#threads: copper sinclair

[cyberneticatoms]

WHERE: Mystical Mysteries Escape Room (45 Lampkin Lane) WHO: Dewey Dunn (@mercurysunstar)

"Alright dude, I'm close to giving up. Can we pleeeeeease ask for a hint?" Copper asked before nervously glancing around the room. He wasn't sure why he'd agreed to do extreme mode, he'd blame it on not wanting to look like a scaredy cat in front of Dewey. Scooching closer to where Dewey was, he shifted in his spot, "They won't like actually murder us right?"

[cyberneticatoms]

Copper was chewing on his straw, nodding at what they said, "Fair enough," he mumbled about the journalism comment. He slowly set his own drink down when they leaned forward, watching them curiously when they leaned closer. A flush formed on his cheeks and he looked down, "Um..thanks," slowly glancing back up they gave a sheepish shrug, "Don't really think it's that impressive." Drumming his fingers against his leg, he debated how to answer. "Stevie can't really even go to the grocery store without a mob showing up, I'm not really envious of that. Kind of wish the opposite to be honest, but there's no real way for her to give up the spotlight."

Mizi simply shrugged and leaned back in her seat before having another sip of her drink. "It is obvious, but I'm a good journalist because I never assume anything," they explained, their casual expression and demeanour slowly shifting when he started explaining why he didn't namedrop Stevie to get ahead. Clearing her throat, she leaned forward and set her drink down before flashing him a genuine smile. "Honestly? I can respect that. Most people don't have the integrity to want to do things on their own if they don't have to. And I think it's pretty damn cool that you do." They let out a soft chuckle before their lips tugged back into their usual grin. "But don't think I missed the fact that you didn't answer my question. Whose idea was it to keep your existence a secret? Or if you don't want to answer that... Do you ever wish it wasn't a secret?"

[honey-minded-hivemind]

Floating on by like a butterfly for the 🐉Wings of Fire aus' names lists are...

The 🐛SilkWings🦋!

The X-Men Members:

• Charles Xavier/Professor Xavier: Xerces

• Ororo Munroe/Storm: Silk

• Logan Howlett/Wolverine: Lemon

• Scott Summers/Cyclops: Cecropia

• Jean Grey/Marvel Girl/Phoenix: Grayling

• Hank McCoy/Beast: Beauty

• Anne-Marie/Rogue: Rose

• Remy LeBeau/Gambit: Gossamer

• Kitty Pryde/Shadowcat: Sphinx

• Kurt Wagner/Nightcrawler: Nymph

• Jubilation Lee/Jubilee: Gypsy

• Evan Daniels/Spyke: Skipper

• Bobby Drake/Iceman: Io

• Piotr Rasputin/Colossus: Peacock

• Illyana Rasputin/Magik: Marble

• Rahne Sinclair/Wolfsbane: Woodwhite

• Samuel "Sam" Guthrie/Cannonball: Comma

• Roberto da Costa/Sunspot: Sulphur

• Danielle "Dani" Moonstar/Mirage: Mint

• Laura Kinney/Wolverine 2.0: Lime

•Tabitha "Tabby" Smith/Boom-Boom: Burnet

The Brotherhood:

• Erik Lehnsherr/Magnus/Magneto: Metalmark

• Raven Darkholme/Mystique: Miner

• Victor Creed/Sabretooth: Viceroy

• Pietro Maximoff/Quicksilver: Silverspot

• Wanda Maximoff/Scarlet Witch: Witch

• Mortymer Tonybee/Todd Tolanksy/Toad: Tortoiseshell

• Fred "Freddy" Dukes/Blob: Blue

• Lance Alvers/Avalanche: Argent

• St. John Allerdyce/Pyro: Pinion

(Tied up that loose end, didn't I? But there is one more thread to add to this tapestry of words, the...)

• Reader/Bby: Ghost, Imperial, Polyphemus, Bella, Tiger, Leopard, Dagger, Esther, Regal, Emperor, Sable, Swift, Heart, Heath, Lappet, Looper, Blush, Gold, Pink, Brass, Crimson, Burgundy, Orange, Yellow, Emerald, Azure, Purple, Copper, White, Black, Gray, Cream, Monarch, Lady, Queen, Page, Ulysses, Adonis, Satyr, Hairstreak, Malachite, Pavon, Velvet, Flambeau, Doris, Argus, Glasswing, Cloak, Pearl...

[early20sfailingplenty]

“You look kinda hot covered in my blood.” For bo?

I MADE MYSELF CRY WRITING THIS NONNIE😭💔 EVERYTHING HURTS AND I'M NOT OKAY NO ONE TOUCH ME😭💔😩

Gender neutral reader, no coded language, "you" and Y/N used.

TW; BLOOD, Bo's HURT (canon compliant), physical injuries, I have no first aid knowledge, canon typical darkness and violence, possessive language.

I wrote one very similar to this here, which is longer & more fleshed out if you're interested!

Word count: 729.

Please, Bo, please, please...

A mantra had you been repeating for hours, it seemed, both out loud and in your head as your hands, slick with Bo's blood, worked desperately, tirelessly, to patch him up. He had been shot in the arm and again in the chest by a piece of shit who was more resourceful and quicker on his feet than any of you had expected.

Vincent had found Bo knocked out cold in the theatre after he had tracked and killed the would-be escapee (his gut instinct had sent him running to Bo, and for good reason as he had found out). You had received a phone call from him, nothing but raspy noises of anguish punctuated by harsh breaths. You had hurriedly and in a haze of white hot panic put the pieces together and you and Vincent had stayed on the line with one another as you rushed to get to them, your Sinclairs.

With Vincent working on removing the arrow heads and you working on keeping the areas cleared of blood so Vincent could see what he was doing in the somehow dim but harsh artificial light of the kitchen, the two of you quickly got Bo's injuries taken care of. For the most part had the man been unconscious, the pain too great for him to take, but as Vincent began to stitch closed the wounds, Bo roused. He moaned lowly and Vincent's tugging at the thread paused as he shifted to loom over his twin, his long dark locks tickling Bo's cheek.

"Vincent?" Bo's voice was so quiet, so soft, and in any other situation, you would have cooed at the way Bo said his brother's name. Like it was his second and only chance to say everything he kept locked behind his teeth. You knew the brothers loved each other, you knew it, and in moments like this, when vulnerability was the only option left, it shone through so strongly that it would have blinded you if it was a light.

Vincent made a noise and he bent down more, more, until he could press his forehead to Bo's. He was wearing his mask but Bo's good arm - the one which hadn't been shot - moved to wrap around Vincent's shoulders in a hug as strong as the eldest Sinclair could manage.

"Yeah," Bo sighed, the sound weighted in exhaustion. He was sweaty as all hell and covered in blood, half asleep and almost delirious with pain, "Missed y'too."

Oh, help you, but it was all too much. A sob you hadn't known was building up clawed its way from your chest, up, up, and it ripped out of your throat so violently that it ruptured the serene moment between the twins. Guilt for doing so, though not was it your fault, made you cry harder, and the twins separately by centimetres; just enough to look at you individually but still very much in the best hug they could manage.

Bo's look was almost unreadable to you but he managed a smirk, his eyes misty with pain, tears, and so many other emotions it was making him dizzy. "Y'look kinda hot covered in m'blood, darlin'." Bo tried to laugh but then coughed, which triggered pain to bloom hotly through his chest and his groan reminded you and Vincent of where you all were and what you were doing.

You sniffled thickly and swiped a bloody hand over your face, trying to get rid of the tears. Copper filled your nose and you almost gagged. "S'not funny, Bo. We could have - we nearly - "

How Vincent got to you so fast, you had no idea, but one minute the floor was getting close to your face and the next, you were in a kitchen chair right beside Bo's head, and Vincent had the needle back in his trembling hand as he rushed to fix up his brother as best as he could. Your fingers delved into Bo's sweaty chestnut curls and there did they stay until Vincent was done. You were the comfort and Vincent was the surgical assistance needed, and together, you were everything Bo needed in his life.

The only thing he needed for it to be better would be to have Lester sat in the corner with Jonesy at his feet. But that was tomorrow.

Today, surviving had to be enough.

(If anyone's curious - as per my last post about sobbing over a Bo piece, what made me cry was writing Bo and Vincent's hug😭💔).

[boneandfur]

Rosemary Lane [4]

CHAPTER FOUR

Love and scandal are the best sweeteners of tea. - Tom Jones, Henry Fielding. 

When Rosamund at last slumps down to breakfast, Woods informs her that her cousin has gone out riding with the Englishmen and the Turk, and that the ladies are at their needlework in the sitting room. 

"This is not the house party I imagined." Rosamund flops down on the chaise, opening one eye to look at Briar. "Since when do you embroider useless things, Briar?" 

Briar looks up from her sewing. Her eyes are dark with purplish shadows, as though she has not slept a wink. Well, that makes a pair of us. 

"Lisette is showing me how to embroider a rosette." Briar holds up her sampler, showing Rosamund a lumpen attempt. 

What a waste of silken thread. But she does not say it. "Where did you learn to stitch so fine, Lisette? We did not get a chance to learn much about you last night, besides the fact that you were a..." Rosamund stumbles over the words in her head, not wanting to offend. " ...a dancer."

Lisette looks up from her stitching, and Rosamund sees she is mending a hole in a fine lawn handkerchief, worn very thin in places, as though it has spent many years in and out of pockets. There is a dark stain near a clutch of blue flowers, and Lisette covers it with a fine-boned hand, looking straight at Rosamund without flinching. "Yes, in the ballet. First in Paris, and then in Vienna. And you, Briar?" 

Rosamund is taken aback at the girl's cheek. "Briar was my maid!" She slaps a hand over her mouth, and Lisette's eyebrows rise. 

"We were friends first." Briar continues working at the rosette, her mouth a set line, giving away nothing. "Grew up in Grovershire, a day's ride from here. Wherever we went, we went together, like each other's shadow." Briar picks a green floss, for the vine, and continues stitching, childish and clumsy. "So when Rosamund found out her true father was the Earl of Edgewater, I came here with her, as her maid. That was back in '16." She looks away, there is a wet gloss in her dark eyes.

Rosamund realizes that Briar is working on a man's handkerchief, and dark jealousy claws at her throat. "Yes, Briar, you were quite busy that summer, were you not?" She cannot resist the dig, and it makes her feel both guilty and satisfied, all at once. 

"Ah, the summer of '16." Lisette's voice is wistful. "When I danced in The Goose Girl."

"I thought you danced in Sun and Moon?" Rosamund stabs her needle into the fabric a little too hard, it bites her finger and she pops it into her mouth. "Or was that just some romantic embellishment?" Because of what you are. But she does not want to say it aloud. After all, aren't all cats grey in the dark? 

"When Maximilian came through Vienna in August of 1816, he was captain of a troop of mercenaries, headed to the Rus." Lisette's eyes are far away, and she sets down her needle, swept up in the memory. "'I have nothing to offer you, Lisette,' he said, 'Except my heart, and the wide, wide world.' What could I do, then, but follow him?" 

It is only because he had money. If he had been a poor man, you would have laughed in his face, Rosamund thinks, and she remembers the summer of 1816, and the look on Luke Harper's face when she told him she could not live on love, nor should any woman be expected to. She had never seen him again. "Well, your life has indeed been a fairytale, Miss Lisette."

Lisette looks up from her stitches, and there is an old sorrow in her eyes for a brief, heartrending moment, but then it is gone, and there is nothing outside but the corbies, whirling and diving in the watery light, no sound of marching boots, no fife and drum. "Never that, Lady Rosamund. Do not ever think it. Maximilian and I have chosen to be happy --" As if happiness is such a thing that can be chosen -- and Lisette looks out at the dark line of forest, beyond the windowpane, where frost etches a silvery web of fate. 

There is more to this tale, Rosamund is certain of it, but Lisette begins to stitch again, a small smile playing about her lips, she will not say more. "Where do you come from? Where is your home?"

"My home is with Maximilian. The place where I was born is no more, madam. It is just a mad dream of exiles, flung to the ends of the earth." Stitch, stitch, stitch. The impossibly small stitches mend the hole in the fabric, as if it never lay over a man's heart as he fought for something bigger than himself, half a world away -- a field strewn with corpses, men and horses falling all around him, the sky streaked red and black, and the sound of the cannons so loud that they could be heard by a girl in Brussels, tending to the wounded as the armies began to retreat. 

Rosamund does not know the tale of that little scrap of cloth, she never will. All she sees before her is a girl who has not been made to know her place, not as she and Briar have been made to, and it makes her feel a fury with the European sense of laissez-faire, that Cousin Maximilian might take a mistress and live openly with her, and no one on the Continent will bat an eye. Meanwhile, her own affair must be hidden in shadow, or else she will be an outcast, as if she is not enough of one already, held to a higher standard by the stain of her very birth. 

But Rosamund presses on. "So you have no home. Is that why you came here, to sponge off my largesse, like common thieves?" 

"Rosamund!" Briar snaps, and Rosamund feels a confused sense of hurt, as though she is the one in the wrong here. 

Lisette stands up, pinning Rosamund with her eyes, and the look in them makes Rosamund shrink back against the chaise, wanting to slink away and go to earth, like a fox who runs from the hounds. When Rosamund drops her eyes, Lisette turns on her heel, and addresses Briar. "Will you not show me around the grounds, Miss Daly? I detest being cooped up inside, and need to feel the sun upon my face." 

"Oh -- yes, of course! Let me just fetch a shawl." Briar hurriedly gathers her sewing things, and stands to go. "By your leave, Lady Rosamund." 

No, you may not have leave to go, I am not done with this conversation! But she has already gone too far, to say that would be beyond the pale, and Rosamund bites her tongue and nods, feeling as though she has not given anything at all.  

•••

"Sinclaire and I will find a tavern." Hamid rubs his hands together so gleefully that Marlcaster would think he planned for Maximilian's horse to throw a shoe, only a stone's throw away from the village. "We shall reserve a private parlor, and order something to stave off the chill." 

"I'll require a pitcher!" Maximilian calls after them, and Marlcaster thinks that Maximilian could probably drink two or three pitchers, remain upright on a horse, ride into battle in his evening wear, and still come out on top through sheer luck. Watching Maximilian saunter through the village streets, pausing to peer through the windows of a curiosity shop with his eyes lit up like a little boy's makes Marlcaster certain that it's all been luck that has brought them here, just the roll of the die. 

"Look! They have an automaton!"  Maximilian bounds inside before Marlcaster can stop him, leaving him to tie up the horses with not a small measure of irritation. It surprises him, how much inner conflict he feels, wanting and not wanting to return to Edgewater, to take Rosamund in his arms, and--

"Well?" Maximilian pokes his head around the door. "Are you coming?"

•••

The inside of the shop is cluttered on every surface with junk: tops carved with skulls, bone rattles, and a wall entirely covered in pinned butterflies; their wings lightly lifted by the breeze from the door, which sets them all to quivering, the sound like a thousand blades of grass, rustling, rustling in the cool of the morning. A clock gongs the hour somewhere in the back of the shop, and all the cuckoo clocks burst out all at once. 

Ku-ku! Ku-ku! Ku-ku!

Marlcaster flinches, nearly dropping the toy theatre he has been holding, a paper and wood replica of Shakespeare's Globe. When he looks up, a plague mask looms from the shadows, the beak long and curved, like a hook. He flinches, hand going instinctively to the pommel of his sword. 

The figure holds up two very human hands, and whips the mask off to reveal a girl, with hair like a copper coin and amber eyes, not more than nineteen or so. "Pax! Pax, sir!" She holds out a hand, Marlcaster stares at it, then back at her face. "I am Mena. Welcome to my shop, gentlemen." 

"Tremendous!" Maximilian startles them both by bursting into laughter, clapping loudly. "May I?" He plucks the mask from the Mena’s fingers, tying it around his head, and dashes off to admire his reflection in a concave mirror. 

"Will you be buying the toy theater, sir?" She has an odd accent, Marlcaster tries to place it and cannot, it belongs to everywhere and nowhere. "They are quite popular." 

Marlcaster looks down at the intricately illustrated plates, thinking of the little boy he once was, thrilled beyond belief to play for hours at producing plays for his baby step-brother, Harry. When Harry grew, he would assist Edmund, until his imagination surpassed the plays that came with the theater, and the two of them were putting on original shows for their mother and the Earl. 

A regular little Davy Garrick, his mother had called Harry. Marlcaster looks down at the toy theater, tracing a finger along the painted scenery, and then back up at the girl. He clears his throat, suddenly thick with emotion. "Yes, wrap it up." 

"And for you, sir?" The girl turns to Maximilian, who has opened the backs of one of the cuckoo clocks and looks up in faint alarm. She glides across the cluttered space, her full skirts whispering, whispering, and she stands on tiptoe to whisper something into the tall man's ear. He flushes, Marlcaster cannot quite make out what they are saying. She places something in Maximilian's hand and his face turns dark. He whirls from her, the look in his eye making Marlcaster shudder. He should not like to face down a foe on some foreign field with a look like that in their eye. 

"There is nothing here I wish to buy." Maximilian's voice is harsh, he clutches something in his fist so tightly that the bones in his hand are white. 

"Sir --" Mena moves forward, and stops. "You may like to know the history of the piece --"

"I know it," Maximilian growls. "For three days and nights, I lay on a blood-soaked field, not knowing if I should live or die, that sigil ring on the hand that lay next to mine." He prowls the edge of the tables, picking up curious things without seeming to really see them at all: a pinned fairy in a jar, an iridescent purple shell, an intricate dagger. "Was this whole shop stocked by Death's plunder, then, madam?" 

Marlcaster looks at the shop-girl, Mena, she has flattened herself to the wall, and he opens his mouth, feeling he should say something to stop Rosamund's cousin. "Lord Maximilian --" 

"He did not die on that field to have his identity stripped from him by craven thieves!" Maximilian roars, his face like thunder. With an incandescent howl of fury, he sweeps his arm across the nearest table, sending everything upon it crashing to the floor. He opens his fist, and the sigil clatters on the floor in the ringing silence. Then he pulls his hat down, and storms from the shop, the door slamming nearly off its hinges behind him. 

"I'd better go after him," Marlcaster says apologetically. "Send the bill to my club in London, Sir Edmund Marlcaster at White's, and I shall see that you are compensated for you troubles." 

Mena plucks at his sleeve as he turns to go. "I shall have the toy theater delivered to Edgewater, where you are staying, sir." 

"How did you... Never mind." As he leaves the shop, he feels eyes on him at the window, but he does not turn around. If he did, he might see that those eyes turn curiously scarlet for a moment, before the heavy curtain falls.

•••

Marlcaster finds Maximilian on the town green, his fingers tracing names on a copper plaque affixed to a simple marble obelisk. The snow is falling more heavily now, soon the whole village will be under a blanket of white. Unbidden, he thinks of the Frost Fair of '14, when Harry rode an elephant across the Thames, when he'd thought they would always be young and golden and immortal, and never know the pain of one who is taken too soon. 

"I should go back." Maximilian stands very still, his head cocked, listening. "I should not have acted so ignobly. I forgot myself." He pulls his collar up, against the chill. "That's the trouble with staying in a place for too long -- you gain a local reputation." 

"I lost a brother, too," Marlcaster says casually, offhand, as though discussing the weather. He gives Maximilian the space to compose himself, glancing up the street where smoke puffs out of the tavern's chimney. "Step-brother, I should say. His name was Harry. Died in a hunting accident. the year before he reached his majority." The old hurt again: though it happened near seven years ago, not a day goes by that he does not see Harry in a sunset, or hear his laughter as he passes children at play. "It never leaves you. I should have been the one who protected him." 

Maximilian's voice is flat, his brown eyes stripped of emotion. "I ran off from Cordonia when I was a lad of fourteen, to follow the drum of war. I was always the joke, the fool, the one who could do nothing right. Came home after the Battle of Paris in '14, to find the old man dead and my brother Duke in his place, and it was as if I'd never gone to war and made a man of myself." 

Marlcaster does not know what to say. He has never seen Paris, he has never been to war. In 1815, while Maximilian Beaumont danced at the Duchess of Richmond's ball and then fought in Quatre Bras at dawn in his evening wear, Edmund Marlcaster was frittering away the rent monies in a gaming hell in Seven Dials, and the next eve dancing the reel with a green-clad girl at a country fair. He never lay in Hell for three days beside the dead body of his elder brother, instead, he watched as his little step-brother was lowered into the ground. 

He raises a hand, as if to give comfort, and then drops it, offering Maximilian a pinch of snuff instead. 

For a long moment, there is no sound but their inhalations as they snort the snuff off the backs of their hands, then: 

"It wasn't your--" 

"And then the Corsican monster came back, and I quit the Cordonian shore to run headlong back into the only thing I knew, the only thing I was ever good at. And he followed me, to try to understand." Maximilian clenches and unclenches his fists, shoving his hands deep into his pockets, and begins to walk toward the tavern, the snow swirling around his patched military cloak. Just before the tavern door, he turns around, and his eyes are bleak as a wasteland. "So do not tell me that the fault is not mine to bear, Mr Marlcaster, sir."

[cyberneticatoms]

Copper pouted slightly at having missed, "That's cause you're not the baby," he grumbled. For the most part Stevie and Lacey never messed with him, other than some harmless teasing. Grunting when the snowball hit him, "Sorry didn't know I was talking to a snow expert," he quipped bending down and tossing some snow back at him. "Feel like being in hockey gives you an unfair advantage in the cold."

"jokes on you," dabi said as he just narrowly dodged the snowball, "i don't trust anyone so the moment you said think fast i was on alert." and that was true. it was a mix of both hockey and being the only boy in his family usually made him an easy target to get ganged up on, especially in hockey since he was on the smaller side compared to them. "if you really wanted to hit me then you should've just said my name." with no warning he pulled a snowball from behing his back and threw it at the others chest, "see?"

[isolationshepherd-blog]

CHAPTER TWO – THE MAID O’ THE LOCH

Abigail had been holed up in Arkholm Tower for nearly a week since the incident with the reivers. It wasn’t by choice. For the first couple of days, she hadn’t wanted to venture outside the safety of the walls. She replayed the encounter with the reivers over and again in her mind, analysing everything they did and said, trying to think of something she could have done to change what had happened, to save her men, and the cattle. Could she have bargained with them? Should she have offered herself in return for the cattle? That wouldn’t have been much of a bargain, though. She was worth far less than the cattle, nothing at all, really. She was the property of her husband, but she had no financial value. After hours of turning it over in her mind, the details had started to change so that she no longer knew what was true and what she had invented. She realised there was nothing she could have done, nothing even Alasdair could have done. They were outnumbered, and the reivers were highly skilled at what they did. That knowledge didn’t make her feel less guilty, though.

After two days, Abigail had felt ready to go beyond the safety of the barmkin. She was tired of pacing the walls of tower and yard, staring out of windows, sitting by the fire. She wanted to get on her horse, feel the wind in her hair, on her face, stinging her eyes. She wanted to feel alive again. Alasdair had been home most of that time and he didn’t like her leaving the tower when he was there. She had to be available to him at a moment’s notice, even though in the end he had ignored her completely after that first night. He hadn’t even slept in their bedchamber, either preferring to stay on the second floor with his men or with one of his mistresses out in the village. She didn’t care. The longer he left her alone, the happier she was.

That morning, when Harper had woken her to help her get dressed, she had given her the news that Lord Griffin had left for Edinburgh. He had been summoned to the Sherriff’s Court to attend a number of trials. Abigail’s spirits had been lifted immediately, and even more so when she looked out of the window and saw that it was a glorious autumn day, with a pale blue sky and hardly a cloud to be seen. The moors were a carpet of purple flowering heather and yellow gorse as far as she could see. All she needed was an excuse to take out her horse.

She went down to the cellar, where the cook was preparing the day’s food. Abigail liked spending time down here. It was warm and aromatic, and there was gossip and good-natured banter amongst the servants. She had an armchair in the corner where she often sat, listening to them talk. When she had first started doing this two years previously, the servants refused to talk, working in silence, so scared that they would let some awful secret slip they chose not to speak at all. Abigail wanted the conversation, longed for it; Clarke was growing up and hardly ever in the tower. She no longer needed her mother and Abigail was lonely. She encouraged the servants to talk by asking them questions, and gradually, as the weeks turned into months and she persisted, they started to put aside who she was, and the kitchen echoed with the sound of chatter and laughter again.

“Good morning, Hannah,” said Abigail in greeting to the cook who was a small, dark-haired woman with a grim face set in a permanent scowl. She tolerated Abigail’s presence but was always wary, ready to shut the servants up with a bang of her heaviest copper pan if they strayed into treacherous territory with their talk. No discussion of Lord Griffin was ever allowed in the cellar, but most other topics were, within reason. The one thing Hannah could be persuaded to talk about was food. Abigail stood over the pot Hannah was stirring, inhaling its rich scent.

“Is that venison?”

“Yes, My Lady.”

“What have we done to deserve this treat?” Venison was a rare meat to have at the dinner table, usually reserved for entertaining important guests.

“One of the lads found the carcass in the forest nearby, My Lady. It was close to being spoiled so I have decided to use it even though Lord Griffin is away.”

It was clear that Hannah thought the meat too good to be wasted on the likes of Abigail, but she didn’t care. This could present an opportunity.

“May I?” Abigail indicated a spoon that was lying next to the pot. She knew Hannah would hate her tasting the stew before it was finished, but would not be able to refuse.

“Of course, My Lady.”

Abby took a spoonful of the liquid, blowing on it before tasting.

“Mmm. Very nice. Juniper would go well with this.”

Hannah bristled at the suggestion that her stew could be improved. “Perhaps, but we don’t have any, My Lady.”

“I know where there is a patch,” said Abigail. “I could ride out, it is not far. I will be back before dinner.”

“His Lordship would not like that, My Lady.”

“No, but he is not here, and it would make your stew the envy of all other households. The servants won’t stop talking about it, I’m certain.”

Hannah thought for a moment, her brow more furrowed than usual, if that were possible. She nodded. “Juniper would be a good addition. If you are certain you want to go out, My Lady.”

“I am. Tell the groomsman to saddle my horse and ask Harper to attend me in my chamber.”

Abigail ran up the four floors of winding, spiral staircase as fast as the narrow steps would allow. Harper appeared in the doorway a minute later.

“How may I help, mistress?”

“I’m riding out, Harper. My green dress with the blue brocade would be better than what I am currently wearing, and I need my pouch, the one I use to collect herbs.”

“Yes, mistress.” Harper helped Abigail out of her formal dress and the many under skirts that helped make it flare out. It was a beautiful dress for floating around the tower in, but not practical for riding in. “Are you going far?”

“On to the moors, not too far.” Abigail stepped into the green dress, which was plainer and had no skirts. If it were up to her she would wear dresses like this all the time. She could move more easily in it, and it didn’t require a corset so she could breathe as well. Harper laced up the bodice, pulling the threads tight across Abigail’s chest.

“Not too tight, Harper.” Abigail wanted to be as free as possible in every way. The girl loosened the ties a little, and stepped back to appraise Abigail.

“As pretty as a picture, Mistress.”

Abigail smiled. “Thank you. Now let’s go and find my horse. Don’t forget the pouch.”

Within half an hour Abigail was seated on her horse and ready to go when Sinclair came out into the barmkin.

“I’m not happy about this, My Lady.”

“I’ll be fine, Sinclair. I’ve done this hundreds of times before.”

“I know, but after what happened. I don’t think ye should be out on yer own. Let me send one of my men with ye.”

“No,” said Abigail. The last thing she wanted was to be accompanied. She was so rarely alone, these rides were her one great joy, the one thing she had that belonged solely to her. “It is daylight, I will be safe. The reivers will be fast asleep curled up next to their stolen cattle, I’m certain.”

Sinclair shook his head, and for a moment she thought he was going to forbid her to go. He was well below her status in society but as a woman she was seen as a child, and her husband’s property. As Alasdair’s protector and right hand man he could command her if he wished, and she would have to obey. He had been Jacob’s man first, though, and he knew how things were. They never spoke about it, and never could, but Abigail looked into his eyes, silently pleading with him to let her go.

He sighed. “Open the gate,” he said to Blake, the groomsman. The young man did as he was told, and Abigail steered her horse, Juno, through, and out into the wider world.

They picked their way carefully down the steep side of the hill and along the grassy slope, down to the millpond. There was no wind and the waters were still. She went to the edge and looked in, seeing a dark reflection of herself and Juno in the water. The horse drank some of the water, disturbing its stillness, and her reflection fractured, distorted pieces of her rippling across the pond. She turned and headed out to the forest, following a well-worn path through the birch and pine trees up onto the hill. The trees became smaller in number and more scattered the higher they climbed until the heather and gorse took over and only a few stunted birch trees remained, clinging stubbornly to the rocky crevices. The wind picked up, but the sun was strong and the wind was warming on her face. It was dangerous terrain up on the moor for the unwary traveller. Ditches crisscrossed the landscape, and tussocks of purple moor grass lay patiently waiting to trip up the careless walker or rider. Abigail and her horse knew the moors well, however, and once they were on the flatter tops, she urged the horse to pick up speed and soon they were flying across the ground, her long braided hair flung out behind her, beating a rhythm against her back as it rose and fell in time with the horse’s gallop.

After half an hour of hard riding, she slowed Juno as they came to the edge of a bowl-shaped depression in the landscape where a loch nestled at the bottom. She guided the horse down a rough deer track through the gorse, her excitement rising with every step. This was her favourite place for picking herbs. Heather and blaeberry grew on the dryer slopes, thyme and marjoram round the loch, and there was a patch of juniper on the far slope. The shape of the landscape trapped the sun, and the water of the loch was just about warm enough to bathe in, even in late September.

As she reached the floor of the basin, she was dismayed to see another horse grazing on the far side of the loch. She knew other people must know about this place, but she had never seen anyone here in the ten years since she had found this paradise. She dismounted and tethered Juno to a small willow tree. She wouldn’t normally bother but she didn’t want her getting spooked or chasing off after this unknown horse. Feeling apprehensive she walked along the edge of the water towards the horse. As she got closer she could see it was a pony, a lot smaller than Juno, and with its chestnut coat and black legs it was clearly one of the Galloway Nags the reivers liked to ride. A bolt of fear ran through her. She turned to run back to Juno and standing right behind her was the reiver from the other night, Marcus Kane, the Grey Wolf. A black and white border collie dog stood at his feet, looking up at him expectantly. She had not heard Kane at all, and she was so shocked she couldn’t speak. Her hand went to her mouth involuntarily, as though she could hide her surprise.

“We meet again,” said Kane, in that same amused voice he had when he first put his head round the carriage door.

Shock turned to indignation, and gave her a newfound confidence. How dare he creep up on her like that?

“Do you get a thrill out of frightening people?”

Kane smiled. “It depends on the person.” He took a step back, sweeping his arm theatrically to indicate she may pass.

Abigail moved past him so that she was on the side closer to her horse, should she need to run. For some reason, though, now that the shock had subsided, she didn’t feel nervous at all. Kane’s wry smile, his eyes twinkling in his suntanned face, made him seem less threatening somehow. She didn’t relax, though. She knew to her own cost how quickly a smile can turn to a scowl, a gentle hand to a fist.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“I was going to bathe. If ye’d arrived a few moments later, ye might have found me in a state of undress.”

Abigail took in his appearance properly for the first time during this encounter. His kilt was the blue-green tartan of his clan and he was wearing a white loose-fitting shirt with a V-neck that tied at the chest like her bodice did. The ties were undone, as though he had indeed been about to disrobe. His chest was visible beneath, bare apart from a line of feathery hairs that ran down the cleft between his pectoral muscles, which she could tell were strong and well-defined, even though they were mostly hidden by his shirt. Her face grew warm as blood rushed to her cheeks.

Kane noticed her discomfort, and continued. “Have I disturbed yer private place, My Lady? Were ye hoping to bathe as well? Don’t let me stop ye.”

She thought he would do the gentlemanly thing and leave her alone but instead he settled down on a patch of heather, his dog by his side, and opened his leather pouch, taking out a small object wrapped in cloth. Abigail watched as he unrolled the cloth to reveal a lump of hard white cheese known as whitemeats. It was a rough-made version of the Pecorino cheese she had eaten at clan gatherings at Edinburgh Castle. The Italian cheese was extremely popular but very expensive. Most borderers couldn’t afford it and the shepherds had realised this and made a small living on the side making a version from the milk of the ewes they were guarding. Kane lay this to one side and took out another cloth which contained a batch of rough oatcakes. He proceeded to break a piece of the cheese off and eat it with an oatcake.

He looked up at Abigail as he chewed. “Mmm, delicious. Would ye like some?”  

“I’m not hungry,” said Abigail, which was a lie, because she was starving after her ride across the moors.

“Not good enough for ye, is it? Too used to the real thing, I suspect. Archie isn’t so fussy, are ye lad?” He gave a small lump of cheese to the dog, who swallowed it without even chewing it.

“I’m no more used to it than you are.”

“Ah.” Kane nodded his head slowly. “So, ye know who I am?”

“I have heard something of you, yes.”

“Heard, or did ye ask about me?”

Abigail was flustered. Why did this man have the confidence to talk to her like this? And how did he seem to know what she was thinking?

“Have no fear. I am merely teasing ye.” He patted the ground next to him. “Sit for a moment. Indulge a fellow traveller with some conversation. Then I promise I will leave ye to yer peace.”

Abigail sat down on a grass-covered rock opposite him. This time, when he offered her the cheese and biscuit, she took it. The cheese was salty, with a delicate flavour. It was also extremely hard.  She struggled to bite a piece off.

“Ye have to suck it first, to soften it. And ye need good gnashers.” Kane flashed her a grin that revealed strong, white teeth.

Abigail sucked on the cheese as he instructed, keeping her eyes lowered so she could not see him watching her. If her face got any warmer she thought the blood vessels might explode.

Kane was mercifully silent while they ate and Abigail began to regain her composure as she concentrated on the tweets of the willow warblers and reed buntings. She risked a look at him. He was staring into the distance, out across the loch and beyond to the hills. His beard looked neater than when she’d first seen him, as though he had trimmed it. The black was peppered with grey and there were a few silver threads in his hair as well, which was still too long and flopped in his eyes. He brushed a curl back absentmindedly as she watched.

He surprised her by speaking. “I am at a disadvantage.”

“How so?”

“Ye know who I am, but I do not know your name, except ye are the Lady of Arkholm who took me so roughly in the rushes last sevenday.”

Abigail smiled, she couldn’t help it as she remembered what she had said after she dirtied his knees. She still didn’t know where the courage had come from to answer him as she had.

“Your knees are clean I see. You have not defiled any ladies in the last week, then?”

“I would never defile a woman, as I told ye, not unless she wanted me to. Ye are avoiding my question. What should I call thee?”

“You do not need to call me anything, for we shall not meet again after today, but if you must know, I am the Lady Abigail Griffin of Arkholm.”

“Abigail.” Kane rolled her name around his mouth as though he were savouring a fine whisky. “Abby,” he said.

“No one calls me Abby.”

“What, never?”

“Not since I was a child.”

Kane pursed his lips. “That’s a shame. It’s a beautiful name. Abby. A place of worship.”

Abigail rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. How long have you been planning that line?”

Kane laughed. “Ever since I met thee. Is the game up?”

Abigail frowned. “You didn’t know who I was back then.”

“Oh, I did. I know everything about the people we… encounter. Their habits, the things they don’t want other people to know.”

“Then you knew I would be in the carriage?” Abigail didn’t know what to make of this information. He had seemed genuinely surprised to see her. Was everything he said a lie?

“No, no. That was a surprise. I was expecting his right-hand man to be with him. It must have been a last-minute idea of yer husband to take ye instead.”

Abigail thought back to that week. Alasdair had indeed informed her at the last minute that he wanted her to accompany him. She had barely had enough time to pack for the journey. Another thought occurred to Abigail.

“How did you know I would be here? Are you following me?”

“I follow everybody, Abby.” He must have seen a look of consternation on her face because he held his hand up to calm her. “Fear not, I am not following ye, although I will confess I have made some enquiries about ye. I knew this was yer favourite place and I may have visited it a time or two since we met.”

Abigail was astonished. “Why would you do that?”

“Why did ye enquire after me?”

“I was curious.”

“As was I. No woman has ever spoken to me as ye did.”

Abigail didn’t know how to respond. It was so long since anyone had taken an interest in anything she did or said she was at a loss to know what to say, or think, or feel. She finally found her voice.

“I don’t know why I said that.”

“Don’t ye?”

“No. Well, you were so arrogant.”

“That has been said about me.”

“I am not surprised.”

Kane raised his eyebrows in amusement. “So ye wished to turn the tables, to let me have a taste of my own medicine.”

“I didn’t really think about it. The words just came out.”

“It is your nature.”

“What is?”

“To be contrary.”

“Why is it contrary in a woman but forceful in a man?”

Kane shrugged. “It is the way of the world. I like it, though.”

“What?”

“Your nature.”

“Then you are alone. I have been supressing it ever since I was a child. It is not becoming in a woman to have a mind, as I have learned to my cost.”

“That is indeed a pity; ye have a beautiful mind. I would like to get to know it better.”

Abigail wasn’t convinced by his words. There was something flippant about them; as though he was teasing her.

“Do you use these lines on all the women you meet?”

Kane shook his head, a serious look on his face. “I have never met a woman like thee.”

Abigail didn’t know how to deal with this man, what to say to him. She had to remind herself he was a thief, and a killer. She shouldn’t trust anything he said. She decided it was time to bring this conversation to a close.

“I must get on. I have herbs to collect and I am expected back at the tower. I don’t wish to cause them to come looking for me.”

She stood up, and Kane did the same, gathering his belongings together. He took a grey woollen jacket from where he had hung it on a tree branch, and pulled it on.

“I do not wish to delay ye, or get ye into trouble.”

“Then I shall wish you good day. Thank you for the meal.” Abigail started to head down the path towards where the juniper bushes were located when Kane spoke again.

“I almost forgot.” He withdrew an object from his pouch. “Hold out yer hand.”

Abigail hesitated, but then held out her hand. What was he going to do, chop it off? Kane dropped the object into her palm.

“I thought ye might want this back. I saw how distressed ye were when it was taken from ye.”

Abigail looked at what he had given her, it was the cross that Murphy had ripped from her neck during the raid. Tears sprang to her eyes and a lump came to her throat, not just because she was seeing the necklace again when she thought it was lost forever, but because of the kindness of Kane’s actions. She swallowed, trying to push down the many feelings that were fighting within her.

“I. I can’t take this.”

“Of course ye can. It’s yours. We never should have taken it from ye.”

“You did not take it.”

“What the men do under my command is my responsibility. Please take it.”

“No, I really can’t. What if my husband finds it? I can’t wear something that was stolen from me. He will wonder how I came by it.”

“I did not think of that.” Kane took the necklace from her. “Then I shall keep it, here, next to my heart, and I will think of ye with every beat.” He slipped the cross into the breast pocket of his jacket and patted it.

Abigail shook her head, and laughed. “You think you have a way with words, don’t you?”

“Oh, I do, Abby. I have written many a ballad about my adventures. Perhaps I shall write one about thee for next time we meet. A ballad about how I met the maid o’ the loch.”

Abigail sighed. “We can’t meet again. It is not appropriate.”

“No, perhaps it is not. But If I am here, and ye are here, and we accidentally cross paths, then it would be rude not to at least say good morning.”

“I would not wish to be rude to you, when you have done me so many kindnesses.”

“Then that is settled. I cannot be certain, but I expect I may be passing this way at the same time this sevenday. Come, Archie.” He whistled for the dog and it trotted over to his side. Kane put his foot in the stirrup and swung his leg over the pony. Abby caught a glimpse of slim, muscled thigh and then his kilt settled over the back of the horse obscuring her view.

Kane urged the horse forward. As it started to move, he turned to look back at Abigail. “May we meet again.”

Abigail watched as he disappeared into the gorse. “We will,” she whispered, and her stomach flipped at the thought. Take a hold of yourself, Abigail, don’t get carried away with this man, she told herself. She walked to the other side of the loch, to where she knew the juniper grew, and found it half way up the slope, in a hollow. She picked a few leaves and berries, putting them in her pouch, and then returned to her horse, ready to go back to the tower and her real life.

As she rode back over the moors she ran through the events of the last hour in her mind. There was so much to consider, she felt overwhelmed. She had never met a man like Kane in her life. He was so confident, and arrogant, waiting for her, somehow knowing what she was thinking and feeling, how she would act. He had even named her, calling her Abby, a name she had not used since she was a child. Even Jacob had called her Abigail. It was not appropriate for Kane to choose what to call her, and yet she didn’t think he did it because he wished to own her, or mark her in some way. He simply liked it, and a part of her did too. She was already starting to think of herself as two people. There was Abigail, Lady of Arkholm, dutiful wife, a woman who lived in the shadows, barely causing a fluttering in the breeze. And now there was Abby, the maid o’ the loch, a woman whose nature didn’t have to be supressed, who could be as free as the wind, as wild as the heather. She shook her head to clear it. She was getting fanciful, and all because a man had been kind to her. A handsome, intriguing man, yes, but a man all the same. There was nothing different at heart between him and her husband. He just knew the right things to say, that was all. She was not going to return to the loch the following sevenday. Nothing good would come of it, of that she was certain. She spurred her horse on ever faster, determined to put Marcus Kane out of her mind for good.

[theotherpages]

National Poetry Month # 14   Wild Peaches

Today’s selection is by Elinor Wylie (1885 – 1928 CE), a woman who lived a very complicated, and often painful life, despite being born into a privileged family and being well-regarded as a poet and widely read in her time, and despite being ostracized by her social peers for much of her adult life because of the choices she made.  She was married several times for short periods, including a stint to fellow American poet William Rose Benet. She spent time in New York, and was part of the literary circle there, with friends including Sinclair Lewis and John Dos Passos. Her health was never good, and high blood pressure, which plagued her for many years, caused a fatal stroke at age 43.

 I have her best-known book of poems, Nets to Catch the Wind, online at Poets’ Corner. Her previous effort, Incidental Numbers, was published anonymously.  One of my favorites by her is a short piece, the “The Child on the Curbstone:”

The headlights raced; the moon, death-faced,

Stared down on that golden river.

I saw through the smoke the scarlet cloak

Of a boy who could not shiver.

 His father's hand forced him to stand,

The traffic thundered slaughter;

One foot he thrust in the whirling dust

As it were running water.

 As in a dream I saw the stream

Scatter in drops that glistened;

They flamed, they flashed, his brow they splashed,

And danger's son was christened.

 The portent passed; his fate was cast,

Sea-farer, desert-ranger.

Tearless I smiled on that fearless child

Dipping his foot in Danger.

 --Elinor Wylie

 One of her earliest pieces, included in Nets to Catch the Wind, was “Wild Peaches.” There is a common  tradition in poetry, and in song, to write a piece that encourages your would-be lover to run away with you to some other place. Whether it is “A Passionate Shepherd to His Love” by Christopher Marlowe, (cf.:  Sir Walter Ralegh’s” Nymph’s Reply to the Shepherd”), or “Come and Go with Me” sung by the Del Vikings, although “Come Go with Me” by Norah Jones might be more appropriate for this comparison.

 Wild Peaches is narrated by a woman who has a very idealized version of a Walden-like or Robert-Frost-like existence, halfway between Marlowe and Ralegh in terms of intent, and perhaps a little closer to Frost than the Del Vikings in terms of energy. It is a pastoral piece – with abundant detail - about idealized living off the land in a place where everything easy, simple, clear, “drawn in pearly monotones.”  

 Regardless of how realistic you think her musings are (especially the second half of parts 1,2, and 3, which are reminiscent of “Hell is more than half of heaven” from Luke Havergal), as often is the case with her poems, you become almost hypnotized by the sounds and rhythms of her words. Read all the way to the end – the consonance and assonance of the last few lines - almost a wistful whisper - are Wylie at her best.  --Steve

 Wild Peaches

 1

 When the world turns completely upside down You say we'll emigrate to the Eastern Shore Aboard a river-boat from Baltimore; We'll live among wild peach trees, miles from town, You'll wear a coonskin cap, and I a gown Homespun, dyed butternut's dark gold colour. Lost, like your lotus-eating ancestor, We'll swim in milk and honey till we drown. The winter will be short, the summer long, The autumn amber-hued, sunny and hot, Tasting of cider and of scuppernong; All seasons sweet, but autumn best of all. The squirrels in their silver fur will fall Like falling leaves, like fruit, before your shot.   2

The autumn frosts will lie upon the grass Like bloom on grapes of purple-brown and gold. The misted early mornings will be cold; The little puddles will be roofed with glass. The sun, which burns from copper into brass, Melts these at noon, and makes the boys unfold Their knitted mufflers; full as they can hold Fat pockets dribble chestnuts as they pass. Peaches grow wild, and pigs can live in clover; A barrel of salted herrings lasts a year; The spring begins before the winter's over. By February you may find the skins Of garter snakes and water moccasins Dwindled and harsh, dead-white and cloudy-clear.   3

When April pours the colours of a shell Upon the hills, when every little creek Is shot with silver from the Chesapeake In shoals new-minted by the ocean swell, When strawberries go begging, and the sleek Blue plums lie open to the blackbird's beak, We shall live well -- we shall live very well. The months between the cherries and the peaches Are brimming cornucopias which spill Fruits red and purple, sombre-bloomed and black; Then, down rich fields and frosty river beaches We'll trample bright persimmons, while you kill Bronze partridge, speckled quail, and canvasback.   4

Down to the Puritan marrow of my bones There's something in this richness that I hate. I love the look, austere, immaculate, Of landscapes drawn in pearly monotones. There's something in my very blood that owns Bare hills, cold silver on a sky of slate, A thread of water, churned to milky spate Streaming through slanted pastures fenced with stones. I love those skies, thin blue or snowy gray, Those fields sparse-planted, rendering meagre sheaves; That spring, briefer than apple-blossom's breath, Summer, so much too beautiful to stay, Swift autumn, like a bonfire of leaves, And sleepy winter, like the sleep of death.   --Elinor Wylie

[cyberneticatoms]

WHERE: University of the Metroplex WHO: Owen Bowen (@miketroplex)

"Hey dude, got you a boba tea," Copper said setting one in front of Owen before sitting across from him at the picnic table. He set his textbook down and took a sip of his own drink. "Remind me again why I choose to go into therapy? Feel like my eyes are gonna melt out of my head."

[cyberneticatoms]

WHERE: Sinclair House WHO: Lacey Sinclair (@sparepcrts)

Copper knocked on the edge of Lacey's door frame, "You got a minute?" he asked, even if her door was opened he still didn't want to just walk inside without permission. He was fidgeting with the zipper on his jacket, "Did you want to have dinner together or were you going to that restaurant again?"

[cyberneticatoms]

Copper had started taking sips from his drink, partly for something to do and partly to deal with his dry mouth. "Is that..is that not obvious?" he asked, "There's already enough weirdos that hang around." While Lacey had kept him out of her job growing up, he wasn't dumb and at least now she worked somewhere that had an owner who at least looked out for her. He grimaced at the reminder over how little privacy Stevie had grown up having. Opting to skirt the question for now, "It's Dewey's band, he got me and Banks. He works really hard to get us gigs, yeah maybe it be easier if I name drop Stevie. But then we're just Stevie Sparks' little brother's band, I don't want that."

Mizi held up their hands in a gesture of surrender. "Pausing," she said, resisting the urge to tap her fingers on the table as she waited for Copper to gather his thoughts. They had been told multiple times in their life that they were basically like a bulldozer, rolling over everything in their path to get to where they wanted to go; but since it usually worked out for them, they had seen very little reason to change. It wasn't like she set out to be mean. "And is that why you're not public about being related to such a famous person? Because you don't want people in Lacey's business?" They spun their beer bottle in their hand as they thought about what to say next. "Stevie's life is fairly well-documented, from a very young age, and yet it was surprisingly difficult to put the pieces together. Was it her decision or your decision to keep the public in the dark about your existence? I'm asking because her connections in the music industry could be very useful to you and the band and I'm curious why you're not using them."

[cyberneticatoms]

Copper was fairly sure another dose of morphine had come in through his IV. Starting to feel loopy again, "Name the time and place, loser buys burritos," he mumbled, words slightly slurred.

"Hey Dabi, think fast" Copper called out before throwing a snowball, aiming for his chest when the other guy turned around. His arm was for the most part back to normal, though the cold had made it feel a little more sore. "Thought hockey players were quicker," he quipped with a small grin.

"i'm forgiving that comment and blaming it on the fact you might be a little delusional right now." dabi quipped while pointing at him with a grin but squinted his eyes at him. "i almost want to ignore you saying you're fine since you want to be cocky today, put your money where your mouth is."

[cyberneticatoms]

"I better get a whole box of scooby snacks after this," Copper grumbled giving a mock salute as he walked towards the left. Frowning at how cramped everything felt, but he was at least able to move in just fine. "Gizmo? Dewey?" he called back as he looked around for any puzzles to solve or way to communicate easier. Jumping when something fell before realizing that had been in his own fault, "Jesus fucking christ, chill, there's nothing here," he grumbled to himself.

"i don't have a choice if that's the way you wanna go," dewey said making his way over to the right side. frankly he was a little claustrophobic but wouldn't admit that so he was not about to argue for the space that looked way less spacious than the other. "ready to do what you're never supposed to do in any horror movie ever and split up?"

[cyberneticatoms]

Copper took a deep breath as he listened to his options, "I can do tiny," he said, overall the vent hadn't been that bad. Maybe this wouldn't be much different. "You cool maybe getting locked up like Gizmo?" he asked as he started moving towards the left, eyes flickering around in case something jumped out.

"well you can either go left and go into the space that looks small and confined or go right, have more space but it looks like the doors a cage so," dewey looked between the options then back at copper, "choice is yours."

[cyberneticatoms]

Copper let out a sigh of relief only to immediately throw his head back with a groan. "You're kidding," he said, chewing on his lip as he glanced around the room. "So I just stay here like a sitting duck?" As much as he hated to admit it he doubted he'd be any good at actually finding clues and not just freezing up.

dewey felt bad that he laughed at how quickly copper booked it out of the vent but he followed behind him just as quick so he wouldn't freak out further. "not sure," he peeked through the vent and didn't see anything, "nope looks like it was just me following you." he paused and looked around, seeing the options they had and scratched the back of his neck. "i think we're about to have to break the number one horror movie role and split up here my boy."

[cyberneticatoms]

Copper fully scrambled out the vent, tripping on his way out and almost landing on his face. He managed to catch himself, genuinely worried they would drag off Dewey if he didn't move quick enough. Glancing back as he crawled out and rubbing the top of his head. "Please tell me there's no one behind you," he said trying to peek around him and more worried about the vent still than the new room they were in.

dewey winced for copper at him hitting his head and cringed as he moved his head to peek through the crawlspace past him. "yeah no i'm still here man, you good? sounded like you hit your head pretty hard." he glanced up, it looked like there was at least some padding in case situations like that happened but he figured it probably still hurt. "hurry up and crawl through before they get the ideas to drag me away now that you said it out loud."