#◈ — ic; farkas

[augment-techs]

[nerevar-quote-and-star]

Lucia, at some point as a teenager: So tell me, when exactly will I be allowed to hang out with boys?

Farkas: When I’m dead. Plus three days, just to make sure I’m dead.

[daandova]

catch, sender catches receiver by the waist after they bump into each other.

despite the light that emitted from her waist within steeled lantern , the cairn filled with inky shadows. a darkness that swallowed the candlelight only a few feet away. the perfect place to keep pieces of a once blade ─── something storied and ancient. it's also a good place for the undead to lurk in their dank crypts , waiting to be awoken. still , valvari can hear farkas trailing her as they creep , noting he's only a step behind so that she doesn't lose him. her footsteps soft to not rouse the restless draugrs. his with ever faint jingling of steel on steel.

the air is quiet around their movements , where only soft drips of condensation punctuate their breathing. it primes her to concentrate. places like these , she had explained to him before they entered , were LITTERED with ancient traps. if they were going to get back to the pack alive , it'd be best they move slowly. PURPOSEFULLY. and what was that ?? it could've been the shift in the flamelight. the shadows playing child's tricks on her eyes. but she stills , refusing to step on it.

and he doesn't.

the brunt of farkas's weight sends val flailing forward on what looked to be a rather suspiciously raised stone in the floor. this was it. crimson eyes close as the tiefling accepts whatever pain would send itself their way. ( the moment slowed to where she wondered if there was a spike trap she missed , or perhaps a divot in the ceiling that hid in the void of darkness so it could surprise them with blunt force of a stone. ) instead , something warm and stable roughly hoists her back against the strong of cool steel. then there they are , eyes trained on the floor as it dawns on the pair the holes in the walls were primed with rusted arrowheads to turn them into swiss eidar cheese. and instinctually , her tail wraps around the thick of her companion's leg to stabilize herself , as if he would suddenly release her without warning. around them , the cairn breath's a frustrated sigh. not this time. not tonight.

" by the eight. . . " it hasn't quite dawned on her that he hasn't let go. maybe because her adrenalined heart was still thrumming a bird in it's cage. " good reflexes [ . . . ] you could've sent me into next year with that brute force of yours. that'll come in handy. "

[cldhrbour]

“You make my heart beat so quick.” – from Farkas! - @decidentia

raucous laughter fills the hall. for those that weren't out on a job , and many who had just arrived home , the group of companions were enjoying a home cooked meal from tilma. on the end of the table, serana sat , leaning back rather casually on her hands while farkas stood before her. excitedly REGALING the tale of the hargarvens he'd just put down for terrorizing poor rorikstead. she'd had a rather toothy smile the entire time , his own demeanor infectious. enough so that she hadn't noticed how comfortably he'd settled between her legs that were dangling off the edge. nor the way his free hand - the one not pouring more ale into his mouth - had rested against her thigh , a thumb idly running back and forth.

when the cup was set down next to her , he seems unsure what to do with his now digits. not that it mattered , she was still smiling up at him with a look at could be described as ADMIRATION but peel back the layers of insecurity and maybe you'd find something else there instead. " oh i don't think it's me. . . " she chuckles at his confession. the words bouncing off of her like rain slipping down the leaves of a tree. " you've had quite a lot to drink. " a hand reaches up , patting his shoulder that was free of armor. " and you should. it sounds like you did a great thing today. i wish i'd been there. "

[decidentia]

I’ve been bursting with muse, but unable to get a moment to focus on writing. Luckily, I have no plans tomorrow – zero, zilch, nada, nothing – for the approx. four hours between my shift finishing and my pottery class starting. I plan to be here, be queer, and finally get some ic content out. 😤

[austerulous]

◈   @ariveth  //  cont.

Ariveth had wormed her way in, making him itch in places he could not scratch.  She knew his limits, his tender points, she knew how to get him to bare his teeth, to roll over, to show his belly.  Farkas would never deny her.  On some level, he understood the power she held, but still he could not help but bristle with anger, that fury hallmarked by a splintered ache at the centre of his chest.  Inside, the wolf was all fangs and raised hackles.  It showed in his manly form, it robbed of his coherence.

“Fuck off.” 

Predictably, following the pattern of their past disagreements, Ariveth leaned closer, unimpressed, unafraid of his fraying temper and the deepening scowl that darkened warpainted features.  Insufferable, inciteful woman – yet one stitched into his heart, laced in tender, sinuous feelings.  How quickly his anger spilled into something else, readily redirected by the elegant arch of her spine, the choreographed flutter of eyelashes.  His diseased blood already ran hot, each furious breath catching between his teeth.  Control fractured and, in that instant, he reached for her, seizing her by the jaw.  A growl emanated from somewhere deep in his chest, reverberating in his throat, as the callused pad of his thumb swiped furiously over Ariveth’s rude lips, resolve ruined by their sly softness, by her knowing smirk.

“Fuck.”

[daedriic]

❈ ❰❰ @austerulous ─ 𝐅𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐀𝐒 // s.c. ❱❱

ㅤㅤㅤ❝ WELL, YOU'RE A TALL ONE, AREN'T YOU? ❞ He could be just what she needs to solve her current predicament. She'd come to Whiterun in disguise, passable as some dainty noblewoman; perfect for moving around in public without drawing unwanted attention. But it's a disguise that would be easily blown if she had to resort to violence. So why not have someone else handle that part for her? ❝ I could use some muscle. Care to help me with a little problem I'm having? I'll pay you well for your aid. ❞

[amplifying]

for @austerulous.

The afternoon sun gazed lazily upon Skyrim. Light tumbled betwixt branch after branch, leaf after leaf, leaving dabbled illuminance in its wake. That brilliant hue brought renewed life to the trees of yesteryear that laid sprawled upon the forest floor; knotted, gnarled remnants of their former glory. Trunks once a great girth now thinned, branches forming twisted patterns and starved of foliage. Carcasses of eggs scattered the surrounding dry nirn. Birdsongs came in lulls, then bursts, melodies woven betwixt silence serving to be as beautiful as any mortal songstress.

The forest spoke of life and death, how they gnashed each other’s tails and spun over and over—destined to be forever connected. It served to be sanctuary for both. Some hid from the evils of Tamriel beneath the watchful eyes of pine trees, while others lurked in that same trees’ shadow, whetting their blade with the spine of a rock.

Baptiste knew well both sides, for he’d partaken in both.

He’d opted to set up reluctant camp some ways in, make use of what materials he had left. Then, after ridding himself of whatever consumables that’d been forsaken in the pits of his satchels, he would replenish in the nearby Whiterun. As hands sought to pin down what goods actually lay squished, seated upon a fallen trunk that’d long since been kissed with blooms of moss, he heard plotting. Whispers carried upon the wind, strangely loud in the absence of fauna lilts. Baptiste’s brows furrowed. Instinct swung and hit him, hard and fast. The satchel tumbled from his fingertips, landing with a feeble thud, and a wave of magicka engulfed him.

He became invisible.

Or, well, almost invisible. The spell constantly refracted light, deflected it off and around his person; at the right angle, with the right scrutiny, the halo of his body would be visible.

As it turned out, they had no intentions engaging him. Footfalls hurried past, kicking nirn up and, from the bowels of forestry, they emerged as malice personified; a throng of individuals, mostly those of Nordic heritage, wielding a rainbow of weaponry. Their approach was far from subtle—just how they liked it—and, like a swarm, they descended upon this smaller group of warrior-likened folk, intending to strip flesh from bone, life from eyes.

Baptiste heard their war cries. It was hard not to. Admittedly, the sound of battle was far from unfamiliar to his ears. An ugly lullaby from his youth. He watched them flit outside the sanctuary of the forest, barrelling with all intents of a pack of wolves, and observed the way the warriors unsheathed their weapons without second thought. Clearly, they knew each other, and were at oppositions with one another.

Slowly did Baptiste approach as kisses of metal on metal filled the air. Again and again did their swords clash, spitting venom—sometimes coherent and sometimes gibberish—at the other. The farmer that’d been in converse with the warrior group, turned tail and fled. His legs were thin, his body scraggly; he were to be too slow for those young and taut with muscle. One of the forest-folk peeled away from the battle and hounded the farmer, a wolf unto a fawn separated from its mother.

Fuck.

Baptiste redirected and broke off into a sprint. His spell started to slip. Flakes of his person peeled free. He would’ve used telekinesis to pin the assailant’s feet unto the farm’s floor, but concentrating on a second spell while running was asking for a backfire… Thankfully, he was fast.

But was he fast enough?

[acuityfeed]

  “&– -Ugh- I was going to kill them. I have a gem to fill....” // @austerulous liked for a oneliner starter

[nooklingposting]

I personally think Farkas has a crush on the player. Everyone just sees him as an ice-brain, not smart enough, and have done his whole life. Even some of the newer companions can be heard talking back to him. But we don't.

It seems like we're special from the start, he's nicer to us than any of other the companions right from day one. We see a softer, friendlier side to Farkas (eg: 'I hope I didn't scare ya' being his first concern after being surrounded by enemies) - we never really hear him be so friendly to the other members (think the training conversation with Torvar), and that's why we fall for him.

I think he'd be shocked if we chose to marry him. Yeah he shoots his shot, but like I said, he's used to everyone seeing him as an oaf. Then here we are, the Harbinger, showing him the same kindness and emotional investment that he gave us in the beginning. He deserves it.

I just think he's neat.

[whitegoldtower]

Skyrim Characters and their vape flavours of choice (someone put me down)

Ondolemar: either pineapple ice lost mary or the orange gummy bear lost mary. Dude is a posh roadman with his rolex, military shave, flawless skincare and designer tracksuit

Ancano: juicy peach lost mary or strawberry ice lost mary. He’s girlypop but will hide his vape because he doesn’t want to be made fun of for having pink on his person. Even though he’d 100% rock the juicy couture velour outfit and main as princess peach in mariokart.

Elenwen: coconut melon elf bar. Girlie would rather be sipping pina coladas in Alinor’s top resorts and spas. Her nails match the colour of her vape. Alternatively, she’d get the mojito elf bar thinking it would taste like rum. Disappointed when it doesn’t.

Serana: maryjack kisses lost mary or cherry ice lost mary. No explanation needed.

Cicero: the disgustingly sweet flavours like the cotton candy ice (pure fucking sugar) or the immensely artificial blue razz / mr blue lost mary. As if the little guy needs any more sugar in his system.

Teldryn Sero: buys the really shit knock off lost marys, and only ever gets flavours like ‘spearmint’ or ‘cream tobacco’ 😩 can’t handle having anything that doesn’t hit his chest like a normal cigarette, and will constantly complain about how much he misses smoking.

Vingalmo: will deny that he vapes with every fibre of his being but will freak out when he loses his cranberry raspberry cherry elf bar in the coffin lining. If there’s fruity fog coming out of one of the coffins in Castle Volkihar, it’s not ‘atmospheric ambience’, it’s Vingalmo hotboxing his bed.

Garan Marethi: has a heavy duty non-disposable vape and only ever vapes one flavour because it’s the only one he can stand: vampire vape blood sukka.

Neloth: also has a heavy duty vape but has these horrific mystery flavours like “jungle juice” or “pinkman” or “unicorn shake” and each new flavour he puts in the tank (without replacing any of the coils) is a worse, more burnt, more artificial smelling mess than the last.

Farkas: if it doesn’t smell like he wants to eat it, he doesn’t want it. Only gets flavours like “banana milkshake”, “caramel waffle” or “red velvet cake”

[coffee-at-daybreak]

burning | vilkas x reader

this is very enemies to lovers-esque, i find that trope fitting for vilkas. there is some mild steam thrown in but nothing too suggestive. im just very sick and sleepless rn so i had to crank something out to keep me sane :} hope you guys like it!

"You got lucky this time," you say as you finally finish wrapping the gauze around Farkas's hand. "That sword could have cut much deeper."

"Yeah, well, it's a good thing we've got you on standby," he responds gruffly, flexing his palm. The dusky white bandage sits firmly against his skin. He gives you a wide grin. "Thank you, Harbinger."

You nod. "You're welcome. Just... don't make it a habit, yeah?"

Farkas chuckles. "Course. I'll be more careful. See you." He turns and heads back to the training field outside of Jorrvaskr, where he joins Ria's side as they watch Athis and Torvar engage in a practice sparring session. The approaching dusk is bringing a chill to the air, yet the Companions continue their training like nothing.

As you gather the materials you were just using to patch up Farkas's hand, you feel a tingling sensation crawling along your scalp. Someone's glare is practically digging daggers into your skin. You turn around to make your way back into the building, and you lock eyes with Vilkas, who stands next to the door with his back leaning against the wall and his arms folded across his chest.

His gaze reminds you of being hit with an ice spike spell: shards of piercing, pale blue striking right through you and leaving you momentarily breathless. You break eye contact, but the prickling feeling of his eyes on you follows you even when you slip through the door and into the building.

You head for one of the shelves in the corner to put away the bandages and anti-infection salves you used. You hear footsteps coming in behind you.

"How'd he hurt himself this time?" Vilkas asks.

You peer at him over your shoulder. His gaze is averted, pretending to adjust the rug on the floor with his boot. Not so glare-y now, is he?

"It was a sword, from his spar session with Njada." You step away from the shelf and brush past him as you head for the staircase leading into the living quarters below. "She's getting better. She gave him a pretty nasty cut this time."

Vilkas scoffs. "Didn't look nasty enough to need you there working on him for that long."

You stop in your tracks and whip around. This time, his eyes flick up to meet yours. The tingling sensation returns to your skin, except now, it spreads beyond just your head, running down your spine.

"Excuse me?" You cross your arms. "He was hurt, and I knew how to patch it up quick."

"Yes, so does Tilma," Vilkas protests, referring to the elderly servant who is often around tending to the Companions. He tilts his head, eyeing you intently. "Yet you always seem eager to step up first."

Heat floods the tips of your ears. "I'm the Harbinger. Part of my job is looking after the others."

"Yes, yes, I'm not denying that." The Nord waves his hand loosely. "Just pointing it out. This is the third time this has happened, you know?"

You snort. "What, you're keeping track now?" You narrow your eyes. "Hang on. You're jealous."

The eye roll you get in return is equal parts infuriating and attractive. "Please. Don't be childish," he mutters.

You ignore him and play the dangerous game of poking him further. "You know you can get yourself hurt around me, too." You crack a super sweet, super fake smile. "If you ask nicely, I might patch you up."

"I would rather bleed out and die, thank you."

You shake your head, looking away in exasperation. That has to be the cause for your heart rate rising and your temperature climbing. He is exasperating.

"I'm just looking out for him," Vilkas speaks up. When you glance at him, you realize he has stepped closer. You stare back at his storm-colored eyes, as intimidating as they are. "I don't want him making the mistake of getting tangled up with you."

You almost laugh at that, and bite your lip to keep from smiling. Vilkas's eyes dart down for just a second before meeting your own. You try to pretend like that gesture doesn't make your heart skitter.

"Give him some credit, he's smarter than that," you say. "He's just a friend. Not that you know what that is, you ray of sunshine, you."

His jaw clenches, and you watch the muscles of his neck flex as he swallows. Whatever insult he had ready, he thought better of it. A rush of victory swells in your chest.

But you see a flicker of something in his eyes, and there's a sinking sensation in your belly. Amongst the hard, icy emotions of that glare, there's something much softer. Something vulnerable, something you can't pinpoint but you recognize all the same, because it's something you've felt as well.

This is how it's been for a long time, too damn long. You hide behind your quips and your insults because you're afraid to face reality. The heavy, heart-wrenching reality that you have feelings for each other. To everyone else, it looks like you hate each other, when really, you hate how much you love each other.

"It's hard to be a ray of sunshine when you're a godsforsaken pain in my ass," Vilkas growls, and takes another step closer.

You should step back, you should. But the proximity of his body near yours traps you in place, and eventually, draws you in. You dare to lean closer.

"Well, I would stop, if it wasn't oddly entertaining," you murmur. "You are easy to rile up."

"You haven't seen me truly riled up."

The eye contact is searing your skin and blood, yet you don't dare break it. The voice in your mind is now screaming at you - back away, push him away, just move.

But there is also a voice telling you to grab him, to pull into him, to surrender. It takes all the effort in the world to resist.

"Not yet, maybe," you jab. "How do I get there? Do I have to patch up more muscular men?"

"Shut up," he warns, a hiss through his teeth.

"Or should I head to the inn and-"

You don't even get to finish your incessant babbling before his hand reaches for the back of your neck. You don't flinch - in fact, you let him pull you in and crash his lips against your own.

It's exactly as you imagined it, which embarrassingly, you did a lot. It's rough and firm and electrifying. His breath is hot as it mingles with your own, his stubble scraping the skin around your mouth. Your hands subconsciously claw at his torso, pulling him as close as you can, until you feel his chest against your own, drawing in the same heavy breaths that you are. His free hand grasps your hip, and your breath hitches briefly before he is plunging back in with a kiss so hard that his teeth skim over your bottom lip.

There is that hot, searing fire you always feel around him, coursing through your entire being. Burning hatred, burning desire. No difference right now, just one overwhelming inferno.

Muffled voices and laughter approach the doors a few feet away from you. Just as quickly as it happened, Vilkas lets you go. He steps back in two long strides just as the door opens.

Ria was busy giggling at something Torvar said, but she is quick to notice the tension in the room. "Woah. What's going on?" She looks between you and Vilkas. "You two look like you're about to kill each other."

You can't come up with a reasonable response, not when you're still trying to catch your breath, when your lips are still tingling with sparks and your mind is still in a white-hot daze. All you can do for a second is foolishly stare at Vilkas.

He glares back at you. Icy eyes that don't cool you down, but only make you feel warmer.

"Just a mild disagreement," he says, looking to Ria with surprising calm. Then he looks back at you. "But we'll settle it later."

Then he turns and walks away, like nothing happened. You almost huff out a breath of awe.

The other Companions pile in, chattering excitedly and ready to start preparing for dinner. You finally manage to move, your legs still feeling a little unsteady, but you try to help the others anyway, and try to keep hating him, even though now you think you love him more than ever.

[umbracirrus]

Snippet Sunday!

So, @hircines-hunter tagged me in a snippet sunday post before, and yeah, I think I can do that :3 Done quite a bit of writing over the past few days for anyone but Elyse who is who I'm wanting to write for right now😭

Here's a bit of chapter 3, possibly chapter 4 of Tempest!

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

Brynjolf, I'm alive. Somehow. A dragon attacked Helgen when I was scoping the town out… I would have been done for if not for a soldier seeing me alive in the rubble, apparently. I'm not in the best way at the moment. Burns and broken bones. Currently in the Temple of Kynareth in Whiterun, the priestess here has been tending to my injuries. I don't think I'll be in a state suitable for travel for a while. I'll be staying in Whiterun for the foreseeable future. I am sorry to ask this of you, but could you send me the belongings which I had intended to collect from Riften? I desperately need clothes. My own clothes specifically. I appreciate that I've been given some spare clothes from the temple to wear… but they smell terrible. And don't fit. Don't forget the armour either… you know the one. I've got the blade with me still, thankfully. Take care of yourself and the guild. You'll do great as the boss, Bryn. T.

Thorne had felt almost hesitant handing that letter over to the courier alongside a small bag of coin which Danica had kindly given to her after she had mentioned wanting to send a letter to her family. The priestess didn't need to know that the 'family' which she was talking about was the Thieves Guild. And thanks to her decision to distance herself from them… well, they weren't really her family now anyway.

All that she could do now was wait for a response, ideally with her belongings accompanying it, and hang around Whiterun. Danica had told her not to venture too far from the temple, just in case her injuries were to flare up any, so she had settled on sitting on a bench under the tree just outside the temple, picking flowers from around the bench and fiddling with their petals. It did, admittedly, frustrate her that she could hear a preacher of Talos crying out from nearby, but she did her best to try and ignore it by instead focussing on the sound of flowing water.

After a short while of hanging around there, she suddenly snapped to attention when she heard her name being called out, and frantically glanced around until she noticed Farkas descending the stairs leading to Jorrvaskr in the company of another man… who didn't half look similar to him. A brother or something?

"Thorne! It's good to see that you're out of the temple," Farkas grinned as he made his way over to her, grabbing the wrist of the other man in the process. "How are you doing? Injuries any better?"

"I… I'm okay, yes. Still some problems and pain, but… I'm getting better," she responded, noticing how the man in his company was now giving her a scowl. He really didn't seem friendly in the slightest. "Who is…?"

"Oh! This is my twin, Vilkas," he stated, giving Vilkas a playful nudge with his elbow. "Don't mind him. He isn't too friendly with anyone until you get to know him."

Vilkas made a quiet grunt noise as he shook his head. "We've got a job to do, Ice Brain. Come on."

Farkas frowned, then let out a sigh as Vilkas started walking away without another word. "Sorry about him. We'll chat again when I'm back, yeah?" He began to walk away, trying to keep pace with his brother. "And do consider what I mentioned the other day about joining us when you're feeling better!"

[nerevar-quote-and-star]

Farkas: Husbands looking to reignite the spark in your marriage, have you tried getting her a giant weird named ice coffee and taking her to shop for a new spring wreath?

[hexsreality]

get know the mun

Name: Itzel

Nickname: none

Mun FC: Grațiela Brâncuși and Franciska Farkas

Height: 5′4”

Relationship status: single

Birthday: June 28th

Favourite colour: black

! Favourite singer/band: it’s definitely ghost! They’re my favorite!

Last song listened: In the Flat Lines by Bauhaus

Last movie watched: Practical Magic

Favourite book: Fire and Ice and A Game of Thrones by George R. R. Martin

Last book read: The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho

Currently reading: Monstrilio by Gerardo Sámano Córdova and Keep your Hands Off Eizouken! Volume 1 by Sumito Oowara

# of pets: three dogs, two ferrets, and two cats

Best school subject: history, literature

Mac or PC?: I would say PC, I've never had a Mac before.

Cell phone type: iPhone 14 Pro Max

Current shirt colour: black of course! It's got the main characters of Jujutsu Kaisen!

Gamer?: I mainly play pokemon but I want to play other things. Always accepting recommendations!

Day or night?: night

Summer or winter?: I’m more of an autumn girlie, but I’d rather roast my ass off in over 100 degree weather than be in the cold.

Most-visited website?: instagram, photopea, and reddit i have one to ask about photopea plus seeing people's pets tbh

Celebrity crushes: Ewan Mitchell, Tom Glynn-Carney, Daniel Ash, Freddie Fox

tagged by: @edgymuses (thank you! <33)

Tagging: @magnetic-regent-magneto , @raisedcold , @danversiism , @prodigum , @razorfst , @maidmyth , and you!

[decidentia]

◈   @shellcrack  //  starter

Cutting through the resinous scent of pine needles, through the earthy notes of rotting mulch and fungus, came the reek of blood. Its coppery, metallic tang filled Farkas’ nose, strong enough to coat the back of his throat, to lie thick on his tongue. A red ribbon was what pulled him through the fringes of woodland, deeper into the forest’s feathered heart.

Mankind could not help but leave a mark. A desolation of tree stumps, like coarse stubble, greeted him as he approached the isolated homestead. Pens that had once housed livestock now guarded their remains. Putrid and bloated, the stiff-legged, round-bellied creatures lay in their own filth, oozing from every orifice. The cool light of Farkas’ pewter gaze traced the rims of crow-picked eye sockets, quick to focus on the door which hung open in dark promise. Blood formed a lacquer – so dark it was almost black – that drip-dried down the front steps, staining the grain and soaking into the pores of the wood.

This scene of humble domesticity had been the site of a slaughter. Farkas was no stranger to horror, but still he felt a kernel of dread sprout in his chest. Boots creaked and dove-tail joists whined as he mounted the steps, congealed pools crackling beneath his heavy footfall. Being both a monster and a monster of a man, he was too big for homely spaces; he was forced to duck his head to enter the cabin, the ruin inside reflected dully in his steel breastplate. Sparse furniture had been reduced to splintered kindling, and all was dusted by the ash and cinders that spewed from the cold fireplace. Shutters were closed, the only light that entered the space pushed in behind him, casting his shadow tall and broad.

A massacre. Bodies pulled apart. Two – Farkas counted – identifying them by the ribcages that yawned open like bear traps, vomiting their innards. Maggots writhed ecstatic in gnawed flesh while their blue-sheen parents buzzed black and fat, rubbing their hands together in filthy glee, feasting on the splatters of gore that painted the vaulted ceiling. At the stink, he closed a hand over his nose and mouth, that cloying decay softened by the leather that covered his palm. No lives to save here, no murderer to apprehend, not even an unspoiled larder to raid. He turned as if to leave.

And then he heard it. The softest of whimpers, the rapid tick of a frantic heartbeat. Heaped in a corner, gore-flecked sheets heaved and mewled. Farkas thought of a she-cat’s nest, of the helplessness of newborn kittens, all milky breath and dandelion-fluff fur. Through the tangle of torn linen, he glimpsed birch-pale limbs and wild brown hair. The shroud slipped lower, revealing impossibly wide and round blue eyes, glassy in terror, red-rimmed from long-spent tears. A girl.

Farkas approached, looming over her before he thought to make himself small, to settle onto one knee. He reached out a gauntleted hand, proffering it to her as though she were a kicked stray, a hag-ridden mare.

“Easy, child.”