#>>ic. clad in knight armor.

[jobean12-blog]

Last Stop to Love (and ice cream)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x female reader

Word Count: 775

Summary: After a long day of work you grab the train to head home and get an unexpected treat.

Author's Note: My friend sent me a cute reel of being on a crowded train and getting bumped around into people and it just sort of sparked this little drabble. I also want ice cream. And Bucky. So...hehe 😁Thank you all so much for reading! Much love always! ❤️❤️❤️Divider by the lovely @firefly-graphics thank you Daisy! 🥰

Warnings: fluff and cuteness and ice cream

As soon as you board the train you try to hold back your sigh of defeat, noting how every seat is taken and nearly every handrail is already clutched by someone else. With quiet “excuse me’s” you wind your way through the crowd until you find the last small space where you can stand without putting your face in someone’s armpit.

What. A. Day.

You keep your head down, not even attempting to get to your bag and retrieve your headphones or your book. The train rolls along the rails, the gentle sway lulling you into a daze  after the long day at work.

Your feet stay firmly planted and you’ve got a light hold on the lower part of one of the center handrails but when the train starts to slow to its first stop you’re unprepared for the sudden jolt and you fly forward.

Your momentum is stopped by two large hands at your waist and the feel of something solid at your cheek, surrounded by softness and the best smell to ever bless your nose.

“OH!” you exclaim, losing your grip on the handrail and trying to find purchase on anything nearby. Your fingers attempt to wrap around something but it’s hard and wide and you can only dig in your fingertips to try and stay steady.

“You ok there doll?”

Once you feel like you’re no longer going to careen forward and face plant you look up and meet a pair of the most beautiful eyes you’ve ever seen. They’re attached to a face just as beautiful, his strong jaw darkened by hair that’s peppered with gray, and his perfect lips turned up into a smirk. And your fingers are tightly curled around his bulging bicep.

“Um…yeah,” you say, clearing your throat and removing your fingers from his arm. “I’m sorr…”

“Nah,” he interrupts. “Nothing to be sorry for. It’s crowded today.”

Since there isn’t much space for you to move you just take a small step back and he releases you, grabbing the handrail above your head. The train continues to empty, and you notice a seat open up. A young kid , probably high school age, starts to move toward it but your knight in shining armor intercepts him and says something too low for you to hear while smiling your way.

The kid nods and leans back against the closed doors.

“Seat’s open doll.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to sit…?”

“I’m fine. Anyway, wouldn’t be right for me to take a ladies seat.”

“Thank you…?” You look at him expectantly.

“Bucky,” he finishes. “Name’s Bucky.”

“Thanks Bucky.”

You introduce yourself then sit and let out a relieved sigh. He moves closer and stands next to you, casually leaning against the pole as if the jostling train has no affect on him whatsoever. You try to sneak a better look at him without making it too obvious and as your eyes travel upward from his boot clad feet, over long legs, and a broad chest you notice how his long hair is tucked behind his ears, except for a stray strand that hangs loosely at his cheek, giving him a boyish look.

“What stop are you?”

“Hm,” you start, then quickly collect yourself. “Oh! Washington Ave.”

“Near Ample Hills?” he asks, his face lighting up.

“Yeah,” you smile.

“Feel like some ice cream?”

The traffic bustles on by down Washington Ave, the late spring sun still hanging low in the sky and casting a warm glow on the Manhattan skyline across the water. You stroll slowly next to Bucky, arms close and brushing as you each enjoy a giant ice cream cone.

“This is so good,” he says through a mouthful. “I needed it.”

“You’re telling me,” you answer as you go in for another big spoonful.

A group of kids rush down the street on their electric scooters, barely giving you space so you have to press yourself against Bucky to avoid getting run over.

“I swear the Universe is against me staying on my feet today,” you joke.

“That’s why it sent me,” he smiles.

You dip your head, averting his focused gaze but then he gently presses two fingers under your chin and lifts it, swiping his thumb over the corner of your mouth.

“Had a little ice cream just there…”

“Thanks,” you whisper.

His thumb lingers and his eyes drop to your lips.

“So now that we’ve had dessert, what about dinner? Say Saturday night?”

“Yeah. I’d really like that,” you tell him.

“And this time we can take a cab,” he says with a wink. “Or…if you’re up for it…my motorcycle.”

[sweetsbylia]

ONCE UPON A DREAM — CHAPTER ONE

warnings: knight!finnick o’dair x princess!reader, fencing, mentions of arranged marriage and misogyny, tiny bit of angst, yearning, mentions of dead parent, daddy issues

summary: sir finnick is admired by all. the noble ladies, fellow knights or the common peasants. for his honourable heart, undying loyalty, unwavering kindness and surprising knowledge not a lot of other knights possess. finnick swore a sacred vow to the king to protect the princess with his life and so he shall, upholding to the vow without a compromise, but underneath his mostly strong exterior, in the shadowed corners of the gardens, in the darkness of nights, across the beautiful ballrooms, his eyes are unable to hide the deep, forbidden love he feels for the princess

a/n: my biggest inspiration for this are czech fairytales which i recommend greatly, all of themmm, and i gotta say knight!finnick is my weakness now i love him…

word count: 2k

“with all due respect, m’lady, i do not believe he is a suitable courter for you hand.” the silver plate clad male, walked precisely three steps behind you, the distance respectful enough for his title, hands behind his back, eyes trailing over every inch of the garden, where peonies fade from the softest to screaming pinks.

panem laid somewhere between the lands of unknown —dark forests, dreadful mires, perilous crags, and the kindgdom of a never ending winter, one that was ruled by a man with a heart colder than ice. king crassus snow left behind two children after passing away due to a cruel illness, thaddeus and coriolanus snow, who as the first born prince, must find a noble girl for matrimony to become the new king of thorneveil.

“perhaps for my hand he is, finnick, but not my heart, of course, i agree with your concerns, but i am hesitant to go against my father’s wishes, i do not wish to upset him. prince coriolanus is a respected and wealthy man and i know that i will bring honour to my family and our marriage would be of gain to my kingdom, but,” a deep sigh coming from your own lips interrupted your perhaps a little long monologue before you carried on. “i am not sure i can stand a man this coldhearted.”

finnick o’dair, ever the fearless young man, worried. he dreaded thoughts of you being taken away and given to that tyrant of a man, he did not understand how could your father approve of this arrangement. the truce, of course, an important piece to the puzzle if you wish to reign, a sacrifice for the greater good, many have said, but not finnick. the bronze haired knight would have burn down the world until nothing remains, die a thousand times on a bloody battlefield, cross rivers, move mountains, only to save you.

“my liege, i can see this arranged marriage disturbs you greatly and i cannot stand by and only watch you suffer, perhaps i can intercede with his majesty on your behalf and voice my doubts.” if you were to be wed to a heir of a throne, it is no longer your father’s duty to provide for you. it is a choice, yes, but not with the service of your protection, dressing — that becomes the chore of your husband and finnick was certain, prince coriolanus will forbid you from seeing people he thought of as inferior. he would loose you.

“oh finnick, you are kind, but i do not want to send trouble upon you by my fault. you shall not speak unkindly about prince coriolanus in front of the council, they might tell on you and he is indeed a cruel man.”

your soft spoken words, a soothing balm for his aching heart and invisible wounds, brought a smile to his perfect features. his steps out of sudden fastened, the metal armor plates clinked against one another providing a soft sound. in a trice, finnick stood before you, forbidding you from walking forward, intense gaze of the sea greened orbs seeped into the depths of your pores, his eyes yearning for your attention, “will you?” left his throat when he obtained it.

“do you must ask?” you look up at him, lower lip ever so subtly trembling when it parted from the upper one, eyelashes fluttering in the spring breeze and the rest of your words were now refusing to leave your throat. the intensity in his eyes — you felt it with each and every human sense you controlled. how could a warrior look at a princess that way and not be punished? he absolutely would have been if anyone’s greedy eyes saw, that is why finnick and you, keep these moments hidden in the shadow of the pink blossom tree, behind the hundreds of rays’ of peonies where no one can take it away.

back and forth. back and forth. hypnotized almost, finnick watched the pendulum of a the huge golden clock swing, a fashionable contrast to the baby pink wall they decorated greatly. day by day, he accompanied you to breakfast, school lessons, your walk through the royal gardens, afternoon shenanigans, dinner and lastly to the library where you together read the stories of forbidden romance, true love, struggles, adventures. finnick then would lead you to your chambers, where the maids switch to take care of you, wishing you sweet dream and sound sleep, prepared himself, to find home, wash off the day, let his mother’s cooked meal comfort him and the feeling of his freshly laundered sheets sooth him.

perhaps it was just his mind playing tricks of him, but no one uttered a word. he hasn’t seen such quiet dinner in a very long period of time. firstly, his thoughts wondered to prince coriolanus, to the moment when the king announced to his daughter, she is about to be wed to the crown prince of the never ending winter kingdom .

“but father —“

“no buts! you will do as i say, you are my daughter, you are a princess, this is your duty, what you were born for. to be a wife, to be a mother and you better be one your failed to be.” cold, bitter taste the words leave on a tongue, a twist of a knife in a wound they are to a young broken heart. eight minutes. that is for how long finnick let the throne heiress out pf sight, leaving her with her father, big mistake. he hurried, walked as fast at he could if he wanted not to gain everyone’s attention. what was happening in the throne chamber, he wanted to know immediately.

“i am going to the celebrations tomorrow.”

your voice took finnick back from the memories, he lightly shook his head, raising his head back high, gaze immediately glued to you and the subtle clearing of his throat was heard due to the pin drop silence that followed your sentence. the celebrations at the village’s market. pf course. how could have he forgotten, that tomorrow may seventeenth, marks the anniversary of the queen’s fiftieth birthday. his majesty king arthur’s wife, isolde, was treasured by the people of panem all her life and after she passed unto the eternal rest, nothing changed, perhaps for the mourning. nobles, warriors, maids, commoners, children, they all still celebrated their queen.

“no. you are not going beneath the walls, not to the town. dangerous people live down there.” there was no doubt in that statement had indeed upset your father. in a way, he loved you. in a way, he loved his wife, he was certain he did. his worry and care for you was not feigned or a formality, loosing his only child would break him into the pieces he was made of, into the pieces your mother’s death break him into and your smile was the only glue holding him together.

“they are not dangerous, father. they are struggling and that is a difference. i want to bring honor to her memory.”

“by silly dancing, feasting and songs? don’t be foolish. you are not going, it is not safe.” the disdain in his voice made your heart ache a bit. you wished your father saw you as more than a puppet in his perfect play of the throne and peace. one day you would grown wings and will be as impactful as your dear mother was. or so you pray.

it was not fair. you wished to be allowed to cry, to be allowed to be anything more than just a princess. perhaps you were foolish, perhaps it is foolish to be unhappy when kilos of foods are served to you three times a day, when you had four dresses to change each and every day, when only your single bedroom was bigger than a house where families of five lived in just under the hill, but you were allowed to feel, no?

“i will be taking finnick with me,” unexpectedly you drop your fork to the plate, the loud noise changing the look in your bronze haired savior’s eyes, oh how he wished for you to have a better treatment, to be respected as the brilliant, kind woman you are than only a pawn. “i as well had lost my appetite. good night.”

pink heels click against the hard wooden floor, again and again as you storm off from the dining room, finnick following closely behind you, not before a short bow to the head of the kingdom, almost running to not loose you out of his sight.

“your majesty —“ one of king arthur’s councils spoke up, indignantly scowling, raising from his place, but the raise of his lord’s hand stopped him.

“let her go. she will abate her feelings by tomorrow.” the gray haired man spoke calmly, a great contrast to the previous coldness in his voice. you took so much after your mother it made him want to shed tears, but that was something he was not allowed to do. a king, a leader is never allowed to slip, to fail he just cannot. would he not love to see you shine brightly with happiness, find your true love and rule the people you love so much, along your husband. but that is impossible now. prince coriolanus had not only proposed but also threatened so your father will rather live with being the villain in your story than to have you hurt and loose the lives of innocent in a war they wouldn’t win.

“oh my dear, i wish for you to be by my side still.” his gaze found the painting of queen isolde — it hung high just on the wall opposite to his chair and the words left him like a silent prayer as if the dead could be brought back, as if she was going to hear him. king arthur was never much of a romantic man but he used to have his gallant moments. a book about soulmates, silly children’s fairytale, but it was her favorite so he read it. thousand times there and back just to be closer to her, because to loose a lover is to loose a half of our own soul.

“my princess. it would be my pleasure to accompany you to the town’s celebrations by the morning.” finnick understood your grief, your anger, he knew pain of losing someone so close to heart at such a young age. he wished to take your hurts away, heal your wounds and to love you for eternity without hiding, but if all that his fate has prepared for him, is to be your protector so shall he be, but perhaps he cannot protect you from yourself.

“i could not thank you enough.” you knew finnick in no way, small or loud, was allowed to speak against the nobles. ghat was the meaning of his title. a warrior, a soldier, a knight, he must obey and do as he is told to bring honor to his duty, his family, his kingdom even if he loses his life in the way, but you understood from his stance and tone, he was on your side.

“you must not thank me, it is my duty, m’lady.” finnick smiled at you gently once you both stood before the white, decorated door of your chambers. the moonlight piercing through the window illuminated your face features and for a moment he thought he saw hallucinating, seeing an angel and if heaven was you, he wanted it, all of it, all of you, to cherish it forever, before and after death, from dawn to dawn, never look away from the entrance to your soul of eyes they were. convinced they would heal, perhaps turn into a diamond he’d catch every one of your tears with the pad of his finger like it was sacred and he’d hush you in his arms until nothing but a smile remains.

“is that truly all it is?”

taglist: @anyaslittlepeanut @backgroundreader

[fourraccoonsinacoat]

Sneak Peek Sunday

Chapter 7 | Mongrel Hearts

Heinrix is going through it in this chapter. Just over here tormenting him with warp dreams and self-esteem issues.

Heinrix was an indomitable force, towering over the battlefield in an immense Knight clad in adamantium plate – armor gleaming radiantly through the haze of war. His battle cannon coughed smoke and fire with each round he discharged into the heretical horde before him – spraying blood and choking the air with dust. He urged the behemoth suit forward, adrenaline coursing in his veins like wildfire as it burned through fatigue and uncertainty. Here, he was resolute and dominant. He was a champion and a protector, spurred onward in pursuit of glories that would forever be tied to his family line – his legacy. His family name… A shadow moved in the corner of his vision, just out of sight. Heinrix turned to face the threat, chainsword raised as it screamed to be sated with the blood of heretics. Something sharp and cold as warp ice stabbed through his back. He grunted, clenching his teeth against the pain, and commanded the Knight to turn. It wouldn’t move. Another stab ripped into his lower back at the base of his spine. Heinrix jerked in the seat of the Throne Mechanicum, holding back a snarl of agony and frustration as the Knight refused his directive. It was rejecting him. No. Fear clawed at his throat as more shadows darted and feinted on the far recesses of his field of vision. Something struck him in the back of his head and he felt the world rupture around him, tearing him from the Knight suit and casting him aside like waste – broken, alone and burnt out…

[scrollsfromarebornrealm]

on our fates alight -- disobeyed

[content warning: blood, violence]

[Heavensward, takes place after roadblocks ]

-----------------

The roar of a crackling fire pulled Riven out of a dreamless sleep. For several moments she stared up at the wooden beams in the ceiling above her, trying to get her bearings.

Where…am I?

The last thing she remembered-

Painpain-somuchpain—oneminuteshewasflyingandthenextshewasn'tithurteverythinghurtandshewasfalling—

An impossibly large dragon falling from the sky, a bright blue hole in its breast—

Hey! Hey! Stay awake!!

Everythinghurtandsomebodywasyellingatherandthevoicesheknewthatvoice—

An elf with white hair and red aetherical lines on his skin, panicked gray eyes looking down at her—

A woman clad in golden armor with a spear, her ice-blue hair long and flowing—

Halone.

Riven's eyes widened as realization hit her. With a sharp breath she bolted up, only to utter a sharp cry and clutch at her chest—there'd been a holeaveryBIGHOLEINHER— Panting, she pulled at the tunic she was wearing and peered down—

Nothing. Smooth skin, nothing in-between her breasts. Riven sagged in relief, lifting her head. Then she winced, the sudden movement was making all her muscles complain, but she'd rather that than a hole in her chest. Her eyes took in her surroundings—a large fire blazing merrily on the other side of the room, the stone walls and tables with potions and other supplies…

And the trio of elezen who had just entered the room. One was carrying suppression-cuffs, another was carrying a muzzle, and the last was holding a burlap bag. They stared at Riven, who stared back at them.

"Mathye, you're barely functional!" Artoiel exclaimed. "None of you are!"

"Where is she?" The priest ground out. He felt like absolute shit—magnified even more by Halone's own exhaustion as well. Augustine looked just as bad, but he was determinedly making his way to a nearby table where several potions awaited.

"The last I checked on her, she was still sleeping and in bed. Which is where you should be!"

"Where is she?" Mathye repeated. "And for that matter, where the hell are we?" In the back of his mind he could feel Halone starting to reassert herself—but her own intentions were crystal clear, she needed to see the young Dominant too.

"This is the Hospitalier infirmary. She's here as well, but in the Knight-Dragoon ward." Artoiel answered. Augustine was waving off Haurchefant, breaking the seal on a rejuvenation potion and lifting it to his lips.

"For the love of the Fury—sorry milady— will you not—"

"AAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEE!!" A high pitched scream of terror ripped though the air, cracking everything that was glass. Artoiel, Haurchefant, and the other guards cried out and clapped their hands over their ears—but Mathye and Augustine as one, immediately knew who it had come from.

The girl! Halone cried. Fresh energy from the potion and adrenaline surged in Augustine—bleeding over into Mathye. Both men bolted for the door, the raw aether of the cry heavy in the air, turning into a trail that they could follow. Augustine let himself fall back to let Mathye take the lead, he knew the path to the Knight-Dragoon ward and it's layout. Around them healers, their assistants, patients and guards were all reeling from the scream. Some were still clutching their heads in agony, others were regaining their bearings. Dimly Augustine could hear shouting behind him—but that didn't matter, not right now, not right now! He followed Mathye though a set of double-doors, up a flight of stairs and down a hallway that had several forms lying on the floor—and the sound of a struggle coming from the furthest room.

She'd only been able to scream once before the trio was upon her. Desperately Riven fought back, kicking, clawing, biting—she'd been able to draw blood from one of her assailants before he threw her across the room. The brunette hit the floor, fresh pain exploding though every muscle in her body. Dazed, she could only lie there before the men were on her again, one seizing a wrist, the other suddenly blocking her field of vision with the muzzle—

"Move quicker! That probably woke up the fuckin' half-breeds!" One grunted. Riven sucked in air to scream again—but then the muzzle was on her, a bit was being forced inbetween her teeth, and then existing became pure agony. The first cuff clamped down on her skin, followed by the bite of the second, and then it was impossible to think, let alone breathe. Riven's vision swam as she was pulled up to her feet, but her knees buckled and she fell. One of her captors cursed, grabbing her by the tunic collar once more. His face was twisted in anger as he loomed over her, his breath foul—

And then suddenly his grip went slack. Red bloomed in Riven's vision—a small fountain of it. It was coming from the man's neck—or rather the spot where his head had used to be. The brunette watched—it felt as if she was looking on from a distance—as the body collapsed in front of her. A scream—that rapidly turned into a gurgle made Riven turn her head—and she watched as the body of her second assailant was impaled on a icicle. Behind her, the third elezen dropped the burlap sack.

"L-L-Lady Fury! No! Have mercy, please! I-I only was-I was forced into—" Another gurgle. Riven blinked, her body swaying. Dimly she could register cold on her skin—and a woman's voice, lifted in a snarl.

Get those cuffs off her!!

And then Riven knew no more.

Haurchefant froze at the entry to the room. Behind him, Artoiel came to a stop, his eyes widening.

"Fury have mercy." He whispered. The room was a bloodbath. Augustine and Mathye were both standing over corpses—one in particular looked as if he'd been sliced in two lengthwise. Both men were semi-Primed, their clothes were crimson, and it was very clear who was controlling their bodies.

"Fuck." Haurchefant whispered. Augustine's head turned towards him, eyes glittering bluish-yellow.

"I gave orders for her to be left alone." A Temple Knight and a healer were at the strange Dominant's side, the healer pulling off a pair of aetherical cuffs. The brunette woman snapped awake, her body arching as she dragged in a deep breath. Aether surged in the air, and the Temple Knight started work on removing the muzzle that had been tied to the Dominant's face.

"What in the seven hells happened?!" Artoiel demanded. He spun around, watching as more healers and guards swarmed the fallen men that were on the hallway floor.

"Someone disobeyed me." Mathye's voice was distorted from Halone bleeding through. The cold air that radiated off him and Augustine was beginning to form frost-patterns on the wall, the fire starting to flicker as the chill sank into the logs.

"My lady!" Haurchefant dared to move forward. He didn't flinch as two pairs of bluish-yellow eyes locked onto him. "Please, do not spend yourself any more like this. Think of your recovery, and their own!" He shot a gaze towards the younger Dominant, who had passed out again.

"I will take her into my care at Camp Dragonhead."

"No." Artoiel interjected. "We'll take her to the manor. She will be well protected there, my lady. As will you and yours." Halone said nothing, watching the two for several moments. Then Augustine and Mathye's bodies sagged, the frost-lines and aetherical glows of the semi-Prime starting to vanish from their skin. Mathye's legs were the first to give way, and he collapsed to the floor. Augustine followed, his sword clattering to the ground next to him.

"Don't feel well." He whispered.

"We need more healers!!" Haurchefant shouted. He hurried into the room, Artoiel moving to catch Mathye before the priest toppled over onto the floor. Augustine tiredly watched the silver-haired elezen drop to his knees next to him.

"Get her…" He slurred, gesturing at the other Dominant. "Get her…and my brother…" It was very hard to think now, let alone speak. Halone had already fallen unconscious, and the darkness that had taken her was threatening to pull Augustine under.

"You're all going to the manor, don't worry about that." Haurchefant accepted a mana potion, breaking the cap and lifting it to the paladin's lips.

"Get…get them…" Augustine's voice trailed off as the potion filled his mouth, and all he could do was drink greedily. Then the room spun, and the last thing he heard was the elezen shouting orders.

----

(#on our fates alight is the tag if you want to read more of the au!)

[ionlymadethissoicouldleaveanask]

In the nook of a valley that looked like it was ripped straight out of a postcard for “Adventurer’s Paradise,” Vannak-134 and Riz-028 stood awkwardly side by side. The scene was something out of a nature documentary, except the majestic beasts here were two supersoldiers in state-of-the-art MJOLNIR armor, not exactly blending in with the scenery.

Vannak, towering and clad in dark blue that screamed 'I’m here to party, but also I might accidentally demolish your house,' wore his EOD-variant helmet like it was part of his skull. Riz, on the other hand, was a study in black and subtlety, her armor sleek and adorned with a helmet that was more 'mysterious avenger from a sci-fi serial' than 'standard issue.' Those antennas on her head? They screamed 'I'm listening to your secrets, but also, I can't get good radio reception here.'

They were supposed to be scouting, or patrolling, or some other military term that meant 'walk around and make sure nothing explodes.' But there they were, staring at a waterfall as if it held the secrets of the universe, or at the very least, the secret to breaking the ice and admitting, "Hey, I kinda like you."

"Bet I can beat you to the top," Vannak said, breaking the silence with all the subtlety of a grenade in a china shop. His voice had that deep, rumbling quality, the kind that in ancient times made people think, 'Yep, that’s a leader,' or 'Maybe he’s a god,' but now just made Riz roll her eyes so hard she might've seen her brain.

Riz turned, her posture all 'challenge accepted,' but with an air of 'I’m also judging you.' "Wanna bet?" she threw back, her tone light, her dialect crisp with a hint of mockery, as if she was saying, 'Oh, we're doing this again? Alright, Shakespeare.'

The air between them, usually charged with the electricity of unspoken things and the lingering question of 'What are we, really?' was now laced with the anticipation of their ridiculous challenge. It was their thing, finding the most absurd ways to compete because apparently, talking about feelings was too mainstream.

"Okay, hotshot," Vannak chuckled, the sound muffled by his helmet, "loser buys dinner. And not just any dinner, but something from the black market of the mess hall."

Riz’s laugh cut through the sound of the waterfall. It was clear, almost musical, if music was made by sarcastic supersoldiers. "Deal. But when I win, I want one of those steaks you swear are 'just as good as real meat.' You know, the ones you talk about with the same reverence most people reserve for holy relics."

"You’re on," Vannak shot back, his stance ready, like a knight of old, if knights were into futuristic armor and making bets instead of jousting. "Prepare to be disappointed when it's your turn to raid the kitchen."

They squared up at the base of the cliff, the tension palpable, if you ignored the fact that this was all over a race to the top of a waterfall. "Ready to eat my dust?" Riz taunted, bouncing on the balls of her feet like a boxer ready to enter the ring."In your dreams," Vannak retorted, with the confidence of a man who has absolutely no idea if he can actually make good on his words.

Then, they were off, scrambling up the cliffside like two oversized mountain goats with an affinity for heavy metal—music or armor, take your pick. They climbed, occasionally slipping in their haste, the sound of their armor clanking against rock mixing with the constant roar of the waterfall. It was a symphony of chaos, a testament to their stubbornness and perhaps, a metaphor for their approach to personal issues—climb first, think later.

Halfway up, Riz nearly lost her grip, her foot slipping on a wet rock. Vannak reached out, grabbing her arm in a move that was part knight in shining armor, part 'oh no, we’re both going to die.' For a second, they locked visors, the world narrowing down to this moment of accidental intimacy.

"Thanks," Riz muttered, yanking her arm back like it was on fire, her tone a mix of gratitude and 'I'll never live this down.'

"Don't mention it," Vannak replied, his voice a weird blend of smug and genuinely concerned, like a puppy that's just saved its owner from tripping but also kinda caused it in the first place.

The race resumed, with more caution this time, as if they’d both been reminded that, yes, gravity still existed and, no, their armor couldn’t fly. When they finally reached the top, panting and probably a few dignity points lighter, they collapsed side by side, looking out over the valley below.

"So, about that dinner…" Riz started, breaking the comfortable silence.

"We'll see," Vannak replied, his tone light, but his unspoken words heavy with the promise of more than just a meal....

This was excellent. Your gift for imagery continues to astound me, and the ridiculousness of this event was so fun! I love the idea that Riz and Vannak are so bad at talking that they’d rather beat each other up than ask each other on a date.

The pining is adorable and the competition is even better. I loved it all.

[pathfinderunlocked]

Urobutcher - CR17 Humanoid

A commissioned high level boss, an armored necromancer with significant melee capabilities.

Artwork provided by client.

This creature is technically CR 16 / MR 3, which is very similar (arguably identical) to CR 17.5. It's mostly just an excuse to give the monster less XP. If you're using the mythic system, treat the Urobutcher as CR 16 / MR 3 and give him the lower amount of XP. If you're not using mythic ranks, treat him as CR 17 and use the higher XP value.

He has three unique mythic abilities - Hook and Pull, Fetid Cloak, and Energy Drain. On top of being mythic, he has PC-level wealth and a high stat build, which are factored into his challenge rating, increasing it by 1. On most creatures that would be enough to increase the CR by 2, but his multiclassing and his melee sorcerer build cancel out some of the benefits.

The Urobutcher is a half-giant with rune giant lineage, tainted by the rot of undeath but not quite undead himself... yet. He's armed with a massive cleaver, a meathook attached to a long chain, and armor which increases his size to match that of his giant ancestors.

Generally, he should be walking around with blood boil cast into one of his weapons and some other debuff touch spell cast into the other one. Although he has Power Attack, he should only use it when fighting a target with very low AC; inflicting debuff spells through his weapon attacks is a big part of his strategy. If he gets a chance to retreat and recast them mid-battle, he'll do so, letting his undead allies and minions get attacked in his place for a round or two.

This is a commissioned creature which, if I'm being honest, is significantly more complicated than I'm likely to ever make again. It uses multiple different sources of third-party content. One of these, the flesh to ice spell, comes from 3.5e and was written by James Jacobs; the spell was bumped up from 5th to 6th level when adapted for Pathfinder by Obsidian Twilight, so that's the level I put it at in this monster's spell list.

Urobutcher - CR 17 (or CR 16 / MR 3)

This giant butcher is clad in hulking, powerful armor, and is wielding a massive cleaver in one hand and a meathook attached to a long chain in the other hand. He wears a rope belt with severed humanoid arms dangling from it.

XP 102,400 (XP 76,800 if using mythic rules) Unique necrocasting boss, simplified, half-giant, spellblade 1, necromancy tradition sorcerer 9, eldritch knight 5 NE Large humanoid (human, giant, mythic) Init +8 Senses darkvision 60 ft., low-light vision; Perception +10 Aura fear and screams aura (60 ft., DC 22), stench (60 ft., DC 21)

DEFENSE

AC 32, touch 20, flat-footed 28 (+6 armor, +2 deflection, +2 Dex, +2 magic vestment, +4 natural, +5 profane, +2 simplified template, -1 size) hp 277 (9d8+1d10+5d12+75+30+90) plus 24 temp hp Fort +24, Ref +16, Will +19; +2 vs. disease; +4 vs. enchantment; +2 vs. mind-affecting Defensive Abilities necrocasting boss, negative energy affinity, resist death's touch DR 10/epic Resist cold 5, fire 5 Immune energy drain SR 28

OFFENSE

Speed 30 ft. Melee +3 urobutcher's meathook +23/+18 (1d8+13/x3) (see text) Melee +4 urobutcher's cleaver +24/+19 (2d8+14/19-20 plus energy drain) (see text) Melee unarmed strike +18 (1d6+10) Two-Weapon Fighting Melee urobutcher's cleaver +20/+15 (2d8+14/19-20) and urobutcher's meathook +19 (1d8+8/x3) Space 10 ft., Reach 15 to 30 ft. with meathook (see urobutcher's meathook); 10 ft. with cleaver; 10 ft. with unarmed strike Special Attacks channel death, energy drain (1 level, DC 22), hook and pull, mythic power (3/day, surge +1d6), necroweakening

Racial Spell-like Abilities (CL 15th; concentration +20)     1/day—charm person (DC 16)

Cord of Grasping Flesh Spellcasting (CL 8th; concentration +13)     Spells (5/day)—catatonia (DC 19), curse of befowled fortune (DC 19), inflict serious wounds (DC 19), monstrous extremities (DC 19), touch of bloodletting (DC 19)

Sorcerer Spells Known (CL 13th; concentration +18)     6th (4/day)—flesh to ice (DC 21), unwilling shield (DC 23)     5th (7/day)—blood boil (DC 22)     4th (7/day)—greater false life (already cast on self and companion)     3rd (7/day)—haste, mythic vampiric touch Note: If using the FFD20 MP rules, the urobutcher has 72 MP.

STATISTICS

Str 30, Dex 15, Con 20, Int 11, Wis 18, Cha 20 Base Atk +7; CMB +20; CMD 39 Feats Additional Traits (Reactionary, Squire of Abraham), Arcane Armor Training, Arcane Armor Training (Mythic), Combat Casting, Eschew Materials, Greater Spell Focus (necromancy), Improved Initiative, Power Attack (-2/+4), Somatic Weapon, Spell Focus (necromancy), Two Weapon Fighting, Weapon Focus (meathook, cleaver), Weapon Focus (Mythic) Skills Climb +16, Intimidate +20, Knowledge (arcana) +13, Linguistics +4, Perception +10, Sense Motive +10, Spellcraft +11, Swim +8; +2 on other skill checks from heroism; Racial Modifiers -4 Bluff, Diplomacy, Disguise, Perform vs. giants Languages Common, Giant, Necril SQ arcane armor training, powerful build, two-weapon casting, undying companion Gear urobutcher's meathook (78,300 gp, see text), urobutcher's cleaver (32,300 gp, see text), combat exoskeleton (96,500 gp, see text), headband of mental prowess +4 (Cha, Wis), bodak's eye, Cord of Grasping Flesh, Fetid Cloak (0 gp, see text), wand of magic vestment (level 12, 12 charges, already used on self and companion), wand of heroism (level 12, 12 charges, already used on self and companion), wand of greater magic weapon (level 12, 12 charges, already used on urobutcher's meathook and companion's scimitar), ruby dust worth 1000 gp, onyx gems worth 2000 gp

EQUIPMENT ABILITIES

Bodak's Eye The urobutcher has a bodak's eye grafted into his body; this magic item cannot be removed from him. The bodak's eye allows the urobutcher to make a death gaze attack once per day as a standard action, targeting a creature within 30 ft. with the gaze. The target takes 1d4 negative levels; this is a death effect. A DC 15 Fortitude save negates the effect. Unlike an actual bodak's death gaze, a target that dies from this attack does not transform into a bodak 24 hours later.

Combat Exoskeleton The urobutcher wears a mithral combat exoskeleton, technological armor which functions as medium armor (but is reduced to light armor due to being made of mithral). It grants 6 AC, has a maximum Dex bonus of 3, and has an ACP of -5. It has a 50% arcane spell failure chance, although the Urobutcher ignores this penalty. It provides a +4 enhancement bonus to Fortitude saves, Strength checks, and Strength-based skill checks, and a +2 enhancement bonus to Reflex saves. It grants the wearer resist cold 5 and fire 5. The wearer is treated as being Large sized. His unarmed strikes are treated as armed weapon attacks and deal 1d6 lethal damage. These bonuses are already included in the statistics above.

A combat exoskeleton requires a power cell to operate and grants no bonuses without one. If disrupted, the wearer is pinned. Once per day, as a swift action, if this armor is disrupted, the urobutcher can bring it back online.

Cord of Grasping Flesh Five times per day, as a standard action, the urobutcher can chose one of the following spells to cast from his belt: catatonia, curse of befowled fortune, inflict serious wounds, monstrous extremities, or touch of bloodletting. The DC is 16 plus the spell level. These spells can be cast into the urobutcher's meathook (see Spell Well, below).

If the urobutcher fails the attack roll or concentration check when casting one of these spells, or the target succeeds on its saving throw, the wearer can spend another daily use of these spells as an immediate action to force a reroll, taking the new result of the die in place of the old one.

Fetid Cloak The urobutcher wears a cloak of stitched-together human skins which, when worn by him, grants him the Stench universal monster ability, except that the radius is increased to 60 ft. When worn by another creature, the fetid cloak provides no benefit.

Urobutcher's Cleaver The urobutcher's cleaver is a unique Medium-sized 2-handed martial weapon with a +4 enhancement bonus which deals 2d4 damage. The urobutcher can use this weapon one-handed due to his half-giant heritage.

The urobutcher's cleaver is immune to rusting, tarnish and similar effects.

Whenever the urobutcher confirms a critical hit or damages the same creature twice in the same turn with this weapon, the target takes 1d4 bleed damage.

The urobucher's cleaver has the following magic weapon quality:

Necrofeed The urobutcher's cleaver has the necrofeed magic weapon quality. The weapon can channel the wielder's necromantic touch spells and can hold one touch spell without discharging it, allowing the urobutcher to cast other spells for a duration of one hour per caster level. It can also channel energy drain and ability drain dealt normally by the wielder's natural attacks. Effects channeled through the meathook resolve after damage has been dealt by the weapon. Energy Drain In the hands of the urobutcher, the urobutcher's cleaver inflicts 1 temporary negative level on a target on a successful hit. This ability only triggers once per round, regardless of the number of attacks the urobutcher makes. The DC to prevent this negative level from becoming permanent is 22.

Urobutcher's Meathook The urobutcher's meathook is a unique Medium-sized two-handed martial weapon with a +1 enhancement bonus (typically improved to +3 by greater magic weapon). The urobutcher has a maximum 30-ft. reach with this weapon, but the weapon does not threaten this area and cannot be used for attacks of opportunity, similar to a whip attached to the end of a Large-sized polearm. The urobutcher cannot make attacks against enemies within 10 ft. of itself with its meathook, similar to a Large-sized reach weapon. Although a two-handed weapon, the urobucher's meathook gains no bonus damage from being wielded two-handed. The urobutcher can use this weapon one-handed due to his half-giant heritage.

This weapon can be used to cause a target to be entangled. To do so, the urobutcher must make a ranged touch attack (typically +14) with the meathook. If he succeeds, the target is entangled, but the urobutcher loses hold of the weapon and can't wield it for as long as it remains entangled to the target. The entangled creature can escape by making a DC 20 Escape Artist check or by breaking the weapon (the weapon has 10 HP, 10 hardness, and requires a DC 26 Strength check to break, similar to a Large-sized chain).

The urobucher's meathook has the following magic weapon qualities:

Major Undead Creation The urobutcher's meathook has the major undead creation magic weapon quality. Any suitable creature killed by a major undead creating weapon rises 1 round later as a wight under the wielder's control. In addition, wielding this weapon adds an additional 10 HD to the total amount of undead that the wielder can control at any time. A wielder without the ability to command undead can control up to 15 HD worth of wights created through the use of this weapon. Spell Well The urobutcher's meathook has the major undead creation magic weapon quality. The weapon can channel the wielder's touch spells and can hold one touch spell without discharging it, allowing the urobutcher to cast other spells for a duration of one hour per caster level. Effects channeled through the meathook resolve after damage has been dealt by the weapon.

SPECIAL ABILITIES

Channel Death (Su) 8 times per day, the urobutcher may channel negative energy as a standard action to either heal undead or damage living creatures within 30 ft. for 1d6+4 hit points. Living creatures can make a DC 19 Will save to halve the damage. This counts as channeled energy. The save DC is Charisma-based.

Fear and Screams Aura (Su) Creatures within 60 ft. of the urobutcher must succeed on a DC 22 Will saving throw or be panicked for 1 round. Creatures panicked in this way scream in terror and cannot use their voice to do anything else while the fear effect lasts. The save DC is Charisma-based. Once a creature has succeeded or failed on this saving throw, it is immune to this aura for 24 hours.

Hook and Pull (Ex) Once every 1d4 rounds, when the urobutcher hits a target his own size or smaller with the urobutcher's meathook, as long as he has at least 1 use of mythic power remaining, he can make a drag combat maneuver against that target as a free action after the attack resolves. The urobutcher's meathook is used to make this combat maneuver, which gains the weapon's reach, enhancement bonus, and related feats such as Weapon Focus. This combat maneuver does not provoke attacks of opportunity, and he gains a +4 bonus on it (typically for a total of +29).

Necrocasting Boss (Ex) Similar to a half-undead creature, the urobutcher gains a +2 racial bonus on saving throws against disease and mind-affecting effects, and is immune to energy drain.

Additionally, the urobutcher gains a +90 bonus to its hit points and a +5 profane bonus to its AC and saving throws. These bonuses are already included in its statistics above.

Necrosplosive Grafting (Su) Once per day, as a standard action, the urobutcher can cause living and undead creatures within a 60-ft. radius burst to explode into gore, dealing 15d6 damage to each target. A DC 22 Fortitude save halves the damage. The urobutcher regains hit points equal to 20% of the damage it deals in this way, as the gore and blood from its targets is sucked onto the urobutcher's body and merges with it. The save DC is Charisma-based.

Necroweakening (Su) Against targets suffering from any kind of fear effect or physical ability score damage or penalty, the urobutcher gains a +4 bonus on attack and damage rolls, and a +4 bonus to the DCs of its spells (including spells cast from the Cord of Grasping Flesh).

Negative Energy Affinity (Ex) Though a living creature, the urobutcher reacts to positive and negative energy as if he were undead—positive energy harms him, while negative energy heals him.

Powerful Build (Ex) The physical stature of half-giants lets them function as if they were one size category larger. Whenever it would be advantageous to do so, a half-giant treats his size category as if it were Large instead of Medium, such as during bull rush, trip or opposed grapple checks. Half-giants are also treated as one size category larger for when determining how a creature’s special attacks would affect him, such as the improved grab or swallow whole abilities. Half-giants may also use weapons one size larger than their size category without penalty. However, his space and reach remain the same for a medium-sized character (or whatever his current size category is). Half-giants also calculate their encumbrance as if they were large creatures instead of medium. This ability stacks with spells or special abilities that can alter the half-giant’s size category.

Resist Death’s Touch (Su) The urobutcher gains a +4 bonus to any saving throw versus death effects, negative energy drain or damage, fear, or other spells or spell-like abilities from the school of necromancy. This is already included in its statistics above.

Two-Weapon Casting (Su) The urobutcher can perform the somatic components of spells while wielding a weapon in both hands. If either hand is holding something other than a weapon, he cannot perform somatic components without a free hand, as normal.

Undying Companion (Su) The urobutcher has a single medium sized animated humanoid skeleton that follows his commands. The undying companion is mindless and undead but otherwise functions similar to an animal companion. Its statistics are below.

Undying Companion

NE Medium undead Init +7 Senses darkvision 60 ft., low-light vision; Perception +2

DEFENSE

AC 24, touch 12, flat-footed 22 (+4 armor, +2 Dex, +2 magic vestment, +6 natural) hp 277 (6d8) plus 24 temp hp Fort +7, Ref +10, Will +4; +4 vs. enchantment Defensive Abilities devotion, evasion DR 5/bludgeoning Immune cold, undead immunities

OFFENSE

Speed 30 ft. Melee +3 scimitar +13 (1d6+9/18-20)

STATISTICS

Str 18, Dex 16, Con —, Int —, Wis 10, Cha 10 Base Atk +4; CMB +9; CMD 22 Skills no skills; +2 on all skill checks from heroism Languages Necril (understands only; cannot speak) Feats Improved Initiative SQ link, share spells Gear mithral chain shirt, mwk scimitar (improved to +3 with greater magic weapon)

[sweepingthunder]

Interview

Spear plunging forward, a mara-struck is felled swiftly. In the heat of battle like this, one's mind can often drift. Torn somewhere between the next enemy being cleaved through, and reminiscing. Perhaps this is what it means to have your life flash before your eyes. To not see everything you lived, but to think about what brought you here, from where you once came. 

A distant shout, a soldier calling for aid. Another shout as the zombies brought about by Abundance shatters the line of defense. Orders leave his own mouth, though he can hardly think about what he’s said. Something about holding steady, about following his lead, or something inspiring, even as the hoard seems endless.

Golden hues crackle around Jing Yuan, his white mane seeming to rise as the Lightning Lord emerges. As if it were being ripped out of his own skin, a skeleton rises, soon cladding itself in armor. This next strike would end it.

The Abundance took so much. Friends once fought for the betterment of each other. Now, cold ice and sharp wind would clash without hesitation. A fight he bore witness to, yet could not intervene in. It was not his choice to defy fate, though something sat within.

Was it fear? Perhaps sadness. Maybe rage, even. Yet his demeanor never gave. It was motivation that coursed through his veins. 

And yet, motivated as he is, his mind still lingered. 

Was he content with what brought him here? No. How much must one lose? How many reasons does one need to fight? All of his old comrades were gone. Lost to the mara, dead, or forgotten. Of course, he would fight for a better tomorrow. Of course, he would yearn for better days. He would give anything to see those faces, happy, one last time.

Yet Lan had other plans for him. He would never change what brought him to this battle. He would never get to see those faces again, so lamenting upon what is and what could be was a task better left to the master diviner. 

Lightning Lord would obey every order. A good soldier. A spear would emerge out of nothing, drawn back as its off-hand would position in front as if it were aiming. Lightning Lord was not a person, it had no need for vision. Jing Yuan’s eyes glinted in the glory of his power. 

Is he strong? Yes. The apex of the spear would cast clouds aside, allowing the reflection of some far-off moon to cascade across the battlefield. This close to the stars, The Reignbow Arbiter would guide the general. His resolve hardened throughout centuries of battle. He would never back down, he would never surrender. His chest and arms were decorated with what had once been deep gashes. Yet he showed no signs of retreat, he never ran.

And as the Cloud Knights watched their leader take aim, Jing Yuan watched only the stars. 

“Reignbow Arbiter!” He shouts, Lightning Lord flourishing its spear. With its blade pointed towards the enemy, it would hold. 

This was not the first time he shouted to an Aeon who would never respond. The first was him cursing Yaoshi as he put his master down. He could never forget how she lost herself to the insatiable hunger of Abundance. Too young to do anything when she needed him most, he could only offer a temporary release from what she had become. 

As his spear once swept the battlefield, there was no remorse. His master whom he cherished was lost. He would never let someone else be lost, not while he had the chance to prevent such suffering. 

What mark will I leave on the world? Too many, he was the dozing general. One more interested in maintaining his Bonsai Tree. A master who would slip pieces off the chess board when he found himself in a precarious spot. One would rather drink tea and enjoy the morning breeze. A man who rarely scowled. That’s who Jing Yuan is. 

 Yet in the blaze of battle, the general was nature. Embodying the sheer presence of the Luofu throughout space, Jing Yuan was unyielding. 

“I’m still here.” He spoke soft, as if Lan were right behind him. To walk over the ashes, one must first ignite the flames. It was his turn with the matches.

“Pick up your weapons! Chase them down!” The Luofu would seize this moment and this battle. This battle was in their blood, to take down Yaoshi. When the Aeon’s would call out, to ask what he was worth, he would simply grasp his spear and take aim. Yaoshi is out of his reach, so all he can do is let his spear take to the sky, and hope–

[stylishexecutioner]

“What happens when she gives you an order?”

Sammy kicked a dandelion on the side of the road, spraying the seeds across the path. Judy sneezed, batting away the tiny floating flowers and shaking her head. Staring at her companion, she silently implored them without so much as a motion of her hands. 

What do you mean?

Sammy sighed, rummaging through her brain for the words to articulate her question.

“Like I've seen it happen before. She tells you to do something and you…change. Your body responds to it. What's that like?”

As the two of them strolled through the forest, Judy raised her hands to chest level as she often did when she was about to sign something. They thought back to the last time Her Highness had ordered her to do something. 

“My knight, hold the castle gate until reinforcements arrive.”

Her command was like a spell, no, like something more than that, it was like hunger. A deep hunger inside her, an instinctive call to action older than her or the princess. Judy was a knight, and a princess’s will is her knight’s duty. That night, the gate did not fall, nor were the reinforcements that came even needed. In fact, they stood in mortified awe. The great hulking beast before them, clad in black armor, exercised Her Highness's will upon those attempting to breach the gate. Her horns glinted in the evening light as her great blade and balled fists carved wicked arcs through air, armor, flesh, and bone, her eyes like blue ice. Her mind held only visions of Her Highness's disarming gaze, her intoxicating singsong voice, her soft paws on her knight's fur, the way her ears pinned back when she was deep in thought, the flick of her tail, her soft lips, her….

Judy blushed. She hadn't noticed herself start signing her train of thought, much to her companion's amusement. She hadn't noticed her tail swishing side to side excitedly, either.

“well, miss big scary sentinel, that sounds lovely for the both of you but I'm not sure I could take orders like that, even if I really really felt like I had to.”

A faint smile crossed the knight’s face, baring her fangs ever so slightly. Sammy didn't understand, but that was okay. She knew there was only one other who did, anyways. The two girls continued walking the trail loop within the outer wall, play fighting and chatting as they meandered back towards the castle’s keep. 

[cyberneticlagomorph]

Three days, gone in a flash.

The final grain of pitch black sand careens down the neck of the half empty hourglass to rest with its siblings at the bottom.

For a second, Zeb thinks about turning the whole thing over as if that could restart this whole thing, or otherwise postpone it. Another part of his heart wants to throw the hourglass against the wall and shatter it, but he's tried that before and he knows that the damned thing will just put itself back together the second he stops looking.

Dread sits heavy in Zeb's chest as he stares at the hourglass and feels his body refuse to move.

His bags are packed, leaning against the wall by the door.

His bed is made, neat military corners and sheets so tight you could bounce a quarter off of them.

The door is open, Sir Matthew stands at the threshold, his eyes burning holes into Zeb's face. The boy can taste the hate and disappointment in that gaze the same way he can taste the bile slowly seeping into his own mouth.

He... doesn't want to go.

Sir Matthew gets tired of waiting, lurching forward to grab Zeb by the arm or the neck, but is stopped by a soft hand on his shoulder.

The kind eyes of Sister Berenice fall on Zeb like a warm blanket fresh from the dyer, the crows feet at the corner of her eyes crinkling as she smiles at him. Sister Berenice is the closest thing to a mother Zeb has ever had, and even though he's supposed to be in the care of Sir Matthew now that he's a page she always goes out of her way to check up on the kid when she has the time.

Zeb's body finally moves, half stumbling into the nun's arms, burying his face in her shoulders as the tears he's choked back for 3 days finally spring loose.

He. Doesn't. Want. To. Go.

Sister Berenice leads Zeb out of his room in the basement of the tower and up the winding stairs to the foyer, his feet drag the entire time, the weight of his luggage holding him down and back like spectral chains tying him to this place.

Nobody looks at him when he passes.

The refuse to meet his eyes or flinch away like he's cursed or filthy, marked for death or exile.

Cold seeps deep into Zeb's guts, twisting there like a blade made of ice.

He doesn't want to go.

He can't stop crying.

The foyer is crowded, he is surrounded by Knights, by HIS people on all sides but he has never felt more alone in his life.

Lord Barnabas stands at the front gates, clad in polished armor carved from dragon bone, the sword Excalibur sheathed at his hip. For a moment Zeb thinks the Lord is here to execute him, and for that moment the thought is nothing but intense relief washing over him like the tears running down his face.

Then Lord Barnabas steps aside, eyes fixed on some point behind Zeb, refusing to look at him just like everyone else.

The Knights stand in straight and terrible rows, as sharp and perfect as so many teeth. They take Zeb's sword from him, and his book of miracles, they take and they take until Zeb is no longer a page.

Now just a boy.

Just a nothing.

He can feel Sir Matthew's eyes on him still and by God he tries to find comfort in that sliver of recognition, but when he fishes his mentor's face out of the crowd Sir Matthew looks away from him without a word.

The man that raised Zeb, broke him, bled him, made him scrub floors on knees raw from prayer and penance proved himself to be a coward with one gesture. He...

Zeb swallows back mucus and bile, salted by his tears, his mouth twisting into something sharp and ugly, he feels the miracle gathering on his tongue before his lips can even part. Something black and awful plants itself in Zeb's chest and takes root there, he can feel it twisting his power into something as ugly as his own crying face.

Blood rushes through Zeb's ears like thunder, hurt and anger kill the chill in his bones, sending beet red rage pulsating up his neck.

They could save him.

They could SAVE. HIM.

All they had to do was say no, and he could stay but nobody has the fucking balls to say no.

They're throwing him away, scraps left behind for the beast so the rest may flee.

Fuck them.

Fuck ALL of them.

Fuck Sir, fuck Sister, fuck Lord Barnabas and even fuck Mew. Zeb cannot see the other boy's face in the crowd, brown robed and shaven, and that hurts worse than anything else. Mew isn't here to say goodbye or to save him or to stop this, and he can get FUCKED with the rest of them.

The gates open and the fairy stands there on the other side, dressed in human clothes with its hair dyed an unnatural color, its nails long and clawlike. Its face still looks raw from the holy water, its paws still tender from the fire, but it looks at Zeb with eyes even kinder than Sister Berenice and he can't take it. Zeb stumbles again, one shaky step after the other, his face still twisted and ugly but oh so very Different now.

All kids cry ugly until some stupid adult tries to convince them that growing up means crying pretty or not crying at all, but by the grace of whatever God loved this boy he still cried like he was meant to. Face twisted and snot smeared, jerking with each sob that tried to bust its way through clenched teeth, eyes redder than the rage that was dying within him.

He stood in front of the fairy and he cried, he hiccuped and he sobbed, trying so hard not to flinch as its hand came to rest on his head. The weight of that hand still felt Wrong but it also felt like Being Seen and like Being Known. Zeb pressed into it, stretching up like a cat, eyes shut, body shaking.

He felt the magic take him away, felt it sweep the Tower grounds from under his feet and replace it with carpet over hardwood and hard packed earth. The fight left Zeb then, replaced by exhaustion that threatened to rock him down to his knees but he kept himself upright out of pure spite and anxiety.

"Welcome home Zeb."

[abovexhorizons]

Hello and welcome to AbovexHorizons, an indie OC blog for my Knight, Isa, and her charge, Rika.

I'll get to the rules first and tags last, all of which are under the cut. So, without further ado:

Please no god-modding.

This blog is Mutually Exclusive to keep my dashboard clean, however I am only semi-selective with who I write with. For me to consider following you, please have the following: - Replies at least a few sentences long. - A majority of posts be IC, not OOC. Ask memes and such do not count. - Be willing to write SFW content, as this muse is SFW exclusive.

I will reply to any and all ask memes that are sent in, mutuals or not.

This blog is 18+, as per Australian law. All muses that appear on this blog are of legal age of consent as per Australian law. This is due to the adult themes present.

Whilst the art is not my own, the icons made are. Please do not take or use them without my consent. (Border credit: Bunnie @ Kofi)

Isa is the only muse available; Rika is merely a plot device for Isa. Whilst Rika may be brought up in threads by Isa, please note Rika is not available for RP.

[HOME] -- [ABOUT] -- [ASK] -- [SUBMIT] -- [MEMES]

{Knight clad in Shining Armor | Isa}

{Out of Potions | OOC}

{Word spreads fast | Dash Commentary}

{Summoning assistance | Ask Meme}

[shieldbcund]

𝘓𝘢𝘺 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘣𝘭𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘐 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘮𝘺 𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘦𝘭𝘥

“Our armor can be very heavy,” Elouan says, looking over as snow sprinkles over the Coerthan stone. White meets grey meets black as snow covers stone and metal alike, wordlessly erasing more and more of the landscape. In the Ishgardian dawn, two figures stand at the snow’s silent shores. More flakes fall and scatter atop malms upon malms of snow, yet their contribution remains undetectable. Sollerets crunch then click, then click then crunch as they sink into snow or push against cobblestone. Despite the sun hiding behind the overcast sky, its warm light still casts on his shield.

Feathers dance against his armor and shards of light craft cerulean, turquoise cuts that claim metal and fabric alike. His sword feels like nothing, just his hand in a fist while his shield a buffer for the Coerthan wind on his shoulder. But, his armor? The bands of white and gold covering his past and present in layers of well-forged metals? They feel as if Eitherys herself rests between his shoulder blades. He wouldn’t trade it for anything else. 

“It has hopes, dreams, and lives on them, nay? Not just the people you protect, but your very own,” he adds on, nearing the figure in dark blue armor. Chainmail clinks together, a near-silent heartbeat of oaths and wars, that all but ceases when he stops a fulm from him. Marcelloix. Elouan brings his shield forward, presenting the paired doves on its front. They stare at Marcelloix with their observing gaze while his blade slips into its sheath. The dark knight’s sword is drawn, a vivid black shadow hovering over the snow. While he sees darkness, he sees light. While he sees his past, he sees his future.

Another step, another clink of chainmail, then the clang of metal echoes over the snowy landscape. Sparks bring a splash of color to the monochrome land and he sucks in a breath. The fulm of space separating them gives way to the interloping of greatsword to shield, its blade nestled between one of the shield’s many scalloped edges. Weapons meet, eyes meet, and in that moment Elouan’s shoulders are burdened with yet another weight: his fears. 

“But it doesn’t always have to be heavy. Or always worn wherever you are.” The greatsword groans as Elouan dislodges it from his shield with a swift roll of the arm. Marcel’s blade hovers in the air, gripped with white-knuckled strength. Yet underneath the leather gloves protecting those hands, the slightest quiver is undeniable. Elouan spares him a smile and takes a step closer. He rests a gauntlet-clad hand on the blade’s fierce tip, index and middle guiding it down. 

“We all need someone to protect us. To be there when we’re there for others. You can take your armor off with me, Marcel, aye? You don’t need to...to always be on guard when I can protect you, too.” 

The greatsword plummets into the snow with a muffled crunch. Its ornately-designed surface shines like the ice surrounding the Dreaming Dragon. Elou sidesteps the greatsword and wraps an arm around his waist. He lifts his shield up as Marcel’s head presses into his shoulder, sending puffs of hot air against both skin and armor alike. Snow gives way to flowers and overcast to sun. Warm rays thaw them of the finite, absolute nature of Coerthan overcast. “Lay down your blade and I will give you my shield. No matter where you are, my blade will always be yours. I can take the weight for you, Marcel. I have you here, and I’ll keep standing, no matter what.” 

And his shoulders grow heavier with burden, taking on the weight of his lover and his life. Each weight adds on, making it harder to breath and harder, still, to keep standing. He’s pledged himself to help in love and in kindness, in loyalty and justice. His shield is Marcel’s and his blade is, too. Whatever is to come, one thing is certain: he can always set his armor aside with Elouan, to be protected as the phenomenal man he is. 

[lordmetalface]

**Gastronomia** is a truly enchanting realm, where every element of the landscape is crafted from a rich tapestry of flavors and culinary inspirations. Here, the very essence of nature breathes food—a fairytale world where imagination and gastronomy collide in the most delightful ways.

### The Landscape:

**Rivers of Sauce**: The rivers swirl with everything from rich marinara and velvety alfredo to zesty chimichurri, providing nourishment for the vibrant fauna that populate the land. Creatures known as **Sauce Sprites** flit about, ensuring the flow remains lively and flavorful.

**Mountains of Cupcakes**: Towering peaks of fluffy goodness, adorned with spirals of icing and topped with decadent sprinkles, create a sugary skyline. The **Cupcake Climbers** make their homes in these delightful summits, often hosting festivals to celebrate their sugary surroundings.

**Fruitful Forests**: Lush groves filled with colorful, sentient trees, each bearing fruits that can talk and sing! These trees have personalities that reflect the flavors they bear—tangy lemons, sweet peaches, and hearty avocados, all sharing stories and wisdom.

**Vegetable Valleys**: Rolling hills are carpeted with vibrant fields of vegetables, where friendly **Veggie Villagers**, who embody various vegetables, engage in communal gardening. Carrots debate philosophy, and consider tomatoes to be wise sages.

- **Creamy Clouds**: The sky is adorned with fluffy clouds that rain down soft whipping cream, delicate meringue, and refreshing fruit juices, nourishing the earth below. **Cloud Kites** sail through these sweet skies, collecting the drops in mischievous play.

The Inhabitants:

- **Food Beings**: The realm is populated by various culinary creatures—**Fruity Fairies** dance gracefully through the air, while **Savory Spirits** share tales of their flavor journeys. Each being has its unique flavor profile and personality, yet they all live in harmony.

**Cheese Knight**: The protector of Gastronomia, clad in armor made of various cheeses—the Knight’s responsibility is to ensure the balance of flavors in the land. With a shield shaped like a giant slice of Swiss and a sword that oozes with mozzarella, he uses his skills not only in battle but also in diplomacy, uniting different food factions to maintain peace.

**Culinary Council**: Governed by leaders representing various food groups, the council comprises wise figures like **Lady Lettuce**, who champions health and sustainability, and **Sir Spicy**, who promotes the bold flavors of life. Together, they ensure harmony and creativity flourish in Gastronomia.

The Culture:

Gastronomia thrives on creativity and collaboration. Culinary festivals are common, where the inhabitants showcase their culinary prowess, creating dishes that blend flavors from diverse ingredients. From the **Feast of Flavors** to the **Festival of Freshness**, each event strengthens their connections.

The tales and recipes passed down through generations are sung in a delightful food-inspired musical, where melodies evoke the joy of cooking and sharing meals. The harmonious coexistence of all lives on, as they celebrate their distinctive flavors and the essence of gastronomic art—an everlasting feast for the senses!

[melissalencioni]

The sun, a pallid disc barely discernible through the gauzy veil of clouds, cast its wan light over the frost-rimed landscape. Here, at the fringes of the nameless kingdom, where civilization's tenuous grip loosened its hold on the wild, untamed earth, the Blood Armored Knight urged his steed forward. The beast's hooves, shod in iron that gleamed with a dull, carnelian sheen, struck a staccato rhythm against the frozen ground, each impact sending minute fissures through the brittle ice that coated the barren soil.

The knight's armor, a masterwork of metallurgy, undulated with every movement, the plates sliding against one another in a whisper of steel on steel. Its hue, a deep, arterial red, seemed to pulse in the diffuse light, as if the metal itself were alive, a second skin grafted onto the man beneath. His helm, adorned with a plume of crimson feathers—perhaps plucked from some exotic, bloodthirsty bird of prey—swiveled from side to side as he surveyed the desolate terrain.

He had been dispatched to this godforsaken corner of the realm on whispered rumors of a threat, a danger that lurked in the trackless wastes beyond the kingdom's borders. The peasantry, with their penchant for hyperbole and superstition, had woven tales of a beast that brought with it the very essence of winter, a creature that could freeze a man's blood in his veins with naught but a glance.

The Blood Armored Knight, whose true name had long since been forgotten (perhaps even by himself), felt a frisson of anticipation course through his body. It settled in his gut, a leaden weight that anchored him to this moment, this cusp of confrontation. He tightened his grip on the reins, the leather creaking in protest, and urged his mount onward.

As they crested a low rise, the landscape before them unfurled like a tapestry woven by some mad deity. Jagged spires of ice erupted from the ground, their crystalline surfaces refracting the meager sunlight into prismatic shards that danced across the frozen earth. Snow drifts, sculpted by the relentless wind into fantastical shapes, created a maze of white that stretched to the horizon.

And there, in the heart of this winter wonderland, stood Kurventhor.

The dragon was a study in contradictions, a being of impossible grace and terrifying power. Its scales, each one a perfect hexagon of transparent ice, caught the light and broke it into a thousand glittering fragments. Steam rose from its nostrils in lazy coils, a reminder that even in this creature of frost and snow, the spark of life burned hot and bright.

Kurventhor's eyes, twin orbs of the deepest blue, fixed upon the intruder who dared to breach the sanctity of its domain. Those eyes held within them the wisdom of ages, the cold calculation of a predator, and—perhaps most disconcertingly—a flicker of intelligence that spoke of a mind as sharp as the icicles that hung from its jaw.

The dragon's wings, vast sails of translucent membrane stretched taut over a framework of delicate bones, unfurled with a sound like breaking glass. As they spread to their full span, easily dwarfing the knight and his steed, a gust of arctic air swept across the plain, carrying with it motes of ice that stung the exposed flesh of man and horse alike.

For a moment that stretched into eternity, neither being moved. The Blood Armored Knight, his hand hovering over the pommel of his sword, assessed the situation with the cool detachment of a seasoned warrior. He noted the way the dragon's muscles bunched beneath its scintillating hide, the slight shift of its weight as it prepared for potential conflict.

Kurventhor, for its part, regarded the crimson-clad interloper with a mixture of curiosity and wariness. In all its long years of guarding this frozen realm, never had it encountered a being quite like this—a creature of warm blood and hot steel, swathed in a color that spoke of violence and vitality.

The standoff continued, a tableau of opposing forces frozen in time. The knight, a slash of vivid red against the monochromatic landscape, represented the inexorable march of civilization, the unyielding will of humanity to tame and conquer. Kurventhor, with its crystalline beauty and raw, elemental power, embodied the wild, untamable spirit of nature itself.

Slowly, with the deliberate grace of a born predator, Kurventhor lowered its massive head until it was level with the knight. A plume of frigid breath enveloped the armored figure, rime instantly forming on the polished surface of his breastplate. The Blood Armored Knight remained motionless, only the slight trembling of his mount betraying any reaction to the dragon's proximity.

In that moment of closest contact, a wordless communication passed between man and beast. The knight saw in those fathomless blue eyes not the mindless aggression of a monster, but the fierce protectiveness of a guardian. Kurventhor, peering into the narrow slit of the knight's visor, recognized the steely resolve of a kindred spirit, a fellow sentinel standing watch over that which it held dear.

With a sound like an avalanche given voice, Kurventhor spoke. Its words, if they could be called such, were not formed by tongue or lips, but rather by the very air itself, ice crystals coalescing into complex patterns that somehow conveyed meaning:

"You trespass, warm-blood. This realm is mine to guard, as decreed by powers beyond your ken. What brings you to the edge of the world, where even the hardiest of your kind fear to tread?"

The Blood Armored Knight, to his credit, showed no outward sign of surprise at the dragon's method of communication. His reply, when it came, was muffled by his helm but carried the weight of authority:

"I come at the behest of my liege, to investigate claims of a threat to our borders. I find no threat here, great one, merely a guardian as vigilant as any who stand watch over my own lands."

A sound like the grinding of glaciers emanated from Kurventhor—laughter, the knight realized with a start. The dragon's next words formed in the air between them:

"A threat, indeed. To those who would seek to exploit the secrets of this place, perhaps. But to your kind? No, warm-blood. My quarrel is not with your realm or its people. So long as the ancient boundaries are respected, you have naught to fear from Kurventhor."

The Blood Armored Knight inclined his head in acknowledgment, the gesture made awkward by the weight of his helm. "Then it seems my mission here is concluded. I shall return to my lord with news that our borders are secure, guarded by a power far greater than any army of men."

Kurventhor's massive head dipped in what might have been a nod of approval. "Go then, knight of the warm lands. But know this: should you or your kin ever seek to breach the sanctity of my domain with ill intent, you shall find that the fury of winter itself pales in comparison to my wrath."

With those words, Kurventhor reared up to its full, imposing height. Its wings snapped open once more, and with a downbeat that sent a blizzard of snow and ice swirling around the knight, the dragon launched itself into the air. In moments, it was little more than a glittering speck against the leaden sky, leaving behind only the echoes of its passing and a landscape transformed by its brief presence.

The Blood Armored Knight remained motionless for a long moment, his gaze fixed on the point where Kurventhor had vanished from sight. Then, with a barely perceptible sigh that spoke of relief, awe, and perhaps a touch of regret for a confrontation averted, he turned his mount back toward the lands of men.

As he rode, the knight cast one last glance over his shoulder at the frozen wasteland. For an instant, he thought he glimpsed a flash of blue among the ice spires—Kurventhor's eye, perhaps, still watching to ensure his departure. Then it was gone, and the Blood Armored Knight was left with only memories of his encounter with the magnificent ice dragon, a tale he knew would be met with disbelief should he ever choose to share it.

And so, man and dragon parted ways, each returning to their appointed tasks, guardians of realms that touched but never truly met. The nameless kingdom slept on, unaware of how close it had come to conflict with a power beyond its comprehension, saved by the mutual respect of two unlikely kindred spirits.

[puckoffsdaily]

Chasing the Puck… And Maybe Roller Skates?

Good day to all my cool cats and kittens, it’s your purr-fect beat writer, Xavier E. Novak, here to whisk(er) you away with a tail (or should I say, tale?) of my day 2 escapades!

Today, I opted for the nine lives approach: take risks and trust your gut (or, in my case, the growling of my feline instincts). I sidestepped the typical round of phone tag with the Puck Offs' elusive PR team and relied solely on intuition. Following a mysterious trail of icy breadcrumbs (and a hunch or two), I stumbled upon the returning knights in shining armor - or, should I say, the Puck Offs team - making their way back to their clandestine lair.

But, much like the cat who got caught batting at the blinds, I was promptly cornered by a member of the Hockey Operations Department. While my feline tendencies begged me to hiss and flee, I chose diplomacy (admittedly after a minor hiss or two). And what do you know? My whiskers must’ve been working overtime because despite his look of bewilderment, this kind knight parted with the golden info - the exact location of the team's upcoming practices. Now, before you get your tails in a twist, I've promised to keep the location hush-hush (for meow). My lips are sealed, but my paws are ready to write the moment they give the green light.

Now, to a rather unexpected topic: roller skates. If you thought ice hockey was the only mode of gliding this team indulges in, think again. My sharp feline eyes spotted some Puck Offs lugging around, dare I say, vintage roller skates! This, coupled with their recent cryptic references to a “playing surface” and roller-skate-clad social media posts, certainly scratches my curiosity post. Are we talking roller hockey? Or perhaps a disco revival? Did the team practice in an old-timey roller rink today? Just what the heck is going on?! Stay tuned as I find my way to the bottom of this caper.

But the cherry atop my sundae of investigative success? As I was leaving, the same PR whisperer who shared their precious location secrets pressed a wad of $5-off pizza coupons into my paw, redeemable at none other than "Pizza Jazz". And who, you ask, stealthily controls the oven knobs at this pizza paradise? The maestro himself, Jazz Donovan. Coincidence? In the unpredictable world of the Puck Offs, there’s no such thing.

Stay curious, my feline friends. As for tomorrow? My whiskers tingle with anticipation! Time to recharge the cat-napping batteries for day 3. Purrhaps, we might even roller skate our way through the next reveal. 🐾

Meow,

Xavier E. Novak

[versegm]

The winds howl around him like a thousand beasts, snarling, prowling, nipping at any exposed skin with ice-cold teeth. Goredolf shudders beneath his coat, pulling it closer to his body.

"Is anyone out there?" He yells at the top of his lungs. He can barely hear himself above the storm. "Anyone at all?"

The only response he gets is a faraway thunder.

Alright. Fine. That's fine! He's Goredolf Music. He can handle some cold on his own (on his own?) all he needs to do is to keep walking forward, and he'll end up somewhere eventually (where?)

The thunder gets louder. Is it getting closer? Ah shit, the only thing worse than being lost among cold winds would be to be lost among cold winds while wet. Goredolf speeds up, seeking to outrun the incoming rain.

The thunder keeps getting closer though, like hooves hammering against the ground. Goredolf winces, bracing himself to get hit by water-

It wasn’t the thunder.

A dark figure bolts in his field of vision. A monster; no, a dragon; no, a horse. It towers above him with the all-compassing presence of the night sky. A knight sits on its back, covered in something that might be armor or might be scales.

“… Hello?”

Wordlessly, the knight extends a hand.

They’re quite scary, all clad in black, horns crowning their head. But they don’t seem hostile so far, and just as Goredolf has learned a pretty face isn’t always trustworthy, a scary one is not always to be feared.

The knight yanks him up, tearing a manly yelp out of him. They easily lift him up to set him right behind them. Goredolf opens his mouth to protest- but then the mount starts running, and all he can do is hold onto the knight for his dear life.

The world turns to a blur. The horse runs like the north wind itself- for a second, Goredolf even wonders if they might be flying. It outruns the lightning, the rain, the storm itself- until, eventually, it slows down and stops under clear skies.

“You should be alright now.” They- she? The voice seems feminine- tell him. “Can you get down on your own?”

“I- yes, of course.” He responds, and then immediately contradicts himself by almost falling on his ass. The knight grabs him by the hips before he can tumble down, then she gets down herself to set him down. This is the most embarrassed Goredolf has ever felt.

“… thank you.” His cheeks are burning red. He has never felt more mortified in his life.

The knight doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she reaches up, then lifts her helmet off her face, revealing-

Oh.

This is the face of Goredolf’s (friend? Girlfriend? Fuckbudy?) Or, well, this is a Saberface- this specific body type is far from X-exclusive. Which means that she is, most likely, a servant.

“Apologies.” She bows her head. “It was I who brought the storm here. I did not expect it to disturb your sleep.”

Ah. He gets it now.

This is a dream.

“Who are you?” he should probably get that jotted down first thing- friend or foe, ally or enemy, a name will be a big clue to that end.

A spear suddenly materializes in the servant’s hand. For a second, Goredolf is afraid he deeply offended her, but all she does is stab the weapon into the ground.

“Servant Lancer, Artoria Pendragon Alter. King of the Wild Hunt.”

King of the what.

Alright. Alright. This is fine. Goredolf has seen plenty of servants with impressive legends do the stupidest shit imaginable. He shouldn’t let himself be impressed by some grand title or another. “Well, I thank you for freeing me from that storm, Lancer. Though I would appreciate if it didn’t happen again.”

“It will.” Ah. Well okay then. “Master’s dreams are already filled with too many people. The least I can do is try to not add onto their load myself.”

So she’s coming to him instead. “Have you considered… not haunting people’s dreams?”

Lancer shakes her head. “That is not possible for me.”

Is it him, or is getting explanations from this woman like pulling teeth? “Why not?”

“I am a liminal being by nature. I’m an if of an if, a person who was never supposed to exist. I am the Artoria who chose what she should have never been able to choose. I am the butterfly who dreamt he was a man. I can seldom exist outside of dreams. Reality will not accept me.”

“… This doesn’t really make sense.” He replies.

“It doesn’t.” She agrees. “But that doesn’t make it any less true.”

She reaches down, and then, with no explanation whatsoever, ruffles his hair.

“It appears that you are about to wake up, and I must ride on anyway.” She turns around and gets back on her mount. “I will see you again. Take care, boy.”

Goredolf opens his mouth, blood rushing up his cheeks, and-

Finds himself laying on his back in his bed.

For a few seconds, he stares at the ceiling, mind racing. Then, very slowly, he looks down at himself.

Throbbing boner. Of course. She just had to call him boy in a mildly condescending way, didn’t she. Curse his thing for dangerous women who vaguely look down on him.

Something shifts next to him, then the Mysterious (And very Sexy) Heroine X pokes her head out of the covers, looking at him with tired eyes. “Is it morning yet.”

“N-no, it’s fine. I just had a dream. Go back to sleep.”

X looks at him, blinks, turns her head, and looks at the tent in the covers. “Must have been a good dream.”

Scratch that, this is the most mortified Goredolf has ever been in his life. “It’s not like that! It’s just- there was this woman-”

“Uh-huh.”

“She had your face!”

“I’m flattered.”

“She was a servant!”

That catches X’s attention. She frowns at him, thinking. “… Was she a Saber?”

“No. A Lancer.”

“Ah. Okay.” And just like that, her attention is lost. She crawls back under the sheets, until her ahoge is the only thing left poking out. “This can wait until tomorrow then. Goodnight.”

She is… right, he supposes. Goredolf closes his eyes, steadying his breathing. There’s nothing he can do about it at five in the morning. This can wait.

X’s voice rises one last time, so quiet Goredolf barely hears: “she can have your nights, by the way. So long as I can have you during the day, I don’t mind.”

[wordgiven-blog]

       TRACES OF CONCERN come across handsome facial features. Gabe is a rather easy person to read; the young boy practically wears his heart on his sleeve.    “    You look troubled. Did something happen?   ”

@onlychilded    /   S.C.!