#[ char : fletch ]

[xanwritesx]

for: @taliwrites who: the crew what: operation save aleks & augie

"Did you change the oil?"

A question targeted toward the sudden lack of mobility that their SUV seems to be experiencing, but it's in the way that it's launched out from the window in such a monotone that Caleb knows it isn't serious. Of course oil isn't an issue, nor is it the coolant or the transmission fluid. Everything had been checked in regards to the alternator and fuel pumps.

Caleb ducks his head under the car in time to hear Finn call out next, "What about the window washer fluid?" as though it would be the all important liquid needed to get this one up and running.

Upon finding no fluids dripping from the engine, Caleb returns to the driver's side. "There aren't any leaks, and I know the vacuum hose is in tact. I looked at it all prior to leaving."

"Apparently not well enough-" Finn starts, but Caleb gives him a look that has him shutting up. Why is Tali even fond of this one? He's incessantly annoying, like a mosquito in your bedroom waiting to be swat at. Normally Finn can waste entire days debating the most obscure, unimportant things. To pass the time. Caleb is thankful that instead of arguing he opts to hop out of the passenger seat, and he looks to the three in the back.

"Tali, move up front." Finn's navigation can be traded for some peace. Tali can sit next to him, she will direct him just fine. “Think I might just leave him behind...”

Finn has decided to walk back to Leon's vehicle to his side. A better more amicable company than that of Caleb, that’s for sure. "The audience is pretty stone-faced over there, someone needs to help him blow off some steam at some point." It is said in passing, without the heaviness of the obvious innuendo. "You think he blows his load with the permanent scowl on his face?"

"What's... uh, what'd he say is wrong? Did you guys just stall out?" Finn's entertained smirk fades in the slightest and he looks to Fletcher for the shortest moment before back to Leon with a shrug. This causes for Fletch to sink in his seat, careful not to disturb Aiden's who's been asleep for the last hour of the drive.

Fletcher looks up to the front seat where Max is with a shrug and a frown, and that's just when Finn steps back to let Caleb peak in through Leon's window. "Fuel gauge is broken, it's reading half full. So... I have an empty tank. You think you can head on up ahead with them-" He nods to Max and Fletcher and Ren and Aiden, then points out down the street. "- I have these two here with me to watch the car. Siphon some gas from another vehicle and come back?"

[poke-muns]

Human Names from Pokémon

Like how Robin, Leo, Raven, Kitty, etc. sound like animals using different languages, and names like Goldie can have ties if the namer so wishes. Same works here! The Pokemon name itself can be a name or the more “namey” sounding version.

Under the cut will likely be long and always getting longer as it’s updated. Names will be organised alphabetically!

Some names have links to pkmn irl roleplay blogs of folk who use the name/have used the name with this as the reason. I won’t be tagging so if you’re interested go have a look! 

Accelgor = Ellie, Cel, Elgor, Elgo

Aggron = Aggie, Ron

Galeking (Japanese) = Gale, King

Stolloss (German) = Stoll

Amaura = Amaur, Maur, Mau, Maura, Maurrie

Amagara (French) = Ama, Magar, Magara, Gara, Ara

Amarus (Japanese & Korean) = Amar, Mar, Marus, Arus, Rus

Tundra (species name) = Tunny, Undra

Blissey = Bliss, Liss, Lissey, Sey, Issey

Caterpie = Caterina

Decidueye = Dec, Deci, Duey,

Arrow Quill (species name) = Quill

Delcatty = Del, Catt, Catty

Prim (species name)

Delibird = Del

Dudunsparce = Dud, Dun, Arce, Dudun

Deusolourdo (French) = Deus, Sol, Deusol, Lourdo, Solourdo, Solour

Dummimisel (German) = Dummi, Dumm/Dum, Imi, Misel, Isel, Sel, Ummi, Mimi

Land Snake (species name) = Lanake, Snand

Nogogochi (Korean) = Nogo, Nogogo, Gogo, Gochi, Gogochi, Ochi, Ogochi, Ogogochi

Nokokocchi (Japanese) = Noko, Nokoko, Kocchi, Kokocchi, Occhi, Okocchi, Okokocchi, Okoko

Espeon = Es, Esp, Espy/Espie (I get what it sounds like and some don’t like that term), Peon

Eifie (Japanese) = Eif, Fie

Evee (Korean) = Eve, Vee (Pokémon adventures reference too? :D)

Mentali (French) = Ment, Tali, Ali

Psiana (German) = Psi, Psia, Ian, Iana, Ana, Psian

Sun (species name) = Sun, Sunny/Sunnie

Feebas = Feebie, Bas

Flareon = Flare, Eon, Reon

Booster (Japanese & Korean) = Boost

Flamara (German) = Amara, Amar, Lamar, Ara

Pyroli (French) = Py, Pyrol, Li, Oli

Fletchinder / Fletchling = Fletch

Frillish = Frill, Rilli, Lish, Illish

Galvantula = Gal, Galvan, Tula

Glaceon = Glace, Eon, Ace, Ceon, Lace

Fresh Snow (species name) = Snow, Esh

Glacia (Japanese) = Cia, Acia, Lacia

Glaziola (German) = Glaz, Glazi, Ziola, Ola, Zio, Lazio

Geulleisia (Korean) = Geulle/Guel/Guell, Leisia, Eisia, Sia, Euelle/Euel/Euell

Givrali (French) = Giv, Rali, Ali, Li, Givra, Vral, Vrali, Ivra, Ivral, Ivrali

Goldeen = Goldee/Goldie

Gothitelle = Elle

Siderella = Ella

Hariyama = Hari, Riya, Yama, Hariya

Jolteon = Jo, Jol, Joel, Jolt, Teon, Eon

Blitza (German) = Blitz, Itza, Litz, Za, Blita, Blit

Jupithunder (Korean) = Jupi, Jupiter, Thun, Pith, Pithund, Pithun, Jup, Jupith

Thunders (Japanese) = Thunder, Thun, Ders

Voltali (French) = Volt, Ali, Tali, Li, Olta, Oltali

Karrablast = Karra

Kleoparda (Liepard in German) = Kleo

Kyurem = Kyu, Rem/Remy, Kyur/Kyure

Landorus = Dory, Lan/Lanie, Lando

Demeteros / Démétéros (German / French) = Demetreus, Demeter, Dem

Leafeon = Leaf, Eaf, Feon, Eon, Eafie/Eafe, Leafe/Leafie

Folipurba (German) = Foli, Oli, Pur, Purb, Purba, Urba, Lipur, Lipurb, Folipur

Leafia (Japanese) = Leaf, Fia, Eafia

Lipia (Korean) = Ipia, Pia, Lipi, Ipi

Phyllali (French) = Phyll/Phyll, Ali, Lali

Lileep = Lilee/Lily, Lil, Lee, Li

Litleo = Leo, Litly

Lumineon = Lumi, Lumie

Luxio = Lux

Luxray = Lux, Ray

Medicham = Medi, Dich, Dicha, Edi, Cham, Dicham, Medich

Charem (Japanese) = Char/Chare, Rem, Arem, Em

Charmina (French) = Charm, Mina, Armina, Armin, Charmin, Charmi, Armi, Min, Ina

Meditalis (German) = Tali, Talis, Alis, Dit, Ditali, Ditalis

Meditate (species name) = Tate, Medit, Dit

Yogarem (Korean) = Yo, Yoga, Rem, Garem, Em

Mienshao = Mie, Mien, Shao, Ao, Miensh, Miensha, Enshao

Bizodo (Korean) = Bi, Bizo, Zodo, Iz, Izo, Izodo, Odo, Biz

Kojondo (Japanese) = Kojo, Jon, Jondo, Jon Do (?), Kojon, Kojond, Jond, Ko

Shaofouine (French) = Shao, Shaofou, Fouine, Fou, Shaof

Shifùyòu (Mandarin) = Shifù, Fùyòu, Yòu

Wie-Shu (German) = Wie, Wiesh, Shu, Eshu

Mightyena / Poochyena = Yena

Milotic = Milo, Loti, Ilo, Oti, Otic

Panpour = Pan

Pansage = Pan, Sage, Pansie/Pansy

Pansear = Pan, Pansie/Pansy (possibly)

Pichu = Pi, Chu, Ichu, Ich

Pikachu = Pika, Achu, Pik, Pi, Chu

Pyroar = Py, Pyro, Ro, Roar, Oar

Pyroleo (French) = Pyro, Roleo, Leo, Rol

Raichu = Rai, Chu, Ai, Aichu

Roselia = Rose, Rosie, Elia, Eli

Roserade = Rose, Rosie

Sableye = Sable

Zobiris (German) = Iris, Zo, Biris, Ob

Sawsbuck = Saw

Haydaim (French) = Hay, Haydm, Daim, Haydem

Shelmet = Shely

Sprigatito = Sprig, Gati, Gatito, Tito, Titi, Rig, Gat, Spriga

Felori (German) = Fel, Feli, Lori, Ori, Eloro, Felo

Grass Cat (species name) = Cass, Grat, Cat

Myāohā (Hindi) = Myā, Myāo, Yāo, Yāohā, Āohā

Naoha (Korean) = Nao, Ao, Aoha

Niaoha (Thai) = Nia, Niao, Aoha, Iaoha, Iao

Nyahoja (Japanese) = Nya, Hoja, Nyaho

Poussacha (French) = Sacha, Acha, Poussa, Poussach

Sylveon = Sylvie / Sylvester, Veon, Eon

Feelinara (German) = Fee, Feelin, Linara, Nara, Ara, Lin, Inara, Inar, Eelin, Elina

Nymphali (French) = Nymph, Nym, Pha, Phali, Ali

Nymphia (Japanese & Korean) = Nymph, Nym, Phia, Phi

Tauros = Tau, Taur, Ros, Tauro, Auros

Kentaros (Korean) = Ken, Kent, Kentau, Kentaur, Kentaro, Taro, Aros

Kentauros (Japanese) = Ken, Kentau, Kentaur, Kentauro, Enta

Terrakion = Terra/Terr/Terry, Kion, Erra, Raki, Ion

Terrakium (German & French) = Kiu, Kium

Togekiss = Toge, Kiss/Kissie, Gex (I don’t know ok), Gek

Jubilee (species name) = Lee, Jubi

Torterra = Tor, Tort, Terra, Erra

Chelterrar (French) = Chel, Chelt, Terra, Terrar, Rar, Erra

Umbreon = Umbre, Reon, Eon, Bre, Breon

Blacky (Japanese & Korean) = Black, Lacky, Blac

Nachtara (German) = Nach, Tara

Noctali (French) = Noc, Noct, Tali, Octa, Octal, Octali

Vaporeon = Vapor, Va, Reon, Eon, Oreo, Oreon

Aquali (Japanese) = Aqua, Li, Ali, Quali

Aquana (German) = Aqua, Ana, Quana

Bubble Jet (species name) = Jet, Bubble, Blej (I don’t know okay)

Shamid (Korean) = Shamie, Amid, Sham, Mid

Showers (Japanese) = Ower, Shower

Wooloo = Woo, Woolie/Wooly, Loo (like Lou)

Moumouton (French) = Mou, Moumou, Mouton, Ton

Wolly (German) = Wol, Olly

Yanmega = Yan, Mega, Meg, Anme

Ogre Darner (species name)= Darner, Ogie

[zarathehunter]

Entry 10

"Dear Me,"

*Entry 10 appears to be written sloppily and roughly.*

"Gods damn it all. I knew I was doing something wrong. Between my study and Kahleem's crystals, I...I was too careless. All the practice, the mana manipulation up to now had been going perfectly- finally, I was in control of my own energy! From meditative levitation, to charging and discharging mana, I felt...good."

"And then I tried that fucking Black Arrow again. Where once, I could fire it to my own exhaustion, but for my survival, and recover, now...now it haunts me even to think it. I must write this down so I do not forget."

"Whatever foul magics are used to create the Black Arrow must be discovered. It is parasitic and violent; when given more mana, more focus, and freely fired from the bow of one who speaks its power into action, it appears to aggressively drain everything it can in its quest to its target."

"Incanting the Arrow to power, I summoned my newfound control over mana and let fly, intending to practice its power against the ancient oaks of the Hinterlands."

"Previously, the Black Arrows I fired would impact heavily, like the bolt of a ballista, and could even knock a dragon senseless as I saw in Dustwallow. It would drain the little mana I had, and inflicted a great deal of injury and magical burn on its target."

"But this time? As soon as the words left my lips, I felt as though my very soul was being sucked in a vacuum wave out of my skin; all the mana I had accumulated and intoned was ripped violently from my body. Barely able to keep the Arrow steady, I retained just enough consciousness to fire it and complete the spell- close the Third Gate, as Akemi would say."

"Upon closing this Third Gate of casting magic, and with the departure of the Black Arrow from my bow, I fell to my knees, unable to breathe. Helpless to steer or control the Arrow, I watched from pained eyes as it rocketed through the tree, traveling around four hundred meters."

"That distance is barely achievable in volley with an elven longbow, arced to the sky- let alone straight forward and with the atrocious impact this Arrow had. It's trajectory was only ceased by it crashing into a hill in the forest, causing an immense cavitation of Shadow magic."

"Rather than the usual explosion of wispy, noxious Shadow that dissipates, this impact instead seemed to suck everything around it inwards and burn it violently, viciously, completely with Shadow magic, like the ghastly, toxic fires caused by the fuel in dwarven tanks."

"Just as quickly as it came, it burned off, leaving nothing but charred earth, a large blast radius around the embedded arrow, and the foul, toxic reek of cursed soil. I fear that corner of the forest to be infected with something terrible, and it is all my fault."

"Not least of my concerns either, is that the fletchings of the Arrow scored down my arm as it took flight; my entire right arm from the bicep to the fingertips is lacerated with bloody, rather deep cuts, the skin between burned, and they do not seem to want to heal."

"Oh, gods of all kinds, what have I done? What have I done?"

[smreine]

Mishunneki Brinkdelver hadn’t returned to the Warrens a year before he found himself taking the First Knuckle Company into the Underdeep. Two hundred levies comprised their force—all volunteered from different Clans, abandoning their work as miners and blacksmiths to pick up warhammers—and in such a swarm, Mishun was only one more bobbing helmet in a sea of armored Dwarrow astride dire ibex. Yet if the others were the sea, then he was a rock around which they flowed, and they rippled in deference to his every motion.

He was meant to be their guide in the hostile Underdeep frontier. The Phasgal Plains were home to one of the largest outposts defending the Warrens from that which crawled below them, yet the lake was unknowable and untameable. Luminescent beasts swelled in the waters beyond the stronghold, which was built into a natural pillar holding the cavern roof aloft so. 

Between the company and the outpost stood that forest, a well-maintained stone road bisecting it into lobes. The mushrooms there grew thrice as tall as a Dwarrow. Shriveled stipes were gowned in sagging skirts, the pores under broad caps dried into wide mouths. A strange white fuzz climbed the volva. Axes had been abandoned beside felled plumpbells, near which tattered clothing and charred bone rested in heaps. They too were limned by mold.

The sea of the army flowed, and the commander urged his mount near Mishun’s.

“Spidren?” asked Giklech.

“No,” said the Brinkdelver. “They take the bodies whole.” These were signs of a raid by savage creatures. 

“A swift battle,” muttered the commander. The invaders had not taken any casualties. The only corpses belonged to defenders of the outpost. “It was the dead again. We were too late.”

Beyond the forest stood the endpoint of their week-long march. Phasgal Outpost was shut tight. A pair of guard towers flanked a gate tall enough to accommodate the most generous supply caravan.

A pair of Noldórian paladins leaped off the guard towers onto the bridge crossing the gate’s top. They were High Àlvar, so tall that even an imposing Dwarrow face their chests if barefooted. They wore bright colors in silks woven from the animals that crawled the land above, lapels decorated with antler patterns, roc feathers fletching their arrows.

“What brings you to the gates of Fistred Shy Warrens?” asked the lead paladin, Valen, while speaking in Interlingual. He held his longbow in one hand.

Giklech showed his empty hands, palm forward. “We are the First Knuckle Company, tasked to provide military support to our neighbors.” His Interlingual was stilted.

“Under whose authority?”

“The community spoke,” said Giklech, who did not understand the question.

“We have been tasked to guard this gate against all intruders,” said Valen, “and allow no passage. The survivors of this raid will not risk more of Lorkullen’s tricks. For hours they came—ones who looked like you. Dwarrow in form, ragged from travel, hungry for rest. When the gates open they shed their flesh and shred ours.”

Unease spread through the company. The ibexes reacted to their riders by beating indentations into the loam.

“The dead are restless,” said Mishun quietly to his commander. “They are the ones who have fallen before, climbing from their graves to enact unholy deeds. We live still. We must bury the victims of the raid upon sanctified ground so they do not rise again.”

“Notify the administrator,” said Giklech louder, pointing to Valen. “He will know us.”

But the archer would not go, and the other Àlvar spanned the top of the gate to either side, positioning themselves between posts where the view to the road was clear. Hands rested upon quivers. Bows were lifted.

“We will not budge without a direct order from Ambassador Enduriel,” said Valen.

Giklech was agog. “Enduriel controls an outpost?”

“We cannot go back!” said Sengar the bard. He had to shout over the rising discontent in the Company, from the Dwarrow muttering between each other to the uneasy ibexes dancing underneath them. “There is no time!”

“Why would you think that? Because of the lies told by a Dwarrow gone mad in the Underdeep?” asked Valen.

Mishun was summoned by the reference, coaxing his mount to the bottom of the ladder. He faced the willowy Àlvar, so high above them at the top of Dwarrow-built gates, guarding the levers that would permit them to enter safe ground.

He spoke in loud, clear nachī, his voice booming off smooth stone walls. “The Mountainhomes are not the Empire of Trees. We are a nation of people, governed by people, sovereign in our will, united with Ashenna’s body. Our people do not believe I am mad. We flock to help our own. The Àlvar cannot stop us—can they?”

For a moment, all was silent. The shock of hearing the Delver speak was enough to mute every Dwarrow.

“Do you threaten us?” asked Valen.

“You threaten us!” Mishun snarled, and the Company snarled along with him, banging their hammers and axe hilts on the armored flanks of the ibexes. Energy rushed through their forces.

“Walk away,” said the Àlvar, “or this will become a diplomatic incident.”

“Diplomacy can be sundered in Chaos for all I care!” Giklech said.

“Do you think your interference will have no consequence?” demanded Sengar, louder than the others, projecting with all his bardic strength. “If your stalling leads to deaths in Fistred, we will tell the world of your betrayal. We let you into homes, feed you at our hearths—”

The bard took an arrow to the breast and the arrow took the next words from his lips.

Blood sprayed over Mishun’s vambrace. He cried out in surprise, catching Sengar as he slipped from his saddle.

A skeletal bowman leaped from a nearby ridge, nocking another arrow. Dusty shreds of skin swung on his bones when he swung around to aim again, this time at one of the paladins.

Giklech roared, “Dead ones!”

They swept in from all sides.

Hundreds came in the span of time it took for Sengar to stop breathing. Silvery figures melted through the stone walls, as easily as slime molds oozed from cracks in the rock. And once they freed themselves of stone, they accelerated fiercely as water blasting through a dam. They were rotten, fungal, odorous, and swift.

“Rally!” shouted Mishun, thrusting his hammer into the air so others would see.

Another ranger shouted, “Axe-dwarrow! To the rear!”

The Company had been turned to speak to the Àlvar, offering their backs to lake from whence a hundred animate skeletons surged. They did not see the dead phalanx until it broke through the line of specters. They sliced directly through the center of First Knuckle Company, dividing them with a wall of shambling bodies carrying steel blades.

Mishun’s ibex lost its legs beneath him. He slammed to the ground between stomping feet and came up armed, snarling, swinging—as much a berserk creature of the Underdeep as any undead soldier.

The Àlvar were trying to open the gates.

Blinded in the midst of clashing metal and screaming brethren, Mishun sawed his path to the ladder, guided by fifty years of survival instinct, and left a trail of bones and ectoplasm. He had not lost the muscles of a cavern-scaling Dwarrow; he flew up the ladder too quickly for skeletal archers to fire upon him. Arrows struck the stone cutouts beneath him.

The battle was as daunting from above—clutches of frightened farmers separated from one another, divided by walls of skeletons as specters bled them through their armor. But they were rallying. The rangers were taking charge. When Mishun reached the top of the gates, Giklech had claimed their right flank and began to push back.

A paladin raised his bow on Mishun when he rushed toward them.

“What are you doing?” Mishun demanded.

It loosed the arrow. Mishun flinched, but the point sailed over his shoulder to bury in the breastplate of a dead soldier. Its skeleton exploded from the impact. Short sword and shield smashed to the ground.

“Help me open the gates!” Valen cried. He leaned his weight against a lever. It would not open unless someone operated one on the opposite side of the gate, too.

“Don’t open that,” snarled Mishun, yanking the Àlvar down to his eye-level by his collar. “We should have gotten inside before they came!”

“We will die without reinforcements!” said Valen.

“No—Giklech can pin their army against the south wall—if we get up on the stanchions—your archers—”

But other paladins had already cranked the remaining levers. Mighty gears twisted, hydraulics hissed, and the gates lifted. A foul wind blew past the Delver and the paladins. It was more rotten than any stench that came from the Brink. The smell of Creep was new to Dwarrow, but unmistakable: Lorkullen had already taken those inside the Outpost. None but the Àlvar had survived the first raid. And thus the open doors exposed another swarm of rotting dead, crushing the Company between them like hammer and anvil.

[roguelioness]

Harden your heart (to a cutting edge)

Solas finds her in the aftermath, blood still dripping thin and viscous from the end of her staff’s blade. The scent of iron lingers in the air, thick and harsh and metallic, coats his throat and lungs as he draws in a shaky breath at the sight before him. Neria has no reaction to his sudden appearance; the entirety of her focus is on the body by her feet.

He follows her gaze. There’s a wide, gaping wound in the center of the belly, revealing muscle and sinew, running deep enough to where he can see the spine. 

The dead elf’s face wears a mask of sneering hatred.

Neria looks up at him when he takes another step into the clearing, a twig snapping beneath his foot. There’s gore in her pale hair, matting the strands. Her eyes are dead and cold in the way grave markers are, her features  terrifyingly blank.

“He was a good friend,” she says, her accent marred by the split lip. Her voice is automated and monotone, devoid of any emotion. “I even loved him, once.” Her tone is chillingly even. 

Her toes are stained red.

“I was fourteen. He’d pull my hair and tease me and when he went hunting he would bring me back berries to share. I left for the Conclave so he would not have to.” The dull thud of her staff hitting the ground goes ignored. The fingers on her prosthetic creak, the sound louder than thunder as she closes them into a fist. 

“He called me a whore. A traitor. Said I sold my soul to the shems.” Her gaze flicks to the body at her nearby, charred beyond recognition. “She claimed I betrayed my people. Told me I deserved to die.”

Neria’s face is still empty, her aura vacant of the compassion that was woven through her being. The pit of his stomach opens up to an endlessly ominous maw.

“They were my clanmates, once.”

There’s so much, so much crimson on her armor. 

“But I must do what needs to be done.”

Her voice is still so lifeless.

“Are you here for me, Dread Wolf?” she asks, head tilted to the side. That same expressionless mask on her face. “Will you take your vengeance on their behalf?”

Five, he counts them, stone-still where they lie, and she stands over them all, battered and bloodied and bruised, with an arrow jutting from between her shoulders. The carmine fletching is a shade lighter than the scarlet-covered shaft.

Her kith, her kin, slain by her hand, slain because-

Laughter bubbles within him, high and hysterical. He turned her away from him, but took those  she called her own. When he twisted them to serve his plans, how did he not see that they would find her on the other side of the line he had inadvertently drawn?

What more vengeance can he take? His retribution is insidious, more sinister than death, having robbed her of the very essence of her nature. His hands clench into fists; his tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth with shame.

“No,” he says at last; the word comes out thin and reedy but she does not react to this fresh betrayal, does not point out that they championed his cause and died for it and he will not avenge their effort. She doesn’t need to. The words hang over their heads like a guillotine, waiting for a signal for the blade to drop. He knows when it does it will sever whatever bond remains between them.

Neria exhales. A cold wind passes through the clearing, disperses ice over the crimson-soaked blades of grass. It rasps against his skin, sends alarm trickling down his chest.

“Very well.” The blade makes a grotesquely wet, suctioning sound as she slides her weapon into its holster. She turns mechanically, her back to him. Remains still for a second.

If he pulls that arrow out, he wonders, will she bleed? Is there any warmth left in her veins?

Silence glides in like an eclipse, entire and enormous. He cannot even hear her breath. She is a statue, feral, deadly, and he finds himself reaching out for her against his own volition.

She shifts. Moves. Strides away, her gait measured and deliberate.

She does not look at the bodies. She does not look at him.

Dread catches him by the throat, squeezes tight, tighter, leaves him choking in the frost-scattered clearing. Something has changed, he knows, can recognize it in the ebb and flow of the wind. The draft, the puff of air that is the earth’s breath, whispers to him that the person who walked into the clearing bleeds from treachery.

Solas gazes once more upon those who had belonged to Clan Lavellan.

What has he done?

[yostressmininggirl]

“Mementos and memorabilia, from ordinary items to rare finds, we dictate our own meaning to these objects and make them unique. One of a kind.”

Box of Memories is a masterlist of items that you've received/given from/to DSMP members. You may request a character and an item, as well as add more details that you would like to be added into the story like a genre too. For example, you may ask for [Technoblade] giving you an [Emerald], you can also specify details like when, how, or whatever that comes to mind!

All my writings would be gender neutral and would be in an ambiguous relationship setting unless stated otherwise, and keep in mind that only one request applies for each item, all in a realistic Minecraft universe. This event is mostly for me to practice writing again, so at times I would have to close the requests when I have lots of requests. The format of the answered request would be like so:

Name of Item

Item / DSMP Character / Amount (if applicable) / Current Location or State of Item and a story revolving the chosen item

----------------if you're looking to just read, the finished prompts can easily be found in the masterlist ----------------

There are over 1,088 obtainable and unobtainable items in Minecraft 1.16. Underneath is the masterlist of the items as well as their corresponding request. Only 1 variant of each block is allowed and will be crossed out after being used:

B U I L D I N G B L O C K S

Stone (All Variants)

Polished/Granite

Polished/Diorite

Polished/Andesite

Grass Block

Dirt (All Variants)

Warped/Crimson Nylium

Cobblestone (All Variants)

Planks (All Variants)

Bedrock???

Red/Sand

Gravel

Ore (All Variants)

Block of ____ (All Variants)

Log (All Variants)

Stripped Log (All Variants)

Wood (All Variants)

Sponge

Glass (16 Colors)

Sandstone (All Variants)

Wool (16 Colors)

Slabs (All Variants)

Stairs (All Variants)

Quartz (Foolish)

Bricks

Bookshelf (GeorgeNotFound)

Obsidian

Purpur Block (All Variants)

Ice (All Variants)

Snow Block

Pumpkin (All Variants)

Netherrack

Soul Sand/Soil

Polished/Basalt

Glowstone

Melon

Mycelium

Nether Bricks (All Variants)

End Stone (All Variants)

Terracotta (16 Colors)

Hay Bale

Prismarine

Sea Lantern

Magma Block

Warped/Nether Wart Block

Bone Block

Concrete/Powder (16 Colors)

Coral Blocks (All Variants)

Dried Kelp Block

Ancient Debris

Gilded Blackstone (Captain Puffy)

D E C O R A T I O N B L O C K S

Saplings (All Variants)

Leaves (All Variants)

Cobweb

Grass

Fern

Dead Bush

Seagrass

Sea Pickles

Flowers (All Variants)

Red/Brown Mushroom & Blocks/Stem

Warped/Crimson Fungus

Crimson/Warped Roots

Nether Sprouts

Weeping/Twisting Vines

Sugar Cane

Kelp

Bamboo

Cactus

Soul/Torch

End Rod

Chorus Plant/Fruit

Chest

Crafting Table

Furnace

Ladder

Jukebox

Fences (All Variants)

Iron Bars

Chains

Glass Pane (16 Colors)

Vines

Lily Pad

Enchanting Table

Ender Chest

Walls (All Variants)

Anvil

Carpets (16 Colors)

Slime Block

Glazed Terracotta (16 Colors)

Coral/Fan (All Variants)

Scaffolding

Painting

Sign (All Variants)

Bed (16 Colors)

Item Frame

Flower Pot

Heads (All Variants)

Armor Stand

Banners (16 Colors)

End Crystal

Loom

Composter

Barrel

Smoker

Blast Furnace

Cartography Table

Fletching Table

Grindstone

Smithing Table

Stonecutter

Bell (Technoblade)

Soul/Lantern

Soul/Campfire

Shroomlight

Bee Nest

Bee Hive

Honey Block (OSMP!Ranboo)

Honeycomb Block

Lodestone

Respawn Anchor

R E D S T O N E

Dropper

Note Block

Sticky/Piston

TNT

Lever

Redstone Torch

Pressure Plate (All Variants)

Trapdoor (All Variants)

Fence Gate (All Variants)

Buttons (All Variants)

Door (All Variants)

Redstone Lamp

Tripwire Hook

Trapped Chest

Daylight Detector

Hopper

Dispenser

Observer

Redstone Comparator/Repeater

Redstone Dust

Lectern

Target Block

T R A N S P O R T A T I O N

Rails (All Variants)

Minecart (All Variants)

Saddle

Boats (All Variants)

Carrot/Warped Fungus on a Stick

Elytra (Philza Minecraft)

M I S C E L L A N E O U S

Beacon

Turtle Egg

Conduit (Foolish)

Scute

Char/coal

Diamond

Iron Ingot

Gold Ingot

Netherite Ingot

Netherite Scrap

Stick

Bowl

String

Feather (Philza)

Gunpowder

Seeds (All Variants)

Wheat

Flint

Bucket (All Variants/Fish Buckets)

Snowball

Brick

Clay Ball

Paper

Book

Slime Ball

Egg

Glowstone Dust

Ink Sac

Lapis Lazuli

Dye (16 Colors)

Bone Meal

Bone

Sugar

Ender Pearl (Punz)

Blaze Rod

Gold Nugget

Nether Wart

Bottle o' Enchanting

Fire Charge

Book and Quill (OSMP!Ranboo)

Emerald

Empty Map (Eret)

Nether Star

Fireworks (All Variants)

Nether Brick

Nether Quartz

Prismarine Shard/Crystal

Rabbit Hide

Horse Armor (All Variants)

Popped/Chorus Fruit

Shulker Shell/Box

Iron Ingot

Music Disc (Eret)

Nautilus Shell

Heart of the Sea

Banner Pattern (All Variants)

Honeycomb

F O O D S T U F F S

Apple

Mushroom Stew

Bread

Raw/Cooked Porkchop

Golden Apple

Enchanted Golden Apple

Raw/Cooked Cod

Raw/Cooked Salmon

Tropical Fish

Pufferfish

Cake (Dream)

Cookie

Melon Slice

Dried Kelp

Raw/Cooked Steak

Raw/Cooked Chicken

Rotten Flesh

Spider Eye

Carrot (OSMP!Technoblade)

Baked/Poisonous/Potato

Pumpkin Pie

Raw/Cooked Rabbit

Rabbit Stew

Raw/Cooked Mutton

Beetroot

Beetroot Soup

Sweet Berries

Honey Bottle

T O O L S

Flint and Steel

Wooden Shovel/Pickaxe/Axe/Hoe

Stone Shovel/Pickaxe/Axe/Hoe

Golden Shovel/Pickaxe/Axe/Hoe

Iron Shovel/Pickaxe/Axe/Hoe

Diamond Pickaxe (Dreamwastaken)

Netherite Shovel/Pickaxe/Axe/Hoe

Compass (Awesamdude)

Fishing Rod

Clock (Karl Jacobs)

Shears

Enchanted Book - Efficiency

Enchanted Book - Silk Touch

Enchanted Book - Unbreaking

Enchanted Book - Fortune

Enchanted Book - Luck of the Sea

Enchanted Book - Lure

Enchanted Book - Mending

Enchanted Book - Curse of Vanishing

Lead

Nametag

C O M B A T

Turtle Shell

Bow (Eret)

Arrow

Wooden Sword

Stone Sword

Golden Sword

Iron Sword

Diamond Sword

Netherite Sword

(Dyed) Leather Cap (GeorgeNotFound)

Chestplate (All Variants)

Leggings (All Variants)

Boots (All Variants)

Enchanted Book - Protection

Enchanted Book - Fire Protection

Enchanted Book - Feather Falling

Enchanted Book - Blast Protection

Enchanted Book - Projectile Projection

Enchanted Book - Respiration

Enchanted Book - Aqua Affinity

Enchanted Book - Thorns

Enchanted Book - Depth Strider

Enchanted Book - Frost Walker

Enchanted Book - Curse of Binding

Enchanted Book - Soul Speed

Enchanted Book - Sharpness

Enchanted Book - Smite

Enchanted Book - Bane of Arthropods

Enchanted Book - Knockback

Enchanted Book - Fire Aspect

Enchanted Book - Looting

Enchanted Book - Sweeping Edge

Enchanted Book - Power

Enchanted Book - Punch

Enchanted Book - Flame

Enchanted Book - Infinity

Enchanted Book - Loyalty

Enchanted Book - Impaling

Enchanted Book - Riptide

Enchanted Book - Channeling

Enchanted Book - Multishot

Enchanted Book - Quick Charge

Enchanted Book - Piercing

Spectral Arrow

Tipped Arrows (All Variants)

Shield

Totem of Undying

Trident (OSMP!Ranboo)

Crossbow

B R E W I N G

Ghast Tear

Fermented Spider Eye

Blaze Powder

Magma Cream

Glistering Melon Slice

Golden Carrot

Rabbit's Foot

Phantom Membrane

Dragon's Breath

Brewing Stand

Cauldron

Glass Bottle

Water Bottle

Splash/Potion of Night Vision

Splash Potion of Invisibility (Eret)

Splash/Potion of Leaping

Splash/Potion of Fire Resistance

Splash/Potion of Swiftness

Splash/Potion of Slowness

Splash/Potion of Turtle Master

Splash/Potion of Water Breathing

Potion of Healing (Foolish)

Splash/Potion of Harming

Splash/Potion of Potion

Splash/Potion of Regeneration

Splash/Potion of Strength

Splash/Potion of Weakness

Splash/Potion of Slow Falling

[vannahfanfics]

A Legend in the Making

Word Count: 2110

Fluff, Humor, Fantasy AU, Barbarian!Bakugo, Dragon!Kirishima

Summary: While out on a hunting trip, barbarian Katsuki Bakugo comes across a dragon egg. His attempts to cook it, however, lead to him hatching the thing! And now the darn thing won't leave him alone!

Howdy! Here is my story for the Barbarian Bakugo Reverse Mini-Bang! Please check out my partner’s awesome art as well! :) 

The thick layer of dead leaves and soil crunched under Katsuki’s boots. He was crouched slightly, his finger resting on the red fletching of the arrow that was knocked in his bow. His steps were slow and deliberate, aimed for the patches of forest floor that had the least amount of twigs and dried leaves. He knew these hunting trails so well that he didn’t even need to look as he crept along, his gaze instead fixated on the oblivious deer grazing a dozen yards away. 

Katsuki approached as close as he dared before halting. He slowly sank into a firing stance, one knee pressed to the cool, damp earth. He brought the bow up and pulled the arrow back, the string stretching to its limits as his bulging arm muscles pulled it with practiced strength. The tip of the arrow did not quiver a bit as he took aim at the animal. He inhaled, then exhaled. 

The air rang with the sharp thwang! of the arrow being released. The deer jerked, startled at the sound. But it barely had time to escape the shrill whistle of the arrow before it punched into its side, burying itself into its flesh. The deer let out a strangled scream before its legs buckled and it collapsed in a heap. All was still except for the pollen and dust now swirling in the place where it had serenely stood, but the little particles would soon join it in its stillness, too. 

With a snort, Katsuki stood. He secured the bow onto his back while he stomped over to the corpse. His crimson eyes roved over its form, and then he gave himself an approving nod. A fine buck, with mounds of rippling meat. It would feed his village well. 

But I spent too long hunting, he thought, tipping back his head to squint up at the forest canopy. Though the sun could not be seen through the thick blanket of emerald leaves, he knew that the sun was growing low based on the golden hue of the light streaming through the gaps. He wouldn’t make it even halfway to the village before night fell and the true beasts came out to play. It was better he made camp; it would be easier to defend his prize in one place, with the benefit of flickering flame to dissuade the more cowardly predators. 

As he hauled the deer’s carcass onto his shoulders, he caught the barest gleam of light out of the flicker of his eye. He immediately followed it, craning his head despite his hunched position, to his left. And there it was—a large ruby-red egg resting in a hollow beneath a bush, the fading sunlight playing over its smooth surface. It seemed the deer’s spasming legs had disturbed it, as it was lying on its side, the nest of leaves on which it had been resting now scattered about. 

The deer’s elegant, bony horns scoured lines in the detritus as Katsuki hauled it over to the bush. He lunged down to scoop the egg up, cradling it in one big hand as he held it up to the light. It really was a pretty thing, like a giant ruby. 

Too bad that Katsuki was going to crack it open and eat it. 

Katsuki tracked his way back to a clearing that the tribesmen often used to make camp when the sun crept too close to the horizon for their liking. He deposited the deer next to the fallen log that would serve as his seat for the evening, then set about picking up loose twigs and branches around the camp to make a campfire. He was strangely possessive of the egg, holding it close to his chest as he went about his business. It almost seemed more alive than an egg should be… It pulsed in his hand with a thrumming heartbeat and radiated a gentle warmth. But that could only be his imagination, right? 

He dumped the branches into the charred circle of earth encircled by stones, the evidence of countless fires past. After building up a warm, crackling fire, he arranged some thicker branches over it to serve as a scaffolding. He then gripped the egg between his knees and unsheathed the dagger at his hip, preparing to punch a hole in the shell of the egg so he could get at the succulent, gooey yolk within. 

Katsuki jammed the knife against the egg, and the steel blade immediately snapped in half. 

“What the—? What kind of egg from Hell is this?!” he ranted and jerked the egg close so he could angrily inspect it. It seemed like your normal, run-of-the-mill unidentified beast egg. It wasn’t like the shell was scaly or ridged or anything. But it had just broken his knife! Katsuki growled under his breath, pondering how he was going to crack this egg open. He sure wasn’t about to go at it with his sword and break that too. 

“Fine. Guess hard-boiled it is,” Katsuki huffed before plopping the egg onto the fire. 

He watched the way the light from the flames danced over its ruby-red surface. As he stared into its depths, it almost seemed like it began to glow from within, an orange light pulsing in tune with the heartbeat-like sensation he had felt earlier. Such a strange little egg, Katsuki thought idly as he gazed at it. 

Just as he was beginning to grow a little sleepy from staring intently at it, there was a pop and a hiss. 

Katsuki jumped as a piece of the egg shell broke off the top-right side of the egg and went shooting off into the woods. Steam hissed from the small opening, while the egg began to rattle and shake against the wood. Katsuki gawked at it in disbelief; he’d never seen an egg do something like this before! Fuck, was it going to explode?! God, he would never hear the end of it from his ancestors if a goddamn egg killed him!

The top half of the egg cracked open as two tiny, clawed paws forced their way out, followed by a red, reptilian head. The tiny lizard-like thing blinked blearily as it shook its head to break free of the stringy membranes of the egg, revealing eyes as red as its shiny scales. It opened its mouth in a squeaky yawn, showing off its rows of tiny, needle-like teeth, and then awkwardly stretched out a pair of bat-like wings behind it. 

A dragon. Katsuki Bakugo had just hatched a dragon.

Katsuki blinked at the dragon. The dragon blinked at him. Then, it let out something reminiscent of a purr and began wildly clawing its way out of the egg, chirping at Katsuki all the way. 

“Whoa! Hey, hey, hey, no!” Katsuki yelped as he jumped to his feet and crossed his arms over his chest in an X. “I ain’t yer mama! You were supposed to be my dinner!” 

The dragon stopped tearing the eggshell apart to blink puzzledly up at him. It then shimmied its way out and began clumsily stumbling over the arrangement of twigs and sticks in an effort to get to Katsuki. The flames licking at its ruby-red hide seemed not to bother it the slightest bit. It reached the edge of the fire, then gave Katsuki a pitiful look before chirping sadly. 

“What? No. Go away,” Katsuki grumped, turning around to present his back to the reptile. However, he couldn’t help the way his heart clenched in guilt as the dragon cooed miserably. His eye twitched as he repeated to himself, Don’t turn around, don’t turn around, don’t turn around. But he did, and as soon as he clapped eyes on the pouting baby dragon, he knew it was over. 

“Ugh, fine,” he sighed, then stooped down to pick the dragon up. The best way he could think to do so was like a puppy; he scooped it up underneath its scaly armpits and held it up. The dragon began to wag its tail not unlike a dog, and its forked tongue lolled out of its mouth while Katsuki held it up to squint inquisitively at it. “What’re you lookin’ at?” 

The dragon blinked, then craned its neck forward to affectionately lick the tip of Katsuki’s nose. It felt strange, the little spindly forks of his tongue flicking over his nose, and Katsuki couldn’t help but recoil. The dragon’s expression immediately fell, punctuated by a depressed croon. 

“Oh, stop her gripin’, ya just surprised me, is all.” Katsuki wasn’t sure why he even felt compelled to reassure the little dragon, but he did feel a small sense of satisfaction when the dragon perked up and began wagging his tail so intensely that it thwacked back and forth against both Katsuki’s elbows. 

“Tch,” Katsuki said and then set the dragon on the ground. Dragons supposedly were on their own from the time they were born, so he expected the little lizard to eventually wander off. Katsuki started walking around his small encampment gathering materials to make a snare trap. His initial plans for dinner had been ruined, after all, so he needed to get something. He couldn’t cut the deer open before bringing it back to the village. 

However, much to Katsuki’s chagrin, the dragon did not leave. Instead, it toddled right at Katsuki’s heels. If he got more than a foot away, he would begin to growl and chirp and snarl until Katsuki stopped long enough for it to catch up. Then, it would nuzzle affectionately into Katsuki’s boots and peer up with him with round, adoration-filled eyes. 

“Gross,” Katsuki would grunt, even though it was totally not gross, and he even kind of enjoyed it. 

After constructing a trap, setting it, and snaring a hare, it was quite obvious that the dragon would not be wandering off. It sat beside Katsuki as he turned the filleted rabbit mean on the fire, curled up at his feet. It was trying its best to stay awake, bleary eyes fixated on the roasting meat; however, its body was betraying its desires. Its head repeatedly bobbled, slowly falling down to its chest before snapping back up. It would stare at the meet, and then its eyes would droop as the process started again. 

It growled in protest when Katsuki nudged it with its toe. 

“Oi. Lizard brain. Just go to sleep.” 

The dragon growled again and turned around to nip at the toe of his boot. It grew tired in the middle of chewing on it, blinking sleepily as it drooled on the leather. Katsuki sniffed disdainfully and leaned over to scoop the dragon up. It wiggled apathetically in a faint attempt at disobeying, then fell limp in his arms, too exhausted to put up a fight. 

“What are you, anyway?” Katsuki asked and flipped the dragon over. It took a minute to figure out—dragon anatomy was not his strong suit—but he eventually riddled out that the dragon was male. The dragon just lolled in his lap, purring at the comfortable heat of his lap. “I guess you need a name… How about… Eijirou?” 

He seemed to like the name, as his purrs jumped in volume until he was practically vibrating. 

“Eijirou it is,” Katsuki chuckled. He peeled off his cloak and bundled it up, placing it on the log and patting it into something reminiscent of a nest. He set Eijirou in the middle, and the dragon immediately curled up in the warm cloth. Smoke poured from his mouth, seemingly in contentment. It didn’t take long for his eyes to slip closed and his purrs to turn into soft snores. 

Katsuki found himself watching him sleep with a soft, sappy smile. Ugh. Guess he was a dragon mama now. He’d never hear the end of it. 

“But I bet you’ll be a big ol’ badass when you grow up, eh?” he laughed to himself while he pulled the cooked meat off the fire. He wrapped some up in some leaves to give to Eijirou when he woke up, then held the other on his makeshift leaf plate, waiting for it to cool. “A barbarian chief with a dragon at his side… Sounds like a legend in the making, yeah?” 

He reached out to scratch the dragon on the underside of the chin. Though he was still sound asleep, Eijirou let out a preening purring sound of happiness. Katsuki’s smile turned lopsided, unable to not feel just a bit of affection for the creature. 

Guess I should be glad you didn’t end up being my dinner, little guy. Now sleep well…

[hylian-champion]

        Normally, the hero’s privilege placed him above dealing with the affairs of Castle Town. Though the recent string of destruction and targeted robberies had all the knights of Hyrule pulled thin. At their wits’ end, they called in their best to hopefully put an end to the culprit’s exploits.

        Never trained as an investigator, Link simply mastered the art of looking busy without knowing what he was doing. He knelt close to the charred piece of wood blown off from the nearby shop and nudged it mindlessly. Even he could surmise explosives were used—if it wasn’t already clear enough from the gaping hole in the shop’s wall where the wood originated.

        Just under chosen chunk of wood was yet another branch that wouldn’t draw the eye of anyone with experience. Though, to Link, he recognized it instantly. It was half of a thin, smooth shaft with a single burnt fletch at the end. It was an arrow—more appropriately, what remained of a bomb arrow after it went off. He quietly approached his fellow captain nearby and quietly waved the clue in front of him to see what he thought of it.        // @liishang​

[jacfletch]

imma be honest i dont understand why hanssen, roxanna, and gaskell got theyre own fun flashback episode when 2/3 of those chars were temporary & dead while jac doesnt have one even though it would greatly serve her character and plot. also i think ange should have one. and dom. and xav. and donna. and chloe. and fletch. and nicky. and kian. and everyone else i care about bc flashback episodes are just fucking fun

[embyrinitalics]

So I said I wanted to write a not-related-to-Calamitous Zelink oneshot the other day, but then it turned into this, which is decidedly the start of a multichap, and which I already have a mental outline for, and which I sat down today and wrote in just a few hours. Guess I’ll throw it in the WIP pile. T_T

~~~ Placeholder title: Dragon’s Den Word count: ~1750 Rating: T for violence, probably. Pairings: Monster!Zelda/Link Premise: BotW AU, Beauty and the Beast but backwards? Maybe? Previous | Next ~~~

He hadn’t always been a Slayer.

It was easy to forget that in the heat of a kill, splashed with boiling blood and embers and lungs and eyes filled with smoke. And that was what made him the best.

So many didn’t have the stomach for it. They longed for simpler times, for a past they had inadvertently surrendered in pursuit of glory and could never truly possess again, no matter how similar their circumstances might have appeared from the outside. Something was lost the first time that wash of terror coated one’s mouth, driving him beyond reason, beyond ambition, to fight for his life, to steal that spark of existence out of something so powerful and magnificent in order to preserve his own, utterly without thought for the reward, that could never be restored. That was what they longed for, and what they could never have.

Somehow he had managed to shrug that desire off, after the fourth or fifth time, and accept his lot for what it was. Unglamorous. Gritty. Necessary. As much a part of him as the unexplained, triangular etchings on the back of his left hand, there whether he wanted them or not.

And that was what made him the best.

No one knew where they came from. Legend said they had been benevolent once, worshipped as they graced the skies with fire, or ice, or lightning, treading their mortal plane as they passed between heavenly places. He found that hard to believe. But he was a man of faith, insofar as he believed the universe was vastly larger than he was and there were bound to be things about it he would never understand.

The biting, autumnal wind of Akkala swept through the highlands, and he pulled his cloak tighter about his shoulders as he pushed headlong into it. The highlands were wedged between a violent mountain and the sea, and constantly subject to the unusual caprice of the weather. It was unforgiving terrain even at the best of times. He gritted his teeth as a gust nearly blew him off his feet. Only a fool would be hunting dragons in it.

He had survived worse.

He crested the ridge that overlooked the sprawling wilds beneath, panting, and started the long trudge down the pass in the misty, judgmental shadow of the islands rising out of the sea beside the cliffs, churning the ocean trapped between them into an angry spray.

Part of him thought they should leave well enough alone. The mighty Gorons shielded them with their mountain in the north, and the domain of the Zoras in Lanayru was vast and well defended in the east, effectively trapping it in Akkala, where there were no settlements anyway, probably with good reason. But the ruins of the Citadel, standing like a lonely sentinel between Zorana and Eldin, appealed to their greed, to their sense of entitlement, to their pride, whispering about a forgotten, glorious past, and in a rush of ambition they had asked him to clear the way.

He had made a pithy attempt to warn them about the pitfalls of chasing after glory. They didn’t want to hear it.

He could smell it, mixing with salt and brine and the moist spray clinging to the cliffs—the char of old fire and damp smoke. It tinged the air with a subtle heat, gentler than sunlight, and he paused to breathe it in. It was close. And, as he hadn’t spotted it yet despite having the high ground and the panoramic view it afforded, it was likely that it was aware of him. That it knew precisely where he was. That it was waiting, coiled to strike to kill him in one blow.

That made it smarter than most.

He waited, too, calculating. He would be at a disadvantage if he couldn’t draw it inland, and the excess of caution it was already demonstrating made him doubt very much that he could. Not without substantial provocation. He dropped his pack, slinging his bow and quiver over his shoulder and digging for his grappling hook. It was a lot of equipment for such an open battlefield; he frowned, dropping his shield with the rest. Defense for agility. It was going to be that kind of fight.

He turned towards the cliffs, unsheathing his sword. The tip dragged in the moist earth as he stalked toward the smattering of trees overlooking the great spiral of the Rist, singing a quiet, rasping song. A dirge, he thought, nearly tasting its blood in his mouth already.

He stopped in the copse. They sheltered a crypt of old ruins, scattered like the unburied bones of a Slayer’s victim. His fingers flexed impatiently around the hilt. It was quiet, but his lungs were still burning with the telltale sting of dragon’s breath.

He frowned. He didn’t enjoy games of cat and mouse; he was never quite sure which he was supposed to be.

The grappling hook fell from his shoulder as he schemed, scanning the trees for a suitable candidate. The largest. The heaviest. The one with the deepest rootstock. He fastened the tail to the base, hoping it would buy him a few precious seconds at least. He turned the claw over once, twice, memorizing its weight, and reached blindly with the other hand to touch the fletching peeking out of his quiver. Two bomb arrows, three ice, twenty-odd unenchanted. More than enough.

If he needed to use them all, he was probably already dead.

He stood and marched on the headland, every nerve on his spine alight, and peered over the edge. There was nothing but spray and rock on the cliff beneath.

Then the air pulled out from around him, suspending him in a familiar, vacuous pocket of dead space, trembling like a flow of water beneath his fingertips. He spun and loosed the hook.

A great dragon, spiraling skyward from the shadow of the cliffs, erupted from the rock beneath, taking with it a geyser of saltwater that burned his eyes, and the claw found its mark, snapping taut around its lustrous neck and digging three glaring red lines deep into its skin, right through the scales. It would only take one, maybe two, beats of its gigantic wings to uproot the cedar affixed to the other end.

It was enough. He whipped his bow into place while it screamed, threaded a bomb arrow, and loosed it right into its underbelly.

Black scales rained over the headland out of the explosion, its horrible, ear-splitting roar cracking the earth beneath his feet. But as he reached for the second arrow, the dragon stopped pulling. The rope went slack as it unfurled its leathery wings, diving right for him. He brandished his blade and arced it across the exposed underside as they crashed together, right off the edge of the headland and down the cliffs toward the Rist.

The rock roared up to meet him, splitting his side from temple to ribs and sending him tumbling down the slope towards the water. Between visions of the sun and rock he saw his sword spiraling ahead of him, and the night-black figure of the dragon, plummeting listlessly towards the great spiral.

The world went white for a worrisomely long time. He tasted salt and dragon burn, and the course, chalky flavor of sand caked on his lips. He spat, blinking himself conscious, and groaned as he heaved himself off his battered ribcage. His sword hadn’t come to rest terribly far away; he got to his feet and stumbled towards it, wrapping the hilt with bleeding fingers.

Then he raised his eyes to find his dragon, but where it should have landed, floating in a bloom of red between the sandbanks, was the supple, lissome form of a woman.

For a moment his mind was a vacuum. Where had she come from, and how could he have been so careless?

The sword dropped from his hands. He ran across the sandbar and plunged into the water on the other side, clambering towards her until he was waist deep in saltwater and the blossoming red. He stopped as his eyes traced the gushing wound, running from her bare middle, beneath her ribs, up her side to meet her spine. Exactly the path his blade had carved out of the dragon.

His hands fisted, watching her rise and fall with the churn of water like flotsam. He had heard legends of dragons that could fool the eyes, the ears, the heart, twisting reality into a deadly dream that he would never wake from. Or it could’ve been a blow to the head, making him see things that weren’t there.

But then her pale lips fell open as she fought for precious breath, golden hair strewn behind her like rays of the sun, and his mind was made for him.

He pulled her gingerly from the water, arms clutching her to him beneath her knees and shoulders, and hefted them both back to the sand, cursing his own stupidity all the way. He shrugged off his cloak and laid her bare form on it, cradling her head as his mind raced faster than the Hebra winds, conjuring ways to keep her alive—and himself, too, if at all possible.

Then her eyes—slitted, green as foxfire—sprang open with a gasp, hands closing on his wrists, and all at once she had changed, porcelain skin and soft figure giving way to something else entirely.

She hurled them both off the sand and against the ridge of the slope, pulling a cry out of him as she smashed his bruised spine against the stone. She had shifted into some alien half-shape, all sharp teeth and milky curves of horn, impressions of claws and scales, the obscured silhouette of dark wings, and a muscular, scythed tail.

“You should’ve killed me when you had the chance,” she snarled breathlessly, and then plunged the deadly end of her scythe into his chest.

His mouth fell open as he sucked a sudden, painful gulp of air, hands clutching uselessly at hers as it held him aloft by the throat. She tore it out of him with a horrible jerk, jewelled eyes full of hate, and then a blinding light, so bright it outshone the sun, exploded brilliantly from his branded left hand.

And as he watched her, head lolling and vision darkening, he saw the terror that must have been in his eyes mirrored in her own.

[xanwritesx]

for: @taliwrites​ who: max & fletcher & blake au: mutant & proud

"I'm coming in - be decent!"

Which, from the looks of things, if Blake had been ten minutes later they most likely wouldn't have been. For whatever Fletcher and Max may have started to get up to she doesn't care that she interrupted. Max's sly hands wander in the right places to rile her boy up, and Fletcher with a newly rolled - between his fingers looking flustered on the dorm room sofa.

"H-hi, Bla-"

"Finn's over again." She's blunt, quick to cut Fletcher's greeting off, and clearly annoyed. "Studying or tutoring or whatever." Blake air quotes the first two verbs in that statement and then drops her bag to the floor and drops to Fletcher's mattress with a groan.

Fletcher drops the contraband onto the small table amongst all his recreational belongings and nudges Max. "Has he been hanging around her more?" She'd know - she and Finn are almost as inseparable as she and Fletch are, but if he's been busy it might explain why there's been more time spent in his dorm. Not that Fletcher minds, even if she can manage to distract him from his studies with his own lack of self control. "Tali doesn't seem the sort. She's... probably, uh... really being tutored?"

"Ugh, whatever. Max, tell him." Blake groans again, dramatically, and tosses his pillow at his head. "Finn's a dog, Tali's his new tree. Do you think he's actually helping her study?"

[jawsandbones]

I found you prompts: In a pool of your own blood for Cassandra Pentaghast and Female Warrior or Rouge Inquisitor

Sitting slumped against the rock, her chin at her chest, and the dagger is still in her hand. Dust and ash sweep through the grass, over rubble and the charred remains of the demons that once were. Her other dagger is discarded, lost among dead things. Things that were once held together by strange magic, bone and old leather. No longer. Cassandra crouches down very near her, putting her own sword aside. The arrows have pierced through her armor. Fletching made of forgotten feathers, shaft of the same bone and leather, strung by the same magic. Her hand briefly passes over them as she raises fingers to her chin, tips her face upwards.

Eyes slowly open, wavering as they long to remain closed. Vision blurry, taking time to come into focus. There’s a stain on Cassandra’s cheek, sweat on her brow. Such worry in the way she holds herself, concern in the frown of her mouth. Something sweeter, in her gaze, when Lavellan smiles at the sight of her. Relief in the drop of her shoulders, sudden slack given to stiff limb and straight back. Cassandra sighs softly but the worry still beats as sure as her heart. Wrapping her arm around Lavellan’s waist, the other pressed against her chest, around that arrow.

She helps her to her feet, Lavellan’s arm practically limp over her shoulders. “I knew you’d find me,” she says. Her steps are unsteady, and Cassandra dips for a moment, carrying her completely in her arms. Lavellan lets her head rest against the crook of her neck.

“You should not have gone off on your own,” Cassandra scolds. Another smile, as Lavellan closes her eyes once again. She can tell how carefully Cassandra is walking, how she plans her steps, her every move. Doing the utmost not to jostle her, not to cause her any further discomfort.

“Sorry Cass. Won’t happen again,” she says. Her only reply is a muffled, muted, noise, made of sheer disbelief. Vivienne’s hands are cooler than Cassandra’s, however softer. Cupping her face, and she knows she’s being scolded again, but this voice isn’t as clear to her. The cot is somehow less comfortable than Cassandra’s arms. She knows something is removing her armor, cutting around the arrow. All she really knows is that Cassandra is still beside her, brushing back the stray hair stuck to her forehead.

Her hands are calloused with the practice of weapons. Her touch isn’t as delicate, not quite so gentle, but Lavellan wouldn’t have it any other way. Vivienne’s magic is much the same as her hands. Icy and cool, frost in the ribs of her. Cassandra wraps a hand around the shaft of the arrow, pulls it free when she’s told. Lavellan cries out, reaches upwards, and Cassandra is there to catch her.

“Easy,” she says, in a voice meant for only her, “it is almost done. Easy. Lie still, liebling.” Her hand brushes back hair yet again. This time, it lingers. Fingers curling at her cheeks, palm warm and sure. Lavellan isn’t sure if she dreams it, but what a sweet dream it is, to have Cassandra’s lips pressed against hers.

[zaerise]

if this is to end in fire

[Elementalist P-Class story. Takes place during the Fall in the Silver Ridge Mountains. Inspiration Music.]

The Great Flame guides.

It is something that is Known. It is Truth and Fact and Acceptance, since she is old enough to learn her first prayers. The Flame protects. The Flame watches over them all. It offers solace against the dark and the cold.

Without the Flame they are alone.

She has never been Alone. The Flame has been there, It has always flowed through her, a part of her. Magic, Promised, Talented. She is Different and she has Potential. A Witch comes to her Father’s home when she is still a youngling. Her belief is radiant - as vibrant as the Flame itself. Prayers are kept, rituals are honored - this is her Truth. This is her Way.

Zaerise.

Watcher.

Witch.

The Firebreak Coven are Chosen. Their trials are intense. The Flame is testing, always testing. Even once their pacts are made, once their vows are taken in Ashhome, even unto the moment they leave the Order. The Flame will always push them. It will always seek the best that they can do. Can be. It is the reason for the Burning Season. It is the reason they train as they do. It is the reason that Braeren Yellowbirch teaches her to wield a weapon and fight.

It is always a Test.

When the Dead walk it is not a Test.

Ashford. Hawkvale. Wintermarch. Rivermill. Wolfvale. Blackhollow.

The Ridges fell. One by one, the settlements were engulfed. By Dead, by Hunger, or by Flame.

Ashhome stood. Ashhome remained. The last. The beacon.

It was the last stand - all that was left of the people; refugees gathered in the city’s walls while the protectors stood outside. Militia and soldiers, Fire Watch, Red Arrows, and the Coven - each cut to only a few of their numbers. So little of them were left to stand and fight the marching Dead.

It was not only the Dead.

The Fire had shifted. It had swept up the forests and the mountains, leaving nothing standing in Its wake. This was not something that a Witch could fight. They learned early how to press back the Flame when its anger grew and engulfed forests; how to choke the air from It until there was nothing left but embers - and then to pull and shift water to douse those. The Flame was hungry at times, it was their place to contain that hunger to keep their forests and their homes safe.

This was a hunger that roared and spread. Twenty Witches may not have found a foothold in a blaze this strong, much less the handful that were left.

The wind at Zaerise’s heels pushed her faster than she should have been able to run, sprinting from the heart of Ashhome and out the gates - amidst the gathering of protectors where they had gathered to take point here and there, weapons prepared. Red-fletched arrows awaited in bows, swords were drawn here and there, chants had begun further ahead. The remaining Witches stood at the head of the gathering. It was surprisingly quiet - the dull roar of the Flames had not yet come down the valley, though it would be upon them soon. The sharp, crackling caw of Braeren’s Gift broke the silence as the phoenix soared down in flickering Flame, perching onto the elder Witch’s shoulder.

“They are coming from the southeast; the Wildfire comes for us as well. The refugees will make for the north and we will hold the line for them to escape. It is all we can do now.” Braeren was somber, stern - any touch of her warmth had been robbed this night. She was their leader, the last one that they had to give orders, and they would be followed to the last. The protectors split, separated; to cover as much ground as possible.

“Morrowburn, with me. We will hold against the Wildfire for as long as possible.”

The wind whipped embers and sparks past them; their heavy cloaks spun behind them in it. Two Witches, to hold the last line against the engulfing Flame. Golden eyes looked up to where the Wildfire roared in the distance. It would arrive soon. Minutes, perhaps, before the first flickers of it reached them. They would push against it. They could not hold long.

“Is this punishment? Did we not believe enough? Has the Flame forsaken us?” Zaerise’s voice lifted amongst the steadily growing roar. She looked to Braeren. For guidance, for support, for some idea to understand why this was happening. She had been her teacher in so much, that echoed true even now. Even as she moved - hands flowing into casting, to form a break which they could hold against.

“Doubt does not suit your faith, Morrowburn. If there is one thing you have always had, it is faith. Rarely have I seen a trust in the Flame so true.” Braeren focused on the young Witch, her own magic twining together to strengthen the hold. “This is not the Great Flame, Zaerise. It tests, but It does not kill like this. No matter where we find ourselves, do not believe that It has forsaken you.”

A moment of silence pressed between them. Zaerise watched the Wildfire roar quicker over the crest and spread down into the valley. A sharp, shaking breath was sucked in - even for as difficult was with the constricted air. A glimmer of tears reached her eyes, collapsing down her cheek. The Flame reflected in them as it roared ever closer. Braeren reached a hand out, clawed gauntlet grabbing onto Zaerise’s leather-gloved own.

Golden eyes closed, eyelashes wet from the tears. A prayer left the young Witch. Quiet. Whispered. Desperate.

“Great Flame guide us. Great Flame protect us. Great Flame give us strength.”

A chant. A mantra. Repeated and echoed, all that she found she could cling to.

The squawk of Braeren’s Gift broke her from it, alerting both Witches to the Wildfire that roared down towards them. But not just Fire.

This was not just a Flame.

They had thought that Fire could fight the Dead. The Wildfire had begun on that thought; that they could burn them out. Countless had died to It to stave off the marching Dead.

It had meant nothing.

They came ahead of the Wildfire, a legion of Dead marching down the Valley. At first, Zaerise thought that they merely walked among the Flame. The realization came quickly, though, that the Fire was a part of them. It moved and flickered as part of them, blazing in their eyes. Most of the hoard twitched and moved in a way that mimicked the licking of Flames, and with their bodies it played like some sort of grotesque dance.

At the head of the column moved a phantom, robed and concealed except for the Flames where eyes should have been beneath the cloak. A bow held in its hand, and it raised the bow towards the Witches, an arrow made of sheer Fire striking to life.

They could not escape this.

The refugees. The militia. The Watch. The Arrows. The Coven.

She had heard what happened when the Dead fell now. They rose again. She could see it with her own eyes now.

It would happen to all of them.

She could not let it.

“ZAERISE!” Braeren’s voice roared louder than the Flames that crashed against their hold. Both of them quaked at the force, barely holding back the Wildfire. Braeren Knew. Before Zaerise could even tangibly form the thought, she Knew what it was.

Panic roared in the young Witch’s chest. Breath was near impossible. The heat off the Wildfire was sweltering. They had moment, seconds. Enough refugees should have made it north by now. They would be safe. They could escape. Something would live on from this.

“I am sorry, Braeren.” Zaerise whispered, the tears carving down her cheeks. Her hands pulled back. Oxygen rushed forward to feed the Fire. The hold was broken. The Wildfire roared to life amongst them. With a guided hand, it was directed - it rushed forward towards Ashhome. Braeren lunged towards her before everything was swallowed by the Flame.

If they Burned, it would be together.

Ashes.

Everything was blackened. Burnt out. Charred beyond recognition. The Coven Hall partially collapsed onto itself. The dawn had come, casting a misty light across the remains of Ashhome. Crunching footsteps over fallen buildings did not stir the Witch where she sat, even as they came near her.

Between her hands was clutched a wooden staff, partially scorched. Continued mentions of her name and title did not make her turn towards the source. Gold eyes looked empty. Without the spark that they had held.

The rest had Burned. Everything but her.

@jonathan-nevermore-smith @thesunguardmg 

[songsfromtheashesnovel]

November 1: 10:50 am

When the ashes flew, they bonded with the snow and the gray shrunk away from human’s eyes.

The woman, her skin wrinkled with time sighed, her knees at the blackened fragment of wood. When she looked across, she stared at the young child, uniformed in elegance, of nobility. On the child’s heart were gold wings. 

It was a tolerable wind and sun today. 

Her wrinkled hand reached toward the charred remains. The bones had been swept away, but it was not the bones she was after, for the metal in them.

“Don’t touch!” The child cried instinctively, though they did not move.

She did not pay heed, though she understood their concern. She pulled out the blackened metal, caked in ashes. Although old, she still was full of strength. 

When, she held it, she held it to her torso. It was bent, but it almost fit her torso evenly.

“I told her, it wouldn’t burn with her. I told her, she’s better off burying it,” The old woman remarked.

--

Chapter 1 (Roughly)

“How far are we from home?” Their boots crunched into the snow.

“We’ll get back.”

She did not wanted to let her friend know that they were miles away, but the good hunt was miles away.

“What if we’re in the Metal territory?”

“Hush,” 

She gritted her teeth. Sometimes she wanted to twack her on the back of her skull, like she used to. But she huffed and remembered the concerns. They had almost gotten spotted last week and that would have meant disaster, their flesh carved out and hung on stakes as examples.

She plucked at her bowstring. “If only I could have one of their guns, used their guns, we’ll have meat on the table.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Sacrilegious.“ She threw up her shoulders. “But we could use them, They’re faster than a bow.”

“It’s aims are sloppy if you asked me.” Her friend plucked her bowstring. She pulled out an arrow and tapped on the iron tip, that was a blunt used tip that had been chiseled into hunting sharpness. She brushed her forefinger against the red fletching feathers.  

“All the good meat has been shot down because of their guns.”

The crows ca-cawed in the air.

“How about crow-hunting?“ Her friend aimed her bow and an arrow at the sky, ready to shoot.

She licked her lips. Crows sounded nice and they made great challenging targets with their size and agile flights. But she needed to drag home the big meat to mother. 

“Don’t exhaust your weapon. We need meat to store. Let’s get a big one first because we get a bird-sized one.”

But as she remarked this, her friend snapped her arrow off to the sky and it pierced the bird and the dot of the bird fell somewhere, crumbling onto the leaves of the tree. The two girls waited for it to fall to the snow, but it was there, the red feathers of the arrow marking its presence of the kill it had skewered.

“You climb for it.” 

“No, you get it, you shot it, you get your meat.”

The friend rose her hands up in surrender. She laid down her sling of arrows and her quiver and went to the tree. She slammed her leather-gloved hands onto the bark and began her climb.

Word count: 507

++

Raising money for the Playwright Retreat at Creede, Colorado. As a budding queer WOC playwright, I am looking for more professional footing into the theatre community and expanding my craft, which concerns LGBTQ+, intersectional, and magical realism contents. However, as I am struggling with freelance job and a low-paying internship, I will appreciate assistance. The money donated would go to travel, transportation, meals, and other expenses.

So give this blog a follow and if you enjoy my in-progress novel, 

Donate Here: https://www.paypal.com/pools/c/89cMKzCGtq

[fletcher-fr]

The Fey Calamity

part 6 of 8 (part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5)

Queen Amdiffyn was glad to be on her way back home. As much as she loved the Nature realm, and the Gladehavens, she had been born in the Twisting Crescendo after all. She missed the sounds of the wind, of the quiet rattling of the jewels against the walls of her palace. And it had been a relief to be able to slip away with Ikelos more often… but she was a Queen. She wanted to see the other members of her queendom again.

And yet, as she drew closer to the steppes, anxiety gripped her. There was smoke on the horizon. She couldn’t shake the fear that it might be the Fletching Clan.

She glanced back at the other dragons flying with her. Ikelos, Arduinna, the bogsneak sisters, and Sylvan. All of the Nature dragons who had come with her to the Viridian Labyrinth for the holiday. Dibella gave her a reassuring smile.

But as the twisting waters of the Leviathan Trench slipped under them and the cliffs came into sight, the Queen’s heart dropped.

Violently pink smoke billowed up from the walls of the Fletching Clan palace.

Glittering spires of fae sap jutted up where they had fallen into the bay below.

Amdiffyn screamed.

The party rushed forward as silence closed in around Amdiffyn with the adrenaline. All she could hear was the beat of her own heart and the pounding rush of air in her ears as she descended on the crumbling palace. Her feet touched the ground before the front doors; one swung wildly off its hinges, the other lay shattered across the steps. Hazy light streaked through into the courtyard within in great vermilion bars. Where once walls had cordoned off halls and columns draped with silks, now the fae sap lay crushed, glinting along one long path to the throne Amdiffyn had once occupied.

Now, a new dragon sat in the throne. Its great marble wings wreathed his head, catching sunlight like a halo.

At his feet, the bodies of dragons were heaped. Amdiffyn’s stomach churned as she stared at them; friends, subjects. She recognized most; Hecate, Callisto, Sakine, Blight… Even Karliah, her most faithful mercenary, and both the Spring and Autumn Suns. The world around her began to spin. She saw the marks of Maren poison on them, and Talonok claws…

The dragon on the throne was speaking, drawing her back from the abyssal despair that was beginning to eat her. She looked at him with rage. He spoke in a tongue she did not recognize, but a voice echoed his, translating it. Amdiffyn looked wildly about for the source, and her heart stopped when she found it. Leannan lay chained to a broken pillar beside the throne. He was barely a skeleton. Sidhe was collapsed beside him, her once-beautiful scales dull and lifeless.

“Amdiffyn, we were told to expect you,” Leannan rasped in Sornen. “Your people have fled.”

Amdiffyn stumbled forward, reaching out to them, but a massive creature slammed its paw down in front of her. She jumped back, shaken, and followed the line of braided muscle up to the thing’s face. It looked like it could have been a pearlcatcher too, but it had no pearl, and its form was disfigured into something uncanny and wild. It bared its fangs at her.

“This is Kandrial,” said the dragon who sat on her throne. “It was with his help that we recovered this territory.”

Territory…?

“Who are you?” Amdiffyn demanded. She heard Leannan translating.

“I am the rightful king of this land. Alekain, son of the bamboo grove.” The dragon--she could see now that he was a skydancer--stood from the throne. “My people have been trapped within the grove for months.”

Amdiffyn was lost for words. She had been informed of the fey in Leannan’s Grove, of course, but only as a small, quiet group, happy to live amongst themselves.

“I don’t understand,” she said, holding out her hands. “We had no idea, or else…”

“Precisely that. You cannot fathom us. You did not see and so we were left to rot.”

Amdiffyn’s whole body shook, but she stood with her back straight, chin held high. How could she have foreseen this? After everything she had put together over months to finally establish stability and confidence, something so far out of her control now destroyed it all?

The disfigured pearlcatcher snarled at her. He, too, was speaking, and Leannan translated again.

“You will leave this place, now, or be slaughtered like your kin. You left us no choice.”

Choice? What choice did I have? Amdiffyn wanted to argue… but she recognized unreasonable creatures when she saw them. She needed time to regroup. She had to find the others. So, with one last glance at Sidhe and Leannan--I swear we will come back for you--she turned, sweeping the others out with her.

Mabel was crying as they spilled out onto the charred grass that had once been host to Morrigan’s flowers.

“Where do we go now? Everything… everything is gone… Sakine...”

Amdiffyn stood with her back perfectly straight, as her father had taught her, even as she shook with grief. He would know precisely what to do, she thought bitterly, before pushing them on, away from the skeleton of their home.

Over the course of the next four days, they slowly located each member of the clan scattered throughout the territory. Most had stayed in a group and fled southeast along the coast, while others had begun toward the territories of their parents. Amdiffyn let them go, those who did not wish to stay, but the rest she rallied together as best she could. She sent the best merchants to sell what they had managed to salvage worth selling; pieces of clothing they had been wearing when the attacks had begun, memorabilia they had taken with them. She gathered all the money and began to lay out plans with her advisors how best to spend it to keep them safe. They would need to find a new place to stay before winter.

But, as soon as all were regrouped and gathered to hear Amdiffyn speak, an unease that ran deeper than fear rattled the group. Amdiffyn tried to continue, reassuring them that the palace would be theirs again, but whispered voices interrupted her. She paused, brow furrowed as she looked over the crowd. Finally, a few dragons began to speak out.

“She broke her own law.”

“She had children with the dancer.”

“Ikelos. I saw them; four of them, just as Hecate’s letter said.”

All heads turned to her, clamor rising, as panic set in. Amdiffyn looked from dragon to dragon as fear and confusion rocked her. What were they talking about? She pulled her wings protectively around herself as the voices grew louder, accusing.

Sif stood in the back of the crowd. She was not a large dragon, but in that moment her voice drew the attention of every member of the clan with its fierceness.

“I took the hatchlings to our allies. There’s nothing to be done about it now. What we must focus on is our survival, and regaining our home.”

Amdiffyn didn’t hear anything after that. She couldn’t keep her back straight this time. Tears rose unbidden to her eyes. Children? She had children? She sought out Ikelos in the crowd and found him just as confused and afraid as her. He clutched his pearl with shaking paws.

As the group began to move south again, Amdiffyn drew Sif aside to beg for information about the hatchlings.

“You aren’t the only one,” Sif explained. “Many of us have days we don’t remember in the last month. It’s the fey magic.”

She began to recount the events of the past few weeks, with Hecate’s and Callisto’s deaths and the attack of the fey and Beasclans, but Amdiffyn couldn’t take it, not when she knew she had hatchlings, Ikelos’ children. Ahead of them, the dancer walked on his own, given a wide berth by the other dragons.

“One of them is with Clan Stellon, another with the Windsinger temple to the north. The last two are at Gladehavens,” Sif told her.

Amdiffyn’s brow furrowed. “Gladehavens? But we only just came from there. I didn’t see you, and we didn’t pass in the sky.”

Sif’s jaw tightened. “I… I know I took them. It must have been just after you left. It’s a wide sky, after all.”

Amdiffyn opened her mouth to reply, but was cut off by a sudden outburst at the front of the group. They’d sighted an inn, large enough to shelter all of them. Amdiffyn craned her neck and saw the structure they were referring to; a large, simple longhouse, situated by the cliffs. It looked brand new; the wood shone with polish in the dusk light, and the flower beds outside were prepared with dark soil, but nothing grew in them yet.

Relieved, they all piled inside, only to find no-one there. But rain was setting in, and wind battered the building, so they stayed, buzzing with unease, until finally a stranger appeared. A coatl; she looked at them all in utter confusion, but Amdiffyn stepped forward to explain their plight. She could still hear the mutters of contention even as she spoke.

The coatl’s name was Henalee, and she had lost her family in Dragonhome only months ago. She had been building this inn ever since in the hopes of giving a home to other dragons who had nowhere to go. She smiled nervously at all of the dragons crowded in the longhouse. “The opportunity came earlier than expected,” she said, “But I’ll help you all any way I can.”

[the-ill-informed-bystander]

As the Bell Tolls - Part 1

The world was grey and lifeless around the three men as they scrambled hopelessly across a narrow plain of scorched earth. With each step ash fluttered up into the air around them creating clouds of foul smelling dust. The remains of a few trees guarded over the plain, but most had crumbled into the blackened earth without leaving any trace at all. Breathlessly the men struggled with each footfall to maintain their pace. Despite the devastation around them the air was the typical frigid temperature of an October evening, and their own gasps of air materialised and mixed with the ash that billowed around them.

The sun was burning low in the sky, darkness would soon swallow them up. They hurtled on, desperation forcing each movement. When Hicks’ boot crunched through the charred remains of some helpless creature that had been caught in the raging fire, he did not look down. His eyes remained on the horizon, a ridgeline some half a mile ahead of him that marked the next stage of his journey. It kept his mind occupied to believe that the end was just over the ridge, but the truth was very different. When they had first started to run he had known in his heart they would never truly be able to stop. Not for long enough to have the luxury of calling some new place home.

By now Simon had reached the top of the ridge. Hicks could see his figure silhouetted against the horizon for a brief moment before he ducked down below a scorched stone wall to hide his outline as he waited for his companions, no doubt cursing their infuriatingly slow pace. For a few agonising minutes Hicks forced himself to keep running through the loose soil that absorbed every ounce of strength he put into each step as he made his way towards the stone wall that would at the very least offer him a moment to catch his breath. After an age of his lungs burning with effort he put a hand on the pile of stones that served as a four foot high barrier at the crest of the ridge just as Simon reached out one of his trunk like arms and heaved him down to the floor.

“Risky.” Simon muttered under his breath. “Far too risky. We can be seen for miles in any direction.”

Hicks was panting too hard to reply. He curled up and made himself a small target against the rocks and focused on controlling his breathing. A great clattering followed by a bullish grunt drew his attention back to the plain from which he had just come.

“Oh you club footed fuckwit.” Simon rubbed his forehead into the palm of his hand.

Barnes had tripped and fallen in spectacular fashion. The pathetic results of a misplaced boot had left the warrior sprawled out in the ash. With a face a deep hue of purple he rose slowly from the ground and sprinted the last hundred yards with blackened soil flowing into the air in great waves behind him. Hicks saw his heavy mail shirt flapping as he ran and the once imposing bear skin cloak seemed almost comically large on him now. Perhaps it was the situation they were in that made the man less of an object of fear, or perhaps it was his obvious discomfort. Either way, for the first time in years Hicks felt himself almost pitying the man.

Finally Barnes slowed to a walking pace as he approached the wall and collapsed over the pile of rocks, leaving his head poking over the top while his chest heaved with effort to recover his strength.

“For Christ’s sake Barnes!” Simon hissed. “Keep it down man. We’re right out in the open here, anyone could see us.”

Between breaths the heavy warrior replied. “Only the really brave or really stupid would follow us this far.”

“Which are we?” Hicks blurted out quite accidentally.

Barnes looked down at the man, still curled into a ball on the floor. The handle of a throwing axe at Barnes’ hip lightly brushed Hicks’ shoulder.

“We’re neither.” Simon interjected. “We’re the desperate.”

Hicks felt his hand go to his chest. Beneath the simple woollen tunic he felt the rough outline of a small silver cross. He found a small measure of comfort in its presence, wrapped so snugly around his neck. In the chaos, he hadn’t been able to grab much. A small satchel with a bladder of water, his lute and a few pennies. Other than that all he had was what he happened to be wearing at the time, and that was not much. Thankfully, Christ was with him always.

“We shouldn’t be here. We’re far too close to Harlech.” Hicks said.

Barnes cracked the back of his hand down across Hicks’ head, knocking the deerskin hat clean off his head and sending him sideways.

“I’m sick of your complaining.” Barnes spat. “I don’t care about your aches and pains and I really don’t fucking care that you’re getting a bit scared! Either shut your hole of fuck off, but pick one now.”

Hicks put a hand to his forehead and felt a thin trickle of blood running towards his brow. He had thought of leaving, every step of the way. He wanted nothing more than to run away and never see Barnes’ puffed up burgundy face ever again, but he couldn’t really. He had his chance to leave a few days ago, but in his utter stupidity he had chosen to stay in a group rather than wander the wild on his own. Oh his logic had seemed reasonable at the time. After all, he had no weapons to seriously fight with, no bow to hunt and not enough money to buy food, even if he could find someone to buy it from. He had chosen safety in numbers and now, this close to Harlech, he dared not leave their sight. He knew the stories better than anyone.

“Barnes leave him be.” Simon said. “We’ve got plenty ground left to cover.”

“Oh sure.” Barnes replied. “And whether or not the lute player still has his hat on makes all of the difference.” Barnes shook his head.

Simon stood up but crouched low to the wall. In one swift motion he threw himself over with the slender grace of a prancing doe and landed on the steep decline on the other side. Now completely covered from the open north he stood and looked back up at Barnes and Hicks as he scrambled over the wall to follow. Simon was a tall man, with a slender and pointed face. He wore a thick boiled leather jerkin over a padded gambeson. The point of longbow poked out from behind his shoulder with a matching set of fletched arrows at a quiver on his waist. A long knife hung loosely from his belt, housed in a scabbard far more ornate than any other piece of equipment that he owned.

As Hicks scrambled to his feet next to the archer, he couldn’t help but feel woefully underprepared. But even if he had all the weapons and armour that Barnes carried he would be no use. He had never been much of a fighter.

“He’s faster than you, Barnes.” Simon said softly. “Much faster.”

“Aye he is.” Barnes muttered. “But when the fog comes and bells toll we’ll see what works best. Good steel or a coward’s legs.”

Barnes heaved himself over the stone wall without a care for any silhouette he might cast for anyone who might be looking their way and landed heavily next to Simon. He was full head shorter than the archer, with thick limbs and a meaty neck that seemed to sink right into his shoulders.

“Now make yourself useful, singer.” Barnes said. “Where are we going next?”

Hicks was ready for the question. In his delicate hands he clutched his lifeline to their rag tag crew of rogues. It was a relatively thin volume, but it was bound in a rich green leather with the title printed in deep black ink, The Adventures of Jack Longstrider: Horrors of Harlech. Hicks had read the book from cover to cover at least three dozen times but this was the first time in his life that the overly dramatic travel journal of a man claiming to have the surname Longstrider would actually save his life. He opened the book and thumbed through the well-worn pages until he reached the desired location. The double page spread featured a meticulously recreated sketch of the area on the right, and Longstrider’s detailed notes on the left. With his index finger Hicks traced the outline of the drop in relief that noted the valley floor through which the three had just come until he reached a thick black line. Beyond that a steady decline led to the flat coastline, with a few buildings sketched out on the shoreline.

“Looks like we have another mile to go.” Hicks said. “But this ridge should hide us for the entire way, right up until we reach the sea.”

“Well then, let’s get on with it.” Barnes stormed off at once, following the steep decline into the gentler slope below.

As a child Hicks had read through every book written by Longstrider. He had a style of writing that was so dramatic and over the top yet every story was rooted in fact. The paths he walked were always reflected perfectly on the page, yet when he spoke of his own experiences the narrative took on an air of fantasy that only a wide eyed boy with a heart full of yearning could possibly believe. This map in particular had always sent a chill down his spine when he read it, even among a book filled with tales of horror. A simple annotation, hidden expertly among the lines of relief in the sketch of the landscape just where they sat now against the thick black line marking the stone wall.

“Hicks!” Simon yelled back to him. “We’re not waiting for you!”

Regredimini Nunc Ut Vivere it said, nestled neatly between two trees and wall. Now Hicks would discover where the fiction ended and the fact began in Longstrider’s work.