mosmorem

[mosmorem]

The forest's chant

A howl pierces the black sky, like a meteor shower. The Moon's rays illuminate the trees, as tall as the buildings that might replace them one day. The birds are silent and almost all asleep.

The Wolves run, the dead leaves fly and fall back down in a flutter after their paws hit the ground. A cool wind blows between the branches, as if playing an old, wooden, creaking instrument. The forest shudders.

Suddenly, the Wolves stop. They've found what they were looking for. They've found the wounded woman, in the middle of the woods, laying on the earth, hair and blood spilling like paint and pain. Her heart beats, but her eyes are closed ans her breath is unnoticeable.

The Wolves gather around her, circle around her. One of Them steps forward, silent as a shadow. She is Wolf, and the next moment, she is Woman, she is tall, she is beautiful. She is not covered by her fur anymore, but she does not shiver. She walks under the white gaze of the Moon. The wind has stopped.

She crouches near the woman that lays on her land and puts a hand on her back. Her hands slides on the fabric enveloping her skin and everywhere it slides, death recedes. Wounds close, blood flows anew, cells and organs get back on track like an old engine's cogs.

The Wolf steps back, lifts her eyes toward the Lady of the Night and howls. It is the same sounds the woman produced as she crumbled, hands tensed around the wounds she no longer has.

One after the other, the Wolves join her, neck stranded. Then, they quiet, and escort the Woman as she carries their find further into the forest, where the beasts that maimed her will never know to look for her.

When the woman opens her eyes, it is day. She is lying in the sunlight, alone; then a bird sings and she is not anymore. A woman sits at her side, on the bed of moss, in the middle of the clearing. Her movements are graceful, slow and soft.

They look at each other. They look like each other. The bird is still singing, and it only stops when they start talking. They catch up lost time, years that are not to count, they hold their hands, touch their hair, cheeks, arms, they laugh, they cry, the wind makes the trees purr.

The sun sets, the Moon rises, they are still there. When all the stars have come, they stand, leave the clearing and enter the forest. The wide black sky studded with stars turns into a mosaic half hidden by the trees' crowns. Near them, the soft sounds of the Wolves following can be heard.

On top of forest, there is a hill, and on top of the hill, there is the old oak. It is the master of the forest, and the Wolf are its guardians. The wind blows and its leaves whisper...

They whisper and whisper. The women listen closely: the wind hold many secrets. The night speaks, the Moon tells, the wind relays. The stars are here, they shine, they look.

The wind bears news of other forests, other lands. It tells legends of places devoid of humans, places far away and peaceful where water is clear and flows on the earth. Places where the sun is so hot the ground cracks open; places where no matter how much the sun shines, the ground stays white and silent; places where the trees are so tall the ground never even tastes the sun. Places, then, where humans destroy all, and build anew, places with too much noise and too many smells, places where the lights hide the stars.

The woman bows her head. She comes from this world, the human world. She went there, and she came back weak, and hurt, and terribly changed. Terribly human.

She never, however, forgot the howl of the Wolves that breaks the night, nor did she forget the old oak, neither the wind the whisper the Moon's secrets to whoever really listens.

She is here now, near the Wolf, surrounded by Wolves, on top of the hill, under the Moon.

Then, the Wolves leave, and no one is left. The wind is quiet.

It has nothing left to tell, because there is nothing left to say.

[mosmorem]

The Public Spectacles (part 1)

''What could I do, I had to take you, you looked so bored..."

He knew. He totally knew. Frayse was going to kill his boss—which was ironic since his boss employed him specifically for that task. Killing people. Well he wasn’t going to kill anyone tonight, that was for sure.

Boots hitting the wooden flooring of the ballroom in rhythm with the music, the youth tried to focus on dancing correctly, and not on the fact that the hands holding him had killed way, way more men than him.

The fiddles did a thing, and he was forced to dip low, spine arching, a strong hand down his back the only think keeping him standing.

And the worst thing; even upside down, he could see that all eyes were on them.

He was going to kill his boss.

Fuck, what was he even doing here?

"Don't be scared, please... We're just dancing! Why so tense?"

The fiddles calmed down and he was brought back up, too quickly to do anything else than basically crash into a firm chest, richly dressed and covered in medals.

One for each grand victory.

Stabilized, he lifted his eyes, and met one, green. General Wymond, as it stood, only had one eye, having lost the other in a fight with...

Well he honestly couldn't remember. Some warrior from another country surely. Frayse wasn't particularly worried about keeping up with was stories.

He knew, however, that Wymond was considered the most successful—and bloodthirsty—soldier on the continent. This was one of the numerous parties he regularly threw in his manor in the capital since his return from the war, a year ago.

Frayse had been tasked with killing him. And it was not going well.

He had dressed finely; his cover tonight was the simple and effective one, an invitation from a friend in high society. He never planned on killing anyone tonight; first, ha had to play bored and observe.

And he did. For a while. Until The General walked to him, took his hand with a flourish (totally taking advantage of the youth being too surprised to refuse) and led him to the dance-floor. The surprise made him late to react, but he had no choice but to follow. Everyone was looking at the general all the time, especially at his own party.

So he had let himself be led amongst the crowd of costumes and dresses, a hand in his, the other on his shoulder, one large hand at his waist. They didn't talk right away; Frayse had felt observed, appraised, assessed. It was not a good feeling. Then, on a spin the dance led them into, when his back was leaned against Wymond's chest, he had felt a breath at his ear:

'I know what you are here for

The plan had been simple actually. Come here, because his boss insisted he at least try; leave, tell his boss it was too hard a target (which was true), and go back to his life, Wymond none the wiser.

Big mistake. A soldier like this always knew how to spot another killer.

"Are we just going to dance in silence until the end of the night, or will you tell me your name?"

He glared. "So you can find me after? Yeah, no thanks".

Wymond smiled, with an inch of cruelty, and the hand at his waist gripped him tight enough he had to hide a wince.

"I don't need a name to find someone, but if it reassures you, you can give me a false one."

That was not reassuring at all! He was so going to die.

"Don't worry, I won't do anything to you."

Nevermind then.

"Are you here to try and kill me? Come on, I don't bite. Give me something."

This was the worst.

"I don't plan on killing you, no."

He spun in place, following the music and the general's hand's guidance, if it could be called that. He took the opportunity to quickly look at the crowd around them. Everyone was giving them a wide berth, how nice. It made a decent distraction from the way that, as he spun, the hand at his waist stroked him all around, following the movement.

"I don't plan on dancing much longer either," he continued when they resumed waltzing, bodies way to close for his liking. The general's hand lingered, and it gave him shivers; not the good kind.

"Really? How sad... but I don't think you will have a choice. My apologies."

"What?"

He only had time to inhale sharply, ready for counterattack, when he was wrenched to the side.

A small noise of air friction brushed against his ear, and his eyes widened. In an instant, he was behind the general, hand above the place under his vest where one of his dagger was hidden, eyes looking among the balconies surrounding the ballroom from above. A commotion was starting, but all he could hear was his blood pumping in his ears.

Wymond chuckled. Startled, Frayse turned towards him, ready to plead his own cause: that couldn't have been him. He wasn't even supposed to dance with him.

But the general was already looking at him, eyes narrowed in obvious pleasure and satisfaction. Not a common reaction seconds after an assassination attempt in his own house, against himself.

This did not bode well. He leaned in, and Fraysed tensed—even more.

"Play along" he purred, "or I frame you."

Well, at least he knew he was innocent.

"What's your name? The real one."

"Fuck you, it's Frayse..."

[mosmorem]

Blondie and the Toad (part 1)

The damage was worse this time. Not in a, the fire spread to the whole neighborhood, sense. As usual, the work was precise, kept to one building. But this time, this one... burnt to the ground, down to the foundations, traces of melted glass from the windows... The fire was raising in temperature. This was not technology. I was clearly magic.

The man, tall, dark, really fitting with the style of, well, arson in the city, had been standing in the cold for at least fifteen minutes, which he would have considered a short time if it wasn't for that crippling mid-January cold. He hated winter. His breath was fucking visible.

He wasn't even supposed to be coming here to inspect the damage, but—the one ought to was busy puking his guts out (again, fucking winter), and he had sent all of the others to deal with that cargo thief from last week. So... his fault really.

"Uh, excuse me..."

Surprised, he lifted his eyes. A boy, in his twenties, blond, eyes blue like a damn angel and framed with equally blond lashes, which he really wouldn't have been able to see if said eyes weren't so big and round and looking really lost. The boy's arms were folded against him, clutching a phone and a crumbled piece of paper. No gun, non-aggressive body language.

He wore blue jeans and a violently orange shirt. Too visible, and also, why the fuck wasn't he dying from the frost?? He wasn't even shivering.

But that wasn't the weirdest thing. These streets were empty for a reason—few people came here by choice, with all the fires lately. Arson, newspapers said, but who knew for sure. So, a lost boy, no doubt.

"Yes?" he answered, admittedly a bit curious, trying to keep his annoyance out of his tone because, well. The boy was cute.

In fact, he matched his type so well he might also totally be a spy. Damn.

"I'm looking for a, uh..."

Why the fuck was he blushing now.

"...Pickled Toad?"

Oh. That stupid name. Only one person really calls his that, and still it's been a while since he heard it last. Mostly because he thought that person was dead. Who was this boy ? His curiosity grew. Actually yes doubt, because he wasn't so lost after all.

"What do you want with the Toad?", he said, in a totally normal voice like this was a normal name. Normal conversation. Normal fires.

"My sister gave me this for him." And he unclutched his hand to show the crumbled paper, which turned out to be a crumbled envelope. "I'm supposed to give him directly".

He got this little fierce look like you'd have to kill him to get the thing, and the man smiled. Cute. Too bad his sister was a damn fucking witch, and a psychopath. She had a brother like this? No wonder she hid him all this time.

"I'm who you're looking for, blondie, that's me."

The boy hesitated.

"How can I know for sure?"

He snickered and threw him a look. "Cause Betty Greenland's the only fucker to call me The Pickled Toad."

He spit the 'name' like the insult i was, and that made the boy blush like a tomato and give him the envelope without a word. Inside was a slightly less crumbled message.

Hi pickled toad, I'm calling out your life debt. This is my brother, he needs :

And the bitch made a fucking list:

...shelter, food, to learn how to get his magic under control, protection, ideally a new phone, really anything he asks.

Okay this was definitely from Betty; he could recognize that mix of weird and shameless. He lifted his eyes without moving. The boy—the brother—was looking around, eyes wandering amongst the ashes and remains of a burned building...

Was that... guilt in them? Oh, he did not like the picture that was coming to mind.

Don't worry, I didn't teach him to bite. Actually yes, you should worry, because he wouldn't need teeth to hurt you. Don't hurt him. See you when I can (which could be in some time, won't lie), Betty. P.S.: don't ask question but don't make dumb assumptions either.

That... was actually a little reassuring. Still. What the fuck.

"Blondie do you know what this says?"

"I actually don't, but I know I'm supposed to go live with this uh, toad, so you I guess. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news. And, well, sorry to be the bad news itself... I guess. Sorry."

His voice had gradually gotten lower and lower, until his last sorry was mumbled. The man softened against his will. Whoever this guy was, his sister's horrible personality definitely hadn't rubbed off on him. He sighted, folded the whole thing together and put it in a pocked inside his jacket, containing the wrecking shivers that threatened to get him before he closed it again. Then he lifted his hand in front of him. The boy, a bit late, shook it hesitantly. That's when he noticed markings on his forearms and hands; very light, lighter than his skin, and just lines and curves following each other.

"Well I guess you're coming with me then. What's your name?"

"I'ts Sael... but what do I call you then? The Toad?"

Cheeky. He started walking away and he followed him.

"Call me, uh, Teddy. It's similar enough."

Sael seemed to gather that it wasn't his really name, either, and made a face but dropped it.

"Where are we going?"

"Well Sal-"

"Sael..."

"-your sister put me in a pretty bad predicament. See, I deal in dangerous business, but I am now obligated to keep you safe and happy. The two won't go hand in hand I fear."

"Do you work for dangerous people?" Sael asked, before tripping on a stone and catching himself last second.

He laughed. "No, blondie. I am the dangerous people. Now come on, we're going home."

[mosmorem]

Hello here

I'm Mosmorem, she/them, self-proclaimed writer, and here is my masterpost. It sits mostly empty for now, i will update it as I go. Write to me ; I speak french and english and will answer if Ican.

Asks opened ! You want to read certain scenes ? If I like your idea, I'll give it a try.

Bonne lecture...