#this map could be going through or in between villages with a fued

[theelvenhaven]

Surprise Party

Multiple platonic characters x human!Reader

1.7k words

Happy belated birthday to my bestie @fandom-hoe101​ ! I hope you enjoy your belated gift from me  💖

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You frowned as you began to walk down the relatively empty hallway. You had been so certain that you would have found Elladan and Elrohir here near the library! This was the direction you had seen them go to! You had even called out for them repeatedly, which Elladan had only walked faster while Elrohir muttered in elvish.

Today was your birthday, yet everyone was gone and busy and you were trying to at least be productive.

You had questions pertaining to your studies and after the failed attempt to get help it was clear that you were going to be stuck with where you were at today. Yet you had been barred entrance from the library per Elrond’s orders, he had explained that there was an important meeting that was being held and that it would take most of the day for them to go over everything.

Considering it was politics and war strategy you had decided not to offer yourself up to assist. Human politics you were well versed in having come from a village where you had a hand in assisting the village elders. Yet elven politics seemed wildly different and well out of your realm of understanding.

You had wonderful teachers, yet not a single one could be found! Not Glorfindel or Erestor who would be in the meeting along with Elrond, you supposed it made sense that the twins would be there too. Yet you couldn’t even find Arwen to assist you or even keep you company. 

Elves didn’t celebrate birthdays, so you tried not to be too upset with their lack of prioritizing it at all. That and this meeting from the sounds of it was far more important than you hoped it would be. But that didn’t change that you were feeling down about the lack of remembrance.

With a heavy groan you began to turn to leave until the door began to open and a slew of noisy elvish from two ellons caught your attention. Quickly you spun around at the same time Elladan did,

“Fu-” 

“Elladan!” Elrohir hissed out venomously interrupting the expletive that was about to make its way out of his mouth. Then the other set of silver eyes landed on you and he sighed out heavily, a string of elvish coming from his lips as he rubbed his face in exasperation.

“Y/N! What a pleasant surprise!” Elladan began loudly and with grandiose, a charming smile plastered onto his face at the sight of you. You couldn’t help but frown at the suddenness of his charming and polite mood considering he and Elrohir practically ran away from you moments ago. You folded your arms over your chest and raised a brow as you kept the frown on your lips.

“Elladan... Elrohir.” You greeted rather flatley tapping your foot against the wooden floor softly as you stood there,

“I know you both heard me when I called for you. I just don’t understand why you ran away from me and didn’t say anything?” You asked unable to hide the tinge of concern that your friends were being mildly neglectful, they had always stopped before. But today they had made a point to get away from you. 

“Forgive us for the grievance, Y/N. It was just that Ada said we must be back straight away, Elladan was late for the lesson.” Elrohir confessed to you gently, yet a faint smirk pulled at his lips as Elladan began to frown at the reveal. Only sighing as he began to nod as the two approached to walk with you. 

“Yes.. I was late... for my lesson.” He answered unamused by this, you couldn’t help but feel the smile beginning to creep upon your lips. Considering just weeks ago Elladan had been bragging about how wonderfully educated he was,

“I thought you were fully educated Elladan?” You asked with mild confusion, but with more humor at this. You could see the way Elrohir’s eyes sparkled with satisfaction at your pressing,

“You see, Y/N, Elladan is a horrible strategist. You should see him when we are left to fight without a plan in place. So Ada asked that I sit in on the meeting, while Elladan was to take note and go over some lessons.” He smirked looking to his brother with a satisfied expression, you couldn’t help but begin to chuckle at this. Elladan quickly grumbling with a sigh, 

“Oh, Y/N there you are!” A feminine voice piped up from behind you, bright blue eyes sparkling at the sight of you and a small smile pulling at her lips. Arwen, the very elleth you had been searching for before you followed the twins down here. 

“Oh Elladan, are you finished with the lesson?” She chimed in making Elladan scowl quickly at her, making you laugh again as Arwen took her place beside you. 

“I am afraid not, but Ada wanted to make sure that there wasn’t anything you needed, Y/N before we got back to work.” Elrohir added before Elladan could answer,

“But now that Arwen is here, she can assist. Come brother you have things to do.” Elrohir said, placing a hand on Elladan’s back and beginning to pull him along back to the library doors. He only began to try and squabble with his brother in elvish, hands flying up in exasperation making you and Arwen both snicker.

“I was needing help with one of my lessons, Arwen.” You explained as you turned to face your friend, she nodded in understanding, giving you a gentle smile motioning elegantly for you to follow along with her. 

“That will certainly have to wait until Ada or Lindir is done with today’s meeting. For the time being let us spend some time together hm? It is your birthday.” She answered you warmly and you couldn’t help the happiness that began to bloom within. It felt good that your birthday was recognized and cared about by someone you cared about.. 

“You remembered.” You muttered with a soft smile and Arwen nodded at your words, her black hair bobbing with the motion. 

“Of course I did. For such a special occasion you are underdressed, but that is alright we can remedy that mellon nin.” At that you followed in comfortable silence behind Arwen to her chambers, and for the next hour the two of you chatted casually with one another. Arwen sifting through some clothes for you helping you find something nice that you liked to wear for the day. 

They were far nicer than what you bought for yourself on average but couldn’t make much of an argument as Arwen insisted that it was a gift. She patiently took her time showing you to to layer the outfit properly since you were used to simple singular layers. Decorating you with simple but beautiful jewelry and taking the time to braid your hair. 

Not even an hour and a half later did Elladan come knocking on her door, explaining that Elrond had asked for you both. You couldn���t help but feel curiosity bubble inside of you and didn’t hesitate to follow behind the twin who insisted you both hurry.Though when you got to the door Elladan paused,

“Wait, Ada said he didn’t want you seeing the map.” He said and quickly came over to you and put his hands over your eyes, making you sigh out at this. 

“I have been here since I was a teenager, and now I cannot be trusted over a map?” You asked, raising a brow, that came more as a surprise than anything! Then again if this was what Elrond wished, he surely had a reason for it.

“Ada’s orders, Y/N.” Elladan said matter of factly, you only sighed and began to walk forward. Elladan shuffling right behind you as Arwen began to open the door. You couldn’t help but outstretch your hands in search of the wall you may run into though so far it was clear. 

For a long moment you were met with silence, even from Elladan who was usually very chatty, perhaps he was just in deep concentration as you walked through the library. Until finally he stopped at some point, as to where you were unsure for the moment. 

“Keep your eyes closed until I say...” He breathed softly, slowly removing his hands from your eyes and you did as requested. Closing your eyes and left with only listening to him walk around to the front of you, 

“Alright, open!” He said in a giddy voice, and as you did a collective and loud surprise came from the elves before you! Elrond standing in the center, with Erestor and Lindir to his left, the twins to his right and Glorfindel standing right behind Elrond. You couldn’t help but grin widely! Oh Eru were you surprised!?

Plain silver banners hung from the shelves, and a happy birthday banner was strung between them, the others moved revealing a table behind them with a cake that sat in the center. A few wrapped boxes surrounding the small cake,

“Happy Birthday Y/N.” Elrond began with a small smile, 

“Is this... what you’ve been working on?” You asked with a bright and happy smile beginning to step forward, it was nothing extravagant but you weren’t complaining! They remembered your birthday and you couldn’t have asked for anything more!

“That it is, though we thought you’d have figured us out when you caught the twins running back here.” Glorfindel added with a soft chuckle, looking over to Elladan who gave the Lord a shrug in return. 

“Yes while I am grateful for Elrohir’s quick thinking, he certainly didn’t have to make me look like a fool.” He began to grumble folding his arms over his chest as he narrowed his eyes at his brother. Elrohir only smirked,

“Oh come now Elladan, now isn’t the time to squabble. We have a birthday to celebrate!” Elrohir said dismissing Elladan’s feelings entirely, you couldn’t help but laugh again at their squabbling. Gently you began to approach the group with Arwen in tow,

“Yes! No fighting! So let us celebrate and do so with cake!” You beamed, Elrond outstretching his arm and placing a hand on your shoulder to pull you into the circle of friends. Lindir being the one to pick up the knife to begin slicing into the tasty treat. You couldn’t have asked for a better way to celebrate your birthday than it be like this and you were oh so grateful that they even remembered such a trivial celebration in the eyes of elves.

Eru had truly blessed you with a wonderful life here in Rivendell.

* * *

Tags:

@saviorsong @lilmelily @dicksoutformtl​ @icarus-fell-in-spring​

[alphawitchnyxx]

We Meet Again

A/N: So, this is my first Witcher fic ever. It is kind of a Part 2 to this fic by the lovely @witchernonsense, who was very kind and gave me their permission to write & post this. You’ll want to read that fic first so you understand the relationship between the OC, Nyxx, and Geralt in this story. I used the Netflix series’ official map guide for the locations I mention, if you want to know where this story is taking place.

Summary: It’s been years since Nyxx has seen the Witcher from the woods. He’s a distant memory that she’s moved past. At least, she thought she had until the day when the White Wolf came knocking on her door.

Characters: Geralt, OC, Jaskier (he’s there but has no real part in any of this)

Pairings: Geralt x OC

Word Count: 2,712

Warnings: Blood, smut, femdom, orgasm denial (male), multiple orgasms, teasing, begging, deep emotional conversations, some slight ooc!Geralt, happy endings for everyone.

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It had been 13 years since Nyxx had encountered the White Wolf in the woods, poisoned and bleeding out. She saved his life and in return used his body as if he was a whore she had rented for the evening. Most of the finer details of that night had since faded from her memory, but the sex she had that night had been the best of her life, and she had been alive for decades.

After that night, Nyxx decided to try to settle down rather than roam the continent, lest she find herself face to face with Geralt of Rivia again. She spent a few years living in Lyria, making a living caring for the Lord that lived there. After the Lord was killed in a duel, she left her little hut outside of the city and headed north, choosing to settle in a small village in the foothills of the Blue Mountains just to the north of Ard Carraigh. The village wasn’t much, about 30 houses and farms, an inn, a fairly large stable building, and a few shops. The villagers paid her generously for her work. Her reputation as a powerful mage and just as powerful healer had preceded her to the village and the villagers were more than willing to pay her to stay with them, as she was just as equipped to treat a broken limb as she was to aid with magical needs. Settling down meant that she could earn the trust of the villagers she lived amongst, as some of them were still wary of her and her power.

She spent most of her days in her home that was nestled at the edge of their town right against the mountains. Due to their location, they didn’t get many travellers except for those coming into the kingdom from Yspaden or Blaviken, and even they didn’t hang around long, so most of her days were spent in her hut alone, tending to her garden or brewing new potions and elixirs. It wasn’t as exciting as being a court mage or a healer in a large city like Cintra or Cidaris, but it was comfortable. It was quiet, peaceful, and above all, it was what she wanted.

She was out in her small stable, tending to her new horse that she purchased after her beloved gelding Captain passed away. This new horse was a gorgeous blue roan stallion named Briond that had been well broke and was surprisingly calm under her hand, unlike the cantankerous gelding who preceded him. She was refilling his water well when he started snorting and pawing the ground, ears flicking back. Something was outside and it was agitating him. She placed a reassuring hand on his neck before unsheathing the small dagger she carried on her hip. Her left hand glowed green with magic, ready to be unleashed. She crept around the wall of the stable and froze when she nearly ran into the one person she never thought she’d ever see again.

“And here I thought I’d never see you again, Geralt of Rivia,” Nyxx said coyly, resheathing her dagger and calming her magic.

“Please help my friend,” came the witcher’s gravelly voice, worry laced into the syllables. He motioned towards a smaller man who was slumped against her stoop, hands pressed against a large gash in his side. Nyxx looked deep into his amber eyes, searching for any sign that he was trying to deceive her.

“Come in,” she said, motioning towards the door. She rushed in ahead of him, clearing off her table. “Remove his shirt and lay him here, then get out of my way” she said, fluttering about her kitchen, pulling medical supplies and bottles off the shelves and laying them out.

Geralt did as he was told. “His name is Jaskier.”

Nyx nodded, holding a bottle up to the light. “Go stable your horse and bathe, I will work on your friend,” she said to Geralt before turning to the bard. “Jaskier? My name is Nyxx, I will heal you. It may sting, but I can assure you that you will survive.” She looked back up at Geralt. “Go,” she ordered before starting her work.

Geralt left the small room, heading out to tend to Roach. He could hear Jaskier’s cries and whimpers from the stables and he sighs before placing Roach into the stable next to Briond, who moved over to sniff at her over the stall. Roach huffed at him before turning away to eat. Geralt chuckled to himself, of course Nyxx’s horse would try to flirt with Roach. He made sure Roach was settled before he began pacing outside the small hut. He paced for what felt like hours, but may have only been minutes, he wasn’t sure. After an eternity, Nyxx emerged, blood staining her pale blue dress and her hands, motioning him inside. “He’s resting now,” she said, her soft voice laced with relief. “He barely made it.”

Geralt took in the sight before him. The table and floors were coated with blood, empty bottles were strewn about and there was a bitter scent to the air. “Thank you for saving him,” he said, voice quiet.

“How did you find me here, witcher?” Nyxx hissed as she went about cleaning up. “I’ve taken great care to stay hidden since leaving Lyria.”

“We were headed up to Kaer Morhen in search of information there that may help me with...something. We were just south of here when Jaskier got jumped by bandits while I was gathering firewood. I rushed him into town asking for the healer. They pointed me here. I didn’t know it was you, mage, that they were sending me to,” he spat, the word bitter on his tongue. “If there was someone else that I could’ve taken him to, I would have, believe me.”

Nyxx turned, placing a hand on his chest. “What’s wrong, was our last meeting not...satisfying enough for you?” There was a mischievous twinkle in her eyes and Geralt could feel his blood rushing south.

“Oh, it was plenty satisfying,” he said, grabbing her wrist and pressing his lips to her palm. “Now, it seems like once again you’ve helped me at a time when I seem to be a bit short of coin to repay you with,” he said, his other hand reaching around to grasp at her waist.

“I do believe we can arrange something, Geralt of Rivia,” Nyxx purred, her hand grasping at his hardening cock. She laughed when he moaned softly, her fingers loosening the laces at the front of his pants. “Come, Geralt, you owe me payment.” She pulled away and sauntered towards her bedroom, untying her dress as she went.

Geralt followed her, slamming the door of her bedroom shut and fastening the latch. He turned to where Nyxx was already laying naked on the bed, her tanned skin shining in the sunlight streaming through the window. He quickly stripped down, his fully-erect member already leaking. “I forgot how gorgeous you are,” he said, reaching out to grab her.

“Ah-ah Geralt. I’m in charge around here, remember?” She stood, raising her hand and conjuring up some thick ropes that wound around Geralt’s wrists and ankles, binding him to the bed. “Now, be a good witcher and don’t break my bed frame,” she said, her teeth grazing his ear. She watched as he flexed against the bindings, groaning when they refused to yield.

“Why must you do this to me?” he asked, eyes following her as she dug through a drawer for something.

“Because you have the stamina to actually satiate me and I want to make sure I get my coins’ worth out of you and your massive cock,” she said, holding up a small vial with liquid as blue as the sky swirling inside. “Drink this.”

Geralt cocked an eyebrow. “Why?”

“It’s a stamina booster. Specifically, it’s an aphrodisiac. It’ll keep you going until I’m done with you,” she said with a smirk, popping the cork out of the vial and placing it at Geralt’s lips. “Drink.”

Geralt sighed before opening his mouth and allowing the sweet liquid to slide down his throat. Almost instantly, he felt his body grow warm and his penis throb and bounce against his torso. “Fuck,” he growled, hips shifting on the bed as he searched for contact.

“You’re mine now,” Nyxx said, running her nails gently along Geralt’s monstrous length, giggling as it throbbed and leaked under her hand. She gripped him tight and stroked him fast, unrelenting as he came over her hand. She could feel him throb in her grasp, eager for more.

“Fu...fuck Nyxx. I want...I need...more,” Geralt keened, his muscles straining against the ropes.

“Tsk tsk, Geralt, have you forgotten your manners already? Looks like you need to be taught again.” She quickly straddled his hips, grinding her dripping pussy against him, the sensitive tip of his cock rubbing against her clit. She pressed herself down against his hips, both of them moaning at the contact. Geralt tried to rut against her and she promptly lifted off of him, her fingers moving to stimulate her clit as her orgasm washed over her, her juices washing onto his chest. “Oh fuck,” she breathed out. Below her Geralt whined and pulled at the binds.

“Nyxx….please….I beg of you...please.”

“There’s that magic word,” Nyxx said with a grin, wasting no time in sinking down on him, his massive member filling her to the brim. She began bouncing in his lap, her hips rutting against his, the sharp definition of his hip bones applying just enough pressure to her clit to be pleasurable. It took almost no time at all for Nyxx to reach her climax again, her walls milking Geralt of his second orgasm. She pulled off of him, leaning down to wrap her lips around Geralt’s still-leaking member, pointing her dripping cunt towards his face. “Eat me out,” she commanded.

Geralt didn’t need to be told twice as he pressed his tongue inside of her, lapping up the mixture of his seed and her juices as though he would die if he didn’t. He felt her clench around him and he moaned, the vibrations making her hum happily around his cock. She took him deep into her throat, her nose brushing against the wispy white hairs at his base. She hummed happily, her nails tracing mindless trails over his balls. The ticklish contact ripped Geralt’s third orgasm from him. Nyxx swallowed his seed down, pressing her cunt to Geralt’s face as his tongue pulled her orgasm from her. She slid off of him, waving her hand over the bed and releasing the bonds from Geralt’s body. She whispered something in Elder Speak and Geralt’s cock softened.

“Thank you for that, Geralt,” Nyxx said, waving her hand around, casting a gentle spell to tidy them both up.

“Thank you for saving my bard,” Geralt replied as he flexed his wrists and ankles.

“Of course. I am a healer, it’s my job. Now, I have but one final request, if you’ll indulge me?”

Geralt looked at her, eyebrow cocked. “And what would that be?”

“Spend the night with me here, in my bed. I shall not ask for sex again, just...companionship. It gets lonely out here,” she replied, suddenly feeling sheepish as she looked away from the witchers’ golden eyes.

“As you wish, my lady. I think that I owe you at least that much,” he said, moving to make space for her on the bed.

Nyxx crawled into the bed, facing the witcher who was suddenly not close enough for her tastes. She pressed her chest to his, relishing in the warmth of his body and the slow beat of his heart. She gently traced over some of his scars, her fingers idly moving to the large one on his thigh from the wyvern in the woods all those years ago.

“You could stay, you know,” she whispered. “You and the bard, Jaskier.”

“Hmm,” grumbled Geralt. “I don’t think we could. The villagers may trust you, but this near to Blaviken I am not exactly welcomed.”

“Fuck Blaviken. Fuck all those who cannot see that you do more good for this damn continent than anyone else,” Nyxx swore, her brown eyes flashing dangerously.

“Nyxx...I’m not...settling down isn’t for me. I’m not….domesticated.” The word rolled off his tongue like a curse, and he closed his eyes. “I’m a mutant built to hunt monsters. I’m not…” his voice trailed off quietly as his fingers gently ran through her black hair.

“But what if...what if we could be different? Look at us, Geralt. Two anomalies in a world that fears us both. You, the White Wolf, the great Geralt of Rivia, born of Kaer Morhen to fight monsters and to rid the world of the darkness that constantly threatens to consume us all. Me, the girl born marked by the moon, destined to be great, and abandoned by Aretuza when I wasn’t strong enough to ascend but too strong to become a conduit. We’re the same person,” Nyxx whispered, her hand resting above Geralts’ heart.

“Nyxx… I know what you’re thinking. But me, staying here…I’d hurt you every time I left,” Geralt said with a sigh. “My lifestyle...it doesn’t make for….attachments.”

“And yet you travel with Jaskier the bard at your side.”

“Jaskier is...different.”

Nyxx raised her eyebrow. “Of course he is. He’s human, Geralt. And I know you’ll deny it but deep down, under the white hair and the amber eyes and the mutations, you’re a human too.”

“I was a human. Kaer Morhen and Vesemir took that away from me with the Trials. They stripped me of my humanity to turn me into a monster.”

Nyxx grabbed his face and held it firmly in her hands, the gentle green glow of her magic lighting up their faces. “Now you listen to me, Geralt of Rivia. I can feel your humanity. I feel your heart beating, I’ve seen you bleed, I’ve heard you breathe. You are just as mortal as Jaskier is, only it’s harder to take your mortality from you. You are as human as I am.”

A smile danced at the corners of Geralt’s face as he took her hands in his. “Okay, Nyxx. I will honor your request as part of my payment to you for saving Jaskier’s life today. I will stay with you for as long as you will have me, but I will still spend time killing monsters as I am sworn to do.”

Nyxx smiled, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his lips. “I would never ask you to stop being a Witcher, Geralt. But I would very much prefer to be able to see you more often than once a decade, and I would prefer even more if I could see you when neither you, nor Jaskier, nor any other traveling companions you may pick up, are on death’s doorstep.”

“I can not promise you that I will return unharmed every time.”

“And I can promise you that every time you come home to me I will be ready to patch you back together.”

“Will every injured home-coming result in sex like tonight? Because if so I may get hurt more often,” Geralt said with a smirk.

“Not a chance, witcher,” she joked playfully. “These last two times were payment for two life debts. Anything after tonight is free of payment in exchange for having you here with me,” Nyxx said with a smile, her fingers tracing along Geralt’s jawline.

“Then I swear to always come back to you,” he replied, his calloused hand resting in the small of Nyxx’s back. She closed her eyes and practically melted into his arms.

“I’ll hold you to that, Geralt,” Nyxx said, her eyes fluttering shut as she began to fall asleep.

“I’m counting on it,” Geralt whispered, gently pressing his nose into her hair. “Sleep, my little mage.”

“Hmm.” Nyxx curled up to his chest, his slow and steady heartbeat lulling her to sleep quickly. Geralt followed soon after, enjoying the most peaceful sleep he had had in weeks.

____________________________________________________________ A/N: There it is, I hope you enjoyed it. If you liked it and would like to commission me to write something for you, I have a Ko-Fi page set up. Thank you for taking the time to read this <3

[coplins]

Ignorance is Bliss

Summary: Dean is trying to keep the political relationship with Caelum stable. Adam's married to their crown prince Michael so they're practically family, right? All Dean wants is to help. That's all, okay? So he lends Michael an un-asked for hand...

Notes: I got so inspired by YouCantKeepMeDown's fantasy AU that I asked to write another short story in the verse. ^^ So without further ado, prepare to be embarrassed. /Coplins ( @spnyoucantkeepmedown )

READ ON AO3 HERE

A Political Blunder

Dean’s eyes keep being drawn to the offending burrs and thorny twigs poking out of the downy feathers of Michael’s folded wings. The angel had managed to rid himself of the burrs that got stuck on his huge outer wings with relative ease, stretching, flapping, knocking down a small tree in the process. Those wings pack one hell of a punch. Michael’s only reaction to slamming his wing into the tree trunk had been a small, surprised ‘oh?’ like he hadn’t even noticed, and it was an ‘Oops,’ more than anything. Dean wonders if they can feel a damn thing with those feather-flappers on their back. Probably not much.

“I get your point, Sire. But with the risk of sounding disrespectful, to ignore the intel just because it comes from the village drunk would be stupid in this case.” Dean’s gaze jumps away from Michaels wings and to the speaker, Captain Aleksandr. After the attack on Gabe, he’d sent requests to his most trusted officers to tip him about what soldiers might be the most angel-friendly. He hates to admit to himself that not all guards can be trusted, as had been proven by Gordon. But there it is. So some rearrangements had been done. A couple of soldiers had been called home from the borders to replace others to make sure that any guard responsible for the safety of the royal visitors are either angel-friendly or neutral. The man currently speaking is in charge of that division. Dean hadn’t heard of him before the attack since the guy―a foreigner―had more or less showed up on the Winchester army’s doorstep when the Caelum war began and then remained stationed at one of the most remote outposts that never reported having any significant problems that needed royal attention during the war. However, looking into the guy’s service record he might have been a big part of that. It’s a wonder he hasn’t been knighted. (According to interviews conducted, that might be on him too, since he preferred to give credit to his peers, shying away from promotions.) Either way, he got along famously with the angel guards in the royal retinue and thus earned the rank of Captain of the Honour Guard. “We’ve been trying to keep things under lids to avoid people panicking, but the description the man gave sounded exactly like a leviathan. Our closest outpost lies here. According to all reports, everything is all kittens and sunshine over there, yeah? I’d say, it ain’t right. I smell something fishy, if you get what I’m sayin? Nothing’s ever just kittens and sunshine at a border post. Especially during peace when we’re bored as fu―” he clears his throat, remembering who he's talking to. ”Very bored.”

“Good point, Alexandr. And this outpost is just by the mountains. I think there’s a cave system in those mountains but those aren’t good for humans or angels due to toxic gas, so we’ve never had to worry about them.” Dean points to the map on the table they're standing around.

“Our esteemed guests probably have maps of the mountains that will show places where humans could safely cross the mountains,” the guard Captain says and looks up at the angel guard present while doing some weird twitch with his shoulders. Dean follows his gaze to see the guard’s feathers rustle when her wings move slightly. Dean looks back at the captain who seems content as if he somehow got his answer. It strikes Dean then, that those weird shoulder-movements Captain Aleksandr does sometimes maybe aren’t some kind of tick, but an imitation of how he’d move his shoulders if he too had wings. Huh. No wonder he gets along so well with the wing-boys. “But since we’re dealing with leviathans they might have used the cave system in case the gas down there isn’t toxic to them. And if they’ve overtaken this outpost they could easily spread both inward in this country, as well as go west and enter Caelum from our side, Sire. With the leviathans ability to mimic humans it’d sour the peace between your nations very quickly, if you get what I’m sayin?”

Yep. How the hell isn’t this guy of a higher rank? Guy thinks of the big picture, and― Dean’s once again distracted by the burrs in Michael’s wings when the prince leans over the table to look at the map with a troubled wrinkle between his brows. The Caelum prince was out flying earlier today when he’d spotted a child running in the forest. He’d seen the upcoming ravine while the child hadn’t, and made a steep dive through the tree branches, wings brushing both sides of the ravine downward (consecutively picking up every burr and twig growing there apparently), catching the falling kid and swooping upward just before hitting the bottom. That was some badass flying that gained him a lot of points with the castle staff and commoners living in the surrounding area since news like this travel rather fast. Dean hadn’t seen it, of course. He’d been stuck sitting on his throne listening to petitioners. Anyone ever wonder why there’s no table in front of a throne? It’s because the monarch sitting on it would end up banging their head on the table repeatedly out of sheer boredom.

Sometimes Dean wishes to be a king was what commoners thought it was. Feasting, wearing fancy clothes, cavorting with maids, hunting with falcons and riding fancy, noble horses in perfectly manicured gardens. Hah! To be fair, if it was, Dean would probably be the one to run off and join a band of pirates. Now there’s an idea. He and Benny could― Nope. Don’t go there. He’s hardly going to abandon his kingdom while it’s on the brink of a second war. Now it’s about keeping up regal appearance in front of the people. Which is probably why Michael hasn’t removed the burrs on his innermost wings yet. Captain Aleksandr had approached them with the news of the leviathan rumour soon after Michael got back, and there’s no way for an angel to look regal while grooming. (It’s one of the most comical lessons Dean’s learned about the featherheads since they arrived.) So Michael had snapped his wings shut, stuck his customary broomstick up his ass, chin high, and pretended he isn’t bothered by his collection of debris. Dean knows all about that. He’d heard dad say ‘Could you try to be a little less… Dean, the next time?’ too many times. Royalty is supposed to appear, well… regal.

But it’s getting ridiculous. They’re out of the public eye now. It’s just Dean, Aleksandr, the angel guard named Neda, Michael, and his jackass brother Lucifer who’s currently perching on top of the backrest of a chair like a rooster, cawing his arrogant input just often enough for Dean not to forget that the fucker is there. When you think about it, it isn’t such a wonder Adam ended up screwing the guy. The guy’s practically walking around in a state of perpetual ‘fight me!’ And when you can’t fight them, it leaves only one solution… well. Adam’s got it right.

That’s not the point. The point is that they’re in private so they shouldn’t have to play pretend to be regal and aloof, unbothered by discomforts of mere mortals. “Woah, can we just stop. For one moment. I can’t fucking concentrate, okay?” Dean goes around the table towards Michael. “This is bugging the hell out of me. Now, hold still. I'm gonna help you.” Michael looks at him in confusion when he grabs the top of the huge outer wing and lifts it up. It exposes the two pairs of smaller wings. “Hold that up so I can reach,” he says and goes straight for a cluster of burrs stuck in the soft down on the inside of the innermost, smallest pair of wings. He digs his fingers in under the burrs and carefully combs outward, wiggling his fingers a bit to try to get them to come loose without hurting Michael. Michael goes rigid, eyes wide and feathers puffing out.

“Dean, uh, I don’t think―”

“Nah, don’t worry about it. We’re family now. No need to keep up appearance. This is causing you discomfort and it’s making me itch just by looking at it,” Dean says and discards the burrs on the table behind him before going straight for the next cluster. “I bet you’d do the same for me and there are practically no witnesses anyway. Wait. I’m not hurting you, am I?”

“No, you’re not hurting him,” Lucifer says from behind, voice full of held-back glee. The look Michael gives him is so betrayed that Dean has to turn his head to shoot the other prince a glance. Lucifer looks like a little shit, eyes narrowed slyly, a smirk playing on his lips and feathers puffing up and smoothing down over and over, wings slightly bent backwards.

Dean scowls and looks back at Michael. “Am I hurting you? I can be gentler?”

“I―” Michael’s wings lifts like he’s agitated, though he keeps the wing Dean’s working on with deft fingers unnaturally still. Their eyes meet. Michael’s mouth works soundlessly for a beat, then his wings sag and he swallows. “No. No you’re not.”

“Good. So. Back to the topic at hand. If the Leviathans…” Dean goes on, laying out possible scenarios and what to do about it. Captain Aleksandr is wearing the blankest expression Dean’s ever seen while coming with his own input. Neda’s completely silent. She’s curved her sole pair of wings around herself to cover her face. They look a lot different than the princes’ three pairs and reminds of the knife-shaped wings of a high-speed tern, black, with red tips and a startling yellow on the inside close to the body, complimenting her dark skin. But you’re not supposed to compare angelwings to those of birds aloud. Yeah, no. That’s a blunder Dean’s not going to repeat. He wonders if she’s hiding because humans aren’t supposed to groom angels or some shit like that, and she’s respectful enough not to witness it? Dean hadn’t read anything about it when he tried to make sense of Caelum customs. But then again, their library is tragically understocked.

Michael’s voice comes out rough when he makes his own input. His cheeks are red and he’s sweating. Dean wonders if he’s catching a cold. He’d always figured angels weren’t sensitive to stuff like that because of the flying, but what the hell does he know? Maybe he’s just overheated? Dean’s got all three fireplaces burning merrily. He always gets a bit cold the days after he’s had a roll in the hay with Benny. Even after eating the awesome food Benny brought him, he had to recover from the blood loss before he was back to top-notch.

This wing-grooming thing isn’t half bad. In fact, Dean’s always found it easier to think when he’s doing something with his hands. Michael’s feathers are amazingly soft. Not those on his big wings that Dean had lifted earlier. Those were more like metal to the touch - if metal had a lovechild with silk, that is. But these inner feathers of the smallest wings are softer than a kitten’s fur and feel warm by the base. Honestly, Michael’s wings are downright gorgeous. A dark midnight blue that within the shaded parts seem to swallow up light to create an illusion of depth like the night sky, while the gold speckles on them instead reflect the light like little stars. The longer Dean had worked on getting the wing clean, the higher Michael has raised his other wings. Occasionally the wings tremble or feathers puff up to smooth down again. Dean’s almost finished with one wing, running his hand along the wrist of the wing, purring on the inside because it feels frigging good. “Damn, those are some kick-ass muscles you’ve got there,” he mutters.

“Comes with flying,” Michael chokes out, He isn’t looking so well.

“Yeah, I get that. Hey, are you okay? You look a little overheated. We can dose the fires if you want. I can put on warmer clothes.”

“Yeah, Michael. Are you feeling a bit hot?” Lucifer teases and sniggers.

Michael sends his brother a stern glare before answering. “No, thank you. I’m fine.”

“Alright. This side’s done.” Dean takes a step to the side to do the other one.

Michael pulls his wing away. “I really don’t think that’s necessary.”

Dean scoffs. “Really?” He darts his hand out to quickly yank a little twig out of Michael’s wing―making Michael flinch―and holds it up in front of the prince. “Thorns, Michael.”

“Yeah, Michael. Thorns. Let your brother-in-law take care of you. We’re family, after all?” Lucifer says with the vicious kind of glee reserved for brotherly teasing. “He seems good with his hands.”

“Damn straight, I am,” Dean agrees with a suspicious look at Lucifer.

“Isn’t he making this counsel a lot more pleasurable for you, Michael?” Lucifer teases, keeping eye contact with Michael. There’s something wrong about how funny Lucifer seems to think this is. “And it helps the good king concentrate so much better. Why would you deny him that? He’s nice. Isn’t it nice, Michael?” Yep. Definitely wrong. With how often he repeats his brother’s name, he’s obviously being mocking. Maybe he doesn’t think a mere human knows how to do this? Well, fuck him.

If looks could kill, Lucifer would be a dead bird. Michael’s eyes are nearly black, his face red, and his wings extend outward in an agitated manner. Suddenly, Dean’s pushed back against the table. Michael steps in close, snapping all his wings but the last inner wing shut tight and holds the remaining wing towards Dean. He’s way too close. Like, ‘Woah there, buddy. Back up.’ But then Michael turns his head towards Dean with a friendly smile, close enough to kiss. (A thought Dean certainly didn’t have, thank you very much.) “I’m sorry. You’re right. Please, go ahead.” Michael then takes a burr from the table and places on the map. “So if we presume that the Leviathans have managed to get a secret stronghold here…” he says and proceeds to lay out a scenario using the burrs and twigs while appearing to be completely oblivious to how badly he’s overstepping boundaries by nearly being chest to chest with Dean.

Hell, the fucker smells good.

Fuck, this is awkward.

Doesn’t he get how indecent this is?

Shit, but Dean really doesn’t need to have bird-related boner thoughts about Adam’s husband.

But what’s he gonna do?

Call Michael out on it?

It’d embarrass the hell out of the crown prince and they do not need anymore strain between their two nations than they already have.

Besides, Michael would probably take offense if he understood that Dean found this sexy as hell.

Yeah, no. Better to just play along and pretend that everything is as it should be.

Dean reaches out and starts removing the last twigs and burrs with gentle fingers, smoothing feathers into place (enjoying the softness and warmth), deftly massaging the wing-wrist while adding his two cents to the discussion…

“Captain!”

Sasha turns around to see the two Caelum princes coming towards him. He snaps to attention. “Yes, Your Highness?”

The crown prince comes to stand in front of him, his younger brother sauntering after him and stopping a step behind. “Your name is Aleksandr Chaadayev, and your men call you Sasha, is that correct?”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“So, Sasha, about what you saw…”

“I saw nothing, Your Highness. I certainly didn’t see my king make a well-intentioned, ignorant blunder. I didn’t see him spend a whole counsel cluelessly touching the erogenous zones of another country's royalty. It would have been very awkward for everyone involved, but since it didn’t happen…”

Crown prince Michael’s wings sag a little in relief while the rest of him remain poised. “Very good. Then we understand each other, Captain. As you were.”

Sasha bows then turns to walk away. When he throws a quick glance over his shoulder Michael’s pulling his younger brother into a chamber, lips interlocked. Another thing that Sasha, naturally, ‘doesn’t see’.

He doesn’t walk far before he hears “Captain Aleksandr!” behind him.

He turns to face the king and bows his head respectfully. “My Liege.”

King Dean comes to stand before him. “Hey, about what you saw…”

“I saw nothing, Your Majesty. I definitely didn’t see the crown prince of Caelum make unwitting advances towards the Monarch of another country, one that happens to be his brother-in-law to boot. It would have been very awkward for everyone involved, but since it didn’t happen…” He lets his sentence linger to make his point.

King Dean scrutinizes him for a beat then looks like he’s trying not to sag with relief. “Good. Great. Let’s keep it that way, okay?”

“Of course, My Liege.”

“Alright. Carry on.”

Sasha bows and turns to walk towards his quarters again. He’s been relieved from his shift and has a couple of hours to catch up on sleep. He wonders why he always ends up here. All he wants is to fight on the frontline, yet for some reason he’s always singled out to work closely to royalty. It’s happened in every country he’s ever served in. He fears that one day, somebody’s going to figure out how old he really is, and how closely he’s worked with the royal families he’s served. That day he’ll be in trouble. That’s why he never sees or hears anything. He’s a master of lies and deception purely as a self-defense. If they could just leave him be and let him serve with sword―(knife, bow, poison, you name it)―in hand to quench the predatory hunger in him, he’ll stay to his dying day if he has one. He’s starting to feel his age. He wouldn’t mind finding a forever home instead of chasing wars like a crow wanting to feast on a battlefield.

For now, he’ll be content to catch a few hours of shut-eye. But the first thing he’s going to do when he gets to his small, private quarters, is bury his head into his pillow and have a laughing fit from the amusement over the blissfully ignorant behaviour he just ‘didn’t’ witness…

[chaoticremedy]

Sera entered the cave, the torched lighting up the vast cavern, the sound of running water coming from deep below. Her boots crunched on the gravel as she went farther into the cave.This mountain had taken everything they had, there had been no other beings in sight, no wild animals, not even a bird.“It’s supposed to be here,” Boris’s deep voiced boomed as he viewed the map. He held it at different angles trying to figure out how to fold the map back up into the small layers it once was. Growling he gave up and shoved the paper into his backpack and zipped it back up.Sera turned around to look at the large man behind her, “Did you just -” She looked at his backpack and then at him after the paper crumpled. “You did didn’t you?” She rolled her eyes and walked towards her.“I could have helped you you big orge.” She smacked his shoulder lightly. “What if we can’t read it anymore!”Boris waved around the cavern “It’s supposed to be here, why would we need that piece of garbage any more?”Sera looked at him in awe, “You’re kidding right? We still need to get back to the village!”Boris shrugged his large shoulders, “We’ll figure it out once we have the relic.” He grabbed the torch from Sera and walked to the back of the cavern.He found a cliff there, overlooking a large underground river. He looked around, the map gave a location, but nothing more. It had to be here, his sources were never wrong.Sera was running her hands against the large cave walls, he gazed over at her and admired as she focused on her goal. She was the opposite of him, soft, kind, gentle, he was rough, loud, and dealt with no one’s shit.He was surprised when she had came to him, after not talking for many years, offering him a job. Saying she needed his expertise, and nothing more. It was like the seven years apart had never happened.She had only said she had been contacted, they were paying good money for an ancient relic, but the trek was rough, they couldn’t find anyone else to take the job.He walked over to her and started reaching above her, combing the rocks in the same patterns she was doing, however above where her shore sature could reach.“So,” he glanced down at her, “What exactly are we looking for?”“I was told it would be in a room, and looking at this place, there is not obvious rooms!”“What if it’s down there,” He motioned to the edge of the cliff.“We used all of our rope getting up to this place, may as well take our chances here before we commit suicide climbing down that wall.”The continued to search, as they got to the cliff he looked down once more.“Are you sure it’s not down there?”“No,” she snapped and went back to looking, “but, come here will you?” he walked over to her. “Try to move this.” She motioned to a rock on the ground. She pushed it with her foot and it didn’t budge.“I know you said you needed muscle but Sera, jeez it’s just a rock.” He picked her up playfully, she let out a loud yelp, and he set her aside. Reaching down to move the rock he grunted, it didn’t move. “What the?”She nodded, “Told you it wouldn’t be down there, now how do you think it activates?” She knelt on the ground and opened her pack.“You were the one with the information,” he watched her rummage and pull out a small figure. It looked like a small cat. “Sera, please tell me you haven’t turned into some crazy cat lady?” she glared up at him.“No you baboon, Look at the rock,” She pointed to the rock and he bent down to take a closer look. On the top of it was an indent, it made no sense and iaf it was just him, he would have ignored it.Not bothering to get up Sera crawled over to the rock and set the small cat figure inside the indent. It fit perfectly. Moments later a loud scraping sound came from in front of them as a large sone started moving revealing a tunnel leading deeper into the mountain.“A cat key? Sera, what is this we are after?”“I told you no questions.”“But, it’s a cat.” She glared at him, stood and went to retrieve her pack. She motioned to him to enter the cave. He entered, the torch light illuminating ahead of them.They looked at the walls, covered in pictures of cats and dogs, pictures showing great battles fought between the two species.“Sera,” Boris’s voice was all but scolding.“No questions” she cut him off quickly, grabbed the torch and moved forward.The tunnel eventually opened into a grand room, and in the middle sat a large stone table with something small in the middle. Nothing ordained the stone slab, but there was nothing else in the room.Sera walked to the slab and looked at the item on it. She slowly reached to pick it up, but heard a loud bark behind her.Boris and she turned to look, quickly filing into the cave, in an unbelieved orderly fashion was an army of corgis. Each stout body covered in head to toe armor, their teeth showing, they weren’t normal dog teeth, but looked to be much sharper, each one snarled at the two as they liked up blocking the only exit.“What the fu-” Boris let out, moving to stand between Sera and the dogs. One of the larger dogs stepped forward and let out an echoing growl.“Dear Sera, you’ve found what we need. This alone will stop our enemies.”“They can talk?” Boris’s mouth dropped open as he looked at the furry figures in front of him.“You think humans are really the smartest beings on earth? As you tear eachother apart and kill our planet?” They couldn’t tell if the dog let out a bark or a laugh.Sera stepped around Boris and scanned the army, there had to be at least fifty of them, fifty little poof tails, small snouts, and vicious teeth.“Who are you?” Sera’s hands clenched into fists as she took as step closer. The volume of growls increased with each step.“I am Xanos, leader of the Corgmy”“Corgmy?” Sera questioned.“Yes, Corgmy you stupid human, it is the uprising of corgis against the races that are determined to kill this land.”Sera was speechless as she looked at the leather clad dogs in front of her.“What?” was all she managed to say.“You think you were really sent here for some relic, by some human? Oh dear girl this was all a set up. See we do not have opposable thumbs, and needed someone to assist us in getting this far.”Boris turned around to look at the table, to see the relic they were sent to get. It was a large bag filled with herbs.He grabbed the bag and turned to face the floof in front of him. “What is this?” He held up the bag, one of the dogs Jumped for Sera teeth bared. She jumped back and the dog landed where she had just been standing.Xanos let out a loud bark and the dog whimpered, backing up to its place in line.“That is how we defeat the cats idiot human.” Boris looked at the bag then to the group.“Cats?” He looked closer at the bag, “Jesus christ you’ve got to be kidding me.” He opened the bag and sniffed, “Catnip? Sera we came here for Catnip?”Suddenly the wall behind them crashed down, rocks flew by them, Boris grabbed Sera and covered her with his body. He grunted as he felt his back being cut up by the debrie.Loud barks came followed by a slight hissing sound.“Xanos!” A high pitched voice came from behind them. Boris looked up and cursed, jumping through the newly made entrance, and up onto any surface they could find were cats, they also wore armor like the dogs, but as far as he could tell, their teeth were not sharpened.“What in God’s name is Going on here?” Boris yelled as the dust settled. He stood and helped Sera up.Suddenly a large cat growled “Ssssilence Human!” Two laser beams shot from it’s eyes making a tight burn circle around the two humans from it’s high up perch.“Sera, what have you gotten us into?” Boris pushed her to the side, however the cats started hissing, the dogs growling as the two leads of the races looked at eachother.“Perseus, it has been a few years.” Xanos growled, is snout sniffing in the large cat’s direction.“Did you think I would just forget about all of this? And not hear of two bare skins climbing the sacred mountain? You were a fool Xanos!”Boris held the catnip looking back and forth, still not believing his eyes.“Wait, let me get this straight, we have War Corgis and Laser Cats?”Both leaders looked directly at the pair, “And now we’ll have to kill you, this must never get out. Give me the catnip and I promise to make your death fast bare skin.” the cat’s voice was almost a purr.The dogs growled “Give me the catnip and I may let you go.” The rest of the dogs looked at their leader with shock in their eyes.Boris looked at Sera questioningly, “are you a cat or a dog person.” She smiled playfully. “Why not both?” via /r/Tiix

[allofbeercom]

Serial recap – season two, episode two: The Golden Chicken

Sarah Koenig interviews a Taliban spokesman and uncovers the story of Bergdahls kidnap while also showing she doesnt understand Taliban humour

It feels like a lot longer than a week since Serials first episode of its second season aired. In real life Bowe Bergdahls story has moved on substantially, with the news on Monday that Bergdahl will face a court martial (1) for his alleged desertion.

The story also made its way into the presidential race with Bergdahls attorney, Eugene Fidell, saying Donald Trump should stop his prejudicial months-long campaign of defamation against Bergdahl after the Republican frontrunner said he should be shot. Websites have produced primers on the case, guides and more primers, videos asking whether Bergdahl is a hero or deserter, and podcasts on what to expect at the court marshall. But were not focusing on that right now. Episode two is all about the story of his capture, as told through an interview with the Taliban, which was the carrot left dangling in front of our noses at the end of last weeks episode.

I was talking on the phone to this Taliban fighter

Sarah Koenig brings us up to date with Bergdahls court marshall, summing it up in her signature laconic manner. The armys in two minds whether to throw the book at him, she says, or say: OK, yes. He screwed up in a huge way but five years with the Taliban? Enough is enough. Its delivered with a tone that suggests hes a naughty child who has eaten his siblings birthday cake.

I was talking on the phone to this Taliban fighter, Koenig continues, as if its something you do everyday. They discuss the loss of life both sides suffered in order to retain Bergdahl or free him. The Taliban lost 15 fighters in one raid. So, was it worth it? Some people are worth more than 1,000 individuals and he was worth more than 5,000, the Taliban spokesman responds (2).

Then were presented with a contradiction of Bergdahls story: he says he was snatched by men on motorbikes. A local stringer who worked for Mark Boal says people told him that Bergdahl was often seen near a local village and that Taliban fighters had wanted to grab him for a while, ultimately capturing him by pretending to be local police while the soldier was in a Kochi tent. Bergdahl says thats not true. This exchange is a lot like season ones back-and-forth, except instead of former school friends weve got the word of one of the most famous US soldiers in the world and, well, the Taliban.

A ready-made loaf

Bergdahls appearance in a Kochi tent and capture by the nomadic people is seen as utterly miraculous by the Taliban fighter. How could this enemy of the Quran just stroll into their lives? Theres an insight into Taliban banter here as well. They claim that when Bergdahl was taken, he kicked one of the Pakistani Taliban, to which the others (who were mostly Afghan) joked: He knew you were Pakistani! Oddly, Koenig says she didnt get the joke it is hardly complex.

The fun continues with a story about how the Taliban thought Bergdahl was drunk when he was captured, but they had to admit it was a slightly flawed accusation because: 1. theyd never seen a drunk person, and 2. they assume all westerners are drunk anyway.

Amid the jokes is Bergdahls version of events. Hes definitely sober while explaining that he knew he needed to carefully judge when to push things and when not to, because the consequences could be serious, deadly even. It doesnt matter how many kung fu movies you watch you need to be realistic when youre facing these people, he says, bringing up another film reference after the Bourne one last week.

It was a new kind of crisis

Bergdahls capture was an entirely new scenario in the Afghan/US conflict, says Koenig. But the US knew he would be moved constantly with the ultimate aim of getting to home base or in Tom and Jerry terms the hole in the wall where Tom cant go. But the Taliban knew the US would be thinking that, so first they went west to Ghazni province. Theres a handy map on the Serial website for anyone who wants to visualise this. Ghazni was the scene of a recent Taliban jailbreak, and also where Afghan forces repelled 2,000 insurgents. Bergdahl was to be handed to a group in Pakistan, and the US were looking for him and threatening to hunt anyone who didnt cooperate.

One of the most interesting parts of the series so far is the cultural differences presented and the genuine humour. When Bergdahl was refusing to eat and clearly depressed, the Taliban did a traditional dance for him in a field while they were hiding from US searches. It was meant to boost his morale but because he didnt have a clue what was going on it had the opposite effect. Bergdahl doesnt remember any dance. Theres a bit of Adam Curtiss Bitter Lake here or, to a lesser extent, the sinister undertones and gallows humour of Errol Morriss Standard Operating Procedure.

I think a lot of us would have shot him

If we would have found him I think a lot of us would have shot him, says Darryl Hanson, one of Bergdahls fellow soldiers. Another says they Haaaaaated him. Its a really interesting contrast to the bemused excitement and begrudging hospitality of the Taliban. The DUSTWUN lasted 45 days. Planes, helicopters, drones: hundreds of people snapped into action because as the US army creed goes: Leave no one behind.

They were flown into villages and made to check every house and all the women to make sure Bergdahl wasnt disguised. Wikileaks reports show the scale of the search. They were actually right outside a house where he was being kept but missed him. It sounds like a scene from Apocalypse Now. Koenig sets up the contrast between the US (big machine hurtling through Afghanistan in a slapdash way) and the Taliban (smaller, honed to be able to travel freely and quickly). We zoom out here to show how, because of the USs ultimately short-term approach to Afghanistan, the Taliban were able to regroup and seep back into areas like Ghazni (3).

It was a tough, tough meeting, says a battalion leader, who had to inform wives and relatives of soldiers who were searching for Bergdahl that it was dangerous. Morale was low in the soldiers, and fights broke out. Leaders tried to regain morale by handing out cans of beer and telling dirty jokes. But it was pointless because Bowe was in Jerrys mouse hole, AKA Pakistan: Bowe would spend the next year learning how to escape. Next time on Serial. Looks like were going to Pakistan.

Observations

Everything thats revealed on the podcast is admissible evidence during the court marshall.

Thanks for your comments from last week, Ive taken them on board.

A ready-made loaf is a brilliant expression and arguably should have been the title of the episode.

Sarah Koenig doesnt get Taliban banter.

Pop culture reference watch: last week the Bourne films. This week – kung fu flicks.

The kung fu reference cuts both ways though, and it is slightly amusing that the Taliban thought Bergdahl was a trained martial artist.

Ranking the cliffhangerness of the Next time on Serial sign-offs: this week was a 6/10 cliffhanger, last week was around 8/10.

It seems like bad jokes are a universal for soldiers in conflict.

Notes

(1) Bowe Bergdahl to face US army court martial over desertion charges

(2) Inside the Botched Rescue of Bowe Bergdahl

(3) Afghanistan war logs: Massive leak of secret files exposes truth of occupation

from All Of Beer http://allofbeer.com/serial-recap-ae-season-two-episode-two-the-golden-chicken/

[spookybooscarystorytime]

The Carpathian Carver by LJ

New Post has been published on http://www.scarystorytime.com/2017/08/13/the-carpathian-carver-by-lj/

The Carpathian Carver by LJ

    The Carpathian mountains cast a long shadow as the Sun set.

I was in this God-forsaken place for my brother. He had left three months ago, leaving a voicemail before vanishing. He said he was on to something, that it might take some time, but that when he returned, we would have no more worries. I’ve been worried every day since. You never really know how much you miss someone until they’re gone.

I had grown familiar with his journal the past week as I made my way here, traveling from my home in America to Uzhhorod in Ukraine. I boarded a train from there, destined for a small village off the maps. I opened the journal to the entry I had bookmarked:

‘June 13th –

Looks like I wasn’t lost: turns out there’s a town out of the way, East of Uzhhorod. Geez, I had to read over the train routes like thirteen times before I even saw it. It took me all day to get here, unfortunately. It’s super small, pretty old, but the worst thing is that it smells. Real bad. Like they’ve been cooking asparagus casserole in an oven and forgot to check it for two years.

I’m staying at a run-down inn, but at least they’ve got Internet. The people here are real weird, though. They’re- I don’t know, stiff? Not unfriendly on purpose, but just- it’s like I’m in a town full of autistic children. The innkeep barely said a word to me, just brushed his beard up on me and took my money and grunted and gave me a key. His eyes were super sunken in, and cataracted, so bad I don’t know how he could see, and his skin looked real weird, floppy, but I left too quick to get a good look, ’cause I didn’t want to spend any more time next to him, ’cause he smelled like asparagus, too.

Tomorrow I begin my trek into the woods. I’ve already packed my bag, checked and double-checked for food, water, survival gear, cigarretes(essential), a knife and holy water. I have no plan to engage the demon in the least, but best to be prepared. Anyhow, that’s it for today, so goodnight Journy (ha, get it? ’cause it’s like a pet nickname for ‘journal’ and I’m on a journey? that’s funny. I’m funny. god, I’m lonely. but this will all be worth it when I come home.)’

Ah, yes, the demon, referenced to as ‘The Carpathian Carver’ on the Internet. I collected an assortment of tales of folklore and anecdotal evidence on the creature. The earliest accounts attributed to the Carver date back to the mid sixteenth century, during a period called ‘The Ruin’, a period of war for control of Ukraine. One origin story describes a chance encounter between a tribe of druids and a brigade of Russian soldiers. Fearful of their blue-painted bodies and wild faces, and mistaking their sacred runes for black magic, the druids were slaughtered. The last one they killed died clutching an ugly book to his bleeding chest, a tome of esoteric incantations impossible to find anywhere else.

There are a multitude of other theories on the Internet: deviant mutants, supernatural two-bit lores, and then government-sanctioned genetic mutation gone wrong. And aliens. Someone always thinks it’s aliens. Regardless the cause, something IS happening in this forest.

I turned the page of the journal.

‘June 14th –

Today was a waste. I searched for hours, losing the trail and finding it and losing it again. I gave up a couple hours before sunset, insanely disappointed. I was wondering if this Mimic guy was just some Ukrainian asshole jokester.

There was an- interesting- development, however: the townsfolk fished a body out the river just before I got back, a woman. It was messed up real bad, I only caught a glimpse, but the throat was slashed so bad, it was just a gaping hole, nothing in it. Looked like a bear or something had taken the chick down, she had some claw marks along her face and her shirt was torn up. My Ukrainian hasn’t improved much, but I think I heard the villagers whisper ‘voice’ or something like that to each other, but what does that even mean? I don’t know. And they all have weird numbers.

The innkeep saw me looking, and I guess I looked real interested, ’cause he came up to me and started saying ‘don’t go’ (I think) and pointing upstream. He seemed pretty calm for having seen a dead person. He kept scratching himself. I think he had once had frostbite or something, ‘ cause a splotch of his neck looked real bad, I mean, like dead.

I’m somewhat hesitant to continue on, this Carver dude drinks blood like water. But if he exists, that means the Transmutation exists. I can’t stop now. I’ve got some weapons, I’ve seen a few Jackie Chan movies with all the cool kung fu moves, I’m good. One more day. Tomorrow I’ll go upstream, and the day after I’ll be on a plane home, turning all sorts of stuff into gold. A gold bed. A gold toilet. Yeah, a gold toilet will really help me pick up some chicks.’

Mimic. This was all his fault.

Mimic is a user on an Internet forum for paranormal discussion. He is, by far, the leading expert on the Carver, and he says he’s a historian. He’s got loads of evidence on the Carver. He describes the Carver vaguely, though he seems certain holy water is its weakness. Mimic focuses mostly on the Explanation of Transmutation, the book he says the druid died holding. He attributes all sorts of qualities to it, such as the ability to raise the dead, to grant immortality, to convert substances to gold, and myriad other fantastical things. He wrote so in-depth that I’m sure he’s convinced a lot of people to search for it.

Surely he’s making some of it up. He’s crafting a story, a prank to convince stupid foreigners to travel all the way out to Ukraine so he can have a laugh. That’s what I would’ve thought if I hadn’t received my brother’s journal in the mail. Shipped in a box that smelled of necrosis. The box that contained his severed head, his head missing the eyes. The number six thousand sixty-one carved on his forehead.

I turned to the last journal entry.

“I’m dead. So dead, how’d I even end up here? I’m locked in a closet, I’ve only got a lighter and I’m writing my last words. I walked up the stream. There was this old stone house. It’s the Carver’s. It’s also a mausoleum. Smells putrid. It’s full of the dead. I saw it and waited. I wasn’t just going to enter it, not right away. Night came. I wasn’t worried, I’d be able to find my way back, just follow the stream. And I saw him. The Carver. His flesh clings to his body, he’s so skinny, almost a skeleton if not for the pale blue skin wrapped tightly to his bones. He walked slowly. Surely. With a strange confidence.

I waited a while after I lost sight of him. Just to make sure. I would be in and out in a flash, I thought. Part of the wall had collapsed on one side. I jumped it. And I got hit by that smell, the smell that follows me, it’s sunk into my hair and my skin, I smell like a corpse and- Moonlight lit a bit of the room. Centuries old, this building. And it smelled. There were fragments of bones and trinkets, a stained rug, but no book. I went into a door. The smell got stronger, it was in my nostrils now, and I vomited, I wiped my mouth and pulled out my lighter, my hand shaking so bad I almost couldn’t get it lit, and the dead people were there.

They were PROPPED. Propped up like figures in a wax museum, dressed in fashions from eons ago, all different kinds, all skeletal or ripe green or dirt brown, and some were hanging from the ceiling like marionettes dancing, and others were sitting at a table, silverware in hand, and another was staring out the window, and another had a laptop in its hands, and another applying makeup while staring in a mirror, can you imagine that? A dead person staring at themselves in a mirror, staring with no eyes, just black sockets, and there was another propped up in a chair, reading a book.

The Explanation of Transmutation. I pulled the book out of its hands, knocking the corpse over, a thousand baby spiders exploding from the skull. I ran into the forest, waiting to see the Carver, but he wasn’t there.

I was elated, the world was mine! I stopped to catch a breath, and the book began calling my name. I took a quick look. The pages were blank. They were all blank. Page after page after page, I kept turning. Except the last one.

One sentence scrawled: ‘need new eyes’. And I heard footsteps behind me.

Then I woke up here. And I’m waiting to die. And I’m so alone. I hope someone reads this. Stay away. My brother’s address is 13 XYXYX XYXYXYXY, XYXYXY XYXYXYX, North Carolina, U.S.A. Send this to him. Tell him I miss him.’

Tears came no longer. I had read it too many times, imagined his death too many times. I put the journal away as the train began to slow.

I disembarked, the only passenger to do so. The air had a fetid odor, and grew stronger the closer to town I walked. It reminded me to prepare myself, so I stopped and unzipped my travel bag. I didn’t bring just a knife, like my brother. No, I came to slaughter: a MP5 and a fragmentation grenade, which I purchased through a friend of a friend of a contact in my brother’s journal; six nine millimeter clips and a gallon of holy water blessed by a reluctant priest; a machete, and a liter of gasoline and matches. I was going to torture the Carver to death.

With my weapons readied, I continued into town. Oil street lamps lit the cobble-stoned streets, and I began to see people, slow, milling about aimlessly. I continued down into the middle of the street, studying the town. It was aged, storied with a history I would never know. Was it built during The Ruin? The throngs of townsfolk began to thicken. They all looked sick, and had numbers written on their shirts, what did it mean? They were all in the six thousands, but not one higher than-

These were the Carver’s victims. And they had me surrounded. Dozens of them, all staring at me, the faint glow of the street lamps illuminating the sickly pallor of their dead flesh. I saw the innkeep amongst them, in the back. He was a stranger, to be sure, but there was something I recognized in his gaze. Contrarily, the villagers’ eyes were glazed, void of consciousness. They stepped toward me.

Gun in hand, I dropped the bag and began spraying bullets into the crowd. Black, bloodless holes filled their bodies, and they just kept coming, ignoring the rounds aside from a flinch from impact. Clip after clip was spent, I could smell the decay on their breath, could see the yellowed whites of their eyes, and then there was the click of the last magazine running dry. Only a few lay still. I began to worry.

I strapped the bag of munitions to my back and sprinted toward the closest building, kicking down the door and barricading it. As soon as I stepped away, the door rattled on its hinges, the villagers’ bloodlust made audible in clarion screams. It wasn’t going to hold very long. Shadows flit by the windows, I heard glass shatter somewhere. Got to go, gotta get out, where do I go?

I ran through the house, searching desperately, but only one thing came to mind: burn, baby, burn. I wouldn’t be able to escape, but I wouldn’t be the only one to die tonight. I began another lap through the house, unzipping the bag and pouring the gasoline in a trail, evading villagers that had breached the building. I struck a match and the trail lit, consuming the house in an instant. A few villagers in the way of the trail became walking torches, though they did not scream as the flames roasted their skin. In fact, they made no reaction, other than to continue to lumber toward me. It was useless.

I tried to run. They were around every corner, I couldn’t get out. I ascended a staircase, trying to dodge the flames quickly climbing it, and then I stopped as I heard a loud groan. The stairwell broke, and I fell.

I awoke with a start, my temple pulsing in agony. The smoke was caustic as I inhaled, and the light of flames flickered through cracks above, illuminating the tunnel I was in with eerie light. After my eyes adjusted, I crept down the dank passage, my heart thundering. I saw torchlight near the end, set beside an ancient, rotted door. It was heavy, and creaked loudly despite my caution. It opened up into a mammoth room, cobbled and mildewed, lit by lanterns in intervals. A foul odor crept into my lungs, and there was not a breath shallow enough to save me from it. Stone tables were staggered throughout, at least a hundred, each with something on them-

Embalming tables. They were all embalming tables, still occupied by bodies of mangled, pale flesh that hadn’t seen sunlight in decades. I walked silently toward one, careful not to wake them, lest they be animated like the villagers. The one I looked had a carving in its chest, the number one-thousand and twelve. He kept them, the Carver kept them as trophies.

This was disgusting, I was disgusted and I needed out, I needed out right now. The confines of the room began to close in, claustrophobia squeezed my lungs as I ran through the room, aimlessly searching for an exit, any way out, but it was filled with tables, tables and corpses and that terrible smell.

And in my carelessness, I knocked over a trap of tools rusted brown, and they clattered to the ground, the echo lasting several moments. And before I even looked up, I could feel eyes on me. And when I did, every corpse in the room was sitting up, staring at me. And then cold, fetid hands clasped my face from behind me, and the world faded to black.

I awoke to darkness, hanging by my arms. I stood up, the reek of death all around me. When my eyes adjusted, I realized I was in the room my brother had described, the one with all the corpses propped, except they were all staring into my eyes with green, withered faces. I remained motionless, for I could not tell if they were alive or not. They were perfectly still, but their eyes, their eyes were alive and glistening. I looked around, but there was no escape. I saw the bag with my supplies in it, five feet away, but impossible to reach, for my wrists were bound by chains.

My head dropped. This was it. I had failed. I would die in the same cursed place as my brother had. Oh, my poor brother, I was not strong enough to avenge you. I looked back up. Like a hallucination, two corpses lay on the floor, one freshly killed, one headless, and a ghastly figure kneeling beside them with a book in hand. It had a mask of human flesh on, the innkeep’s, he was wearing the innkeep.

The creature was frail, emaciated, his bones more prominent than his musculature. Varicose veins pulsated, splintering off from his heart like lightening. There was a patchwork of his victim’s flesh wrapped around him, interspersed by dried blood and pale blue. He began incanting an ancient language with the voice of a woman. And he looked at me, my brother’s eyes inside his darkened sockets. The demon put his finger inside the newly deceased’s head, rubbed the browned blood on a page inside the book, and then placed his hand on the headless body. It began twitching.

The Carver dropped the book, standing to look at me. He ripped the flesh mask off, the Moon lighting a sickening smile on his lipless face. The headless corpse stood up, wobbling, ‘six thousand sixty-one’ carved in its chest. A boast, a trophy. The Carver reached toward me, his fingers misshapen claws. The corpse flinched, bristled behind it, as if agitated.

“New- heartttt?” he hissed. He poked my chest and began pushing, slowly, maintaining eye contact the whole time, his head tilted, relishing my reaction. His finger squirmed, sliced tissue, prodded my lung. And suddenly, he fell to the floor. My brother’s body had attacked it. But as soon as the Carver lost sight of me, it flailed blindly, searching without eyes for the chains that bound me. It made contact, and with supernatural strength, tore it from the ceiling. I would’ve offered thanks, but it didn’t have ears with which to hear me.

The Carver was back up, and grabbed my brother’s body, throwing it outside, through the wall. As soon as he turned back to me, I whipped the broken chain at it, denting its skull. It fell back to the ground, stunned, and I went for my bag, rifling through it. I desperately threw the vials of holy water at demon, but they did not impede his recovery. No, no, I grasped, as the Carver pulled apart my chest, and through the pain I swung the machete down, tearing his torso wide open. He recoiled, falling to his knees at my feet, clutching his spilled innards. I reached back into the bag, grabbed the grenade, pulled the pin with my teeth and shoved it inside his wound.

This was it.

The explosion was deafening. I sailed through the air. Dead flesh rained from the sky. Everything was destroyed. Through the haze of my fading consciousness, I realized that I was missing most of my body. I lay still. This was the end. I gave it my best, and had won, even though it cost my life to succeed. It was worth it. I closed my eyes. Time passed, but I could not tell how much, nor did I care. And then something shook me awake, a cold breeze or a soft howl from far away. I blinked. The air was charged with some sort of energy. I looked over my shoulder and saw a blue glow as the Carver’s body began piecing itself back together, only tiny pieces, but it was forming quickly. Already a finger was reformed.

No! I won! I had won! I had beaten him, I would not allow my victory to be snatched away, I would NOT allow this. I began crawling with the last limb I had attached, at first to the Carver, but then to the book lying next to him. It was already open, turned to a page which I could not read. But something called to me from it, whispering in my mind, and I knew not what I did, I only acted. I picked a bit of the Carver’s gray matter off my face and placed it on the page, which set strange runes aglow in blue light. The book spoke to my mind, told me to trace the last rune, but I hesitated.

I knew what this meant. I would become the new Carver. I would become a monster, unredeemable, atrocious, forsaken and alone. But was I not already alone? The Carver’s head was mushy still, but his face was forming. And if I did this, how many brothers would I steal from the world? How many families would I destroy without regret or conscience? Was it worth vengeance? The Carver’s torso was fusing together, bone popping out of a hand that reached toward me. If I chose this, I would be immortal, undead, leading a hollow life of stealing from the living. Could I live with myself knowing what I was? The Carver pulled himself on top of me, his saliva dripping on my face.

Was this worth absolute victory? What would you think, my brother?

I think so. I traced the rune.

My body disintegrated.

The transformation was extraordinary. My mind was filled with knowledge, foreign memories made, consciousness transcended, senses redefined, beliefs and morals distorted and remade. Existence was understood from a whole different perspective. Life was an essence, something tangible, transferrable, if one used the right tools. My body was reformed, stronger, more powerful, restructured with a foreign genetic code. But it was malnourished. I reached out for one of the myriad limbs laying around me and used it, absorbed it. Ate it. The feeling, the taste was intoxicating. My greatest desire now was to use it, to experiment, to see how much flesh I could transmute.

The old Carver stared up at me in horror, broken and writhing. Yes, I knew what he was thinking. He had not known fear in centuries, and to stand here above him, to revel as he cowered, it was bliss.

“I’m going to torture you to death,” I whispered. And then I consumed him, in thin ribbons of flesh and rivulets of blood, dissecting him, peeling his flesh, taking inventory of his organs, collecting his nails, strangling the screams from his throat, for hours on end. And when I finished, when he was naught but a slimy paste, I sought the long-dead, and consumed them, too. I left the old building to find one more corpse, and found him.

Ah, but this one I would not eat. I hungered, yes, and I would sate that urge with a million souls, for I was the new Carver. I generated flesh on the body before me to erase the number placed on it, except I left the ‘one’. The first. You are the first, my brother. Let us share this victory together.