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inkandoliveoil · 3 months ago

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What the dessert knows

Wild West AU

Outlaw!Steve x fem!reader

read part 2

Word count: 2.5k

Summary: you escape the cruel hands of the dessert and run into two outlaws who take you in.

a very emotionally restrained Steve, pining and a not so slow burn also a little bit platonic outlaw!eddie x reader

Disclaimer: wrote this partially because of all the westerns I’ve been watching and watching Djo pull out his cowboy boots in an interview

🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤

The desert didn’t forgive. It didn’t forget, either.

It swallowed things whole—towns, men, hopes—and left only dust behind. The sun beat down hard, unrelenting as ever, casting sharp shadows across the canyons and dried-up riverbeds. The kind of silence that settled here wasn’t peaceful. It was the kind that listened.

Steve Harrington rode near the front, quiet and tense. His horse moved steady beneath him, hooves crunching against the cracked dirt trail. Eddie Munson trailed a little behind, swaying slightly in his saddle, his curls a wild mess under his battered hat.

“You think Callahan’s boys came through this way?” Eddie asked, voice carrying lazily over the wind.

Steve didn’t look back. “Heard from a trader down in Poppy’s Crossing. Said a village burned two days south. Matches his pattern.”

Eddie was quiet for a moment, then muttered, “Bastard’s getting bolder.”

Steve’s jaw tensed.

Jude Callahan—the name alone made his blood run hot. He was the kind of man who wore cruelty like a second skin. Ran the Black Ridge Gang with fear, fire, and iron. Steve had his own crew, sure. A misfit band of outlaws, some say. But there were lines Steve Harrington didn’t cross. And he put bullets in the men who did.

They crested a ridge just as the sun began to lean westward. That’s when Steve saw it—something out of place in all that emptiness. A figure crumpled near the rocks, half-hidden by scrub brush and shadow. For a second, he thought it might be a mirage.

Then it moved.

Steve was off his horse before Eddie even cursed.

You didn’t hear them approach. You’d stopped listening to the world hours ago, maybe longer. When you felt the shade fall over you, you flinched instinctively—but then a voice cut through the static.

“Hey. You hurt?”

It was low. Rough. But not unkind.

Your eyes fluttered open, dry and aching, and there was a man crouched beside you. Tall, dark-haired, tan from the sun, dust smeared across his boots and coat. His hand hovered just above your arm, not touching. Waiting.

You blinked once.

“I… I ran,” you whispered, barely able to find the words.

“You alone?” Eddie asked, coming into view.

You gave the smallest nod.

They didn’t ask more—not yet. Steve pulled a flask from his belt and tilted it to your lips, patient as you drank in shallow, desperate sips. Then he lifted you, careful and slow, as though you were made of glass.

You didn’t remember falling asleep, only waking to the creak of wood and the warmth of cloth beneath you. A cot. Clean water beside it. A woman humming nearby as she stirred something in a pot.

“You’re safe now,” she said, glancing over with a kind smile. “Steve brought you in himself.”

You sat up too fast, the memories crashing down like a storm. You told them everything once you could bear to speak again—the raid, the screams, the fire. Callahan. How his men tore through your village in the night, drunk on violence. How the women were taken, how some never even screamed.

How Callahan had chosen to keep you for himself.

But you’d waited. Watched. And when the moment came, you took it and ran.

The women—wives of outlaws, survivors in their own right—didn’t pity you. They understood. They helped you clean up, gave you a dress that didn’t smell like ash, and fed you until the hollow ache in your belly faded.

Steve didn’t come by that first night.

Or the next.

He watched from a distance.

You caught glimpses of him sometimes—at the edge of the saloon, talking low with his men, eyes flicking toward you when he thought you weren’t looking. But he kept his distance like a man unsure of his own hands. Like if he got too close, he’d ruin something.

Eddie was easier. He joked with you, asked about your old village, and taught you how to hold a pistol.

One afternoon, while helping to hang laundry behind the mess hall, you overreached for a line that was strung too high. The stool beneath your feet wobbled on uneven ground, and you stumbled down hard, catching yourself with your hands in the dirt.

“Shit,” you muttered, brushing off your palms, wincing as the grit scraped against raw skin. You’d landed hard on your knees too, skirt dusty and skin smarting.

Before you could steady yourself fully, a shadow fell across you.

Steve.

He crouched in front of you silently, hands hovering just shy of your own. Waiting for permission.

You gave a small nod, and he gently turned your hands over, inspecting the reddened scrapes.

“Could’ve twisted your damn ankle,” he said, voice low and gruff.

“I’m fine,” you replied, brushing your hair out of your face. “Just slipped.”

“Still,” he muttered, already untying the red bandana from his neck. He wrapped it carefully around your hand, his fingers sure and steady, but gentle too.

You watched him work. He didn’t look up once.

“You don’t talk much,” you said softly.

He shrugged. “Ain’t much worth saying.”

“Unless you’re giving orders?”

That coaxed a tiny, reluctant smirk from him—but it vanished just as quick.

“Lot of men ‘round here,” he said. “Most of ‘em got wives. Families. Things they wanna protect. I make sure nobody touches ‘em.”

“And what about you?”

“I’ve seen what happens when men take what don’t belong to them.”

He finished tying the bandana, tugged it gently to make sure it stayed, and stepped back.

“You’re not something to fight over,” he said, voice low, almost too quiet to catch.

For a second, the air between you both felt still—thicker somehow, like the desert heat had stopped moving.

He turned and walked away, boots heavy in the dirt. But as he rounded the corner of the mess hall, out of your sight, he slowed.

His hands clenched at his sides.

Hell.

He hadn’t meant to say it like that.

The words had come out harsher than he intended, sharp with the edge of a man trying too damn hard to put up a wall he wasn’t sure he could keep standing. But it was the truth. Every time he looked at you—at the way you held your own despite the wreckage you’d crawled out of—he felt something gnaw at him. Something protective. Something hungry. Something dangerous.

And that scared the hell out of him.

You weren’t a conquest. You weren’t some soft little thing to tuck away in his bed and protect like a prize. You were surviving. Healing. Still shaking off the hands that had tried to chain you down. And the last thing Steve wanted was to be another man who tried to own you.

He’d seen too much of that. Been raised around it. Hell, maybe even been too close to it himself in the early days, back before he understood the kind of man he wanted to be.

So he kept his distance. Let you find your feet without his shadow hovering over you.

But that didn’t stop him from watching.

From wondering.

From waking in the middle of the night with your voice echoing in his chest like a loaded gun.

The days in the outlaw village moved slowly, like honey over scorched wood—sticky, golden, and sometimes sharp with splinters. You learned to wake early, when the sky was just beginning to blush pink and the air still held the cool breath of the night.

The women had taken you in like a sister. They weren’t what you expected—rough-edged and hard-willed, sure, but kind in the ways that mattered. Wives of outlaws. Mothers of none. Survivors, all of them.

“You sew like you’ve been dodging needles your whole life,” Maria joked one morning, watching you try to thread a needle for the third time.

“Maybe I have,” you replied, lips twitching into a smile.

They made you laugh. They fed you stories over stew and stitched you into their circle like you’d always belonged. But one afternoon, when the sun hung heavy and the air was thick with stillness, conversation turned.

“You know,” June said casually as she cleaned a tin cup, “he hasn’t stopped watching you since the day he brought you in.”

You blinked. “Who?”

“Don’t be thick,” Maria added, grinning. “Steve.”

Heat crept up your neck.

“No, he hasn’t,” June continued. “But he’s trying real hard not to. Stubborn ass thinks if he keeps his hands to himself, he’s doing you a favor.”

You frowned, folding a shirt that wasn’t yours. “He’s distant. Polite, but… cold.”

Maria gave a small laugh. “Sweetheart, that man’s colder with the people he likes than most are with their enemies. He thinks wanting something means he’s already halfway to hurting it.”

You sat in silence for a moment, staring at the folds of cotton between your hands. The thought of him watching—caring, in his quiet way—stirred something inside you. Something warm. Something unsettling.

Eddie was easier to be around.

He was loud, reckless, and ridiculous in the best way. You started sitting with him in the shade outside the stables, listening to his endless stream of stories—some wild, some sweet, some likely fabricated entirely.

“You ever shoot a gun?” he asked one day, twirling his revolver with a little too much flair.

“Not at something alive,” you said.

“Want to?”

You hesitated, then nodded.

He spent the afternoon showing you how to aim, how to breathe before you pulled the trigger, how not to let the recoil knock you on your ass. He never touched you unless he had to, and even then, it was brief. Respectful.

“Not bad,” he grinned, watching you land a shot near the center of a makeshift target. “You keep that up and Stevie’s gonna be out of a job.”

Steve stood just outside the saloon doors, arms crossed, watching from a distance. His eyes lingered on the way you laughed at something Eddie said, your hand brushing his arm. Steve’s jaw tensed, but he said nothing.

Eddie noticed.

That night, after the village had settled and the moon rose over the canyon, Eddie found Steve sitting by the fire, nursing a drink and staring into the flames like they owed him answers.

“I don’t want her like that, you know,” Eddie said casually, plopping down beside him.

Steve didn’t look at him. “Didn’t say you did.”

“Didn’t have to. You look like someone kicked your dog every time she smiles at me.”

Steve said nothing.

Eddie took a long sip of his flask. “You want her. She wants you too, even if she don’t know it yet. But you’re acting like you’re some loaded gun just waiting to go off.”

“I am,” Steve muttered.

Eddie glanced at him. “Then maybe stop pointing at the people you care about.”

They sat in silence for a long while.

Eventually, Steve murmured, “She’s been through hell. I don’t wanna add to it.”

“You won’t,” Eddie said, standing. “Unless you keep holding back like an idiot. She’s yours, Steve. You just gotta be brave enough to take what’s already reaching for you.”

That night, you couldn’t sleep.

The village was quiet, but not peaceful. You could feel something stirring out there in the distance. Restless wind. Trouble in the earth.

You sat on the porch of your cabin, legs curled beneath you, staring into the dark beyond the firelight. The stars were sharp above you. The desert whispered secrets you couldn’t hear.

Steve’s voice broke the silence.

“You shouldn’t be out alone at night.”

You turned, startled. He stood a few feet away, hat in hand, hair tousled, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The fire behind him cast shadows along his jaw.

“Didn’t mean to wake anyone,” you said softly.

“You didn’t.” He stepped closer. “Can’t sleep?”

You nodded, and he sat beside you—close enough to feel, not touch.

There was a long pause. Then, finally:

“I didn’t say what I meant to, the other day,” he said, voice low.

You looked at him, but he was staring ahead into the dark.

“You said I’m not something to fight over.”

He nodded once. “I meant… you’re not a thing at all. You’re not a prize, or a possession. You’re a person. I just… didn’t want you to think I see you like they did.”

“I don’t,” you said, just as quiet. “But you keep looking at me like I’m something you can’t have.”

He finally turned to meet your gaze.

“Maybe I’m just afraid of what’ll happen if I take something I actually want.”

The air shifted between you. Something electric, quiet and taut, stretched tight.

You swallowed. “And what do you want?”

He didn’t answer. Not with words.

But the way he looked at you—sharp, burning, unreadable—made your heart hammer in your chest. His hand moved just slightly, his fingers brushing against yours. Barely there. A whisper of a touch.

He didn’t move closer. Didn’t press.

But he didn’t pull away either.

_____

Somewhere out in the desert, a rider crossed through the ashes of a burned-out town.

Smoke still clung to the ruins.

And Callahan’s gang had already started whispering about the girl who got away.

They were coming.

And this time, they’d leave nothing standing.

____

hope I didn’t leave any mistakes in and let me know if I should give this more parts!

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington #steve harrington imagine #outlaw!steve #stranger things

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signalcli · 13 days ago

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lesorciercanadien · 7 months ago

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My Current Inventory of Magic Tools

Here's a list of tools I use in my spiritual practice that can inspire others that are on this path! While some are heritage pieces that cost a lot of money up-front due to craftsmanship, the every-day tools are pretty inexpensive. For example, most candles can be found at the dollar store, and incense can be personalized to your taste. For my practice, I use cedar incense, since it is known as a cleansing plant in the Christian tradition, and many Acadian and Québécois households used cedar on Palm Sunday before palms became widely available.

Most of the heritage pieces, for anyone wanting to participate, I strongly encourage investing a few extra dollars to get good quality items! It will last you years of magical practice, and you can use them with pride.

La ceinture fléchée - the woven sash

A symbol of identity to the Métis living on the Canadian plains, the historical Huron-Wendat people, and historically worn by French voyageurs and fur traders and their indigenous partners in trade, these sashes were strapped around the waist. These were mostly useful in keeping the woollen coats closed, store belted tools, help with the strain of carrying heavy pelts, and prevent hernias and back strain on long canoe expeditions. The long strands on the end could also be used as impromptu sewing thread. These sashes would reach about 15cm to 25cm and its length easily passes 2 metres. These sashes were traded among indigenous groups for furs, and later, by the Hudson's Bay Company in the 19th century. It became a part of the traditional Québecois peasant clothing at least since 1776. As the sash travelled upriver to the plains and beyond, Métis groups adopted the sashes, elaborated on its craftsmanship, and truly made it one of their most recognized symbols. Depending on where the sash is woven, the colours can change. For example, for Québec, they preferred a blue colour scheme, for Montréal, red, and for those woven in between Ottawa and the Red River, black was more prominent. Hand-woven sashes can take up to 500 hours to complete. (1)

The one pictured above I bought from Etchiboy, a Métis artisan. The sash I bought was inspired from the Assomption sash motif, one of the oldest known woven patterns from the 18th century. I wear it on my woodland wanderings, for rituals, and cultural days. I especially wear it in winter to keep my coat closed. I chose to adopt the sash into my practice after lots of research. It is an item of rich history between the French and their indigenous allies, and a consequence of the fur trade in our country. I encourage anyone who's interested to buy from artisans who hand-weave them! There are machine-woven ones nowadays that might be less expensive, but nothing beats the quality of good wool and good weaving. With the richness of variety in the weaving patterns depending on the region they're from, why not have a sash that harkens back to the history of your region?

The walking stick or 'le gourdin'

In Québécois folktales, the stick, known as 'the gourdin', was most seen as a gift from a woodland fairy (like a guardian of all trees, or a mistress of the birds) to the intrepid hero Ti-Jean. This magical stick could thwack all his adversaries with the simple command of "tappe, gourdin!" (slap, stick!), among other fabulous deeds (2) This stick was a tool of protection on long journeys fraught with peril. So, what better companion to the Canadien witch than a walking stick? I use mine for every excursion, and have added to it some talismans of a wolf, owl and skull to keep evil spirits at bay. There's also a portable rosary around the stick, and the Ste. Anne of Beaupré religious medal. Historically, she was often a saint prayed to by voyageurs before they undertook the long and perilous journey to the fur trading posts, usually near present-day Montreal. (3)

The pocket knife

The pocket knife is a multi-talented tool of our trade! It can carve folksy figurines, cut wooden branches for weaving, harvest plants, cut curses, and keep les feux-follets (willow-the-wisps) at bay. Folklore has it that if you're out camping in the woods, fold you knife so that it creates a 90-degree angle, and stick it into the bark of a tree bordering your campsite. In the morning, if the blade is bloody, chances are it was the feux follet being intrigued by the space between the blade and the tree, and cutting its throat, thereby being free from its doomed roaming. (4) It is also a well-known tool in case you need to free a loup-garou (werewolf) from its curse by cutting it on its white spot on the forehead where he previously received communion as a kid. (5) By extension, it is a vital tool to break curses. Of course, don't make anyone bleed with the knife. That goes without saying. Treat the knife well, keep it sharp.

The rosary

Yes, my path has Catholic tools in it. Of course! Quebecois and Acadians of my ancestry were Catholic people primarily. It is a versatile tool in my practice, used for spellwork as well as meditative prayer. For those who are interested in praying the Rosary traditionally, I'll create a separate post. For spellwork purposes, I usually say a round of "Hail Mary" ten times before starting a spell for the ultimate protective shield. There is also known folk uses for the rosary in Acadian and Québécois communities. For example, to fidget with the rosary without intent or purpose brings about the Devil. (6) The rosary can also be used as a tool to find lost items. Simply toss the rosary over your shoulder, and the crucifix will point in the direction of the lost item. If you want good weather on your wedding day, hang up your rosary on your laundry cord the day before. (7). Rosaries nowadays even come in decade forms as portable rings for your pocket, and some are actual rings you can wear on your finger. I got a few rosaries myself. One for special rituals (I never toss that one over my shoulder!), and cheaper, more portable options for the tossing spell.

Holy medals

I amassed quite a collection of holy medals for individual saints. Other notable ones are those for the souls in Purgatory (worn on All Souls Day), the Holy Spirit at (worn on Pentecost or when I do divination), Jesus the Shepherd (it's comforting), Stella Maris (patron saint of Acadians). I have a few of the same for more frequented purposes, for example, I keep a Saint Luke medal on my artist's pencil case, since he is the patron saint of artists. Traditionally in Acadian communities, it was known that when your day was going awfully, and your bread dough just wouldn't rise, you just needed to boil some holy medals in water to turn your luck around (8). They are quite inexpensive, so it's fast and easy to grow a collection in a short period of time. Many catholic retailers sell them.

Divination tools : the playing cards, dice and coin

My divination tools can be found in anyone's cupboard and drawers. The trusty playing cards deck nowadays comes in such amazing variety of art, the one I picked for myself was the Bicycle Aviary Playing Cards. It has such a lovely folk art vibe to them! The way to divine them comes from sources of card-playing and superstitions from history and folktales from folklorist Marius Barbeau, and people over centuries carrying around the cards for entertainment and perhaps a glimpse into their futures. One guide on reading the cards: Fifty-Four Devils: The Art & Folklore of Fortune-Telling with Playing Cards by Cory Thomas Hutcheson. Dice can also be used in the same manner if you're doing a numerology-based divination. The coin can be used as a simple yes or no divination by playing 'heads or tails'. The coin can be a beautiful commemorative coin like mine, or a simple 'cenne noire' (blackened penny), or whatever currency you have on hand.

The sewing kit and fibre arts

I wanted to add this iconic cookie tin into the folk witch's repertoire, because we all had grandmothers who had this tin lying around with their tools to mend and sew anything. In my practice, and in my hobbies, I make clothing and I embroider. I can use this tin to house my relevant supplies to have some sacred time darning old socks, creating spiritual garments by hand, or embroidering pretty things. You can also draw sigils on the rim's inner side for blessing your items inside! There's also other uses for some of these tools in your home! For example, my great-great grandmother used to use her thimble to create the holes in her croxignoles, these woven doughnut style rings from the Magdalen Islands.

Musical spoons

Musical spoons, sometimes made of wood to be used for musical purposes, as shown here, or made from every-day metal spoons held together for the same effect, are an iconic instrument in French-Canadian folk music. I would recommend learning how to play them rhythmically and to use that as a grounding tool. I just find these way more authentic than a drum. Not to mention rhythmic foot tapping and step dances are frequently used in our folk music to set up a beat.

Woven Cloths

These beautiful cloths or 'serviettes' were woven by my mother on a giant hand-loom, often employed by local farmer's guilds in Québec. Les Cercles des Fermières du Québec sometimes has craft fairs where they sell these among other hand-crafted items. In folklore, the cloth was present when Ti-Jean needed to create a magical feast on the fly, create a magical tent for shelter, or carry around all his tools for his journey. These cloths however were almost always given by a fay creature, so best be cautious in eating food from it. Nowadays, it can be used as altar cloths, protective shields for your tools, or to apply healing energy to an ailment you carry. (9) I use mine to do my card readings, wrap special items. If you are lucky enough to find a 'catalogne', which is a heavy blanket woven on those big looms from scraps of old t-shirts, cottons and the like, that's like, a massive cloth you can have over your bed and its folkloric properties can be used for protection and good dreams. It is also the best weighted blanket for anxiety, tried and tested by me! Mine was woven by my grandmother.

Cited sources

Wikipedia "Ceinture Fléchée" consulted on Jan 21 2025/ 2. Barbeau 1st series/ 3. Podruchny / 4. Butler/ 5. Maillet / 6. Dupont 83. / 7. Dupont 122. / 8. Dupont 83. / 9. Barbeau 2nd series

Bibliography

Barbeau, Marius, « Contes populaires canadiens », The Journal of American Folkore, vol. 29, no 111, janvier-mars 1916, 154 p.

Barbeau, C.-Marius. “Contes Populaire Canadiens. Seconde Série.” The journal of American Folklore 30, no. 115 (Jan-Mar., 1917): 27-36. http://www.jstor.org/stable/534454.

Butler, Gary R. Histoire et traditions orales des Franco-Acadiens de Terre-Neuve. Québec 1995. p. 156

Dupont, Jean-Claude. Heritage d’Acadie. Collection Connaissance, éditions Lemeac. 1977.

Maillet, Antonine. Rabelais et les traditions populaires en Acadie. Les presses de l’université Laval, Quebec. 1980.

Podruchny, Carolyn. Making the Voyageur World: Traveler’s and Traders in the North American Fur Trade. University of Toronto Press. 2006.

#witchblr #folk magick #french canadian #quebec #folk magic #acadia #canadian #witchcraft #christianity #catholic #folklore

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eddieisashifter · 19 days ago

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333EVENT . . . DAY ONE : LINGUA FRANCA

Known for their distrust of outsiders and high regard of the arts, Mahren is the first of the core world to pioneer starspeed travel. as such, their language quickly spread alongside their most precious metal, starsteel. Soon, the Mahrian influence became obvious across the galaxy. This has led to Mahriqh being a standardized language alongside Universal Basic, and CTL (Combined Trade Language). But what is Mahriqh? And how does one speak it? Well, lets learn a bit about the natives first....

𝐖𝐇𝐎 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐇𝐑𝐈𝐀𝐍𝐒?

Other than being travelers and traders, who are the Mahrians? The planet of Mahren—named for the goddess of the seas, death, moons, and starspeed—is a water world. Legends say it used to be a barren desert with a single sea. However, when Eshu—the trickster god of knowledge—betrayed the other gods, Mahren cried so hard for her son that the whole planet flooded. The people cried out and Rena, keeper of the starlight, took pity on them, letting a single ray of sunlight break through the clouds of Mahren’s hair. The people used a reflective disc to reflect the light into Mahren’s eyes. It caught in her eye and she was broken out of her trance, allowing the sun to come out again.

Mahren refused to let the people out of her sight again and, when the night rolled around again, the light that caught in her eye illuminated the darkness. This silver light was known as Mahren’s eye, and it would periodically blink as she watched over her people. This is why Mahren’s moon is named “Ahmia”, from the Mahriqh word for “eye”, and the word that describes the phases of the moon is “ah’ymius”, which is “blinking”.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐀𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐌𝐀𝐇𝐑𝐈𝐐𝐇 𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑

Mahriqh has two defining characteristics: one being its vowel patterns and its intersection with the word gender system. Both of these are foundational to understanding how to construct sentences in Mahriqh. Each of these word genders (also called classes because they correspond to the Mahrian class system) and their defining vowel patterns directly tie into the culture of Maren’s people and their perception of the world.

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐒/𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐌𝐀𝐇𝐑𝐈𝐐𝐇

Mahren’s class system is one of their most defining features that sets them apart from other core planets like Riyon. Mahren’s class system is entirely based on works, rather than birthright, and is structured like layers of their planet.

The Ahdi are the native word for the gods and are given the highest respect. Some words for queen also fall into the Ahdi class, as the queen is usually considered an incarnation of Mahren herself.

The eohl are what some might call nobility. The royal family is considered eohl, alongside other ruling families. They’re considered surface dwellers, as most don’t even swim anymore, having seen themselves as evolved past it. As a works based society, people can prove themselves worthy of being an eohl, usually through being a successful artist. Arts are seen as deeply spiritual practice and the closest to Mahren you can be.

The myja are the common folk, the ones who make up the majority of Mahren’s population. Some live in the lower floors of Akvael’lia City, the capital, for work. However, most live in the floors below sea level or in smaller cities along the sea floor. Unless you prove yourself worthy of eohl, or discredit yourself enough to reduce yourself to n’vus, then this is where you’ll reside for the rest of your life until you die and join the kian.

The kian is the Mahriqh word for the dead. Which, other than the Ahdi, is the most respected class. Because of Mahren's tie to the dead, the most important thing you can do in Mahrian culture is die. There’s dozens of words for “dying” or “dead” based on context, but kian is the general default when you’re generalizing. Therefore, that’s the name of both the class and the word gender.

The final class of n'vus is the submerged, the discredited and the disrespected. The most evil thing you can do to a person in Mahrian society is let their body sink all the way to the sea floor without intervention. It means that no one cared enough about you to stop your body from falling into the dark matter, outside of the view and domain of Thana—goddess of the Paradise. You die in disgrace, allowed to rot, because no one intervened. The word “n’vus” comes from the name of Kohvus, god of rot and decay. Its “n” prefix denotes a disrespect that reaches beyond the sea floor.

Mahriqh let these classes of society influence the language. Now, nearly every word is categorized into the classes. The word genders/classes assign certain words a characteristic and will always influence the other words in the sentence around it.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐌𝐀𝐇𝐑𝐈𝐐𝐇: 𝐒𝐈𝐌𝐏𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐈𝐄𝐃

AHDI (of the heavens/skies) — highest respect/the divine (defined by the ah vowel . . . ie. ahdris, ahmi)

EOHL (of the surface) — nobility and those with high honor (defined by the e-a & e-o/oh vowel combos . . . ie. leoh, e’ra)

MYJA (of the sea) — average folk (defined by the y-a & oh-i vowel combos . . . ie. yjan, ohin)

KIAN (of the sea floor) — the dead (defined by the a-i/i-a vowel combos . . . ie. v’vai, vila)

N’VUS (of the submerged) — the desecrated/dishonored (defined by single/lone vowels . . . ie. ji, vu)

𝐀𝐇𝐃𝐈: 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐒

The word Ahdi, is literally translated as “divine” or “star”, which are usually the same thing. Therefore, this is the highest class and the words in it are usually reserved for the gods or things of the stars. Domains of the goddess Maren are usually placed into this class as well. When referring to objects or people in this class (such as gods, demigods, or priestesses), you use the gender neutral/formal pronoun.

EXAMPLES OF AHDI WORDS: ahdris, ahdi, ahdrio — stars, star, of the stars ahmi, ahmius, e’ahmi — eye, eyes, third eye

𝐄𝐎𝐇𝐋: 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄

The word Eohl translates as ‘noble’ or ‘blessed’, which aligns with the thought that those who rise in the class system are blessed by Maren or the other gods. As such, the blessed are the second highest class and the words inside can refer to any kind of authority or arts. Most words relating to Maren’s royal family are derived from eohl. When referring to objects or people in this class, you use the feminine pronoun.

EXAMPLES OF EOHL WORDS: akvea, akveao, akveaus – tide, tides, pulling tides leoh, leohn, leoh'vus, – voice, speak, speaking

𝐌𝐘𝐉𝐀: 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐀

The word Myja means “the people”, and therefore this is the class of the common folk. Any active words or manmade constructions fall into Myja. The common class, set directly in the midpoint between the heavens and the depths, is where most commonly used words fall into. Expletives also fall into this class. When referring to people or objects of myja, you use the masculine pronoun.

EXAMPLES OF MYJA WORDS: yjan, yjanih, myja– person, people, the people qya, qya'vus, qytah – dirty water, dirtying the water, dirty water (expletive)

𝐊𝐈𝐀𝐍: 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐄𝐀 𝐅𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐑

Kian translates to ‘beyond’, and is used to refer to the class of the dead. Other than Ahdi, this is the second most respected class. The dead are treated with great value and it’s culturally shameful to speak of them with anything but respect. When referring to them, you use the feminine pronoun.

EXAMPLES OF KIAN WORDS: v’vai, v’vail, v’vailah – still water, still waters, reflecting in still waters vi, vila, vilaus – wave, waves, waving (dancing)

𝐍’𝐕𝐔𝐒: 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐔𝐁𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐆𝐄𝐃

N'vus, translated as rot, is the class of the disrespected. To denote the most disrespect, you'd use the words of this class. When referring to them, you use the “n’” prefix instead of a pronoun. However, being referred to as n'vus is the ultimate disrespect in Mahrian culture.

EXAMPLES OF N’VUS WORDS: ji, jin, jinus – dead, death, dying vu, vus, vun – rot, rotting, rotted

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐂𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄

Mahriqh forms its sentences based on the cultural importance of doing as more important than being. Or, as the common idiom says: “the value is in the ripples, not the stone”. Therefore, the sentence structure in Mahriqh is verb-object-subject. In English, this would look something like “ran fast she did” or “throw ball he did”. Except, there’s no “did” or to be verb in Mahriqh, as it is seen as implied.

MAHRIQH PRONOUNS: First Person – (I/me) y Second Person – (you/your) ohi Single Feminine – (she/her/it) eo Single Masculine – (he/him/it) ea Single Formal/Gender Neutral (they/them/it) – ahi Plural –(they/them) ehn Plural Formal – (they/them) ahn Plural Collective – (we/us) ehus

𝐁𝐀𝐒𝐈𝐂 𝐏𝐇𝐑𝐀𝐒𝐄𝐒 𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇:

"Hello! My name is ____." – "Akvea! ahmo ___."

"What's your name?" – "Vah ahmo ohi?"

"How are you?" – "Kah riohn eoh akvea?"*

"I'm doing okay!"/ "I'm not doing okay." – "Eoh "/"Un'eoh" *literal translation: "How high are the tides today?"

#*333event #. . . the divinity reality #shiftblr #reality shifting #shifting #shifting realities #desired reality #shifting community #eddie's drs #fantasy dr #original dr

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honeykaes · 2 years ago

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le sacrifice du sang

vampire!neuvillette x reader II 2.6k

warning: smut, 18+ content, minors do not interact, afab!reader with no set pronouns, vampire au, set in 17th century esc france, blood, biting, ritual sex, self harm (neuvillette cuts his wrist for the ritual), soulmate, xenophobia, praise, creampies, monsterfucking adjacent, unedited

synopsis: for decades the village has been thriving despite the vampiric armies ravaging throughout europe. Cast aside for being an outsider, you are deemed as a sacrifice to a vampire lord to stop the attacks in the region.

Night seemed endless. Most days you would barely see the sun bright outside under the sky. All you could do was sigh, shifting on the soft sheets of the grandiose bed you rested in. A long chiffon nightgown covered your form and rested right at your ankles. You balled your fists on the ornate patterns of the comforter of the bed, golden and navy threads showing off just how much it was worth.

You turned your head to the stained glass window seeing the sun hiding behind the horizon and stars beginning to peak out in the darkening sky—the multicolor light pigmented in blues and purples reflected on the ground as its shadow grew signaling the fleeting light.

Part of you is surprised you're up so early in your new sleep schedule but another part of you questions why you’re even alive right now to look outside the stained glass window. Three weeks ago you were set to die, yet you have lived in the lap of luxury.

All because of him.

Vampires have been ravaging Europe for a few decades now, causing an all-out war in some regions of the land. Your family insisted on heading there despite it, as traders would surely flourish against the nobles desperate for supplies and your nativity allowed you to follow them.

Trying to settle and trade in Europe began in disaster as xenophobia grew rapid—war, fear, and prejudices clouding their judgment. You lost your family very early on when you arrived in Europe, losing a lot and trying to scour and try to collect wherever you could to mourn and live. France became the best option to live in since the fighting was beginning to cease in the country.

In the southeast part of the region, you settled in a village. You remained there for five years, trying to make ends meet as a seamstress. You always wondered why vampires didn’t attack and slaughter you and the rest of the village as you heard others had faced. The village had not seen an inkling of the dissipating war around it, and you later discovered why.

To appease the vampiric lords and ladies of France, human sacrifices were commenced—one to save all. You weren’t completely sure who the lord of this area even was, yet you were about to find out after the Judge of the town deemed yourself as the sacrifice.

You begged, you pleaded, you cried but no one in the town so much as pitied you. In their eyes, you were an outsider; someone even more worthy of being sacrificed than “one of their own”. Bullshit is what you wanted to say but you didn’t have the power to defy it.

That man eventually collected you after, the lord of the southern region of France—Monsieur Neuvillette. When he descended, in navy and black, you thought he was an angel and thought the village already killed you thinking he was an angel instead.

He didn’t seem human at all.

Long white hair cascaded down his back and lowly tied towards the end with streaks of gradient blue flowing through it. His lavender eyes, pupil slit, and irises glowing, drinking up every unconscious tick and stubble expression in your body and face. His face was stern, but his eyes seemed kind.

He asked you one question that night.

“What is your name, dear?”

You answered as his eyes softened, lifting his hand to your eyes to cover your gaze

“Then, (Y/n). I’m sorry circumstances have brought us here.”

Darkness was all you were faced with. In a way, you thought death had arrived, only to wake up in a beautifully decorated room in a château when you awoke.

Neuvillette was kind albeit stoic during your time in his château. Many nights, you’d have dinner with him—his eyes just on you as he quietly drank his silver chalice filled with the iron-rich stench of blood from someone who wasn’t you.

Those nights he would reveal more information about himself and you’d do the same. He told you how he was a lord and has been “in this state” for several millennia. He told you about the rise and fall of empires and even vampiric ones history had all but forgotten.

Neuvillette also discussed how most of the sacrifices ended up working as servants in the château who he called “Melusines”.

In the second week since your “sacrifice”, he also mentioned another vampire lord living in this château—Lady Furina. He talked about how eager she was to interact with her subjects, including yourself but he had told her to stay away from you for now as her bloodlust was unpredictable.

But one slip of the tongue had changed the casual conversation into something more serious.

“...She is not to bother you, yet. Not before you are turned at the least.”

Your eyebrow furrowed, lips parting hearing him say those words. Turning? Turning into what?

“What do you mean by that…” you questioned. He placed his chalice down, closing his eyes briefly to collect his thoughts before crossing his arms.

“I apologize. I have neglected to inform you about this since I wanted you to get adjusted to your new life here first,” he murmured. You clenched your jaw, trying to read his stoic expression but it was the same as it’s always been.

“I admit I played a role in why the Judge had chosen you specifically. When you first settled in the village, your scent informed me that you were my mate. My soulmate,” he replied. You couldn’t stop yourself from scoffing in shock.

“Smell me? Soulmate? What does that even mean, Neuvillette?! I thought vampires only were interested in other vampires and humans were seen as food. That’s why there’s a war in the rest of Europe after all,” you shouted. He did not flinch at your raising pitch in tone. He gave a small humorless laugh at your words.

“That’s not exactly true. A curse befalls vampires and those with vampiric natures in more than one way than ‘evolving’ from their human characteristics. The same people many see as food can be the only chance to find their mate. Whether unconsciously or not we are always searching, our body craves the touch and affection only our mates can give us, soothing one might say, the soul,” he revealed.

You look down at your plate, half-eaten cake on it before gently pushing it away. There was a pause where no one said anything, but you were sure he could hear your heartbeat thumping rapidly in your chest.

“...Are you scared? Do you need some time to process this? We can save the rest of this conversation later,” Neuvillette discussed. You swallowed, trying to ease the dryness that caught your throat suddenly but refused to look him in his eyes for now.

“H-How would this process work exactly? I’m guessing vampires and mortal humans don't mix well,” you muttered. Neuvillette sighed, grunting in agreement.

“Well. There’s a ritual in a sense to create a bond between each party’s body and soul. The ritual entails copulation and when my fangs pierce your skin in the process. It will signal to both your body and soul that your bond with me has been found and eventually your physiology will adjust into something more like me.”

“...Something that of a vampire,” you whispered, looking up at him. He silently nodded as silence befell the two of you for now. Neuvillette let out a heavy sigh, but the corners of his lips curved into a small smile to try to ease the pain you were faced with.

“I recognize this is a lot for any human to face, so please take as much time as you need. There is no rush, so process however long it will take,” he said, rising from his seat and leaving you alone with the crackling fire in the dining room.

It had been a year since that night he revealed himself as your soulmate. A year to finally process and accept your fate. You chuckled to yourself finally seeing the sun’s light completely disappear and the moon rising brightly in the sky.

Tonight you would mourn your mortality.

A knock at the door snapped you out of your thoughts and memories before you called out they could enter. Neuvillette walked in, wearing his own nightgown falling to his ankle, body completely covered in the white chiffon fabric. He stood by the door still, letting you have your space that was resting on the bed.

“Are you sure you are ready? We can wait later to do this. I can wait,” Neuvillette murmured. You flashed a shaky smile before sighing.

“Yes. I am Neuvillette. I promise,” you replied. Neuvillette walked over until he was in front of you, long fingers clasping gently as your chin before lifting it up. Your lips parted in shock gazing into his eyes that softened.

“I’m going to ask one more time, are you sure you’re ready,” he asked, voice low and husky. Your body trembled at the tone of his voice before you slowly nodded your head—you could hear your eardrums echoing out the beat of your quickening heart.

You slowly lifted your nightgown off and the fabric pools on the floor, leaving you bare and vulnerable to his gaze and touch. He followed, letting his nightgown fall onto the floor. His body was more muscular than you thought based on the attire you usually saw him adorning in the halls. You could feel the heat rushing to your cheeks.

Neuvillette softly smiles leaning in to press his lips against your own. He soon is on top of you, the bed creaked as the weight of two bodies pressed against it. His lips were soft, easily molding on your own while ever so often a sharp pain would poke at your bottom lip.

“If I’m being honest, I never thought I would experience this. You don’t know how long I waited for this...how I longed for you,” he whispered, as his lips eventually left your own, settling in the nape of your neck. Your body trembled as Neuvillette let his fangs graze against the sensitive skin while his hand traveled down and squeezed the plush of your thighs.

He finally finds your cunt, cupping his hand at it as he continues to nipple and his along your neck. He soon applied pressure and your hips instinctively began to grind trying to get a lick of friction to brush against your needy clit. Feeling you grind on his hand made Neuvillette chuckle before he opened his eyes admiring the slick now clinging to his palm.

“So pliable under my touch, I’m glad you're enjoying yourself,” he whispered in your ear, hearing another moan rip from your mouth. He soon shifted his position; his thumb now firmly pressed against the nub of your clit pressing tight circles on it. Your form began to twist and your hips shifted as Neuvillette’s hand followed every movement, not budging his focused ministrations once.

His other thumb brushed against your pebbled nibbles, relishing in the way your body jolted from the various sensations. Your breathing became heavy, feeling your entire body flutter inching closer and closer to your high.

“Neuvillette. Neuvillette…I’m—” you groaned out before suddenly Neuvillette completely stopped. You snapped your eyes open in surprise, looking over at him perplexed as his gaze softened and lips tugged in a smile.

“Why did you stop…?” you whispered, puzzled by his actions. Neuvillette leaned in to kiss your forehead while cleaning the slick clinging to his fingers on his thighs as it smeared.

“I needed to make sure you were prepared for me. The ritual unfortunately cannot work if you lose yourself to my fingers, mon cœur. Unless you preferred to wait as I asked earlier,” Neuvillette hummed. You bite your lip, in embarrassment as Neuvillette grasped his cock.

It’s thick, and long and the only vein you could see ran along the base of it. His cock curled up and twitched every few seconds, eager for attention. He let out a grunt, pumping his cock a few times as his tip—flushed pale pink—budded with precum. He rested his length against your slit, letting it slide up and down and gathering the arousal drooling out of your cunt. He let his tip tap against your stimulated clit causing you to shiver before he nestled it against your entrance once more.

As he pushed the tip inside of you, he leaned down, capturing your lips once more before sinking his cock further inside of you. Your nails harpoon against his broad back and you widen your legs wider trying to adjust to his length. Your walls burned at the stretch, trying your best not to tense up as he descended further inside of you.

Finally bottoming out, he slowly slid out before plunging in once more, thrusting with meticulous but strong strokes. Your body moved to his pace, bed beginning to moan and creak while hitting against the wall.

He grunted louder in the kiss, eyebrows furrowed as he tried to contain himself. He leaned up as you tried catching your breath, stammering his name as his breathing became heavier while his thrusts became faster.

Neuvillette parted his mouth to let his fangs elongate before they buried themselves in the nape of your neck. You yelped, sucking a sharp breath in as the pain of his bite throbbed and shot throughout your entire body. You could hear him gulp and moan, sucking the river of blood pouring down at the wound while he continued to rut inside of you.

“Neuvillette…” you whispered out. It was strange. The pain had somehow subsided and your body felt much lighter and aware of his touch and thrusts, trembling in newly found sensitivity and pleasure. It was as if the bite was an aphrodisiac.

Were all bites like this or was it because he claimed to be your soulmate?

He lifted his head, lower face bloodied from the meal he was indulging in—your humanity. His tongue seemed longer, letting it rest against the wound before taking a long stride up to lap up the rest of the blood dripping from the punctures.

Your walls fluttered down on his cock as your writhed, Neuvillette continued to buck—desperate to sink even further inside of you. He sucked a breath in, struggling to keep up with his pace as your walls continued to cave and clamp down.

Neuvillette's hands find themselves beneath you, squeezing the globes of your ass before lifting your bottom half in an attempt to plunge deeper inside of you. His eyes narrowed watching his cock stretch and disappear in your cunt.

“That’s it…you're almost there. Let me see you come undone. Let’s begin our lives together for eternity in the darkness…” Neuvillette muttered, clenching his jaw tight. You squirmed, tears pricking your eyes as you finally reached your high—body shivering and back arching while calling out his name repeatedly. Your walls quivering from your climax were enough for Neuvillette to follow.

He snapped his eyes shut, hips flattering letting ropes of his thick cum shoot inside of it. He slowly thrust, pushing it deeper, trying to nurse his body down from his high. A trial of his essence managed to leak out, and travel to your inner thighs despite his cock still plugged inside of you.

“Just one more step…please bear with me and stay away,” Neuvillette whispered, placing your hips down on the bed once more. His nails, sharper than before, quickly shut themselves on his wrist—his blood dripping down his forearm. Your eyes and body felt so heavy, your body feeling like your heart was slowing down before you noticed him hovering his injured wrist above your mouth.

Droplets of blood trickled down your chest and chin before finally landing in your open mouth.

As you swallowed, your eyes widened feeling an unknown rush flowing throughout your body replenishing your once tired body so suddenly.

“It…it doesn’t taste like iron, but as if your blood is the purest spring water…”

#genshin impact x reader #genshin impact smut #genshin x reader #genshin smut #neuvillette x reader #neuvillette smut #neuvillette imagines #neuvillette scenarios #kinktober 2023

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alexriesart · 10 months ago

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Starting Day 2 of the Kickstarter for my first book 'Other Worlds', and I thought I would share a piece from the Birrin world: The Drowned Coast.

A trimaran flies along the coast of Tuktalli, its biplane sails patterned after the appearance of triumphantly raised birrin wings (the fancy of the sponsoring Matriarch). This has only been possible in recent years, composite hulls only just being redeveloped after the Fall. The coastline here, largely desolate, was flooded as climate change inundated low lying areas of Chriirah.

Society is, however, still to be found here; a huge vertical wind turbine marks Taikay, a fort city which has long served traders braving the lethal Kiln desert beyond.

To support the Kickstarter, click on over!

#birrin #my art #concept art #illustration #art #alex ries #kickstarter #sailing #boat

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shattered-matrix · 2 months ago

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Chapter 2: Pulse

Soulmate Pirate AU | Hongjoong x Reader

Themes: soulmate marks, cursed ships, ocean magic, emotional tension, old gods, yearning, pirate crew shenanigans, mapmaker heroine who does not swoon on command

2.8k words

Taglist: open

The tavern is half-full when you step inside, the warmth of the hearth rising to meet the sea-cling still soaked into your sleeves. You shove the hood from your head, shake out your damp hair, and head toward the back with the kind of practiced confidence that comes from a hundred quiet transactions.

Your presence doesn’t turn heads. Not anymore.

A barmaid waves you toward the end table near the window—your usual meeting spot for deliveries that don’t need to be traced. Then she’s bustling back to fetch your usual order. While you’ve never trusted the tavern’s food, the drink has always been satisfying.

The client is already waiting. A narrow-faced man with a navigator’s squint and a trader’s posture. He’s damp from the sea, ink-stained fingers drumming against his mug. Once upon a time, these sorts of men made sure you knew just how much they doubted a woman could do what they required. Those days have long since passed.

You drop the wax-wrapped scroll onto the table without preamble, sliding into the seat across from him.

“Three-day turnaround,” you say. “Depth marks along the jagged coast and the channel you asked about. Tides in red. Margins tight—you’ll need a good helmsman.”

He opens it, scans it, and nods.

“Good work.”

He hands you a pouch. You don’t count it before putting it away.

It’s not the first time you’ve done business. Not the first time you’ve sat in this exact chair. But something feels… off.

The dog by the hearth—a big, lazy thing that sleeps through fights and fiddle reels—sits up.

It stares at the door. Its ears twitch. It whines.

A draft rolls through the tavern that doesn’t match the door’s movement.

“Odd breeze,” your client mutters, folding the chart. “Storm out to sea?”

You shrug and sit back, letting your gaze drift across the room. Someone’s playing a slow tune on the fiddle. The fire crackles. A barmaid laughs at something bawdy as she sets your mug in front of you.

Ordinary.

But your ribs itch. Not from salt or damp. From something deeper.

You press your palm briefly to your side—right over the mark.

Still.

No pulse. No burn. Just that unsettling itch.

Frowning slightly, you pick up your drink, asking your client about the recent weather patterns on the sea recently. He lights his pipe. His voice is a low rumble as he replies. The business is done, but there’s no rush to leave. Not when it’s this kind of easy talk that did away with those doubtful days.

He stays long enough to tell you about odd storm patterns between Stormwind and the next port. Then he glances outside and mutters something about ‘ill winds here, too’. You don’t exchange farewells as he departs.

By the time you rise, the tavern is fuller. Sailors and townsfolk alike have crowded in at the end of the busy day, seeking respite and camaraderie. If it’s that late already, you’d best move along. You have errands to run.

You slide your coat back on, nod to the barmaid, and slip out the back door—the one near the kitchens, down the crooked alley that leads back to the ink vendor you like.

You’re halfway down the stone steps when you pause, just for a second.

You glance over your shoulder.

There’s no one there.

The door swings shut behind you and you pause, looking at it. You could have sworn…

You shake your head and continue on. Must be those ‘ill winds’ your client mentioned. Judging by the darkness of the clouds, he wasn’t wrong about the incoming stormfront.

You hug your coat tighter and pick up your pace, jogging through the backways of Stormwind in hopes of outpacing the rain you can already smell on the horizon.

The tavern is louder than he expected.

Crowded, warm, filled with bodies and breath and the scent of salt-damp wool. Someone’s playing a fiddle too fast for the hour. Laughter rolls between tables. A fire crackles in the hearth, where a dog lies down again with a huff, tail thumping once.

Hongjoong steps inside last.

His crew filters in before him—Wooyoung already scanning the barmaids, San drifting toward the table in the corner, Seonghwa hanging back near the door with his coat still dripping.

Hongjoong stands at the threshold for a moment too long.

His eyes sweep the room.

She’s not here.

But she was.

He knows it.

His mark thrums beneath his ribs, not burning but echoing—like a bell still ringing long after the hammer has struck.

Something in the air is wrong.

Too warm. Too full. Too recent.

He steps forward, boots echoing faintly against the worn floorboards. A few heads turn. The regulars don’t look twice, but those with sharper instincts go quiet. They know the sound and scent and look of pirate. Wariness hums, then, a familiar aftertaste.

Behind the bar, a young woman pauses, eyes flicking toward the back door. Just a heartbeat too late to be casual. Checking the exit? Or ensuring someone already left through it?

Back door, he thinks. Damn it.

He reaches the spot instinct pulls him toward—an empty chair by the window, still slightly warm. The table smells faintly of salt and ink. He runs his fingers along its edge.

Wooyoung slides in beside him with two mugs, one already half-empty.

“She was here,” Hongjoong murmurs.

“How do you know?”

“Instinct,” Seonghwa says, joining them without needing the full explanation.

“The sea held its breath,” Hongjoong adds.

He sets his hands flat on the table. The wood pulses beneath his palm, faint but undeniable.

She was here. Close enough to reach. Close enough to call.

He exhales slowly, then taps the table twice—soft. Not frustration. Something closer to reverence.

“She’s in Stormwind,” he says. “We’re finally in the right place.”

Yunho joins them at last, settling into one of the chairs and stealing a mug from Wooyoung. The younger’s protests go ignored. Yunho sips, gaze fixed on the back door.

“Then we wait.”

The gods know they have enough time.

Stormwind breathes differently today.

It’s not the weather. Not really. The clouds overhead are slow and swollen, but no rain falls. The scent of it remains, a subtle threat on the horizon. The air isn’t warm, but it isn’t cold either.

Still, something in it presses against your skin like static—like the sky is waiting for someone to make the first move before unleashing its deluge.

You cross the market square with your satchel slung across your shoulder, coins tucked into your sleeve for errands. The fishmongers shout. Children dart between carts. A street fiddler plays a song that can’t quite keep its tempo. Familiar. Known.

But beneath it all, a feeling builds.

Tension. Like the moment before a wave crashes.

You run your errands as planned.

You barter for fresh parchment, inspect a shipment of glass map cases that arrived cracked, exchange a few tight words with the vendor who delivered them.

All routine.

But the feeling doesn’t go away.

It gets worse when you pass the dockmaster’s steps.

You pause there out of habit—checking the board for incoming ships, scanning the tide tables. You don’t even realize your hand drifts to your ribs, to where the compass rose rests hidden under linen and leather.

Still no burn.

But you feel watched, and the itch from the night before remains.

You glance down the dock, and that’s when you see the first one.

A tall man near the edge of the harbor, hands in his coat pockets. Lean and quiet. His dark eyes sweep the crowd like he’s reading every soul that passes.

You don’t know why he catches your attention, but he does.

His gaze slips right past you, leaving you with an unpleasant shiver along your spine.

You move on, trying to disregard him.

Only a few minutes later, you see another.

Different man. Shorter, broader, a braid wrapped around one hand. He’s talking with a dockhand, but the conversation is stilted. Wrong. Like his words are just a formality while his eyes scan the crowd.

Another one appears an hour later, seated near the outdoor cafe where you pause to eat. This one reads a book upside down.

You start to feel watched, even though none of them so much as look at you twice. Then you shake your head firmly, as though to dislodge the sensation.

You tell yourself Stormwind always has newcomers.

You tell yourself not to be ridiculous.

You tell yourself you’re just tired.

But when you stop by the tide markers just before sunset, the sea doesn’t speak. Not even in rhythm.

It’s waiting.

And you don’t know what for.

The mark doesn't burn.

It pulls.

A soft, steady ache beneath his ribs—less like fire and more like gravity. A sense of this way, and not much more. Not loud. Not urgent.

Just sure.

The others fan out across Stormwind.

They move quickly, each in their own rhythm. Wooyoung is charming, too charming. San asks questions with a smile that makes people forget he’s dangerous. Yunho blends in until he doesn’t. Mingi remains on the docks, a silent and observant sentry near the gangplank.

But Hongjoong?

He walks.

Unhurried.

He lets the city speak, keeping an open ear to the secrets it divulges.

The paper vendor is first.

He steps beneath the awning and lets his gaze drift over the stall—neat rolls stacked beside hand-bound books and pots of ink sealed with wax. The scent is jarring against the salt-soaked air. A woman nearby is arguing over a shipment delay, her words crisp with quiet authority.

He listens. Doesn’t interrupt.

She departs before he asks a single question, but she leaves behind a ledger. He skims it—briefly. A name. A commission. Sea-chart vellum.

Freshly bought.

He smiles, faintly.

She maps. Good.

He moves on, like a hound following a scent. The trader with the broken glass comes next.

Hongjoong leans beside the crates, folding his arms, watching the man fumble with the fragments. His curses are creative. His story is louder than it needs to be.

“Some girl damn near tore my ear off earlier. Wants her coin back for these.”

“Why don’t you give it to her?” Hongjoong asks, tone light.

“Not until she brings the rest of the set back. I got my pride.”

“Clearly.”

He leaves without pressing, the man already forgotten.

The café is quiet by the time he gets there.

He doesn’t sit. Doesn’t eat. He only stands, one hand resting lightly on the back of a chair.

There’s a water ring on the table. A single crumb where bread was torn and eaten. Faint traces of ink and salt still cling to the wood.

She sat here. Recently.

He breathes in, slow. There’s something else, too. Not perfume. Not flowers.

Just… presence.

Like the pause before thunder.

He doesn’t chase it. He lets it settle. Lets her path unwind. She’s not trying to be seen. But she’s not hiding either. Her route follows logic. Routine.

“You’re meticulous,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “I like that.”

Hongjoong moves on, fingers dragging over the back of the chair before falling away. He walks with the same unhurried pace as he has all day, ignoring the looks of those who recognize a pirate for what he is. Down a side street and between the buildings until the pull strengthens with nearness.

The trail ends where it should. Not at a tavern. Not at the sea.

But here—on a quiet stretch of cobbled street tucked just far enough from the market’s noise to offer privacy, but close enough for convenience. Practical, smart, and undoubtedly occupied.

The cartographer’s shop sits low and wide, older than it looks. Salt eats at the stone around the corners. The sign is faded, but the windows are clean. The ledgers are stacked. A weathered old man works at the desk, slow and intentional.

Hongjoong lingers just across the street. He doesn’t approach. Doesn’t step inside.

Instead, he lifts his gaze, following that pull.

There—movement in the upper window. A flicker of shape behind thin, sun-warped glass. Not enough to see her clearly. Just enough to know:

She’s here.

Alive. Moving. Working.

He watches for a moment. Not to intrude, just to observe.

He sees the outline of a hand press briefly to the windowpane—an ink-dark smudge on the glass—and then retreat. A shadow moves past. The silhouette of a desk. A stool.

She’s back at her worktable.

Of course she is, he thinks.

He stays until the light begins to change, until the sea-salt wind picks up again and the sound of evening footfalls returns to the street.

Then he turns. Not defeated. Not impatient.

“Soon,” he murmurs, more to the street than to himself.

Approaching her here—her home, her chosen place—would only unsettle her. The sea didn’t lead him this far to make her feel cornered.

He will wait. Let her see him first. Let her decide.

Like Yunho said- they have time to wait.

The captain carries on at last, strolling down the cobbles and toward the harbor. A jaunty tune follows in his wake, made haunting by his choice of key as he hums. He has a feeling that the wait won’t be long.

The ink dries slowly tonight.

The mist outside has thickened into a weight, the kind that creeps into bones and warps parchment edges. You shift the chart you're working on toward the lantern’s light, brow furrowed in concentration.

The tide overlays aren’t cooperating.

Neither is your focus.

There’s a hum beneath the quiet—something not quite audible, but present all the same. A pressure in the air. A pull beneath your skin. Your ribs itch again.

You don’t know why.

You set your compass down, flex your hand, glance out the window. And freeze.

The harbor is still visible from your room—just barely, framed between two crooked shops across the street. The light is fading, but not fast enough to hide the silhouette that’s settled at the docks.

A ship.

Black sails. Dark hull. Sleek. Silent.

Unfamiliar.

Wrong.

It shouldn’t be there, and you don’t know why you know that. But the sight of it sends a shiver up your spine so sharp you nearly knock your ink pot over reaching for the sill.

You lean closer, breath held.

The ship isn’t moving. It rocks gently with the current, but no crew walks its deck. No banner marks its name. No noise rises from its hold. It squats in the water, framed perfectly by the view from your window.

And the sea?

The sea is quiet.

Too quiet.

Like it’s holding its breath.

Just like you.

You straighten, slowly.

The rational part of your mind—the part that catalogs tide shifts and calculates coordinates—tries to write it off. Just another ship. Just another docking.

But your fingers have curled into the window’s edge, and your mark has started to sting.

Faintly. Dull. Like an echo from somewhere deep below the tide.

You draw the curtain and step back, the ship now hidden from view. Even then, the feeling of being watched lingers. It remains after you blow out the lantern and crawl under the blankets. Unsettling and unwavering, like eyes in the darkness.

The ship is silent.

That’s the first thing you register. Not the sway beneath your feet, not the chill in the air, not even the unfamiliar slant of lantern-light against water-dark wood.

Just the quiet.

No gulls.

No waves.

No crew.

Only the sound of the ship breathing—in with the tide,��out with the wind.

You know where you are before you turn.

Black sails. Weather-worn deck. Masts creaking like old bones.

The ship from the harbor.

You stand at its center, barefoot on damp planks, heart hammering behind your ribs. The air smells like sea brine and something older. Deeper. The kind of stillness that doesn’t come from peace—but from waiting.

You don’t know why you walk toward the bow. Only that your feet move of their own accord, carrying you past closed doors and shadow-draped railings. Every step lands too soft.

Like you’re not meant to be heard. Like you’re not alone.

Like there’s something just out of sight.

You feel it more than see it. Like the heaviness in the air before a lightning strike. Like a hand at your back that hasn’t touched you yet.

Your soulmark pulses.

Once.

Twice.

Harder.

You stop.

You don’t want to look. You don’t want to know.

But you hear it.

Soft.

Slow.

A breath, right beside your ear.

“I’ve found you.”

You wake with a strangled gasp, tangled in your blankets, breath fogging the air around you.

Your skin is cold.

Your ribs are burning.

And outside, though you can’t see it through the closed curtain, the black-sailed ship rocks gently in the harbor.

Waiting.

#ateez #ateez fanfic #ateez writing #jay writes fanfic #roderickprime #ateez au #pirate hongjoong #hongjoong x reader #hongjoong #hongjoong fic #long post #tidebound au

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bluey0petal · 4 months ago

Text

Notes: Chapter rewrite || 3rd Person POV || Longer Chapter || Not proofread || snow day!

CW: Fishlegs my guy!

Tags: hiccup x reader, how to train your dragon, httyd, canon divergence, hiccup fanfic, hiccup haddock, httyd fanfic, httyd hiccup, Norse mythology, dragons

Word count: 5267

Masterlist

Part 8

“DISPARATE” — Chapter 7

ᚢᚾᛞᚨᚱᛚᛁᚷᚱ ᛊᛏᛖᛁᚾ

Finally, today was a day where she was not purged with the early morning awakening like the other days of training. She was able to stay tucked beneath her furs and curl up like a babe in her bed, wrapped in warmth and settling comfortably in the land of sleep.

Training didn't start until the late afternoon, and so she was able to sleep in, let the morning pass by, the roosters call out until their throats were sore— and only when she was thoroughly rested should she get up, taking this day to—

"(NAME) GET UP! THE TRADERS ARE HERE!" The ecstatic voice of Ruffnut barged through her door, and she shot up in her bed at the rude but helpful intrusion— her heart speaking with her own sense of excitement at the announcement.

The traders were here! They weren't expected to return to Berk until after winter— so this was a gift from the gods! A final trade for the season, and hopefully all kinds of new wares would be available on the docked ships.

She could only imagine the vastly different items loaded onboard, and she couldn't help but wonder if a certain trader had returned for yet another year of successful trading to the isle of Berk. Without wasting another second, she leapt from her bed, rushing around and scampering like a scuttling rat to get ready, dashing around the house in dizzying patterns.

"I'll be there in a sec!" She called out, just to make sure the twin knew she was up, and right as she finished doing her hair once more, she snagged her little bag of gold she'd managed to save before bounding over to her door, pushing it open to find Ruffnut and Astrid waiting behind it.

A cold breeze swept in, intruding her house once again as the winters cool air forced itself inside, but today it didn't phase her— because she was too busy jumping up and down on the inside with a hope of going on a shopping spree with what little gold she'd managed to earn.

"Finally. Everything's going to be bought out if we don't get there—" Ruffnut grumbled, and as if Astrid agreed silently, the blonde grabbed (Name's) wrist and they all began to run down through the village, making their way down rickety stairs and growing closer to the salty smell of the sea as they did so.

By the time they passed the gate to the docks, they could already hear bartering and bustling of trades down below, and over the edge of the high up walkway— they could see three ships docked amongst the Berkian longships, all with the remaining Vikings in the village crowding around them.

(Name) peered closely; looking down at the traders who stood on their boats, and from what she could see— they were the ones that always frequented Berk, so it made sense for them to come back for one final visit.

Aksel, a man who usually sold anything crafting related; stones, gems, woods— anything you'd need to make things, he was the guy to go to.

Bodil, he was a little bit all over the place... but he mainly sold foods— and a little bit of rocks here and there, though he wasn't as much of an expert on them as was Aksel, so he stuck to selling off baby potatoes and meat.

Finally, the trader everyone had been hoping for Jòhann was the last ship in the line, and also owned the ship with the longest wait towards it. Jòhann sold all kinds of wares, from treasures far off in the seas to contraptions given to him by other islands.

He was a popular trader and one of Berk's most trusted associates, so it made sense as to why he'd managed to make one more trip to Berkiya before the ice had settled over the ocean.

The three young girls arrived at the loud dock, the waves lapping at the underneath of the planks and the particular stench of salt and unwashed Vikings invading their nose, a... interesting smell to say the very least.

Anywho, they glanced around curiously, each of them having brought their own bag of saved gold— each holding various amounts of the precious stone melted into coins.

Out of them all, Astrid probably had the most saved up— the girl didn't want for much, and it meant she'd had a plentiful amount to spend when she did want something, say a new knife to try that had interested her, or maybe something like a new whetstone with a higher quality that had come by.

(Name) was a little in between when it came to the shopping spree route— and while she had a decent amount saved to spend, she would spend a hefty amount of it if she saw something that caught her eye.

Ruffnut had to be the worst spender she out of them all, always making the highest bets in their small gambles with one another and not afraid to quote literally buy anything in sight, even if it was just to spite her brother... so. It's safe to say her pouch of gold only carried maybe... uh— two coins.

The crowd was thick as they approached, and it looked like they weren't able to get through— had they not squeezed their way through every gap they spotted. Yeah uh... passing by meaty Vikings wasn't fun, and they were sent a rather fair amount of glares and curses, but they did reach the front of the crowd eventually, and whoever is first gets dibs.

"What're you guys going to get?" Astrid asked, the other two, all three of them waiting for the trade ships to officially open up— which would hopefully be soon.

"I'm not sure... maybe some new arm warmers," (Name) shrugged, placing her hands on her hips as if to show off her current ones that she wore, the thick wool warming her hands and keeping them from freezing over.

"Seriously? That's all you ever buy. Try something new for once," Ruffnut rolled her eyes, her tone a grumbled and (Name) turned to look at the girl.

"Well what are you getting?" The question from (Name) came out rather snappy, but it was likely on purpose considering her collection of arm warmers had just been insulted, at least, it felt like it had been.

"A pet Yak," Ruffnut shrugged, and her answer caused the other two to become puzzled, brows furrowing in sync.

"But— you don't own a farm," Astrid pointed out, and Ruffnut merely shrugged, seemingly not bothered by the fact she didn't actually have a place to put said pet Yak she wanted.

"Yeah but me and Tuffnut lost the last one," she hummed, looking down at her nails and picking at her cuticles, not noticing the quizzical look Astrid and (Name) shared between one another.

"Okay then..." (Name) mumbled, looking away from Astrid to the boats— that of which had lowered their planks onto the docks, allowing the rowdy group of Vikings to finally step aboard whichever ship they desired to.

Lines quickly dispersed, and everyone went their own seperate ways to the ship they desired— lessening the heavy crowd and allowing for more movement as they did so.

Astrid had walked off to Aksel's ship, as expected of the lass who was mostly interested in practical items. Though, Ruffnut and (Name) had gone into Bodil's ship together— seeing as they both didn't have anything in particular they wanted and were probably just going to browse the isles.

The inside of the ship was a tad crowded, the two girls and about three other Vikings inside the lower deck— but it was doable nonetheless, and they begun their hunt for anything relatively interesting, eyes scanning the multiple displays.

The soft rocking of the ship on the waves set a serene mood, along with the cold air, allowing a calm to fizzle over those inside, only ever upgraded to excitement when they saw something that particularly sparked their interest.

"Dude— look at that, what kind of apple looks like that?" Ruffnut grabbed (Name's) shoulder, pulling her to look at a stock of apples that had a rather peculiar shape, one that pulled a giggle out of (Name) herself.

"I wonder who grew that..." she added, but the silly moment was short lived as they moved onto the next items, eyes droving the next lot of food that was placed into wooden crates.

Ruffnut in particular seemed surprisingly interested in this lot— the food being sea bass, and while the reasons were unknown, the girl was immediately reaching to grab one of the fish in her hands, the slimy texture of their scales not bothering her.

She wrenched it from its school, and stared at it with delight, a gleam in her eyes. "This'll go so well with my other one!" She grinned, and (Name) didn't even have a chance to quiz her on the fact she supposedly had a second before she sped off to Bodil, already pulling out what little she had left to purchase the fish.

(Name) shook her head softly, turning back to the other contents in the ships belly, and she scanned her surroundings for anything interesting. So far, nothing had quite peaked her interest fully— all she really paid attention to was the other Vikings inhabiting the insides of the under deck with her.

As her eyes scanned across the limited crowd, they spotted the bulky figure of Fishlegs, the boy hovering over some items she couldn't see, thanks to his figure blocking them out. At the sight of him, a tad bit of curiosity was sparked, and she walked over to the boy, inquisitive as to what he may be looking at.

"Hey Fishlegs," she greeted, coming to stand beside the murmuring boy, and he jolted at the sudden appearance, having been too involved in muttering strange words to himself that she couldn't make out.

"Oh! (Name)! Hi!" He smiled nervously, fiddling with his hands, but despite his awkward demeanour, (Name) herself didn't seem bothered by it, just returning the smile with one of her own.

"What're you looking at?" She turned to the shelf, eyes locking on the array of rocks the boy had been standing before, and he nervously shifted on his feet, looking back to the collection himself.

"I was just looking at these rocks. I've already seen Aksel's boat, but he was too expensive... so I thought I'd take a look here," he nodded to the rocks, and (Name) listened along, intrigued by the varying collection.

Most of the rocks were a dull grey, some varying into browns with others shifting into sprawling greens, but other than that; they vastly all looked the same. Except for one... a dull blue rock— with a slight shimmering speckle to it, the glimmer of it drawing her attention.

"Do you collect them?" She asked, reaching to the shelf and prying the blue rock from it, feeling the light weight of it within her palm. It wasn't a very large rock, fitting just into the ball of her palm, but it was pretty, and if it was pretty... she wanted it.

Fishlegs perked at the question, a new light sparking inside of him and his posture visibly straightened, a smile stretching onto his face. "Yes! I— I've always loved to learn about different stones. This one over here— I'm pretty sure it's Limestone, and this one looks like Granite! You can tell from three main factors, the strength, shine and texture."

Fishlegs had begun rambling on, and his words gushed from his mouth like a never ending stream— spewing endless lines of information that (Name) gladly absorbed into her brain, eyes drawing to the stones he gestured to, looking over the facts he named.

"What about this one?" She held up the rock in her hand to him, showing the strangely round stone off to the boy. He paused, staring at the rock and narrowing his eyes, scrutinising the stones complexion.

"I think— it looks like a stone with maybe flecks of Azurite? Maybe Sapphire," he shrugged, and (Name) withdrew the rock back to herself, looking down at the stone in her hands with a newfound awe.

She'd heard of such stones only through passing ships and fleeting conversations. Apparently such gems were expensive— used for necklaces belonging to those of 'royalty', as those on the mainland called it.

If this stone truly did contain such items, now she definitely wanted it. She may not be a greedy person, but when she had an expensive stone sitting right in her hands, with the possibility of it being cheap, damn well is she going to take it.

"Thanks Fishlegs— you keep shopping," she placed a hand on his shoulder, patting the leather of his tunic while simultaneously walking away, her eyes on the rock in her hand.

Fishlegs watched her stroll off to the upper deck, her hand slipping from his shoulder, and he kept a smile on his face before turning back to the collection of stones, beginning to squabble over them once again.

"the fish costs three coins— no bargaining!" Bodil scowled, his hands roughly placed on his hips as he bickered with a certain blonde in front of him, the girl snapping back at the trader with with an equal ferocity, a fish gripped tightly in her hand.

Bodil was a rather tall man, and for a trader, he wasn't bad looking. His tunic was a dark meringue, dirtied with oil and tied off around his waist with thick ropes, multiple items made of metal hanging from the makeshift item.

His pants were bagging, a black that faded to a washed out grey towards the end, and eventually tucked into thick fur boots that were common this side of the archipelago.

His face was square, defined but old and scraggly— with a curly black beard sprouting from the lengths of his chin, tied into multiple braids. His hair atop his head was trimmed short, well kept— unlike most and Vikings and he seemed to be in a decent condition for a trader, the only thing putting him off was the scowl taking place on his expression as he bickered with Ruffnut.

"One coin! It's a damn fish! How could it cost three coins!?" The scene the two were making was surely an entertaining one, but at this rate— Bodil was just boot everyone right off his ship, and that wasn't a good look for Berk, nor was it good for (Name) seeing as she still wanted to buy the stone.

Walking up to the two, she reached her free hand into her gold pouch tied to her waist and pulled out three coins, stopping next to Ruffnut and extending the coins to the man.

"Three coins. And... how much for this?" She interrupted the two, and they turned to her, Bodil looking as if he were judging the gold, while Ruffnut seemed more so surprised (Name) had decided to pay for her. After all, three gold was expensive, especially for a damn fish.

Bodil's eyes flickered to her other hand, extending the rock, and then back to Ruffnut, before finally landing on (Name) once again, his expression still displeased. "Four gold in total," he grumbled, and extended his hand to the girl.

(Name) reached back inside the expanse of her pouch and pulled out an extra coin, dropping the final charge in the man's hand and he gleefully clasped his fingers around the coins, withdrawing them towards him quickly.

"Get yer friend under control. She's annoying as a rats ass," he sneered, and (Name) sent the man a glare at the insult, but in the end grabbed Ruffnut by her hand and drew her off of the ship with her, sighing at the encounter.

"What a bitch..." Ruffnut grumbled, looking over her shoulder at the trader who grew further away, the two walking over the plank and stepping back onto the docks, allowing other Vikings who'd been waiting a while to finally let themselves into the ship.

"Thanks for buying my fish though— Tuffnut's gonna be so jealous," she smirked, nudging (Name) gently with her shoulder before slipping her hands out of hers, going to admire the fish held in her other hand as they walked together.

"No problem... I just— don't get why you wanted that fish so bad though," (Name) shrugged, sending a curious glance over to the side where Ruffnut walked alongside her, the two eventually stopping a little ways up the docks, away form the commotion and out of everyone's way.

"Because it's salted sea bass. Duh. Me and Tuffnut have a whole collection of them," Ruffnut shrugged, her tone condescending as if having a whole collection of dead fish was something that was common. But— her antics weren't questioned by (Name), seeing as it was normal for Ruffnut.

"What did you get?" Ruffnut suddenly asked, and it forced the attention on the rock clasped in (Name's) hand, making the girl raise it up to get a look at it again. "A rock," she showed Ruffnut the rock, and Ruffnut deadpanned immediately.

"A rock? That sounds like something that Fishlegs would get. That's sooo laaaammeee," she groaned, but her words weren't really offensive as intended, seeing as (Name) had indeed consulted Fishlegs when purchasing the item.

"Well, you told me to get something different... so," (Name) smiled softly, before raising the rock and shoving it within her scarf, her arms growing tired of having the weight clasped in her hands constantly.

It sat neatly within the folds of her furred scarf, and she could barely even feel it sitting there— more focused on stretching her fingers that had nearly frozen while curled around the stone, thanks to the icy winds.

"Yeah but... a rock? I expected better from you," she rolled her eyes, looking away down the dock, only to spot the figure of Astrid finally leaving Aksel's ship. "Hey Astrid!" Ruffnut yelled, and it drew the attention of the other blonde— snapping her head to the two standing off to the side.

Astrid held something in her hand, and as she grew closer to her friends, they were able to see it was a rather nice looking knife, the leather of the handle being treated and the blade polished, freshly sharpened and shining.

"You done looking?" (Name) asked, and Astrid's eyes flickered to her knife before looking back at the girls and nodding calmly. "Yeah, there wasn't much... same old stuff, but I decided to get this," she showed off the blade she'd bought, and (Name) and Ruffnut looked with a hint of admiration at the sheer quality of the item.

"Woah— I bet on Loki that you spent your entire stash on that," Ruffnut gaped, and it seemed like her bet may have been somewhat true, thanks to the obviously smaller pouch hanging off of Astrid's skull lined belt.

"Ten gold," Astrid shrugged, pulling the knife back to herself and slipping it into the confines of her belt, hiding the new weapon. "TEN GOLD!? Oh þór I think I'm going to faint..." (Name) wheezed, nearly spluttering into a coughing fit at the sheet rock that hit both her and Ruffnut.

The blade was pretty and good quality, sure— but ten gold was A LOT. Like— a lot, a lot. If she could spend ten gold and still have enough left over that she didn't even flinch, just how rich had Astrid become...?

The girls shook off their surprise, recovering from the block of shock that had hit them and returning to their previous demeanour. "Anyway... will you use it in training this afternoon?" (Name) asked, and Astrid shook her head, crossing her arms.

"No, I just wanted it for my collection."

...

"Donate to the poor please."

❝Oh my gods.❞

"Alright laddies, today's lesson is about teamwork! A wet dragon head can't light its fire. The Hideous Zippleback is extra tricky. One of t'e head breathes gas, while the other lights it. Yer lots job is to know which is which,"

The arena was a familiar place by now. A prison in which they had to practically fight for their lives— learning about the threats of the real world in a contained manner. Gas swirled around, the misty and heavy fog blocking everyone's vision as they all stood as close to their partners as possible.

The stench was horrendous, and noses turned up as the smell of the gas reached them, sneering in disgust at the fog. Snotlout and Tuffnut had been paired with one another, either boys standing side by side and rotating in a synchronised manner as they observed the fog obscuring their vision.

Fishlegs could be heard muttering from somewhere far off— and the small bickering of the girls was audible from nearby, though what the two teens focused on was the chittering coming from the fog, a guttural stutter that sent them constantly looking in different directions, hands gripping tight to the water pales in their hands.

"Where is it?" Snotlout asked the other boy, but neither had an answer, whirling around nervously while the water sloshed at the edges of their buckets, some spilling over the edges.

The fogs illusion made it seem as if there was something at every turn— and there was no true way to tell what was what, a figure that may look like a dragon soon disappearing into winding swirls.

"I don't know—" Tuffnut grumbled, his eyes scanning the fog before landing on a darkened section, his eyes widening at the two horns protruding from the outline. "There!" He yelled, turnings Snotlout's attention to the silhouette, and they both snapped in its direction, throwing their buckets at the same time, dispersing the fog between them and the mystery object.

"Hey—! It's just us you idiots!" Ruffnut yelled, the fog parting to reveal the three girls, now drenched in water that had been sloppily splashed on them, and boy— if looks could kill, Snotlout and Tuffnut would be ashes.

"Are you guys blind?" Astrid snapped at them both, though it seemed the anger radiating from the three did nothing to upset the boys, only pulling a smile onto their faces.

"Your butts are getting bigger! We thought you were a dragon," Tuffnut snickered to himself, and the comment only pulled deeper frowns onto the girls faces. "Not that there's anything wrong with a... dragon-esque figure," Snotlout followed up, but it only served to get him 'snotted' in the face by Astrid, making him drop his bucket and Tuffnut being splattered with water by Ruffnut.

"Ruffnut— don't waste your water on them!" (Name) hissed, and her shushing tone was convenient as the next moment Astrid held her hand up, making the other girls stop in their place. "Wait," Astrid looked back to them, everything stilling as they listened to the surroundings— but nothing was heard, not until they yelled in fear as a tail swept under them, knocking them off of their feet and dousing them in another round of water.

"OH IM HURT! IM AM VERY MUCH HURT!"

"Chances of survival are dwindling into the single digits now..." Fishlegs shoved closer to Hiccup, the two having heard the yells of fear from the other side of the ring— and they could only look around at the shrouding gas, trying to find some kind of breakage in the thick mist.

Out of the mist they scrutinised carefully, a head lurched forward, slithering its way through the air and appearing from seemingly nowhere. It was attached to a long neck, and the green scales of its brown dotted hide glimmered in what light shone down into the arena, the dragon chittering as it looked towards Fishlegs.

Fishlegs let out a small squeak, nearly dropping his bucket— and both him and Hiccup jumped back to put some distance between them and the head, piercing yellows eyes gleaming into them.

In a spur of the moment, Fishlegs threw his bucket forward, flitting water onto the dragon and it flinched, shaking off the droplets before turning its now agitated attention back to the Viking who'd thrown the pales contents.

It snarled, and as its jaw opened green gas sprayed, similar to the one shrouding them but more vibrant in colour— and... much worse in terms of smell. "Oh... wrong head," Fishlegs blinked, and once more a seemingly endless stream of green smoke was sprayed at him, the hiss of gas against fresh air setting goosebumps on the poor boys skin.

"AHHHHHHHH!!" He let out a shrill girlish scream as the second head appeared; holding the empty bucket high above his head and darting away in fear.

"FISHLEGS!" Gobber yelped in concern, small sparks igniting from the seconds toothed maw, and the boy managed to jump away— leaving the two heads attentions to turn to the last contender. Hiccup.

He stood small amongst the heads, and their slit pupils snapped to him, the boy holding his bucket close to himself with uncertainty. "Now Hiccup!" Gobber urged the boy to act, and Hiccup shifted on his feet, not knowing if to move or not, or that's what it seemed.

Finally, he adjusted his hold on the wooden bucket before surging it upwards, attempting to soak the head that let sparks fly from between its teeth— but his throw was pitiful, and it only let the water land down on the floor, with an even more angered dragon before him.

Panic surged through the arena, and Gobber jumped forwards, his eyes wide and filled with fear of the worst as the Zippleback reared up and opened its mouth. "HICCUP!" He cried, warning the boy of the impact to come, but the expected combustion of oranges and black smoke never came.

Instead, the fog was flapped away as the large form of the Zippleback lurched away in fear, Hiccup raising to stand more confident— hide hands beckoning the beast backwards, and it obeyed. It actually obeyed him.

"Back— back, back. That's right. Don't make me tell you again," his words word stern, uncharacteristically so for the runty boy and those around could only watch in an utter stupor, jaws slacks with shock as Hiccup the Useless somehow began to coerce a Zippleback to follow his orders.

Its frills struck out, and it hissed in agitation, but still it kept lurching backwards as Hiccup strode towards it, directing it back into the embedded cell that was carved into the wall, the dragon going as far back as it could— even doing so much as to press itself up against the back wall, its feet slipping against the ground as it constantly tried to escape from Hiccup's presence.

"What is he doing...?" (Name) heard Snotlout murmur next to her, but she herself couldn't even answer as she watched with the others as Hiccup commanded the dragons back into its holding cell, only a flash of yellow catching her attention before he was pulling the larger swinging doors shut, slamming the metal hunks of slab together.

The way he'd commanded the dragons so swiftly left a silence hanging over the arena; and Hiccup turned, his innocent face still tucked in the safety of his red scarf. To look so innocent yet so something that made you look so suspicious should be criminal, and the alarm bells were ringing loudly right now.

That was it. Tomorrow— she was seeing what the hell this was about. She'd ignored it for too long.

"So... are we done here? Because... I've uh— I've gotta... go," Hiccup smiled, having turned back around to the line of stumped people, slowly and awkwardly stepping away.

He'd just ended the training sessions early— again. How did he keep doing this? It was perplexing. Hiccup had slowly begun to gain skills, and it seemed she wasn't the only one who noticed it, but she was the only suspicious one.

Maybes it's because she saw that blackened spot fall from the sky that morning, and she'd saw the supposed crash sight— maybe that's why she found him even more strange than he was before.

The irony was bitter honestly. Hiccup had somehow gotten better at what everyone wanted him to be good at, and even she had someday hoped the boy would come to join the rest of the teens level someday— but the moment he did, she couldn't help the churn of her gut, the twist of her heart that spurred in a strange way.

She'd been so enraptured in her head that she hadn't even noticed just how far she'd walked after training until she came face to face with her huts door, her own self standing on the porch and boring a blank stare into the wooden planks, as if asking them for answers, but she didn't receive an answer.

She'd shook her head, bringing herself back to reality— and stepped inside, the door shutting behind her. The house was cold on the inside, the fire having dimmed out during the day, and she sighed at the chill, hoping to come home to a warmed house.

Yet, since her parents were still gone, she was left to stroll over to the coals, grabbing the poker and using the metal stick to shift the hot rocks, listening as the sizzled when heating back up again.

Orange began to simmer beneath the charred fuel, and she placed the poker back into its holder, this time reaching over for a log of pre-chopped fire wood, throwing it into the growing blaze and watching as the bark slowly was set alight, burning bright as time passed by.

Her form collapsed on the stiff leather of the couch, and she sunk back into the hardened seats, her eyes staring up at the ceiling lit up with orange.

Her thoughts flashed with Hiccup, and a turmoil stirred within her, unresolved and poking at her insides, nagging her until she focused on it again every-time her attention was drawn to something else.

Reaching in to her furred scarf, she pulled out the stone from before, the light weight rock now warm— nicely so as she held it within her hands, glancing down to it and sighing heavily.

"Is he being suspicious or am I just crazy?" Perhaps the latter was true, considering how she'd begun to vent her feelings to the recently bought stone, but she'd heard rumours of Fishlegs having rock pets, so what was so wrong with her having one?

"I mean— he's definitely hiding something. Like, how does he get that good! I know I'm not insane! You don't think I'm insane right?" She threw her other arm in exaggeration; and at her last words she turned her gaze back down to the rock, a silence stilling as an answer was waited for.

...

"Gods... who am I kidding. I'm talking to a rock, maybe I am crazy," she grumbled, running her free hand down her face as to rub away the irritation buzzing under her skin like flies that kept coming back after every swat.

"Maybe I should go talk to Astrid..." she mumbled to herself, eyes drifting away to the blazing hearth, emitting a warmth that mellowed out the nipping insides of her house.

"Yeah— she's always brutally honest," (Name) nodded to herself, rock still in hand as she looked back at the blue stone once again.

CRACK.

What.

#hiccup x reader #how to train your dragon #httyd #canon divergence #hiccup fanfic #hiccup haddock #httyd fanfic #httyd hiccup #norse mythology #dragons

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elminx · 4 days ago

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Supermarket Spells: Black Sesame Mochi - Edible Charm Bag For Immediate Prosperity

This is part of @windvexer's Modern Folk Magic Challenge: Premade Supermarket Spells prompt.

I was immediately intrigued by this idea, but it's actually really far out of my wheelhouse. As a person with a lot of food restrictions, my partner and I make the vast majority of the food we eat from scratch so that we can control precisely what is in it. I don't believe that it has to be that way at all to create good kitchen magic; that's just the reality of my life.

This prompt got me thinking about spell bags, and how much I love them, but struggle to bring them with me to the places where they would be the most helpful. Which got me to thinking: my digestive track holds things really well for what, a day or two? What if I enchanted an edible spell bag and ate it right before I needed the magic?

Enter my obsession of this week, Trader Joe's new seasonal Black Sesame Mochi Ice Cream

They are tiny little packages of Black Sesame ice cream in a pouch made from sweet rice. Behold our magical spell bags!

After taking out the filler ingredients and the emulsifiers, we are left with four main ingredient types: the cream(s), the cane sugar, black sesame seeds, and sweet rice. Three of those four ingredients are directly associated with prosperity.

Now, I'll be real with you here, black sesame mochi ice cream might be an acquired taste. If it's not your thing, that's completely okay. Just don't do this spell. We want positive money-drawing work to taste amazing. Divine, even. Maybe even a little bit bougie. Black Sesame seed ice cream mochi does that for me; your experience may vary.

Now I have my ingredients, and I know what they are meant to be.

The last is to make it happen. Here, I wish to employ very simple techniques: sigilry and repetitive chanting. Choose a symbol that represents money to you; it may be a dollar sign, a euro, a sigil for prosperity, or the rune Fehu. If possible, use a sigil you've worked with before because that creates a connection point between you and it.

You are going to draw your sigil onto the top of your mochi as you hold it in your left hand. This can be done energetically, with a knife, with edible glitter, or frosting. Really feel the symbol sink into the mochi; you should be able to feel it in your hand when you are done. If you are using a rune like Fehu or another sigil that benefits from speaking its name to awaken it, do so at this time.

Then, speak a chant to bring money or prosperity over your spell packet, slowly and repetitively, 9 times. Let your words sink into your object; feel them awaken the innate properity in the sugar, the black sesame, and the rice. Load your pouch with the words.

This can be as simple as this basic money chant:

Money, Money, Money Come to Me Full of Abundance Three Times Three

Optional addition: I do this type of enchant with additional energy working where I work my energy into the energy of the pound/mochi in a figure 8 pattern, moving it into an out of the mochi and back into my own body - in this case 9 times - I might work this by using Money, money money as the motion to send the energy into the mochi, then come to me as it starts to return from the moch, then full of abundance as it enters my body and three times three as it leaves my body again. If you can't chant and do energy work like this, you can choose one or the other, or you can do them one at a time. Do what works best for you.

After you have completed your chant 9x, eat your mochi.

This spell is best cast on the day of a job interview, when you are asking for a raise, before a shift when you rely on tips, or in any other circumstance where you need to bring your prosperity with you to your work. Because your digestive system breaks down your spell pouch, this spell should be used for immediate prosperity.

The package comes with 6 mochi, so you have six opportunities to do this enchantment, if you can stop yourself from eating them all first.

#supermarket spells #spellcrafting #ice cream mochi #black sesame seed

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signalcli · 21 days ago

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SignalCLI: How Do We Determine Our Trading Zones?

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#crypto #signalcli #futures trading #news #exchange

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angelseraphines · 4 months ago

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THE PHANTOM MENACE | CHAPTER FIVE

“daughter of stars.”

the city of theed gleamed as a jewel reborn.

its domes, once shrouded in smoke and shadow, now caught the light of late afternoon and held it in gold. every marble tower, every colonnade, every river-spanning bridge had been washed clean, the battle’s scars scrubbed away, not erased, but honored, woven into garlands of red and violet, the colors of renewal. the rivers, once devoid of life with the consequences of the blockade, now sparkled with movement. procession barges drifted slow and ceremonial down their winding curves, covered in silken banners that fluttered in the wind like wings.

crowds had gathered in every quarter of the capital, on balconies draped in cloth, on the terraces of towers, along the grand plaza that unfurled before the palace gates. nobility stood shoulder to shoulder with farmers, engineers beside scholars, traders alongside children perched on stone ledges. the people of naboo, once confined in fear, stood now in open celebration. from the gungan high marshes to the cities carved into the hillsides, they had all come. they filled the streets with laughter, with wide-eyed joy, with awe at what had passed, and high esteem for what it had cost.

the skies above were bright with ceremonial escort craft, small and sleek, darting in slow patterns across the blue. their engines trailed light ribbons of silver, arcing through the clouds like comets. music filled the air, not the sharp blare of wartime signals, but something melodic, sweeping. theed’s royal musicians, arrayed in polished robes, played from the palace terrace. the sound carried through the open courtyards on currents of warm winds, horns, strings, percussion, rising and falling like a tide of memory.

the gungans had marched from the forests at dawn, accompanied not by war machines, but by dancers, drummers, and sacred beasts adorned in regal armor. they moved in formation up the central promenade, their banners raised, the rhythmic cadence of their language spoken like poetry into the wind. their warriors bore polished helms and newly burnished shields, but no weapons were drawn. the shields reflected the sun like mirrors, casting light over the crowd. the great kaadu mounts plodded slowly behind, their ornamental harnesses clinking with bells and carved emblems of peace.

naboo’s royal guard had taken to their formal station along the palace walls, no longer in combat stance, but in ceremonial array. their white-and-crimson uniforms gleamed in the light, their staves held upright, their helms crested with feathers, each motion crisp, choreographed, graceful. they stood in honor now, not in defense.

flower petals drifted down from high terraces like snow, pale blue, soft lavender, and the ivory bloom of the lake islands. they floated over the crowds, over the flagstones, catching in hair, falling across shoulders, gathering in the folds of gowns and robes. a breeze stirred them, sending some upward again in spirals before they quelled into silence.

and above it all, the royal palace watched from its hilltop perch, serene and sun-warmed, its great doors open to the world, no longer sealed in isolation.

naboo had gathered not to forget, but to remember, together.

to celebrate not the end of war, but the fragile, precious return of peace.

at the head of the grand procession, upon the white marble dais beneath the clear, open sky, the queen of naboo stood in magnificence, bathed in gold.

padmé amidala, robed in ceremonial white layered with feathers as soft as mist, appeared almost otherworldly beneath the descending sunlight. her headdress, crowned with radiant silver filigree and crescent-shaped crests, rose behind her like a halo. her gown shimmered with embroidered light, each motion releasing a thousand flickers of iridescence, and her face, painted in the traditional symbols of sovereignty, was beautiful, serene, and radiant with triumph. her hands, gloved in fine sheer, were folded lightly before her, though she made no attempt to conceal the pride that lived in her bearing.

to her right stood a small girl no taller than her waist, lady avella otrikus, child of a venerated noble house, draped in deep gray and ivory furs despite the warmth of the day. the girl was regal in miniature, her dark hair parted with precision, and her wide indigo eyes twinkled with solemn fascination as she watched the procession rise up the promenade toward them. she did not speak, but her gloved hand gripped the edge of her cloak with nervous reverence, the way a child might when standing in presence of legend.

clustered behind the queen, standing with measured poise beneath the domed arch of the palace platform, were members of naboo’s most ancient bloodlines and courtly houses. lady hedna kanve of the canal province, adorned in cascading silk of smoky rose and silver, stood with a long veil trailing behind her, her gaze fixed outward with icy detachment. beside her, lady kilea marel, a young woman in pale blue and white, clutched a velvet fan in both hands, though she did not use it, too focused on the ceremony to be comforted by gesture. lady hiarmen rharrellis wore a gown of deep metallic green laced with black filigree, her dark curls swept into a jeweled coronet that glinted with sapphires as she turned her head. her stormy eyes, lined in kohl, moved with languid precision across the gathering, ever watchful, ever unimpressed. further along stood the taller, broad-shouldered lord havric tyrn, a man known more for his bluntness than pageantry, dressed uncharacteristically in formal brocade, the sleeves marked by the gold sigils of his house. his gaze, narrowed beneath thick brows, swept across the assembly not with joy, but scrutiny.

and among them, undeniable in her presence, poised akin to a celestial vision carved from a dream, stood vasharre rharrellis.

her gown was unlike any other present. it shimmered with oceanic hues, deep sapphire, violet, and blue-black silk layered in sheets of sheer gauze that rippled with every tendency of the breeze. clusters of tiny glass crystals were sewn into the bodice and shoulders, catching the sunlight in soft refracted sparks that scattered across her arms and collarbone. her hair had been arranged by ebos’s careful hand into a high, coiled crown of waves, laced through with fine silver wire and inset pearls. long earrings of mother-of-pearl and cut gemstone brushed the curve of her jaw, and the nova star pendant gleamed just above the heartline of her gown, unmistakable, unhidden.

she stood without moving, every detail of her bearing cultivated into tranquility, chin raised, dark lashes lowered, lips soft and composed. beside her, or just a step behind, stood ebos onvene in her own muted finery, her sun-tanned hands folded demurely. no words passed between them, but the handmaiden’s emerald eyes were dignified and vigilant, as ever.

on the far side of the gathering, away from the political assembly and state officials, stood master mace windu in his deep tan robes, arms folded across his chest, the lines of his face unreadable. and beside him, standing straight, dark-haired, his tunic too large at the shoulder, was kraen rharrellis.

her elder brother.

he stood in silence like his master, face turned toward the front, his purple lightsaber still clipped to his side. he was taller than she remembered, older somehow, despite being only a year older than the boy who’d flown into battle. he didn’t smile. he didn’t wave. but he was there.

behind them, to the left in the tiered viewing platform, master yoda had taken his place. seated on a hovering dias, his expression was unreadable save for the faint narrowing of his eyes. his presence was peaceful, nearly imperceptible, an ancient stone resting at the center of the storm.

the crowd’s murmur fell to mere whispers as the great gungan procession reached the steps.

at the head of the column stood boss nass, armored and dignified, his massive form crowned by an ornate headdress of shells, tusks, and colored fabric that swayed with every step. behind him came the gungan guard, flanked by warriors on decorated kaadu, their banners raised in ceremonial arcs of green and gold.

boss nass approached the queen with reverent pride. and in his thick, booming voice, one that echoed through the arches and across the open square, he proclaimed the peace between peoples.

then he reached into the folds of his cloak.

and with both hands, he held out the glowing orb, an artifact of union, of sacred accord, luminous with internal light. the sphere of peace.

padmé stepped forward.

and all of naboo watched as she extended her hands to receive it.

he stood only a short distance away, beyond the edge of the royal assembly, framed against the pale marble colonnade, his figure lit cleanly by the golden hush of the afternoon light. no longer a padawan. no longer the gilded shadow behind a towering master.

obi-wan kenobi.

his robes, though simple, had been freshly pressed, the traditional browns and creams of the jedi order unembellished. the saber at his belt now hung without uncertainty, the braid that had once marked his apprenticeship gone, severed by fire and by grief. his bearing was calm, reserved, restrained, yet altered. the sharpness of youth had been burned down into something polished, something forged. he no longer looked over his shoulder. he no longer waited for instruction.

beside him stood the chosen one. anakin skywalker.

he was dressed in formal garments suited to a padawan learner, his tunic light, his boots new, the leather of his belt unscuffed, his frame still awkward in posture. the short padawan braid had been woven carefully behind his ear, its first thread of tradition barely brushing his collar. his face shone with pride, his wide blue eyes dancing with restrained excitement as he watched the ceremony unfold. and in the midst of the stillness, vasharre saw the split second instance, a traace of warmth exchanged between the queen and the boy, a brief smile shared across the crowd, subtle but unmistakable. padmé’s lips lifted in a sweet skile, and anakin straightened beneath her gaze, beaming in return.

vasharre did not smile.

she watched them, watched him, the man in jedi robes standing in the same place her thoughts kept returning to, and for some period of time, she could not breathe.

a part of her still saw the padawan who had stood with her beneath coruscant’s towers, who had looked her way with clear, careful eyes after the rescue, who had told her without ever saying so that he would not let the darkness take her. but now… he was a jedi knight. an honored defender of the republic.

she had seen his master die.

the celebration, the peace, the mirthful joy in the air, it all began to blur at the peripheries, overexposed by guilt. she remembered qui-gon’s body atop the pyre, shrouded in flame. she remembered the heat on her skin, the scent of burning cloth and flesh, and obi-wan standing at its front, unmoving, silent, with grief locked behind his features like a sealed chamber. she remembered wanting to go to him then. to say something. but no words had come.

and now he stood again just out of reach, touched by the light, but never hers.

“qui-gon jinn was your master,” vasharre whispered under her breath, though no one heard it. “master jinn died saving me. i brought him into that fight.”

ebos heard the the young lady’s hushed words. she moved gently behind vasharre and leaned close, her voice hardly above the wind.

“do not look so long at things that cannot be held, my lady.”

vasharre blinked. her painted nails dug into the pale skin of her palms.

“obi-wan kenobi is a jedi knight now,” ebos murmured. “his path is not his own. and his vows… bind him deeper than affection ever could.”

vasharre did not respond. but she turned her gaze away. slowly.

across the square, at the far end of a smaller delegation beneath the east pavilion, stood her father, lord naem rharrellis, deep in conversation with chancellor palpatine. the two men stood close, cloaked in shadow and sable, their expressions unreadable beneath the masks of politics and poise. whatever passed between them, she could not hear. but she could see the way palpatine inclined his head when he spoke, the way naem occasionally pressed a hand to his chest in thought. they were old friends. and in this scene she observed, they looked like equals.

the atmosphere changed.

vasharre breathed in.

and tried not to look at the jedi knight again.

sheev palpatine’s posture was one of warmth, shoulders inclined, hands folded in the shape of courteous appeal. his voice, though too low to be heard from a distance, moved with the cadences of practiced persuasion.

vasharre’s eyes were fixed on them from across the courtyard.

naem rharrellis stood tall, his face composed, his manner unhurried. there was something about his composure that unsettled her, not evasiveness, but discretion. his tone was modest, controlled. he shook his head once, not in disdain, but in firm refusal. and then, after a beat, he rested one hand briefly over his heart and offered a slight bow.

palpatine inclined his own head in return. not disappointed, not surprised, only thoughtful.

vasharre furrowed her brow, the unease building behind her temples.

he had refused.

they were asking him to return, the people of the galactic republic wanted him to return, and he had turned it down. her father, the beloved senator who had guided naboo through five decades of peace, who had been mourned nearly as fiercely as the queen when they believed both lost during the invasion, who had spoken with the voice of their world across the senate floor, and he had refused.

she turned her head to her handmaiden, whispering. “why won’t my father accept the seat again?”

ebos, who had remained beside her with eyes calmly trained on the front of the assembly, gave her a scolding look.

“you shouldn’t be listening,” she said, her voice chiding but soft. “they are speaking of matters above even your rank.”

“but it’s his seat,” vasharre murmured. “and the chancellor himself is…”

“my lady.” ebos’s tone carried warning now. “this is not the place.”

vasharre looked away, chastened, but her fingers, as if responding to thought before action, rose to her pale neck.

she touched the nova star pendant that lay just beneath her throat, the original, the one she had worn for years, its star-pointed face cool against her skin. it had been present during every chapter of her short life, her naming ceremony, her first court debut, the night her mother died, and today, where naboo had achieved glory and harmony.

but today, for the first time in her young life, she wore both.

the second nova star, kept in a silken box sealed with her mother’s initials, untouched since the funeral, was hidden beneath the fold of her gown, suspended from a longer chain. it pressed gently against her ribs now, where no one could see. it had been her father’s gentle insistence that morning, his only instruction.

“bring them both,” he had said, his voice unreadable as he fastened the clasp at the back of her neck. “you don the emblem of my name, and so it becomes your duty, as heiress of house rharrellis, to guard the pendant your mother loved, until the day it may be entrusted to one deserving of its legacy.”

the nova stars had passed through blood and time, from head of the family to heir for generations unbroken. to wear both was to embody memory. to carry legacy. and yet, the heavier of the two was not the older one, it was the second. because it had once belonged to someone else.

her fingers hovered there a second longer.

then she looked up.

and saw him watching her.

obi-wan kenobi stood in the same place as before, his hands now folded neatly in front of him, his expression calm. but his eyes, so often impeded, unreadable, had found hers. and in them, there was no surprise, no warning, no distance.

only acknowledgment.

he saw her.

and he smiled.

it wasn’t wide. it wasn’t public. it wasn’t for anyone else.

but it was his, and it broke something loose in her chest.

her heart swelled, not with giddiness, not with the fragile, trembling troubles of her girlhood hopes, but with a fullness she couldn’t name. something between gratitude and longing, between loss and peace. and before ebos could take a breath, before propriety could intervene, before her mind could catch up to what her heart had already decided.

she moved.

her silk hem swept behind her as she stepped down from the assembly platform, her eyes fixed forward, her steps even and sure. her injured arm was bound in its sling, but her bearing remained regal, every line of her posture unshaken. ebos’s intake of breath was barely audible over the melodic music and the rustling wind.

“my lady…” the handmaiden started.

but she was already crossing the flagstones. already closing the space between them.

she was already going to him.

as she approached him, the noise of the square seemed to fade, not disappear, but fall elsewhere, akin to distant waves on a lake. the crowd blurred into shadow and color, the banners swaying high above faded from her notice, even the music seemed muted. all she could see was him.

obi-wan kenobi stood a few steps apart from the other jedi and dignitaries, composed as always, his posture relaxed yet unmistakably disciplined. his hands were loosely folded before him, his shoulders squared, and his expression, so often pleasant yet indistinct, was softened now by the ease of the celebration. but to vasharre, as she drew closer, it felt like approaching a star.

she had rehearsed what she would say. she had imagined this moment more times than she could count. but now, with every step, her thoughts grew more disconcerting. by the time she reached him, her hands, one on the hidden nova star pendant, the other clutching the folds of her gown, were shaking at her sides.

he noticed her immediately. he had already seen her approaching, of course. yet when she came to stand before him, no words left her at first.

obi-wan offered a polite bow of the head, respectful, composed, cordial but proper.

“my royal lady rharrellis.”

vasharre’s throat felt tight. her dark eyes lifted to his, clear, steady, as blue as ever, and then quickly lowered. she felt the wind catch the veil of her gown behind her and tried not to look as small as she felt.

“i only…” her voice faltered. she cleared her throat gently, tried again, more courteous. “i wanted to thank you again. for saving me.”

her gaze remained downcast, as if the words themselves carried too much burden to raise her eyes.

obi-wan tilted his head somewhat, a mannerly smile playing gently at the corner of his mouth. “it was my duty,” he said simply. “and one i was honored to fulfill.”

she nodded, but still did not meet his eyes. the silence between them stretched, not uncomfortable, but dense with something unspoken. he sensed it. he was not a child. nor was he unfamiliar with grief, or the significance of things unvoiced.

his voice lowered. “you’re troubled, my lady.”

vasharre looked up then, barely. her lashes fluttered like black moth wings against the sun. she hesitated. she could have said no. she could have deflected. but his gaze was too gentle. too honest.

“i am very sorry,” she said, her voice as light as a breath. “about master qui-gon jinn.”

obi-wan’s expression changed, scarcely. not a frown. not shock. but something more private. more inward. the way a man’s face changes when a scar is touched, even gently.

still, he said nothing at first. and she took his lack of response for confirmation.

“i know you may never say so,” she added quickly, “but i understand. master jinn died protecting me. i should not have been there. if he hadn’t had to shield me…”

“no.” his voice was soft, but forceful enough to stop her.

he met her gaze fully then. and for the first time, vasharre saw not only the discipline of a jedi knight, but the deep, calm assurance beneath it. it rooted him. made him feel older than he looked.

“master jinn died in the most honorable way a jedi can,” he said. “he died fulfilling the duties of the force. and his sacrifice… it was not in vain.”

she said nothing, but her black eyes shimmered, the anguish in her chest beginning to subside.

obi-wan continued, his voice quiet and sure. “you had no hand in his death. not in any way.”

she nodded, but slowly this time, her chin dipping low, her posture releasing something she hadn’t realized she was holding.

“he believed in you,” obi-wan added, almost as an afterthought. “i know that.”

that undid her.

not in tears, not in speech, but in the way her shoulders softened, the way her hand relaxed against her side. the wind brushed a dark curl across her cheek and she did not hold up her hand to remedy it.

“thank you,” she whispered.

obi-wan’s reply was a nod. nothing more. but it held more peace than anything she had known in days.

for the first time since the catastrophic duel, she let herself breathe.

vasharre hesitated.

the period of time lingered between them, soft and suspended, the breath of a vow not yet spoken. the square behind them was alive with music and laughter, banners unfurling from the upper terraces of theed, but she heard none of it. the voices of the crowd fell away into a distant hum, blurred like vibrant color beneath water. her gaze remained on him, on the jedi knight who had walked into the mouth of darkness and emerged alone. and she knew, even now, that she would never be able to repay what he had lost.

but she could give him this.

her hand rose slowly to her collarbone, where her own pendant lay, the nova star, strung along a fine silver chain, its starburst shape catching the afternoon sun in a glint of blue fire. it was the one she had always worn, gifted to her at birth as tradition dictated, passed down from one generation of rharrellis daughters to the next.

but today, hidden beneath the folds of her ceremonial gown, she carried its twin.

her fingers trembled slightly as she reached beneath the silk layers of her dress, to the longer chain draped near her heart. the second pendant slipped free, the gesture gentle, reverent. it was identical in shape but older in polish, its gleam softened by time.

obi-wan’s eyes, already curious, followed the motion.

and they broadened in astonishment.

“you know what this is,” she said delicately, unfolding the chain between her fingers. “you must recognize it.”

he nodded once.

“the nova stars,” he said. “there are only two in existence.”

“there have always only been two,” she replied. her voice had gone soft. steady. “one kept by the daughter. the other kept… until it must be given.”

his expression altered, subtle, uncertain. his hands remained still. he said nothing.

vasharre looked down at the pendant for a breath, then up again, into his eyes.

“i haven’t worn this one since my mother died,” she said. “it’s stayed locked away in the ancestral case. but this morning, my father handed it to me. without explanation. he simply… told me to wear it today. to carry it with me.”

her breath caught, just once, but she did not falter.

“so there must be a reason.”

she reached out, slowly, and without haste, giving him time to stop her, to protest, to step back.

he didn’t.

her fingers moved with the delicacy of someone dressing a sacred statue. she passed the chain over his head with care, letting the pendant fall softly against the folds of his jedi tunic, where it fell over his chest. it looked almost out of place there, this symbol of nobility, of intimacy, of naboo, resting against the robe of a jedi knight sworn to a life of detachment.

and yet, it didn’t clash. it fit.

she withdrew her hands.

her personal nova star glinted faintly at her throat. the one he now wore gleamed beneath his collarbone. and for the first time in the in many years of rharrellis history, both pendants were worn at once.

“please,” she whispered, “keep it.”

obi-wan did not speak, his light blue eyes locked on hers.

“not for me,” she added, voice shaking, “but for what it means. for what it stood for before all this. before death and lightsabers and loss. keep it… and never forget.”

her throat closed for a instance.

then, almost inaudibly. “don’t forget naboo. and don’t forget me.”

the words echoed faintly in the silence between them.

obi-wan’s gaze dropped to the pendant for a long, hushed minute. his hand rose to touch it, so very lightly, a single brush of fingertips over metal. then he looked back at her.

and he smiled.

not the polite, distant smile of duty. not the somber mask he wore for the order. but something gentler. older. something that hadn’t surfaced in many days.

“i swear it,” he said softly. “i’ll remember naboo. and i’ll remember you, my royal lady.”

his hand closed over the pendant once more, this time thoroughly.

“for all of eternity.”

and though she said nothing in return, something within her aligned, as if a star, long wandering, had at last found its place in the endless sky. not bound by oath or tradition, but by the celestial gravity of two nova star pendants and the meaning buried in what could never be said with words.

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candyswirls · 7 months ago

Text

Garm Pt 4

Previous - Next - Master Post

Summary: Rogue traders visit. Garm is baby and doesn’t like frilly clothes but they do like playing.

Had to go through and make sure I only used they/then pronouns for Garm. Their gender reveal party isn’t until next chapter! Jk

Leman rubbed his temples.

Several times now, Garm had come in, having climbed out of their bed and refusing to sleep. Insisting that they stayed up.

The Primarch was getting irritated.

The door slid open and Leman was about to snap for Garm to go to bed. Then he softened.

Garm was teary eyed and sniffed in the doorway.

“Krůtt,” he said gently as he opened his arms and knelt.

Garm went running to his embrace and let out a sob as he picked them up.

They wrapped their arms around his neck and buried their head into his shoulder. He patted their back, soothing them.

“There, there sweet puppy,” he whispered. “I’ve got you. No need to shed tears.”

Garm nestled against his neck and under his beard. Sniffling and whimpering. Sometimes he needed a reminder that Garm was just little.

“Do you want to come meet the Rogue Traders with me?” He asked.

Garm let out a squeak and nodded.

He set them down and offered his hand. They took it and rubbed their eyes with their other hand.

Garm was surprisingly calm when they arrived for the meeting. They sat patiently on Leman’s lap. The two rogue traders they made contact with had brought gifts back with them. Those they deemed worthy of a Primarch and now the child of one.

The first presented their gift.

“Made from the finest materials from various luxury worlds and crafted upon Terra itself,” he announced. “This has been modeled after current imperium high fashion and real diamonds used as beading. Something eye catching and beautiful for your daughter.”

Leman raised a brow, “Who said Garm was a daughter?”

The rogue trader stammered, “Forgive me my lord, I shouldn’t have assumed. I can have it tailored in male fashion for your son.”

“They’re not a son either.”

He hid his smirk as the rogue trader grew confused.

“Not even I know the gender of my child,” Leman said. “For now they are gender neutral.”

“Pardon my bluntness,” the other trader piped up. “A good tale piques my interest. Might I know how you do not have this knowledge?”

“They’re covered in fluffy fur, never stop moving, and do not like being manhandled,” Leman explained. “I have been unable to check.”

The first jumped back in, “Nevertheless I believe they will find this most valuable garment to their liking.”

The sheet over the box was removed to reveal a soft orange dress. Diamond beads created patterns on the skirt and brightly colored lace puffed it out. To a trained eye or one who dabbled in fashion it could be seen that the most delicate and upmost precision was used to hand stitch the one of a kind garment. The ruffles shimmered in the slightest breeze and multiple tiers of fine tailoring had been done. It was a dress worthy of a princess.

Garm wasn’t paying attention to it, gnawing on a strip of leather from their father’s armor.

“My Noble Garm,” the trader insisted. “Won’t you come take a look at it? I’ve been assured it’s quite comfortable.”

Garm glanced at him then looked back at Leman. He motioned they could investigate.

The toddler climbed down and walked up to the dress.

The trader nearly stepped back, not realizing that while a toddler, the child of a Primarch would be big. They stood as high as a very short baseline.

Garm ran forward and pushed the box over.

The trader and his entourage gaped at the rejection. The other trader burst out laughing at the display.

Leman grinned as Garm ran back to him.

“I’m afraid Garm is not fond of… fashion,” he said. “With their day to day life and dislike of even wearing clothes we tend to choose a breathable cut, sturdy but soft fabric, and one that can either take rough scrubbing or stains and dirt blend into.”

He ruffled Garm’s head.

“They are also a toddler and most toddlers care not for clothes.”

“R-right,” the Rogue trader stammered.

The other rogue trader managed to catch her breath.

“My apologies, my Lord,” she chuckled. “I appreciate their honesty. Hopefully my gift is well received. This is a common toy upon my father’s home world and comes from an ancient Terran culture. I ensured the strongest materials had been used. It is embroidered with bright colors and has a bell within it. It should hold up for many years of rough play. I even brought two for good measure.”

A serf presented a box covered with a cloth.

The rogue trader removed said cloth to reveal two patterned balls. They removed them and bounced them on the floor, each producing a jingle from their bells.

Garm perked up, staring at the bouncing toys. Bright colors flashing.

“They’re called Temari,” The Trader announced. “The same name they had on Terra. I hope they provide ample play.”

The rogue trader smiled at Garm then threw one of the Temari across the room. Each bounce jingling.

Garm went chasing after it, trying to leap and catch it. It bounced off a wall and Garm slid to a stop, trying to correct themselves. A standing Astartes caught it and bounced it again. The Rogue Trader offered her fellow trader to the throw the other. He nodded gratefully and threw the other Temari.

Garm’s excitement grew at the prospect of two flying around them. Wispy giggles game from Garm as they chased the two toys. Catching one and bouncing it again.

Leman beamed, “They will be well loved. Thank you for your kindness. Well thought out gifts. Maybe one day Garm will try in the dress. They do like comfort.”

Both traders nodded, the first trying to swallow his pride and hide his embarrassment.

Garm squealed with laughter as they chased both Temari at the same time.

“Let us head to my council room to further discuss safe trade routes for you,” Leman said.

As they discussed, Garm ran around the room, having any nearby Astartes throw the Temari for them to chase.

“Hopefully this will tire them out,” the lady trader said.

Leman chuckled, “I’m afraid they’re like a power pack. Never ending energy. I’ve never seen them tired out before. But I am hopeful.”

They bid him goodbye.

Leman watched a while as Garm played. Catching and throwing the Temari when it came near him.

“Alright,” he said while standing. “Time for bed.”

Garm stopped and pouted.

“I’ll go to bed with you,” he assured.

They softened at that and grabbed both Temari.

“Do you want to try on the dress?” He offered, seeing if they’d do it at the chance of staying up later.

Garm furrowed their brow and dropped the Temari to sign.

No. Ugly. Stupid.

Leman laughed, “That’s my pup. Never liked those frilly outfits. Come on.”

Garm grabbed the temari again and walked next to Leman.

“You like your new toys?”

Garm nodded, smiling up at the Wolf King. He reached down and caressed their cheek. They leaned into the touch.

He never knew how great of a feeling it was to have one who did not fear or disdain you, was not intimidated by your presence, or looked upon you as a divine being.

Garm only saw their father and loved him for that.

Back in his room they climbed onto the bed. He pulled back layers of pelts and blankets, allowing them to dive in.

He removed his cloak and laid his mother wolf pet atop of Garm. He climbed in and stroked their head. He whispered in Fenrisian the tale of him defeating the Kraken. Garm nestled close, arms around both temari.

As he spoke, he began undoing to simple braid of their hair and running his fingers through peachy blond locks.

“Good night, my puppy,” he whispered as he pressed a kiss to their forehead.

He went silent, knowing that all sound must be gone before his child would fall asleep.

Often times he wondered during moments like this what it would be like to introduce Garm to one of his brothers. Have them meet his Father.

How he’d gloat. That he’d made a child while they had not. He just wasn’t sure how to explain how he did it or got them. But they were definitely his.

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