stabbyarm

[stabbyarm]

Gil found his shadow at the mouth of the emerald room's fire, stretching sharp to where he stood in the old, carved frame. It's snapping brandy licked over him as he lay - crumpled, a drafted letter never to be sent, a shivering silver leaf spider-silk clinging to its bare branched tree. Gil had never seen a vampire shiver. Not with fear, not with cold. Not with hurt.

 Panic spurred him, snatching tight the noose at his neck as he stumbled towards him and choked on his name. Erik barely moved. Barely breathed. Even as Gil scooped him into his scarred arms, touched his porcelain cheek and took his slender hand. Erik's wrist, birch kindling in Gil's coarse palms. A sapphire sliver moved beneath Erik's paper eyelid, his vitrified capillaries amber pale beneath his skin.

Had he wished for this, moons ago? Gil was no stranger to life's grim spectre - he saw it move through Erik now, long toothed and wild eyed, seeping into his bones like winter frost.

"You're dying," Gil whispered. The words sat like hewn stone in his chest as he spoke them - he wasn't sure why, why Erik's trembling skeletal fragility inspired in him such dread - but there it was, stake-lodged, as his own flesh rushed to seal around it.

Erik laughed very faintly - even pale and drawn Gil could see that glowing smile touch his dark eyes.

"I do appreciate the sentiment but, I am a vampire. By definition, already dead." Weakness had worked to erode the softness from his voice but as yet had failed. Arid and hollow, an oilfire in a forgotten library - but still calm as midnight tide. Gil cradled his head, held him like a faun - though there was no vibrancy left in him, Erik's cold body draped against Gil's like an abandoned marionette. He wasn't sure exactly when his vision had begun to blur, when the brimming heat started to spill over his cheeks. He sucked in a breath like a lash and dragged his knuckles over his eyes.

"What can I do?" He stammered - Erik hushed him softly, but he didn't hear. His heart beat a war drum in his skull and he didn't hear. "Tell me what to do. Please. Tell me-"

Erik's fingertips iced his burning cheeks, his ocean eyes finding Gil's like a magnet. He wanted nothing more than to drown in them but grief had pierced his lungs, and now he could only gasp to stay afloat.

"I want nothing from you. I'll be alright. This is enough," Erik murmured. Sorrow glimmered in his eyes, too, but still he smiled. Slow and drained, but enough to strike a match of tranquility to his melancholy. Somehow, it hurt Gil more. He let the promise nest its feathers in Gil's heart for a moment before biting a small spark of valour from his lip and adding, softer still: "you are enough."

It split his soul as lightning does an ancient oak, a gush of ink flooding the chasm that had cracked in his chest. His mind was white as he curled forward and pressed his cracked lips to the soft parchment of Erik's. Gil's iron fingers drove through Erik's raven hair, memorising the shape of him, that he could again carve it from marble were he to fade to dust. But even in this moment of unthinking, that was unthinkable. He'd have given his hands to live this moment forever - Erik's sharp nose blunted against his cheek, those last embers of warmth still deep within him and desperate to be rekindled. For the first time in his life Gil forgot the weight of his burden and, if only for that moment, allowed himself just to live.

"I would give you anything," Gil sobbed. Erik's arms slipped around his shoulders and he held him tight, with all of the strength he had. Lips to Gil's ear and their temples pressed together, Erik's voice sounded the call for Gil's own, personal rapture.

"My love, you have given me everything."

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Diego stilled in an instant, like he’d mistaken a bucket of horse shit for his boot and stepped in it regardless. Joseph had seen rattlesnakes react slower, and the same vicious tension that knotted into them when the spied a threat laced itself into the outlaw now. His eyes were fixed up into the street like they’d been nailed there.

“What’s wrong with you?” Joseph frowned - he went to shove Diego’s shoulder but he snatched his hand away. Dallas had half a mind to slap Diego’s face raw when out of the corner of his eye he saw him; the huge silhouette standing with his back to the sun, shoulders locked and eyes fixed, the spitting mirror image of his companion (if the mirror was, a carnival mirror, made him 150 pounds heavier, a head and a half taller and also, white). The strangers eyes were blood wild and bull furious and Dallas honestly wouldn’t have been shocked if he started to snort smoke.

The two stared at each other like cats with arched backs - the herd of townsfolk going about their daily business had caught the scent of death and it had shot a thrill into all of them. Some backed away into the shade of their porches, others watched the two men with caution, desperate for the declaration of war to break like a summer storm. Dallas’ mind tuned into the moment like tightened guitar strings. Fate had rolled a carpet out between the two men and was biting her nails waiting for blood.

“Not this time,” Diego muttered to himself. His hand flexed - flexed - and Dallas snatched his wrist  away like his gun was molten. Diego yelped and immediately grabbed his collar - would have hitched him up against a wall if there had been one handy, for sure.

“Use your fuckin brain!” Joseph hissed, shoving him away. Diego looked equal parts furious and terrified. Dallas might have taken the moment to teach him a lesson - or at least try to get it through his thick skull that if you shoot someone dead in the middle of the street with no warning you’d be easier to hang than a dead rabbit and that if he thought for a second he could count on Joseph to have his back he had another thing coming; but unfortunately, the mystery gunslinger didn't seem to care about this either. His bullet split the air between their heads and Joseph, known survivor, immediately ducked for cover.

Diego was just as quick but instead of cowering behind a barrel he tumbled to the side and hammered four shots at the other man. The third clipped his arm as he walked forward and he rolled it off with a grunt. The rifle shook in his hands as he tried to steady it at his hip, firing off another two quick shots at the outlaw and instead puncturing a couple of holes and a fistful of splinters into the whitewashed church. The citizens had finally decided that this was dangerous, actually, and had collectively scurried away screaming into their buildings like startled roaches. Diego dodged the next bullet only by diving to the ground. He shot the last two of his on his ass and shuffling backwards - the first hit the other man’s shoulder with a firework of red - the second only grazed his grizzled cheek. The stranger roared like a bear and surged towards him - Diego tossed the empty gun aside and tried to scramble to his feet. Their bodies met with a meaty thud and the huge stranger immediately flattened Diego into the dust, their hats flying off as they slammed into the ground. Diego’s fists railed against the other man’s mallet head but his hands were at his throat, so at his throat in fact, there wasn't any throat left to see. His knee dug into Diego’s guts and the outlaw gasped for air like a decked fish. The gunslinger’s rage burned like wildfire. He slammed Diego into the ground, thrashed him around like a terrier in a rat pit. Diego’s face had gone bright red and his eyes misted, strength failing as he clawed at the other man’s eyes. The gunslinger dodged around his flailing like he was no more than a determined bluebottle and squeezed his hands just that little bit tighter, unsatisfied till he’d seen the whites of his prey’s eyes go red. He gritted his teeth and grimaced through the blaze in his shoulder and bicep - his dripping blood had inked its way over Diego’s glistening chest and recoloured his stained collar. His fight finally flooding away, Diego’s hand searched limply for purchase on his attacker’s coat, absently smoothing the plane of his chest. Inadvertently, his fingers brushed over the hole in his shoulder and, in the second he winced, the stranger’s grip loosened enough for Diego to suck in a dry, grated breath. He gasped back into consciousness and, immediately de-fogging his panicked mind, rammed two fingers into the bullet wound he’d just found.

The stranger howled in agony and collapsed backwards. Drenched in sweat and exhausted, it was all Diego could do to straddle his waist, twist his wrist and punch him in his blunt face. Diego’s wrist crunched in the man’s fist as he reached over to stop him but he swore his way through the pain and pressed in further. The gunslinger screamed a handful of curses in a language Diego had no hope of recognising and gave one last, great effort to throw him off. Diego, who was heavier than he looked, unfortunately weighed exactly nothing to him, so again went crashing to the ground.

His eyes streamed with tears and he coughed like he’d mistaken sand for whiskey - the throbbing in his crushed wrist made him retch and he hunched forward to spit up foam. Cradling the fracture he shuffled away until his back hit the church. His palm was still slick and sticky with the other man’s blood - he looked down at it, watched it glisten horribly in the sun. In the street, the stranger groaned, curled in on himself and holding his fucked shoulder as it poured with fresh blood.

On the other side, Dallas peered out from his barrel like a cat-wary mouse. He scouted the shade as he got to his feet and brushed down his jacket.

“Hey you!-” he pointed to a young lad who’d hoped to make a break for it in the silence, snapped his fingers to get his attention. “Go fetch a doctor. And bring this man some water!” He gestured offhandedly to Diego, who, still dazed, shot him a look that was thoroughly unimpressed.

His shadow stretched over the stranger as he stood by his shivering body. He sniffed, looked around - his magpie eyes drawn immediately to the feller’s rifle, a real nice piece of gear, engraved brass and polished wood. Looked like something you might stumble upon in a plantation owner’s parlour, for shooting birds on weekends to impress fine ladies. There was nothing fine about the brute of a man in the street, and while he didn’t dress like he had money to burn his clothes were the kind of quality you didn’t see often outside of big towns - and rarely this far out west.

“You doin alright down there, partner?” Joseph asked, bouncing on his toes, smug and excited and charming all rolled into one in that way a lifetime of snake-oil salesmanship had gifted him.

“Fuck off,” came the stranger’s gruff reply.

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Choristers Drabble

Tin - not quite as book smart as Rafael and harder to teach - loses his sight in an early experiment. Worrying the church will cull him or push the experimenting further Raf teaches himself Braille and then teaches Tin how to read it. Makes intricate step maps of the Orphanage so he can navigate it on his own. The masters are so shocked by his independence that they let the prospectors train him - sight isn't all that valuable in the undertomb anyway. As an adult he's marked the layout of the tombs he patrols onto his body, and can read the raised scars as a map. Not needing light, he can walk among the denizens of the city's foundations quite freely. But those trained ears, nose and fingertips make him sharp as his vast sword. He'll sit in cool corners and trace its iron patterns, picture his brother's hand calmly guiding his.

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Gil's hot breath lapped at the shallows of Erik's lungs, furnace cracked his soft lips. The urgency in his vast, coarse palms, as he cradled Erik's face. Chisel fingers on porcelain cheeks. Erik's head dipped - out of shame, or fear - Gil barely cared. His mind raced with a thousand thoughts his tongue would never have been able to form. Erik's brow cooled against his, anguish creased as finally, the crest wave of all of those feelings he'd fought against crashed against the rocks he had borne so long. Erik shivered beneath him, quieted whimpers through his locked teeth. To think of those azure eyes lit with tears was poison to his wounded heart - and through its bitter sting he found his voice again. Deep, soft, shaken, but more sure than any words he'd shared before.

"Thoughts of you have chased my waking mind even into dreams," he murmured; quickly, so his own guilt and fear would not silence him. He felt its shadow cool on his back even now, chasing ten yards behind him. He would not let it catch him now. His other hand slipped into the silken fall of Erik's hair as he ground their heads together, pushed his blunt nose into his cheek. "I have no strength left to resist this any longer. I must have you."

"Please-" Erik breathed. Gil hadn't heard him so fragile - his voice wavered on the finest knife edge. Any other second in his life and he'd instantly have fallen to silence and begged forgiveness - but he had taken a sledgehammer to brittle wall behind which he had locked these feelings, and now, his soul would not be silenced. Swift and hushed, though there was no one but himself and this man, without whom he had found, in the last hours, he could not be without - to hear his broken confession; but not silenced. Gil gritted his teeth through unbidden tears, knotted his fingers with Erik's curls.

"I would give my life to love you for just a minute. Each second I spend outside of your arms lasts a century. Please-" he begged. “Please free me from this.”

Erik knew - he must have known - that for that moment and each to follow, Gil's heart beat in his hands alone.

As the shackles had fallen from Gil, did the iron tension melt from Erik now. Slowly, his arms closed around Gil's anvil shoulders, nails tracing shivers over his tight neck. Slender fingertips soothed lines of tension from his skull - lifted hot salt from his reddened cheeks. Erik touched him with such delicate tenderness Gil would never have known to pray for. Through the raging inferno in his mind Gil realised - he had been born to love this man.

When he finally met Erik's eyes they were swollen, gleaming, candlelight melted to moonlight on the ocean conjured within them. The hollow in his chest ached to be filled.

"Tell me what you need." Erik asked, softly. His thumb followed the rough shadow over Gil's jaw, stitched a delicate thread through his cracked lips. Gil's breath faltered.

"I don't know." He stammered.

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Today tastes like spring And it feels, like a vast weight has been lifted For the first time in months I am corporeal And glad to be alive Incredible, how quickly you forget the feeling when the world is grey

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It had been the hands he’d wanted, first, the instant he set eyes on them. Slender and elegant, refined and polished like cut crystal. Even as Erik had taken his hand and kissed his ring he had known, in the careful movements, intently tuned like a violin, that these were the hands of an artist. Sleek, cool, soft. Edmund Lèon wanted freely, and was never denied.

Erik had come here, like the many before him and countless to come, into the arms of Edmund’s open invitation. He had learned over the years that the dregs that washed up on his doorstep of their own will were rarely of the caliber he had grown to want. No, there was something, a note of courage, of resilience, in those who came to him knowing, as all humans must, having felt that nervous inkling in their core and decided to ignore it. If he wanted to sup on the blood of heroes, they would have to look their death in the eyes.

This young man had no fear of doing just that, it seemed. Young man indeed, barely out of his teens, Edmund presumed. He’d languished in his archives for so long now he’d forgotten the complex sundial of human life. Smooth cheeks and softer lips, ebony hair that gleamed in the polished firelight - in the angle of his slender shoulders and the whiskey warmth of his brittle voice - everything about Erik screamed green, a sweet sapling unbent by the weight of the world. Not his eyes, though. In their deep blue rim was something ancient, lapis ink on peeling vellum, the mettle that blanketed the stars. Edmund had never loved anything he had not learned also to consume. And consume it he would. He would make the resounding melancholy in Erik’s eyes a part of himself, or he would destroy it. That was how it had always been. How it should always be.

Wine warmed, even touched his cheekbones blossom pink, Erik had found a zenith of calm. His voice flowed easily as the bottled red Edmund poured for him - and he was more than content to listen. He had watched him paint all day; etching unseen shapes in wild, bright colours, the like of which this dull grey land of granite and mud had never seen. There was more beauty still to be found in the way Erik lost himself in that haze of ochre, cobalt and cochineal. Unhindered and unaware of his body as he threw himself into the movement of his brush, his radiance shone. Edmund could almost taste it, him, melt on his tongue like butter.

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His head still rang like a brass bell when the door slammed and sealed him into the plush, leather-bound capsule at the back of the motorcar. The vast automaton shunted in beside him, crushed him up against the far wall. Two taps to the partition and the engine purred awake, old gravel crackling beneath the wheels as it rumbled along the street.

“Excellent work, Atlas.”

The voice flicked a switch in the wiry labyrinth of his mind and it whirred alive. He groaned as he soothed his throbbing head - no blood, but his skin burned - and his hair was a mess. He cracked open his left eye like a knuckle, squinted into the hazy gloom. The man that gazed back at him - behind coal coloured circular shades, anyway, that gleamed in the cabin’s absinthe glow - was the whitest man he’d ever seen. Not a lick of colour from his shaved ice hair to the fingers hidden beneath an obnoxious cluster of fat, gaudy rings. And, of course, cradled in his lap, a short cane capped with a head of solid gold, fashioned countless years ago into the shape of an eagle, with bright faience eyes. Snapped at the neck and unceremoniously hammered onto an ebony stick. At last those finely tuned cogs within his skull clicked into place. Though he and Jurou were not intimately acquainted he knew enough of this man to accurately surmise within the split second of this revelation, the only appropriate response to his unmistakable and undeniable presence:

“Ah, fuck.”

If a smile could have shifted the tectonic plates just enough to displace one’s spine, Xeu’s would have been it. Jurou was presented its full unbridled splendour for that moment - he was sure if he’d counted the teeth there would have been too many.

“It’s a pleasure to see you again, Mister Hayashi.”

Jurou had always held himself as an excellent judge of character - it was a con man’s art, you see, and more than that, their lifeline. Try to pull a fast one on the wrong person and, well, it could be the last mistake you ever make. He’d honed himself to it, hammered the steel of his mind over five hundred times until it was razor sharp and gleaming. Now Xeu - antiquarian, industrialist, occultist, anthropologist, mobster, gambler, bastard - exuded the energy of a man who knew exactly the extent to which his reputation preceded him. Having scrambled uneasily though nearly all of the circles this man frequented, Jurou had heard more than his fill of rumours - breathed in equal parts with awe and cruelty. Exactly the kind of rumours to which, as ever, he paid no heed.

In this exact, split second however, Jurou had decided that beyond a shadow of a doubt they were all unequivocally true.

He had a way of speaking, silk soft and shadow dark, that murmured deeply within your core and sat opaquely on the periphery of your consciousness. Too clear to ask, ‘Pardon?’, but faint enough that you would find yourself, entirely by accident, leaning close to him, enough that you could feel his breath, taste the scented oil warmed on his skin - cloves, sandalwood, bergamot - and perhaps, delicate as porcelain and brittle as bone, hear his echoing pulse.

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‘softest brown eyes…”

Their voice trailed to nothing, a softly murmured whisper. Private - Mikhail wasn’t sure he was meant to hear. Tallow firelight glimmered in the tokaj eyes that searched his - not cold, critical, hawk-sharp, honed scalpel glances he’d grown used to. Their fingertips traced the hollow echoes of empty nights stained above his bone. Strange, that as they touched him, the ache seemed to melt away. Rendered to nothing in this, shocking tenderness, amber irises, the intensity of their scent. Spiced earthen musk; wind-swift fur tugged with wondrous hands from the fabric of the very night. Withered leaves after autumn rain. Glowing rocks on evening summer shores. The first promised gasp of winter fire. And then him. It would be nothing now, nothing to reach out and touch them. To kiss them. Roving fingers found the bow of his lips - traced a pale threaded scar over the lower. Sauna breath shallow, he parted beneath them. Before he really knew it, his huge hands had planed their taut shoulders, and found purchase in that tangle of midnight hair.

They came to him so naturally. That as the tip of their nose traced the line of his he closed his eyes, became lost in the electricity feathering along his spine. Their lips met his so perfectly he didn’t even feel it for a moment - not even until they parted and lingered, tasting each other’s breath. Only then, was the absence of them so crushing. His fingers flexed and this time, they found him more intently. Caught his lip between their teeth, but lightly, enough steel within to stoke the blaze in his core. He could taste it now, the fire that blazed in their eyes - that seared the tips of his fingers when he buried them deep into their smouldering charcoal fur.

The coarse crop of his steel hair sweat slicked beneath their dark fingers. He murmured into them so softly, held them tight - tighter, tighter - as close to his heart as he could. In the second he slackened, he feared, they’d slip away. But every sound he makes, every fragile whimper that made him curse his own weakness - they echoed - deepened, melted into liquid gold. His hand spanned the space between their sculpted shoulders - and beneath his rough palm he felt the ridges of their spine quiver so delicately. He tasted his name on their tongue - his name - hot and sweet in their lungs, heady and inked with desire - as their lips parted for him. He tasted - salt - between them - was suddenly so acutely aware that his eyes were stung. He dipped his head, mumbled an apology - Akhelios’ nails followed the line of his chisel jaw, tilted his head back to meet theirs. Drew him again to them, and kissed him deep, deeper still, right into the pit of his memory and, for a second, snatched away the vicious guilt that has chased him for so long. So deeply he saw a glimpse of the most peaceful dark he could imagine. His fingers knotted into their tangled hair and he held them to him, drank deep of this promise of love.

They didn’t care - he was old and ugly and pathetic and broken - and they couldn’t have cared less. That thought, it coiled in his core, tucked its muzzle beneath its arm, bristled hotly. For a moment he felt, ageless. Wanted to sob like a baby. All of those marks, the deep grooves of his toils and years washed from him, in a second of pure emotion. Nothing to him, but his racing heart in their gentle hand.

“I love you-”  Their voice is stained with desperation, torn breathlessness, that high keening note of want. No matter how much he wanted to deny it, disprove it, cling to the weight of regret and worthlessness he’d carried for so long - that sound, that key in their voice, clicked in his shackles; and they fell from him before he had the chance to notice.

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Iolena. Ethereal, inhuman: even before dissecting her person she has an aura of the preternatural. Her family share their linage with ancient dragons - but of course, she never knew them. Her features are delicate, precise: pale and beautiful, like a porcelain mask worn to conceal the truth. A birthmark like a bloody forked river splits her forehead to chin, carves a canyon through her smooth cheeks. The eye that fords it is darker than the other, the iris torn - she wears a veil of antique lace and tells the world she’s blind. Beneath it, her pale pink eyes ever sharpen with curiosity, ferocity, vigour. She may appear frail, but like those soft lips that hide her jaw of razor, needle teeth, she has the heart and hunger of a lioness - and the tongue that they cage is razor sharp. Mottled horns line her skull, following the line of the circlet braid she wears, wreathing her cascade of fine ivory hair. The scattered scales that glint in her skin are the same pearlescent pink of her irises; her pointed ears appear flattened and torn. Slender fingers curl into talons - her fifth sits high by her wrist, hooked to a due claw. Spines line her neck and the valley of her back, to the sleek tail that curls around her leg. If she ever had wings they are long gone, replaced instead with two angry scars that run the length of her back.

Empathic, oracular: she wants for very little and is used to going without. She has a heart of gold and little tolerance for cruelty. A sacrifice is only worth the life it spares. 10000 lives would not touch her worth: and she would give hers for a wounded deer. 

[stabbyarm]

juicy lore for éirinn

KOBIAL rises from the fertile delta at the heart of the earth. The cradle of civilisation. Sure, yes, those from the north, with their coarse pale skin and stomachs lined with dirt have the resilience to survive the most vicious winter, the power to terraform their land. This society, however, got over that a very long time ago. They were lucky, really, that the land held them so graciously - but from those dark, rich roots sprung a civilisation that would last for centuries.

These citadels are run mostly independently - in ancient times an aggressive oligarchy pushed for expansion, and while this gained them wealth and land, so much of their collective energies were dedicated to exhaustive military service that, eventually, the intellectuals within the society realised this was … actually getting them nowhere but hungry, tired, and spread thin. So they decided to tie a ribbon around their winnings, and focused instead on internal development.

they’ve collected a VAST wealth of knowledge. A formidable trading fleet, swift as the soft wind, cut foaming trails into the vast ocean. Soon they’d established links worldwide, and with a plethora of materials and a drive to learn - the shared experience and talent they soon gathered within their cobalt citadels lead to rapid development - scholarly, alchemical, technical, medical, artistic, literary. The empire that had hauled itself from the sands bathed in blood had suddenly become a passive world power - and, those old enough to remember the taste of rust, saw their people happy and spreading across the globe.

the Womb of the World - a deep artesian well that swells below the capitol - still hold some of the first magic that shaped the world. They’re the last society in which native magic is fairly common - and when amplified by this sacred liquid, those trained in magery can accomplish superhuman feats. Coveted amongst travellers, pilgrims, warriors and traders - many cast far from their homeland, knucklebones from Fate’s fist, covet gleaming vials of the water. A link to home, and a promise of power. Those who visit regularly return with some of their own - it’s rumoured to promise deep sleep - rolling the glass between your thumb and palm brings you a deep calmness, the same as the mirror surface of that endless, ancient pool.

‘Warriors’ maybe isn't exactly fair. those who seek war generally leave their land - Kobial has no standing army, no mercenary contracts - but those who seek to learn the art of blade and bow are taught. Masterful warriors move like dancers, lithe curved blades, tight, elegant bows. They rarely turn their blades on other men - but when they do, they don't do it by halves.

Famed warriors from one area of the empire - Swallows - known as Winged Men. Legend says the voice of the wind told them the secret of flight - that the first of them flew up to their mountaintop Polis and carved it from the rocks they found. Others that, one ancient hero was carried up there by a monstrous bird - when he slayed it, people rose from where its feathers fell. Others, that the first men climbed the mountain for days, and mated with the harpies they found there. It’s not, entirely certain HOW there came to be a sprawling city-state on the plateau of a huge mountain, but there is one. Every year many make the treacherous journey up, to learn how to cut men and monsters down.

Swallows specialise in siege - their armour is built with gliders, so while they can’t fly per se, they’re capable of bouncing back after being flung from impregnable walls. Their helmets are fashioned after the heads of birds - sleek, elegant, streamlined - they’re believed to be the incarnations of protective spirits, and fashion themselves as such. Generally a more defensive than offensive force - but they rarely pass up the chance to show off their talents.

Standard issue shields are mechanical - they can be carried in ether an interlocking ‘V’ formation - which is as offensive as defensive, and can be expanded for phalanx use, or to protect the injured, or, into a body length ovoid - which, though slender, provides ample protection when used by a trained soldier. In addition to this, the body of the shield is made from a kind of tempered faience. Like their armour, this is often individually patterned, with the wielder’s own patron god, or lucky symbol, or hometown, or regiment. It’s also, most definitely, luminescent. After sunset, Kobiali armies are bathed in the softest of blue glows - the light carries enough that they can fight efficiently, can scope out the battlefield together. Though this also paints a rather large target on an individual soldier, a unit working together seems impenetrable. Helmets and mail are also often patterned with this ancient glass, painting the warriors of Kobial into ghostly assailants.

service on ships is a rite of passage for most youths - isolated with a new team and cast onto the ocean, the aim is that they learn the value of teamwork and mutual respect- it, generally works - those who’ve served braid their tight hair to their scalp - one line for each year spent at sea - three is the norm, but its not uncommon to see elders with braids down to their waist, locked into their beards.

tattoos are also fairly commonplace among travellers - someone inked head to toe is a good indication of someone with a lot of good stories to tell.

Respect is always given freely - it takes a fair amount of dedication to turn a Kobiali’s heart against you. They remind themselves that their own past is blood-soaked. How can they ask forgiveness and understanding, if they aren’t prepared to give it with every step.

there’re a fair amount of native monsters - sphinx, gryphons, Roc, chimerae, harpies, sirens - its less common to find monsters that used to be human, less desperation than to the west, where the hungry eat their kin to see another dawn. Agricultural development, medicine, love and infrastructure does kinda, lead to that.

Cairûn absolutely killed the tyrant prince who was lined up to seize the throne - he’d been swayed by 50 years of service to his undying father and, having grown sick of watching the poor thrive, and as his family served meals and handed wealth to those he considered inferior, and had decided that he’d take back what he considered to be his. Admittedly Cai didn’t know this when he ran him through - he was just trying to protect his friend, but uhh… he did do that. Instead of, as Evelyn expected, Kobial being outraged… they ended up… thanking him…. owing him fealty…. their respect would be instrumental in his own later campaigns.

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“I barely recognise you-” Jin’s voice trailed off, as his dark eyes traced the aquiline angles of Salim’s face. He hadn’t changed at all - not really. His slanted smile, lithe movements, the glimmer of warm, knowing mischief in his molten bronze eyes - were all those of that gangly, unkempt, uncertain youth. He had stretched into his body like it was a hammock - and every subsequent movement came with a breath of ease as slick as the silver moon on a still ink tide. Jin closed his eyes, swallowed the tremor in his throat. He didn’t think - he’d ever seen a man quite so beautiful. Sal glanced his way just for a second, polished eyes beneath those ever-black lashes. How the light caught brilliant gold across him. How his lips moved, so delicately, beneath the tight curls of that soft, ebony beard. As he tightened his fists, he could almost feel it under his palms, locked between his fingers. Soothed by the balmy sea, carried so gently by the softest breeze, the delicate spices he oiled with - bergamot, patchouli, cardamom, anise - sandalwood and cinnamon bark - Jin’s mind painted them onto his tongue. His teeth clicked together oh so faintly, as he pressed his lips into a fine line.

He must have been blind before. Eight years - so much had changed for him, his world written anew. How could this have passed him by?

Salim smiled, just the smallest flicker on his perfect lips. The touch of warmth in his eye glimmered, mirrored the scattered stars as he searched them passively. “You aren’t the first to tell me that,” he murmured. Soft, his voice flowed like honeyed wine - Jin felt its hazy warmth creep along his spine,  felt the ghost of spent offerings on his tongue. There was fire in his eyes as they met his, smouldering in the kindling of midnight pupils. The intensity didn’t alarm him, for once. He couldn’t remember - the last time someone had looked at him like that. Still, he remained, even as Salim leaned in so close to him, his narcotic breath blazed in Jin’s own lungs. “But you - you’re the same. Well, perhaps not here…”

He hadn’t realised how warm he had become, until cool almond fingertips found him. Traced the grooves in his forehead, the stains beneath his bloodshot eyes - trailed very slowly over the lines at his mouth, ended, electrifying, along the ridge of his lip. Jin wasn’t entirely sure when he’d stopped breathing. The night billowed the gaping sails and the lapel of his loose linen shirt. The skin beneath, gleaming tan, was patterned with the most intricate of ink. Ancient letters that flowed into shapes and stories. He imagined every inch, the pattern of this man’s life, marked it on the roof of his mouth with his roving tongue. How he ached to know the truth - to trace it and trace it until it was branded into his mind. So much more desperately than he’d ever wanted anything before. His heart pleaded for release - but, truth be told, he would have stayed in that bittersweet moment of longing forever, if he could. Fluttering at his collar, a trapped moth, something pale and glittering, ice blue beneath the moon’s gaze. Jin’s hands moved alone as he stilled it- ancient, familiar - his thumb followed the shadow of the eye carved into its core, wide and unblinking. His fingers remembered still, the scratch of glass on scale, as he carved it out, those years ago, and thought nothing of it - nothing of the token the youth had asked for. Nothing of the power it would have over him, as he reunited with it now.

He followed the flash of colour that raced over his neck up to his dark eyes - his breath was shallow now, so close, their noses almost touched. Salim’s eyes rang of pain. Jin would have given anything to soothe him.

“I’ve loved you for a long time, you know that?” He breathed.

Jin only needed to listen to his heartbeat for a second, before he touched his lips to his.

[stabbyarm]

[stabbyarm]

[stabbyarm]

ELLETRA DAMIANI is the adopted daughter of an old knight - he picked her up as a baby from the ruins of a village he and his comrades had sacked - and, sickened by the cruelty of his compatriots, soon deserted. She grew up with a strong sense of right and wrong, and the importance pursuit of justice in the face of adversity. When her father died she sought to follow in his footsteps, seeking honour over glory as a knight errant. Though she never attached herself to one power in her youth and was little more than a well trained and well armoured bounty hunter she became a force to be reckoned with. She has a great head for tactics, and though her stoicism has mistakenly given her a reputation for ruthlessness, she's actually pretty level headed and always try's her best to be merciful. It's that core goodness that eventually landed her with LUDOVICO VALENTIN. They met almost entirely by chance - she'd been hunting him but had given it up as a lost cause, and he had spent months actively avoiding her . So when they caught eyes across a dark glade and drew their swords each was surprised to discover their skill was equally balanced and weaknesses matched by the other. Between their sparking blades they accidentally forged a strong mutual respect, and, thrilled to have finally met their match, quickly became fast friends. Ludo grew up in an enclave of skilled warriors - not unlike the Order of Kadmos. But where the Kadmeia hunts monsters, Ludo's home specialised in hunting men. It'd trained generals, assassins and knights for centuries, grooming youths to be perfect and merciless weapons. As a teenager Ludo realised that, his life and pockets would be much richer if he called the shots for himself - so, having nearly completed his training, he slipped away from his tutors and kin and never looked back. Immediately he set about establishing himself - looting travellers and slaughtering the rich for their enemies. Raised in the heart of high society he blended perfectly into the homes and beds of his patrons. His life was easy. He had more than the skills he needed to sustain it. How unspeakably dull. When Elletra stumbled upon him he'd torn himself away from that and was living on nothing but his wits and his scimitar. And while it was working - her companionship presented the opportunity for them both to become so much more. Unlike El, Ludo is almost completely devoid of empathy, of mercy. While he cares deeply about his friends, he has little regard for the lives of others. He's much like a cat - he gives and receives affection but only ever on his own terms. And you constantly get the feeling that when he looks at you, he's evaluating the most efficient way to slice you open. While he'd kill a room full of people for looking at him the wrong way, Elletra's lion heart and his own practicality tempers him. The alloy they forge together is as strong and versatile as steel. And, while they're formidable apart - they wouldn't have it any other way.

[stabbyarm]

He doesn't remember the time before his life was twisted by hate.

He was only a boy - green and supple and innocent, his stem unbent, when his mother sold him for a sliver of silk. To a Lord no less, rooted like vast oak in centuries of earth sewn with the bones of the hungry. He was a pretty boy - eyes of ocean, skin like snow - that had been his only failing. Used and beaten and held prisoner in a home that was never his. He dreaded every glimmer of sunlight. Ate each meal without tasting it. Clothed only in filth and his own sweat. Washed only when his master wanted him. But he was a child - he didn't know how not to endure it. his keeper made no promises and kept even fewer.

Five years  of pain, darkness and secrecy - the last golden glimmer of hope burned to embers in his heart. Those who had come before him and after - had all withered. His soul refused to extinguish itself. Gaunt, exhausted. he found a nail loose in the soft wood that lined his shuttered window. His fingers bled when he prized it free. The point barely gleamed but - he’d lived this long. He had determination. And the blackness, it called to him. Unending slumber. He’d forgotten heaven long ago but nothing, even nothing would be better than this.

He remembers the feeling of iron in his skull every time he closes his eyes. Through the soft pink of his eye. Crimson inked a ravine over his soft cheek. How it had scraped against his bone. Shattered porcelain rubbed together. Granite dragged along a guillotine’s edge. That sound had echoed around the chasm of his skull. And as he wept, shuddering, his hands soaked in scalding scarlet, he saw it.

The glimmer of a vast eye.

Wreathed in the colours of the night. Swirling and pulsing around him. Within and without. Occupying the tiniest crack in his consciousness. constricting his entire body. He almost expected it to sing - there was music, he could have sworn - but perhaps he imagined it. It watched him. unchanging. unblinking. No mouth to consume him. Even then he knew, he should have been gripped with fear;

but nothing had ever held him so gently.

He knew in that moment, as its obsidian tendrils bound his heart. as it lowered him to the ground, and slipped the metal from his eye. He had seen his future; and it was unending.

Fifteen years old - he’d behaved himself for two years. too old for his master’s tastes now, though they kept him clean shaven, his tousled hair short. He was the picture of grace and too precious not to show off. the gears of this particular hierarchy whirred, oiled and glistening in his head. He poured wine, held polite conversation - all the time, watching with hawk’s eyes, his master crumble into old age, impotence.

Silas and his son became fast friends - how could they not. Silas had watched the boy grow, knew every detail of his life - he coiled around his heart and smiled, as he watched his venom set in. He grew to distrust his father: as silas had planned. Confided in him every secret and desire of his soul. Every time he looked into the boy’s eyes - he saw the reflection of the life he knew he should have had. whether he knew or not, was hardly the point - the boy was oblivious at best, ignorant at worst. Though he was honest, wore his heart on his sleeve - not like his bastard father.

Still, Silas felt nothing when he cut his throat. dangling feet first from the tallest tree. 17 years old. Silas painted his face with his blood and swallowed the rest. It writhed in his stomach, swirling bitter rust - but he gritted his teeth through it. After all, he’d swallowed worse. The boy was clay cold when Silas cut him down, his eyes stung red. He’d watched the corpse for hours, impassive, as his blood blackened beneath the silver moon. Plastered Silas’ shirt to his lunar skin. Stood like ancient marble, until he no longer felt the cold.

Years melted into each other after that. The old man had wept when he saw Silas that night, drenched in gore. Silas’ voice hadn’t even shaken when he told him to name him as the sole heir - cool, and silken, like the garment that had bought him. Each time he filled his lungs, closed his eyes, he heard that silent music. Felt the balmy gaze of the leviathan’s eye. He was above most things - but not the twist of pleasure that came whenever the frail lord jumped at his shadow. He grew out his hair, tied it back with ebony silk. The beard he nurtured, soft as sin and raven black. He fucked and killed his way to the bluest blood, whetted his tongue with a vineyard of nobility. for the first time he was wanted - and it mattered nothing. not anymore.

When the old man died - pale, withered, covered in his own shit - Silas burned the castle and its coffers to ash. He stood in the grove he’d shed his soul, atop his white steed, and watched its inhabitants flee and scurry and scream, ants beneath a magnifying glass.

Tragedy chased him wherever he roamed, like a loyal hound. And as the dust of each settled he would kneel and stroke its terrible head. People clung to him, begged him, bargained with him for his blessing - tried to claw their way to his glass heart. But he pulled the wings off men’ ambitions and picked his teeth with their bones. He was no one - and could be anyone. The fearless leader to the broken hero. The soft soul cradling a mother’s weeping child. The broken man, desperate and weak.

There were few things he wanted he was ever denied; and nothing he wouldn’t do, to feel the touch of his god again.

[stabbyarm]

Kay disappeared at noon. It was a hot thursday, heavy and sticky - they’d driven through the night for the past two days, had only woken her at dawn to toss her the keys to a peeling, sun-bleached motel. When she’d stepped into the room’s muggy shade, a cockroach crunched beneath her shoe. The air conditioning wheezed like a 70 year old smoker with a tube in his lungs, a metronome of dripping water beating against the faded cracked ivory plastic of the grotty shower. “Nice place,” she’d muttered as they followed, cradling Freya still asleep in their arm. They hadn’t answered. They were far from the most talkative and open person she’d ever met, so she barely noticed their sudden coldness, their grouchiness, the shortening of their temper: though to them these things screamed from every part of their being. The few words they exchanged were sharp. When they thought she wasn’t looking, she caught them glancing anxiously out of the window coated in a shroud of splattered bugs. She excused it as exhaustion - the road hadn’t just worn down the tires. When they weren’t back by 3, she began to wonder. She tried to burst the bubble of anxiety that had formed, but it lodged itself at the base of her throat, made her mind race with a hundred impossible scenarios. It wasn’t fear for them, exactly, but the uncertainty uneased her. At 5, her concern began to chill; by 7 it had fully become distrust. At 9 she could no longer be subdued by the glow of the television, snatched up their keys with gritted teeth and stormed out to the truck. Flickering busted red and blue neon coloured the car park, everything else bled grey by buzzing orange street lamps. The air was thick, heavy with screeching insects and the distant croaking of sleepy gators. The truck was totally empty, its cracked leather seats bare aside from their jacket, slumped carelessly onto the passenger seat. She snorted; she’d half expected to find them asleep in there, would have found it as cathartic as easy to yell at them for being selfish and making her worry even for a second. She opened the door anyway, as if they might have been hiding beneath the crushed soda cans at the foot of the seats. The electric yellow of the reception beckoned her from the cracked wing mirror. She spun too quickly, glowered at it as if it was hiding the secrets of the universe from her. Lowering her hood and her temper, she stalked towards it. Behind the desk was a redheaded teenager with more acne than clear skin. She gave him a plastered smile. “Hey, so, my buddy went out a while ago and was supposed to come back with beers, did you see them at all?” His expression was as vacant as the sign advertised. She clicked her tongue, gestured awkwardly at her right elbow. “Only has one arm?” His eyes lit up. “Oh!” He yelled, a little too excitedly. “With the-” he his hand curled into a faint claw as he waved it across his face, but he seemed to suddenly remember better of himself, and stopped and blanched mid sentence. Nix nodded. “Said they were looking for a lake? To like, go fishing or something. So I, uh, gave them a leaflet about the swamp.” “The swamp.” She said flatly. The kid stood up from his chair and pointed past her, to a distant gathering of stretched trees, cast black and blue in the moonlight. “Yeah, people go there sometimes when they stay here. Tourists mostly.” “Why.” “I don’t know man. But if you wanna go look for your friend you should wait till morning. There’s gators out there. And stuff.” “Uh huh.” When she finally found them, she told herself as she snatched a heavy flashlight from the glove compartment, locked the door to the room and told Freya not to wait up, she was going to fucking kill them. The swamp was smaller than it felt, as she picked her way through the winding rotten wooden path. Even now the stagnant water made the air muggy and her skin crawl. She imagined herself zipped into someone’s unwashed week old gym bag. Too pissed to be afraid she crept around sleeping toads and lizards, through clouds of whining mosquitoes. In the last hours she’d accidentally convinced herself that Kay had set them up. She hadn’t intended to and she’d grasped onto her conviction that there was an honest reason for their abrupt disappearance. But it seemed that at the first sign of uncertainty the strangeness of the situation had overwhelmed her and that, despite their willingness to shoulder as much of the burden as they could, she couldn’t trust someone that she barely knew. She had nothing to confirm or deny this, really, other than the rising hostility that she could suddenly blatantly remember. ‘Treacherous brute,’ Xeu had called them, and though she felt no warmth towards him, in their absence she was beginning to believe it. She must have walked just over a mile when she saw it in the distance, an abandoned cabin sagging under the weight of rot. In the collapsed window flickering candlelight cast long dancing shadows across the still murky water. She could hear their gruff breathing from the doorway, deep and rattling - they were slumped over the arm of a gutted sofa, writhing very slowly. At their feet were the grease stained wrappers of enough cheeseburgers to feed a family of six, countless cans that they’d crushed into coins in their stress. There was something else too, not quite crying but a soft whimpering, a cutting animal noise. Not noticing her they twitched, curled into themself like they were trying to drag themself into sleep. The bittersweet relief of actually finding them propelled her forwards, unlatched the door to her fury. “What the fuck is this?” Her shout flung them to their feet with a yell of surprise. They glared at her frantically, staggering until they found their balance. They stared at her like they’d never seen her before - she could almost hear their heartbeat fluttering in their throat - their limbs locking like a spring trap, ready to snap to action at the slightest feather touch. “What are you doing here?” they stammered. Their voice was low, shaken - their eyes, rubbed raw, flickered to the shattered windows, peered into the night’s fog, waiting, just waiting, for something vast and dark to leap out at them. “What am I doing here?” The tremor of rage that contorted her face for a second made them visibly flinch. Their hand shot to cradle their head, soothe their throbbing temples - the effort with which they clenched their teeth coloured their cheeks bright crimson. Sweat gleamed on their forehead - how much shit must they have shot into themself to get here. Their groan twisted from their core like they were being ripped in two. Just for a second, a deep cold fear tapped her on the shoulder, and she felt the colour drain from her face. “I’m s- I’m sorry-” Kay choked like they’d punctured a lung - their knuckles blanched at the collar of their shirt, hot tears left slick paths down their cheek. Their eye twitched, vision faltered for a second. “No,” they strained. Fought not to collapse as a bout of pain hit them like a stone mallet to the ribs. For the first time in hours, she actually felt a moment of doubt. Of overwhelming pity. Suddenly she couldn't shake the feeling that she’d backed them onto a cliff edge, that at any second they might throw themself off and pull her down with them. She took a step towards them, softened her voice; “Hey, you’re-” “No,” they roared - like someone had just torn out their heart. Their eyes were wild, though not with the hot rage that coloured hers - angry, yes, but wide, blanched with terror. As she watched, the copper in their russet skin drained to sickly tan. “You shouldn’t be here,” they murmured, their frightened whisper catching on the roughness of their throat. Even as they cowered away from her, they seemed bigger, their shape strangely distended. They swatted her away as she stepped toward them, whole body trembling violently. They looked as if they might throw up at any second. Dark crimson swelled at their nose, between the tight line of their lips - they dashed it away quickly with the back of their hand. It wasn’t until they sank to their knees, fighting an eye watering yell of agony as if they’d bound their own throat with coarse rope to suppress it that she stopped. The last of her broiling rage evaporated, left only the cold heavy dregs of fear deep in her gut. Ragged breaths like shredded leather shuddered from them as they curled forward, buried their face in their hand. In their locked grimace she could see the sharpening of their teeth, the swelling of their jaw, the awful crunching of their ribs. “Please,” they sobbed. Their hand pulsed, bones stretching sickeningly beneath their skin, their nails morphing into obsidian claws. Instinct told her to step away but some primal fear had rooted her in place. Her muscles seized as if encased in ice, her breaths shallow and silent in her lungs, as if any noise would summon the beast clawing its way out of them. A thunder-crack snap fired from their spine like a rifle and they threw their head back. Blood seeped from their snarl as it stretched. Bristling, tar black fur burst through their dark skin like needles into a pincushion. With every tiny, fine movement it seemed another three of their bones would crack like the lash of a long whip. She would have given anything, anything at all, to not have had to hear them scream again. And there was nothing she could do but watch. As they swelled into something that had haunted her nightmares since she was a child, all she could do was stand there and watch, unsure of when her heart had last beaten. Even if you pressed her she couldn’t tell you how long she had stared then, paralysed. How long it had been until the wretched snapping had stopped, or the wailing, how long until that unleashed body had risen to its full size, with its rippling ebony fur and steel muscles. How, even missing an arm it had consumed every millimetre of her vision as it stood in that corner, racked only by the volume of breath in its newly stretched lungs. The point of its ear twitched at the shortness of her breath- the other, scarred, half torn, flattened instantly. It turned its snout slightly; foaming drool oozed from between the locked knives of its teeth, black nose glistening. Its nostrils flared flesh pink at her scent and a low growl seeped from it at the periphery of her hearing. Claws like iron scraped against the dusty concrete, left trails of red between the fragments of their clothes, the last scrapped evidence of their humanity. Now, finally, as it turned to look at her she found the strength to back away, though fear had left her body numb and trembling. With each step she took a long breath, and though it rattled viciously and her eyes pricked somehow it stopped her from descending into panic. A breath in and out as her feet found their way towards the collapsed doorway. In and out as the beast that was once Kay stalked slowly towards her, their huge body arched, their teeth curved like scimitars. She thought of turning to run; even this gave the furnace of her imagination enough fuel that she could feel its teeth around her neck, feel its claws rip into her back, see its awful snout drip hungrily with her blood. It was close enough that she could feel its breath, hot as an oven, metallic and bitter. The same scars patterned its muzzle that cascaded over their face, raw hairless strips of leathery skin that buckled, swollen and ridged through its fur. One orange eye blazed, the hollow blackness of its huge pupil seeming to suck the light from the weathered room. The other, glazed and milky, stared at her dispassionately. Cold. Distant. If it killed her now, she wondered for a second, would Kay remember? Any hope of reason vanished in the haze of their lifeless right eye. Would they remember how she tasted? Her fingers found the cold weight of a key in her pocket. Folding it between her knuckles, she thought about the taste of her own blood. Her back met the faded brick wall with a soft thud. To her left, the chill of night air caressed her cheek, the ghost of a lover’s touch. Her arm tensed. Her fist balled around that key as if, in all conceivable senses of the phrase, her life depended on it. For the first time in many, many years, she found herself praying. Begging God not to let her miss. Fortunately, He obliged. The force of her punch drove the key sharply into their eye. Perhaps if they’d had both of their arms it might have ended differently, but they reeled far enough away from her that she could tear away, that even when they recovered she was far out of their reach. The night burned like hot coals in her lungs as she sprinted back through the knotted trees. She could hear nothing but the sound of her ragged breathing, feel nothing but the thick embrace of the night and the raw burning in her thighs. Nevertheless she ran, through stinging tears and twisting nausea, though dust-dry retching in her throat until there were no more trees, until she was past the first dimly lit byroads and into the neon safety of the motel. Only there in the car park did she sink to her knees and allow herself to sob, settle the contents of her stomach onto the cool tarmac, to shake violently until the terror had passed. The concierge’s shadow stretched curiously from the reception. Scooping herself from the ground she hurried to the plywood door, shut it definitely behind her. The rickety bed engulfed her kindly, like a warm but reassuring embrace from a stranger and, finally safe, she cried like a child until sleep took her. It was even good enough to spare her the nightmares. When she woke in the morning she still felt drained, like the mattress had pulled all of the energy from her. Behind the curtains and to her surprise, the bloody yolk of the sun was only beginning to peek above the horizon. Her eyes felt as if they’d been buried in sand and slotted back into her skull; her well worn clothes clung to her limply, like a bandaid come unstuck in a pool. Yellow light crept below the bathroom door - Freya still slept, curled up in the centre of her bed. Icy anxiety knotted her stomach again as she put her palm to the flimsy door. She half expected to find a corpse. Kay sat naked in the basin of the shower, though they were greased with enough dirt, sweat and blood that they couldn’t possibly have felt it. A cigarette barely hung from their split dry lips, its smoke listing lazily around their head. Their right eye was bluebottle-purple, two scarlet crescents looped beneath their eyes, so violently vibrant they might as well have been raw gashes. They didn’t seem to have been able to reach the shower - their tangled hair was slick with sweat. She had no way of knowing how long they’d sat there but it seemed as if they’d become a permanent fixture. Even their breath barely seemed to move them. The soles of their feet were caked with dark earth. A sliver of amber moved beneath their swollen eyelid. One slow blink and their jaw clenched weakly, their head drooped and they swallowed something sour back down that had risen in their throat. Nix felt the silence ache to be broken, not out of embarrassment but something else - simultaneously, she absolutely couldn’t look at them, but couldn’t look away. It was impossible not to think of the Wolf, but it was as absent as it was so clearly conspicuous. Looking at them now, so thoroughly shattered, she would have wondered if it ever existed. Her voice was rough as she found her words, sounded as if it might break at any second though she had wrung every tear from her eyes. “Kay, I-” she began, but they tightened their lips, shook their head faintly. “I am so, so sorry,” they said. A soft, involuntary gasp escaped her; she had forgotten that they had a voice, and, in its calm, broken tenderness, realised she had also forgotten their humanity. “I should have told you. I thought you knew. I could have killed you, I-” Their skin paled suddenly, their hand rising to their mouth as if they might throw up. Deftly it drifted to their bloodshot eyes, snatched away the spilling acid tears with a sharp frown. Pinkish liquid trickled from their stained nose. Nix pinched the bridge of her nose. “I shouldn’t have followed you, I’m sorry,” she groaned. Looking at them, she couldn’t help but feel responsible, felt that she had somehow weighed in on their pain. “No,” they croaked. They could do nothing now to stop the leaking from their eyes, to repress their torn weeping. “No, this is not your fault.” They shook their head, breathed through gritted teeth. “I can’t- I’m so sorry. So fucking sorry. Please, I-” She pressed the door closed behind her, took their hand as she crouched in front of them. She could feel her own heart rending itself in two as their eyes met hers, had to do something to calm the wrenching pain in her chest. “Kay, you didn’t - didn’t do anything wrong,” clasping their hand between hers, she silenced them before they could even begin to protest. “Following you put us both in danger. I should have trusted you. You’re not a bad person.” Her words were a twist to the knife already in them, brought them forward only into more distress. Their head nudged against her shoulder and she brought them into a careful embrace as she reassured them again, cradling their body against hers and pressing her cheek softly to the top of their head. Crying in her arms, they whispered a thousand apologies until their throat seized. Seeing them now she couldn’t believe she’d ever been afraid. Though when she closed her eyes she saw the wolf, its hulking form and cruel features, she felt their hand on her back, as gentle as the tremors which now faded from them. She helped them carefully to their feet, propped their leaden deadweight against the cracked tiled wall. When they pulled their hand from their face it was again covered in ruby blood. They sneered their distaste, asked her quietly for a towel. “Let me help you,” she said softly, fingertips brushing the swelling that coloured the right side of their face with a wince and a twist of guilt. “I’ll be alright,” they answered. They didn’t even have the energy to make it believable. “Shut up,” she smiled wryly. The shower’s heat had returned a little colour to their skin. They no longer stank of rust, sweat and rancid earth, and though still swollen, hoarse and sore, there was barely a sign that they were or had ever been anything other than entirely human. Clutching a faded sandstone towel around their waist they sat and pointed to the open cuts and scrapes that they’d accumulated through the night as Nix quickly sealed them with surgical tape. None were too deep - they showed her the raised puffy lines of those gouges they’d had to hastily sew shut themself, traced the lines of long scratches, puncture wounds made by teeth like kitchen knives. “We’re not exactly nice to each other,” they joked lightly, but it made them blush a little. As she held a chunk of the ice she’d wrapped in one of their t-shirts to their swollen eye they yelped, cursed and settled into a low groan. “Can you see okay?” she asked, wincing with them. She didn’t think she’d ever hurt anyone this badly before. It played again and again in her mind - the hardness of their skull as she’d driven the metal into it. The heat of their jet fur, the blood throbbing just beneath its surface. She didn’t want to ask if they remembered but was certain they could sense her guilt; every now and then they’d smile warmly, reassuringly, though it was strange to look at, their sad eyes glinting in the net of scars, beneath the bruise that had puffed up like a baseball mitt, the broken slant of their crooked smile. “No, but it’ll be fine. It doesn’t hurt so badly any more. It’s already starting to go down, see?” Carefully they laid her cool fingertips against the shining skin, closing their eyes as they leaned into her touch. Her breath caught as their fingers trailed down smoothly over the back of her hand and fell back into their lap. When they opened their eyes again she couldn’t meet them; their softness made something shiver in her core, inched up her spine like a silvery spider along a frozen pipe. Curiously their thumb found her cheek, traced a thread of red that she didn’t even know was sore. “Did I do this?” they murmured. She almost wanted to laugh at the hurt in their voice which was so blatantly misplaced - like they couldn’t have ripped her throat out in one movement. As if she hadn’t rammed a key into their eye. Slowly, delicately, they leaned forward and pressed their lips to her cheek - though dry and cracked they were soft and so, so gentle; so careful in their movement that she could feel their pulse, the raised white scar that split them unevenly. It froze and melted her in a second and by the time her shattered thoughts had pieced themselves back together she had taken their head in her hands and kissed them deeply. Their startled gasp tasted as warm, sweet and spiced as a winter wood fire, their lips tender and giving beneath hers. She could feel the sharp points of their teeth pry at her lower lip, the very tip of their tongue briefly flicker against hers. Their hand slipped into her short hair. She shivered as their fingers traced the lines of her skull. When they broke away, each gasping for breath, they were drawn back together immediately by some powerful invisible magnetism. Each gentle demand she made from them they reciprocated instantly, eagerly, only shaken by the faintest nervous tremor. Her lips left theirs, but now they had started something together it couldn’t easily be stopped. The tension that had been brewing between them had suddenly been smashed, like someone had taken a crowbar to a pane of glass the size of a skyscraper - now the shards were embedded so sweetly in her skin the bleeding wouldn’t stop until Kay had removed every single one of them with their bared teeth. Their hungry kisses followed her jaw, the hot line of her jugular, over the stained copper ink of her tattoo, down to the smooth ridge of her collarbone. She breathed their name as they tasted her, ran their teeth over her throat. This couldn’t conceivably end well and she knew it; but in that moment Kay would have done anything for her - and, for better or worse, she was absolutely going to let them.

[stabbyarm]

"I met the stranger at the crossroads. I followed and scrawled my name in her book. And when I opened my eyes two moons had passed, there was blood on my breath and I was in a place I didn't know." Their eye sharpened as they looked from the fire to him - it's flame caught their iris, gleaming bronze, flashing blades of old, quenched in turquoise water and smithed by the hammers of the gods. In the mist of the other he could see it - that sly sickle crescent, shrouded by midnight smoke - the traveller's ivory hand pearlescent as she took theirs. Softly, gently, with tender love only a mother can master. Had she cradled their body as she supped on their soul? Had she wept as she marked them, and they melted into the shadows. Fourteen years old. How long had the taste of their virgin blood haunted her? They must have seen it in his eyes - the hurt, the cold twist of guilt he had no right to feel. They laughed. Quietly, but it's warmth was coloured by bitterness, by exhaustion. They pressed their fingertips to their chest - he could see the shadows of their bones, carved by firelight. The Wolf had never seemed so small, so fragile. So hungry. He could hardly bare it. "This is the life I was given, Mikhail," their gaze had dropped from his but their tongue, their breath, shaped his name from its marble like a master sculptor. It shot through his spine, a silver arrow. Their fingers pried away the dense furs, bared their chest until he could see it, carved black into their skin - the crude shape of a ragged wolf etched around the pale tear of its healed bite. His throat tightened around an imaginary rock. "This is the life that I chose. The wolf is who I am. And I can live with that, hunter, can you?"