But though the town slowly swallowed Azar into its day-to-day machinations, Azar kept looking at the roads that lead other places. For years they looked at the southern road, unworn, that lead straight into the Sevi Forest and the portals that ripped holes in the fabric of reality, letting travelers fall gently into Faerie lands. But lately they looked at the roads southwest that skirted the Yuza range and eventually lead to Charmurlu, the traditional seat of the King’s third child; at the end of the Halflight boarder war they even looked east towards Béla Crava, now secure behind iron walls and reams of peace treaties. Little dirt paths lead north through the Yuzas and towards the offshoot range, the Ihangi, populated by reclusive, murderous family-clans. A nearly-forgotten road lead down into a canyon and into what Dinae claimed was a crypt; Azar wanted to know what kind of treasure remained behind the locked gates that the city had erected years before. They loved the forge and the full belly, but the roads were tempting.

They were well on their way to their twentieth birthday, finally taller than Dinae and growing muscular from the forge, desired by half the town’s young women and a quarter of the young men, when they wandered into Dinae’s office while they should have been working. She was sitting at her low desk, studying maps of old Turkos and the ancestral giant lands to the south, hair knotted high to keep her neck cool.

“Shouldn’t you be at the forge?” she asked. “Or are you finally here to apologize and send me back to the anvil?”

Azar cleared their throat and placed one foot carefully on top of the other in a Kethari apology stance, learned years ago as an apprentice. “You were an adventurer once,” they said. “I can’t spend my young years here.”

Dinae considered for a minute, hands folded over a map of the Godsclaw. “Promise me,” she said, “that when you’re tired of stealing petty cash and exploring every old temple you find, you’ll come back to take over the forge.”

A few stray leaves blew in through the open doorway, and Azar reached down to pick them up. When they stood again, they noted Dinae facing him fully, arms folded; she never looked this serious. “I promise,” they said. “Don’t die before I get back, old woman.” They waited a moment for her to rise and swat at their ears before leaving to pack.

--

Their first journey was a three-month trek into the Ihangi mountains. Every traveler and innkeep told them to turn back, but they kept on, smiling as they passed the signpost that marked the end of Turkan territory.

The natives that they found there were less murderous than scared—Azar didn’t blame them, knowing how Turkan explorers were during the Fifty-Year March. Half the Ihan cities were abandoned, too, burned down or falling apart or, even stranger, preserved as if every Ihan in the region was simply spirited away. Azar stuffed their pockets with intricate wooden machinery and bundled darkwood to bring back for Dinae.

Onbirikzhi received them like a hero. One of the rich Turkans from the Gilded District bought the tiny wooden machines at a good price; Azar asked that the payment be sent to Dinae directly. The darkwood went over fantastically. Dinae dabbled in woodwork, fearing the fire as her strength ebbed, and her planned whittlings were already in high demand. Julus, the mayor, asked Azar to make another trip to Ihana, but they declined. The roads to Charmurlu were more enticing.

--

Money was tight in Charmurlu. They resorted to odd jobs and requests from the less-than-savory businessmen. The Ihan Jobber, they were called for a time; break in and steal so-and-so ledger, or this-and-that heirloom. Eventually they were invited to escort the poet Mulkhazi, a controversial anti-Kemal writer, to the coast at Balbaşi: lucky break, they thought, even when the steppes to the west of the central desert forced them to hone their sloppy archery.

But just outside the city gates, Mulkhazi turned back and pressed a well-sharpened knife into Azar’s belly. “Sorry, Ihana-boy,” he said, laughing when Azar’s ears turned red, “I’m not planning to pay up. But hey, at least you’re out of Charmurlu, huh?” He called the city guards to pin Azar as a roving bandit before vanishing through the gates.

And just like that, Azar found themselves in a Balbaşan prison, stuck in a tiny cell with a small-time burglar and a crooked loansman. As the bailey locked their cell, Azar tried to look anywhere but the tiny window; the police commander had stuffed a grease pencil, a single sheet of paper and an envelope in their hands minutes before, so they looked at those instead.

“Last letter home, then?” asked the burglar. Azar nodded absently, missed their cellmate’s hand until it was already on the paper, pulling it away.

When their jaw tightened in anger, the burglar smiled disarmingly. There was something enticing, yet altogether unsettling about him. “Don’t worry, I’ll repay it. We’re going to get out of here. You and me, partner.” He held out a chapped hand. “The name’s Petori.”

--

“You fucked up my books again, Azar,” Petori said, leaning back in his seat. “I’m starting to believe this was intentional.”

They were six years out from the jailbreak in Balbaşi, working with a crew of twelve bandits who operated the tiny roads that crossed the Sevi. Ostensibly they kept the roads clear and safe while the Turkan government ignored any road that wasn’t a trade route, but really they extorted travelers and relieved them of their valuables. Business, if Azar could really call it business, was good, and they honestly couldn’t complain about their situation; Petori mostly let them do as they pleased, so they took only what they needed (or burningly wanted) and charged only the minimum, even escorting some groups back and forth between forest towns.

Besides, there were better ways to make money. Petori, hearing that Azar had operated a smithy for a few years, put Azar in change of the fledgling operation’s coffers. Certainly, if they kept dense, unreadable books and diverted funds though several different venues across the region, Petori would never notice evaporating coin, right?

But he did notice—Azar still wasn’t as good at math as they thought. Ringed by six other bandits, Petori’d called them into the great hall of their longhouse, commanded they stand at the end of the scarred dining table with their ledger open before them.

“So, tell me. Why are we diverting a portion of our earnings through the fish hatchery at the riverhead?”

Azar looked down at the book. “We stand to gain money if the region becomes a fishing destination.”

“Wrong,” Petori said. “A hatchery? Making a fishing destination?” He tapped his hand on the table, indicated something to Neesh with a quick motion. “You’re slipping, Azar. Maybe this is how you landed yourself in jail in the first place.”

They scowled. “You’re the one who wanted an accountant.” Neesh reached for their arm, but Azar pulled away.

“An accountant, Azar. Not a double agent.”

“Double—” Neesh’s hands, twice the size of Azar’s, wrapped around their biceps and squeezed. “I’m not working for anyone else, bastard.” They pulled hard, wincing. “Let go, Neesh.”

“Except yourself. And that wasn’t part of our deal.” Petori stood and turned away. “Neesh, what would you say Azar’s best feature is?”

Neesh remained silent, so Petori reached out an arm and slapped at the first bandit he could reach—Vanya, standing against the doorframe with his arms folded. “Vanya? Help him out.”

He was silent for a second. “Certainly not their intellect,” he murmured. “Maybe their face.”

“Face it is. Neesh, why don’t you take some value back from Azar? They do owe us money.”

Neesh, with a single-shouldered shrug, reached for his knife, holding Azar steady.

“Wait—” Azar called after Petori as he unlatched the heavy chamber door. “If that’s what you want, I’ll pay back the money—”

Petori cut them off. “You’ll pay us back, naturally. But first, we need to break even.”

--

Vanya brought in an alcohol-soaked rag, picking his way around the blood. “Made quite a mess,” he remarked to Neesh. “Petori’ll expect you to clean this.”

Neesh nodded wordlessly and adjusted his elbows on his knees. He sat on the edge of the table, hanging his head to look down at Azar, curled on the floor with their arms wrapped tight around their head.

“Up, Azar,” Vanya said. He prodded a foot into their side. “Petori wants you out. Said if the eastside raiding party came back and saw you, they were allowed to do whatever they wanted to you. And we both know how well you get on with Tarka.”

They remembered, vaguely, their mother describing a set of twin cousins as “thick as thieves,” inseparable friends. Maybe thieves worked differently in central Turkos than they did in the Eastern Islands. Azar carefully unwound their arms, letting blood drip down their front as they sat up.

With a shudder, Vanya tossed the alcohol-towel to them. “Well, you’re not getting a dowry offer any time soon. Good job, Neesh.”

Finally, Neesh spoke. “Petori said six thousand golds, plus interest. Fifteen percent of the total per year. We expect payment every single month.” The knife sang in his fingers as it twirled through the air, splattering blood on the floor. “You know the consequences.”

Azar felt how the cuts on their jaw pulled, raw and stinging, each time their face moved; the alcohol rag confirmed even more damage when it pressed against the wounds. They wanted to curl up and sleep, or to inspect their face, or to scream, but the sound of horses outside was a reminder.

They ran.

--

They staggered half-blind through the night, into rivers they drank from and bushes they ate from. Delirious, following roads only remembered by their muscles, they left the forest in a panic, following their feet.

Hours, days passed without hint. Azar never knew how long it took to leave the forest; years later they tried to check the distance between the forest and the Turkan steppe to the south, but they never found a clear answer. All they knew was that they fled blind like they’d done over ten years ago.

It was only luck that the sixth prince’s entourage was travelling just south of the Sevi forest. Only chance that the entourage was only the Lion Guard, the very few soldiers that the prince trusted closer than any other and would travel alone with. Pure serendipity that the tiny royal party was resting on a low, flat stone, watching their horses as they grazed in the fields beside the last pitiful trees.

Skill, though, that Azar was able to bolt past the sixth prince and his Lion Guard, straight to a tall painted mare and her trailing harness. Advantage when they leapt onto her back and kicked their heels into her sides, splattering blood from reopened wounds onto the grass and her back. Behind him, the Lion bellowed, but the damage was done, and the thief wheeled south with the stolen horse.

--

It took months to reach Ouaïnnkanou. The horse was stronger than any they’d ever known, but it was still weeks before they even passed into the Rosi region. They wasted time skirting wide around Tiguerout, even though child deserters had long ago been pardoned by the administration of the new Southern King. By the time they entered Ouaïnnkanou, the horse’s white patches had grown thick and the days had grown shorter. Their cuts became sores, then scabs.

Azar considered selling the horse, but they thought twice. Surely news about the sixth prince’s stolen horse would have beaten them to the city? They left the mare at a stable outside the city and snuck away for the docks.

They endeared themselves to a Passensan vessel, offered to repair some petty tools when they reached the city. The same way from the south port of Dailli island to Diban. Azar barely remembered the road from Diban to the farm, but their feet carried them anyway. The scabs peeled away and revealed deep pockmarks.

Their mother wept. Their siblings barely remembered their face. Now there were more: half-siblings from another marriage, a new man calling himself father, a family of Kethari refugees living in one of the outbuildings and tending to the fruit trees. Mother sent them up the hill to the old medicine man, who looked the same as he did years ago, but the scars couldn’t be lifted. Azar took a bit of faded, once-colorful cloth from their old bed and made a veil so they couldn’t see their ruined face in the reflection on the ocean.

Weeks later, their mother found them sitting in the clifftop orchard, watching the waves roll out to uncharted ocean. She sat with them, sewed a couple of old-fashioned thin bronze coins into their veil as decoration, held their hand for a long while as the sea breeze mixed both their grey braids together.

After a long silence, Azar carefully told her their plan. Their hand moved under the veil and traced the deep lines of each new scar, and their voice shook, but their eyes stayed fixed on the water.

“It’s all a fool’s errand, Azar,” their mother commented. She squeezed their hand. “You’re mixed into the wrong sort of people.”

Azar remained silent.

“But you’ve sent us so much money, and so many nice letters, and after the army…” she trailed off for a moment. “It’s the best we could have hoped for. It’s better than death, isn’t it?”

“Better than giving up,” Azar replied. They watched the sun sink below the waves, then went inside to pen a letter. In the morning, the two walked to Diban and hired a parcels courier. Azar, with their belongings wrapped safely in a sturdy red satchel, pressed their forehead to their mother’s crown before boarding a ship for Dailli island.

--

Dearest Petori,

My apologies for the long wait between correspondence. Your associate told me monthly payments, but my mending took much longer than I anticipated. Here are the last three months that I owe, plus this year’s interest in advance.

I intend to make a living for myself on the roads between Charmurlu and Balbaşi—how nostalgic, old friend, isn’t it? You know my skills. Rest assured that your next payments will be timely.

And finally, I’d like to apologize profusely for my misconduct. No more skimming off the top from now on. If you don’t mind, I’ll present the final payment to you in person, as is custom here in the Rosi region. They say it was how King Mauvis turned over the final Rosi history tomes to the Rōth regime back before the Kemal era. A true sign of servitude.

No hard feelings.

Sincerely, Azar.

[bigboobyhalo]

so dapper died in grindwheels once right ? I’ve only heard about it …