promptlymasquerading

[promptlymasquerading]

I hate that because I went off of T to get pregnant I'm considered "detransitioned". No, I didn't detransition. I'm still a man. I am just a man who needed my body to start producing it's own estrogen again so it could support a growing fetus. Nothing has changed. I'm still trans.

[promptlymasquerading]

[promptlymasquerading]

"If tampons should be free, then so should my diabetes meds."

Yes? Yes they should be? Your life-saving medication that you need in order to live for a condition you were born with should be given to you at no cost?

[promptlymasquerading]

There's a person who lives at the edge of town. The village children tend to avoid the old rotting cottage resting just behind the forest line. The royal guard does not patrol the area in a 30ft radius. The royal tax collectors do not request gold from the figure that lives in the cottage.

I wasn't always an outcast, a person held in fear and distrust. I used to be a grand healer, revered by the guards and nobles alike. Today, I forage in the forests I have claimed as my own. Wildlife are gentle and kind to me. They, like humans, can sense my differences, yet they hold no fear for me. Each day, I leave the cottage as the sun rises and gather water from a nearby creek. The water bubbles and gurgles over smooth river stones I have carved runes in.

Today, I gather my water in an old wooden bucket beside a young buck lapping up his fill. His horns are almost as tall as his ears, which flick as I kneel beside him. I mutter a greeting in a language I am not familiar with, and the buck grunts in response. Further down the creek, I see a doe, his mother, nosing through a blackberry bush.

Once full, I pick up my bucket and give the family a nod before leaving. There is a small path I have paved myself that leads to my cottage. The path is made of bare soil and twigs. Lining the path are large patches of clover and moss with small wildflowers poking up through the greenery. The wind changes course and brushes through the groundcover, kicking up small leaves and petals that have already fallen from nearby plants.

Usually, I would have continued on my way, but the sound of a loud snort and stomping of hooves draw my attention. I slowly set down my bucket and look around warily. While it is unusual for predators, such as a wolf, to come close to my cottage, it isn't impossible. Either way, I would rather not be caught unaware, regardless of my history on the front lines.

The sound of a stick snapping from my right forces another snort from the doe. The buck, with one last look towards me, hurries towards his mother and the two dart off.

I draw my dagger from a sheath attached to my thigh. Carved onto the handle are more runes, though leather strips partially cover them. I scan the area to my right, looking through the underbrush for yellow eyes or grey fur.

Instead, I see a flash of gold hair and stormy blue eyes. My own eyes narrow, and I crouch down, hoping to lessen my target. Slowly, the brush is pushed to the side, and a young girl steps out holding a bow much too big for her. What was a noble girl doing so far from the kingdom's capital.

The girl's eyes flash dangerously, and she stands taller, almost defiantly, before tucking a long strand of gold hair behind her ear. My eyes focus on her hand, dark blue with strands of gold swirling through its depths.

I open my mouth, but once more that unfamiliar language scratches up from my throat. My mouth thins in frustration and I slowly raise my hands.

The girl re-knocks her arrow and points it at me. "What language are you speaking? It doesn't sound like Demonic."

When a mage is badly injured, magic sometimes "fills in the gaps"—growing an arcane hand or leg. You suffered brain damage that would have killed most. Magic filled in your mind.