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howdywrites · 3 years

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Chapter Zero

→ an In The Woods Somewhere excerpt

This is from my zero draft of ITWS that won't be in the new draft I'm starting for Camp NaNo. I still thought it would be fun to share since it gives a little insight into Jackie (park ranger main) and a side character named Benny who works under her. NOTE: there is a lot of info in this that's changed as I've outlined so some of the locations will be inaccurate.

Warnings: brief mention of recreational drug use (mushrooms)

Length: 2.3k words

[ WIP Intro ]

Breath burned aching lungs. Boots stomped in slick, dark mud. The icy mist clung to every hair on bare skin and the drumming of heartbeat became the rhythm in which Jackie fell in time with. She jerked, ducking beneath a low hanging branch. Her hair whipped as she cast a worried glance over her shoulder. It wasn’t following her anymore.

A disgruntled skunk and her litter of kits watched her sprint from the home they made in a thicket of bushes. If she had stuck around for just a second longer, Jackie would have paid dearly for her grave mistake. Up on [the mountain], there wasn’t a proper shower to be had at the lookout. In fact, there was almost no running water to be had at all. That’s exactly how she preferred it - being one with nature in every sense of the word.

“Fuck-” A patch of thick mud sent her sliding into the wooden Trail 46 sign that pointed southeast. Jackie held on to it, leaning over with her chest heaving while she caught her breath. A spring of curled hair fell over her forehead from under the brim of her uniform hat. Taking one last deep breath, she swept it back under and ran her hands along her two thick braids to make sure her rubber bands were still attached to the ends.

Static crackled from the radio on her hip. A voice snickered at her from the other end.

“I didn’t know you could run that fast,” the voice teased her, his laughter turning into crackles. Jackie lifted her head and dragged her eyes along the ridge behind her. Ancient trees and wild brush lined the rocky ledge. She squinted, trying to make sense of the map of greens and browns. Despite her year of working in Wyoming, she struggled making out shapes in the woods that weren’t blocky signs. “Surprised you didn’t lose your hat.”

Jackie unhooked her radio and held it up to her mouth. It trilled and went quiet. “Where are you? I swear to god, Benny, if you scare me again you owe me a cone at Marie Bettie’s on Monday.”

She stood there, a hand on her hip and her radio up by her ear. A crease formed between her brows. Birds flit from tree to tree down Trail 42, drawing her eye. Frowning, she didn’t see Benny there. Nor did he respond on the radio. She hesitantly clicked it again. “Benny I’m not playing. Where the hell are you?” She couldn’t hear herself on the other end. Wherever he was hiding, he had turned off his radio so she couldn’t gauge where he was.

Stepping out into the middle of the trail, Jackie circled around like an uneasy horse, feet pressed firmly into the packed dirt. A small creature of amber red and white darted out from a nearby thicket of prickly bushes and skittered across the trail. She gasped, nearly jumping out of her skin. While distracted, a pair of hands touched down on her shoulders, fingers curling over her uniform.

Jackie screeched, launching herself forwards out of the grip of the intruder. The ranger hat on her head tipped off, rolling and bouncing off the gravel. Her arms barely caught her in time to save her face from getting superficial scratches. Squirming, she rolled onto her back and scrambled into a squat. Benny stood there, cackling loud enough to send a few birds flying from their nests in the trees. His smile took up most of his face. Smile lines deepend and the prominent gap between his teeth was on full display.

“I got you good, didn’t I?” He leaned in, holding a hand out for her. Despite the adrenaline soaring through her veins and the annoyance that tumbled within her, Jackie sighed and grasped at it for help off the ground. Freckles splattered his sun-kissed skin, his cheekbones turning to apples with his grin.

“Yeah, yeah. You owe me two cones, now, Wonderbird. Double scoops.”

“Hey, that’s not fair! You know volunteers don’t make squat here-” Benny stooped down to pick up her hat, dusting it off for her. It was true. When he first joined the park just six months ago, Jackie had been assigned as his mentor. The junior program was offered to any college students pursuing their line of work. To get a taste of life as a ranger. They didn’t make a salary, but their summers spent in action were funded by park leadership in the form of bunks and food. A far better deal than what was offered to her in Tennessee. She took up her hat and repositioned it proudly on top of her head. “But I guess it’s the least I could do for doing that.” He pointed down at her green trousers.

A small tear cut across her knee, thankfully protecting her skin from being lacerated by her fall. Sighing, Jackie lifted her leg and inspected the hole. “Luckily I brought my sewing kit with me to the tower. C’mon, let’s finish our rounds. Think the captain has extra radios for tonight? Last thing I want is to not be able to contact anyone - especially this weekend.”

The end of summer break brought in the most guests outside of the spring season. Mostly college students looking to get out of town, but not willing to commit to the cost of going to the Bahamas or Miami all the way down south. Jackie couldn’t remember most of the breaks from her college days. She crunched to get through with her degree as fast as possible. Any break she got was filled with studying or working wherever she could. She would have liked to go somewhere tropical and warm for her breaks, but she preferred the serenity that usually came with visiting state parks instead.

“How many people usually camp here during breaks?” Benny kicked a pale gray pebble into the grass alongside the pack dirt walking trail.

“Could be hundreds. Maybe even close to a thousand or more. Really depends.” Earlier that day, they had already received an influx of campers eager to stake their claim on the best spots in the park before the hoards arrived. Easily several dozen of them, all scattered between RV hookups, the rentable cabins and clearings for tents. “Just be glad you’re not working at any of the offices this weekend. I’d take firewatch over disgruntled campers any day.”

“I can’t thank you enough, you know.” An elbow bumped Jackie’s arm and she glanced at the grinning young man. “If it weren’t for you, Richards probably would’ve never let me take over tower 24. He told me you put in a good word for me.”

Smiling down at the ground, Jackie shrugged and reached out to give him a gentle pat on the shoulder. “It wasn’t all me. You’ve got the passion for this. The drive. Can’t say the same for some of the other volunteers-”

A trill of squealing laughter caught her attention. The two of them paused right at the fork. One path remained wide open with wooden signs encouraging guests to stay on the correct path. The other had overgrowth and a dirt path so narrow, one could hardly call it a trail at all. The usual rope gate meant to block it off had been cut. Both ends laid useless on the ground with frayed edges. Another bark of laughter came from the end it shouldn’t have.

“Damn…” Jackie muttered bitterly under her breath. Just when she thought they could wrap up for the afternoon. Benny puffed out his chest and stood up taller.

“C’mon, ranger,” he chirped, marching towards the rocky side path. “No dilly dallying!”

“You just want to write up a citation.” She snorted and followed alongside him. “You’re starting to sound like the captain.”

Snaking down the path, the trees overhead grew thicker and wider. Branches from lowly pines scraped against their arms. Creatures that remained unseen skittered into their hiding places. The closer they got to the three or four voices chattering away up ahead, the more signs they saw. Brand new, the signs were nailed into the untouched bark of the trees along the path or plastered on wooden signs hammered into the thick dirt.

WARNING: do not proceed! This area has been sanctioned for investigation by the State of Wyoming and local police. Any violations will result in a $500 fine.

“Have these signs always been here?” Benny’s voice lowered to a faint whisper. Jackie stepped carefully around a pile of stones gathered around the base of a thick oak. Her boots slid against their jagged surfaces. “I don’t remember them putting these up.

“I don’t either. I remember some feds were here on Wednesday, but they weren’t up for much small talk.” They stood proudly in their dark suits and shade, holding boxes of flyers and paperwork and speaking in hushed tones to her higher ups. The single chance she had to greet one of them was met with silence. Very rude. “I don’t think this was a missing person’s case, otherwise we would have been informed about it.”

Like something out of a sci-fi movie, bright yellow caution signs littered a shady grove at the end of the short path. The sound of water trickling from a nearby stream joined the quiet voices. The blocky lettering on the big yellow signs yelled at them.

DO NOT DRINK THE WATER! Do not disturb local flora as issued by the governor of Wyoming.

“Dude! You’re going to get us in trouble!” A nervous voice murmured beyond the trees. There, by the creek, four college aged kids stood around a mossy puddle. Two girls and two boys, all wearing their UW school colors. Most likely freshmen given their wide eyes and round faces. One of them stood with his jeans rolled up to his knees in the shallow water, a fist full of curling brown mushrooms that looked like kelp. They went silent at the sight of the two rangers.

“This path is restricted.” Benny took the initiative, his voice wavering just a bit at the end of his statement. Jackie let him take the reins. If he really wanted to do this for a living, he would have to get used to this. As he went over what rules they broke being there, she made her way over to a damp patch of tall grass between two moss covered trees.

Squatting, she spied even more kelp-like mushrooms. They stuck out of the grass like limp, decaying fingers out of a grave. Jackie narrowed her eyes and used a pen from her breast pocket to jab at it with as gentle of a touch as she could manage. It released a pussy substance and a musky scent that reminded her of the single frat party she attended her last year in school. Similar to weed, but different. From looks alone, she couldn’t nail down from which family this fungus derived from. In fact, she couldn’t recall anything remotely similar in all her years of study.

“You can’t do that.” The kid in the water whined, trudging out of the water. He tossed the picked mushrooms. “C’mon, man, we’re just trying to have a little fun! I gotta pay for books next week!”

Jackie looked over her shoulder in time to see Benny’s head fall like a disappointed teacher’s. He sighed and shifted his weight from foot to foot, unable to reply. Tucking her pen back into its spot, she dusted her hands off and stood.

“Here’s what we’re going to do-” She put her hands on her hips and took over for him. She spoke with authority and a rigid stance. “I’ll let you off with a warning, as long as you four keep to the official trails and stay out of trouble. If me or any of my associates catch you out of bounds again, it’ll be a $700 ticket. Got it?”

“Yes, ma’am.” The kid slipped his wet feet into his Nike sandals and hung his head. Blonde hair stuck to his pink face and despite his towering height over her, he still looked like a boy. It only made her feel older than she was. The other three murmured in agreement, following behind him. She watched them shuffle up the path until they disappeared behind a thicket of pines.

“I thought I could do it,” Benny sighed, his head swiveling side to side, checking for litter or anything else the rowdy guests may have left behind. Jackie moved to stand beside him and ruffled his mess of red hair. The way his nose scrunched and his shoulders relaxed from the playful exchange reminded her so much of Andre back at home.

“You did better than I did the first time I tried writing a citation - I cried.” Her sidekick blinked, surprised, and chuckled.

“But you’re so good at it. You’ve got a mom voice - in a good way, I mean.”

“Geez, I’m not that old, Wonderbird. First them, and now you? I’m aging by the second. You’ll have to explain to Richards why my knees are bad and my hair is graying when summer’s over, you dingus.”

Benny all but collapsed forward with laughter, holding his stomach and slapping his knee like a cheery grandfather. Jackie smiled so wide her cheeks ached. She had to avert her gaze to not let the homesickness creep in. She would miss him when he had to go back to school. Just like she missed Andre.

The mushrooms among the grass piqued her curiosity again. She stooped down beside them and inspected them without touching. Who knew what they did and who knew why the government and college kids were so interested in them.

“What are they? They were grabbing a lot of them.” Benny squatted next to her, reaching out to touch one. Jackie gently smacked the back of his hand and shook her head.

“I don’t know, but I wouldn’t touch them. Let’s get to the office, the captain’s waiting for us by now.”

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scenes-in-between · 4 years

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Trust No 1 (Part three)

“Who authorizes you? I mean, what gives you the right? Who ARE you?!”

“I’m the future, Agent Scully. And I risked my life being here.”

“Well then why do it? I mean, why meet me?”

“Because you can reach Mulder. Mulder needs to know what I know or he may have no future. Perhaps no one will. Another car is parked on the main road, half a mile out. If I see that you haven’t contacted Mulder in the next 24 hours, I disappear and you never see me again. Do you understand, lady?”

Scully stalks away, seething. All of the theatrics, all of the waste, and for what? A two-minute conversation that raised more questions than it answered? What was the point of any of it?

Scowling, she pulls her phone out of her jacket pocket - because apparently it was absolutely necessary to blow up her clothes and her gun and inspect her watch, but Mr. Mysterious had no qualms about letting her keep her phone? - and punches the speed dial for Monica Reyes. Monica picks up immediately.

“Dana! Thank god. We’ve been trying to reach you all day. Where are you?”

“At the end of a very long and very stupid wild goose chase,” she grumbles. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get in touch earlier. How’s William?”

“He’s just fine. John’s in the kitchen right now heating up a bottle for him.”

“Agent Doggett stayed with you?” she asks, surprised.

“Not the whole day,” Monica says. “After that couple left, he went to the office for a while, but then he came back a few hours ago when we still hadn’t heard from you. Seriously though, where have you been?”

Scully answers with a groan, then gives an abbreviated account of the day’s events as she continues making her way back to the main road. Her foot catches on something in the dark and she stumbles, cursing. Of all the times to be without a flashlight…

When she gets to the part about the car and the remote detonation, Monica says, “Holy hell, Dana! Do you need one of us to come get you?”

“No, he said there’s another car parked up the road. I’m heading toward it now.”

“But are you sure that’s safe?” Monica presses. “What if it’s rigged to explode, too?”

“Whoa, wait, what’s rigged to explode?” Scully hears Doggett say in the background, and she shudders at the thought that she spent the entire day driving around on top of a bomb. However, the fact that she’s still alive right now is a fairly good indicator that she’ll be able to get home safely.

“If he wanted me dead, he had ample opportunity,” she says. “No, what he wants is for me to contact Mulder, which I can’t very well do if I’ve been blown up. I’ll be fine.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

What she’s not sure of is exactly where she is right now. It became harder and harder to track her relative location after she left the interstate. The very notion of spending who knows how many more hours on the road fills her with a mix of exhaustion and dread, and she’s angry all over again at the phenomenal waste of time today has been.

“Maybe you can help me figure out where I am, though,” she says. “It was too dark to read the street signs, the last couple of turns he told me to make, but I was on Route 17 going north for a while, somewhere between Norfolk and Fredericksburg. It’s not much to go on, but it’s all I’ve got at the moment.”

“I’m on it,” Monica tells her. “Can I use your computer?”

“Of course.”

“Here, you can talk to John while I pull up MapQuest.”

Ahead, Scully can just make out the bulk of a vehicle in the darkness. She reaches to unsnap her holster out of habit and grimaces when her fingers catch nothing but the fabric of her waistband.

In her ear, Doggett barks, “What in the heck’s going on? Where’ve you been all day, and why is Monica talking about things being rigged to explode?”

Scully sighs. “I’m going to let her fill you in on the details because I would just as soon not go through it all again right now. Short answer is that I’m fine, just tired and frustrated. I’ll be on my way home soon, hopefully. I want to thank you, though, for helping to look after William. I really do appreciate it.”

“Well, you’re welcome, but I didn’t do all that much. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

She approaches the car, again wishing she had a flashlight. It’s too dark to see anything through the rear windows, but the front of the car at least appears to be empty. Cautiously, she reaches for the door handle; it’s unlocked, and the interior light comes on when she opens the door. There’s a piece of paper on the driver’s seat.

“Son of a bitch,” she murmurs, picking it up.

“Agent Scully?”

“You can tell Agent Reyes that I don’t need her help after all. I’ve been left a map.”

“A map?” Doggett asks. “So where are you?”

Thirty miles. She is all of thirty miles from Fredericksburg. It is going to take her less than two hours to get home. It could have taken her less than two hours to get here. Of all the stupid, pointless, absolutely and completely asinine...

“Just a bit southeast of Fredericksburg,” she says tightly, glancing at her watch. “I should be home by nine.”

“All right then. Be careful.”

“Yeah.”

***

This isn’t the first time Monica has been asked to watch William, but it is the first time she’s had to try and put him to bed.

And he is not having it.

She’s never seen him like this. She’s never felt him like this; William’s energy is always vibrant -- she’s known that since the night he was born -- but it’s usually contained, like the potential energy in a compressed spring. Tonight, it’s like a storm, howling around him as he wails in her arms.

“I don’t know what’s wrong. Should we call Dana?”

John chuckles at her, evidently unconcerned, because of course he can’t feel what she feels.

“There’s nothing wrong. And there’s nothing she could do even if there was. He’s just tired.”

“No, John, I’m telling you, something is--”

“Here,” he says, holding out his hands. “I’ll show you.”

She passes the squirming baby to her partner and steps back, nerves jangling. John gathers William against his chest and starts to walk around the living room, gently bouncing him while murmuring softly. At first, Monica can’t hear what he’s saying over the sound of William’s cries, but as the boy gradually quiets, John’s words become clearer.

“There you go, easy does it, your mama’s gonna be home soon, don’t you worry, atta boy…”

He’s asleep within minutes, energy storm subsided. Monica shakes her head, a little abashed at having so comprehensively misread the situation.

“You were right,” she says quietly.

“Eh, nothing I hadn’t seen before, that’s all.” He doesn’t meet her eyes, his gaze still trained on the top of William’s head as he slows the bouncing to a gentle sway. “Luke certainly did his share of fussing.”

She didn’t know him then, of course. She’s only ever known him as a grieving father; this is the first time she’s gotten a glimpse of what he was like as a dad, and it makes her unexpectedly emotional.

“I’m gonna see if I can go put him down,” he says, and she nods, watching him go before turning to pick up the few scattered toys and take William’s dinner bottle back to the kitchen.

***

By the time she has retrieved her own car from where she left it parked this morning, after stewing on the whole drive home and running through the day’s various cryptic conversations over and over, Scully has come to three conclusions.

Number one: nearly everything that man claimed to know about her, he could have learned by bugging her apartment and going through her garbage bins. What did he really give her that was concrete? Knowing her clothing size seemed eerie at first, until she remembered the receipts she’s thrown away from a handful of recent shopping trips. Her childhood clown phobia? She and her mom were laughing about that in her living room a month or so ago. The rest of it -- resting heart rate, ATM pin, college boyfriend, et cetera -- was only specific enough to seem unnerving without actually proving that he knew any of it.

Her emails to Mulder would require some additional access, but that could be as simple as someone following her to the cafe. It’s probably one of the “regulars” that she -- blithely, it would seem -- dismissed as a potential threat.

Number two: while her apartment has definitely been under surveillance, apparently for quite a while, Mulder’s has not. The “one lonely night” the man mentioned? She’s reasonably certain he was referring to the night she asked Mulder to stay after the IVF failed, and that was not their first time together. If, as he said, the events of that night surprised him, then he could not have known about what they had already been doing at Mulder’s place. Or, for that matter, what they had been doing at her place before that night. So now she also knows approximately when the surveillance actually began.

Number three: if this man genuinely does have useful intel about super soldiers -- and that is an extraordinarily big “if” -- then it may in fact be worthwhile to call Mulder home. The idea terrifies and thrills her in almost equal measure. On the one hand, there is nothing she wants more than to have him home. Nothing. But on the other, if she has miscalculated, and calling him out of hiding only ends up getting him killed, she will never forgive herself.

In the end, it is Agent Doggett’s words from yesterday that settle the issue for her. If we know who these super-soldiers are we can go after them. This is somebody giving us a way that can make it safe for Mulder to come home.

How else are you going to get him home?

It’s a risk, possibly a big one, but ultimately, it’s one she has to take. He has been gone for almost seven months. This is the first time in those nearly seven months that there has even been a chance he might be able to come home. If she lets this chance go by, how much more time will pass before they get another one?

She walks into her apartment having made up her mind. There is a giddy, fluttery feeling in her stomach that is only temporarily eclipsed by ravenous hunger as she steps through the door and the smell of Thai food envelops her. Reyes and Doggett look up from where they’re sitting, at her kitchen table, takeout cartons amassed between them.

“Hope you don’t mind, we got takeout,” Reyes says, standing. “We didn’t know if you’d have a chance to eat, but if you’re hungry, there’s a bunch left.”

The last thing she ate was a bag of almonds from the gas station, hours and hours ago. To say she’s hungry is a massive understatement.

“Mind? I could kiss you both right now.”

Doggett’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, and Reyes laughs. “I’ll get you a plate.”

Scully nods. “I’m just going to change and wash up.”

On her way to the bedroom, she grabs a plastic bag from the closet. The likelihood is slim that there will be much in the way of usable trace evidence on the clothes she’s wearing, but it would be irresponsible not to even look. She opens the bedroom door quietly so as not to wake William; by the soft glow of the bedside lamp, she can see him sleeping peacefully in his crib, and she smiles, some of the tension from the day melting away. Though she would love a shower, she's too hungry, so she settles for changing into sweats, carefully folding and bagging the "borrowed" outfit, then washes her hands and face before heading back to the kitchen.

Doggett and Reyes have tidied up their dishes and are in the process of putting on coats and shoes.

"We'll let you get some rest," Reyes says, though she’s looking at Doggett when she does. “Whatever else you might have to tell us about what happened today can wait until tomorrow.”

“Unless,” Doggett adds, in a tone that sounds like he’s continuing an argument from earlier, “there’s anything you think we need to know now. Or if you don’t feel safe staying here alone, knowing that this Shadow Man may well have eyes and ears on you.”

“Is that what we’re calling him?” Scully asks, arching one eyebrow. “Look, I appreciate the offer, but I’ll be fine. As violating as it feels to be surveilled by some NSA creep--” she emphasizes the words, fully assuming that she’s being listened to right now “--I don’t have any reason to believe that William and I are not safe here.”

“Well I still don’t like it,” Doggett says, frowning. “Why don’t you let us post a couple agents out front, just in case?”

“I really don’t think that’s necess--”

“That’s a good idea, actually,” Reyes interjects, then drops her voice to a murmur. “Especially in light of what happened this morning. We know you can take care of yourself, Dana, but we also don’t know exactly what we’re up against, here. Maybe the answer is to try and watch the watchers, find out who they are, see if we can figure out who else the Shadow Man is working with.��

Scully sighs but has to admit that’s a sensible course of action. Either the knowledge that she’s being watched over will deter this so-called Shadow Man and his associates, or it won’t, in which case they could be exposed and identified.

“All right,” she agrees.

“Good,” Doggett says. “I’ll take first watch until I can get someone else over here.”

As soon as they leave, Scully makes herself a plate of food and takes it to her computer desk. If the Shadow Man is able to access her emails even when she sends them from the internet cafe, it seems pointless to wait until morning to write to Mulder. The giddy feeling from earlier comes rushing back as she types.

Mr. Hale,

I am overjoyed to tell you that circumstances appear to have changed. Exercise caution, but put the plan in motion. I cannot wait to see you.

All my love,

Dana

She clicks “send” with her heart in her throat, wondering where Mulder is and when he’ll be able to read her message. How long it might take for him to make the necessary arrangements and begin the journey home. He could be in her arms as early as tomorrow, a notion that seemed impossible just 24 hours ago.

She powers down the computer -- according to their plan, his next communication will come via text message from a burner phone -- and picks up her plate to finish eating in the kitchen. A glance out the window as she stands up reveals Agent Doggett sitting in his truck across the street, cell phone held to his ear. She sighs, regretting the additional work and worry she’s given her former partner but also deeply grateful that he’s got her back, he and Reyes both. She appreciates them more than she can say.

With any luck, all of this will soon be over. Mulder will come home, the Shadow Man will give him the information they need to take down the super-soldiers, and things can go back to… well… “normal” for them, anyway. It’s maybe too much to hope for, but right now, she will allow herself to be comforted by the fantasy, at least for a little while. When she finally crawls into bed, later, she falls asleep with her cell phone on the pillow beside her, imagining the sensation of being wrapped securely in Mulder’s arms.

***

“Holy shit,” he breathes, reading her email for the third time.

The library’s just about to close, and he had checked his email one last time before leaving, more out of impulse than any actual expectation that there would be anything there. The surprise of a new email was immediately eclipsed by the surprise over its contents.

Home. He can go home. He and Gibson both, even. No more hiding in the desert. No more ache of longing binding his stomach and keeping him from sleep. It almost sounds too good to be true, but she called him Mr. Hale, the code phrase they established before he left so he’d be able to tell a genuine summons from a trap. This is the real deal.

Which means the threat is past. Maybe Skinner cut a deal, hell, maybe Kersh did. Who knows? Who cares?! He gets to go home!

The grin on his face is massive as he logs off and heads for the door.

***

“You’re leaving," Gibson says, before Mulder has even closed the front door behind himself. "You promised you wouldn’t. But I guess I shouldn’t have expected you to keep that promise.”

It's still weird, Gibson knowing what he's thinking about before he's even said anything, but it doesn't throw him for a loop the way it used to.

“No, we’re leaving, Gibson. Both of us.”

Gibson scoffs. “You know I’m not going anywhere. It’s not safe. You might be able to outrun them if they catch us, but I--”

“Scully said it’s safe. And yes, I’m sure the message really was from her.”

Gibson stares hard at him and Mulder thinks as forcefully and loudly and clearly as he can.

We can both be free. I swear. I will protect you.

“I believe that you believe that,” Gibson says finally. “But I don’t think either of us knows for sure whether that’s really true.”

“Look, I know you’re scared. And you’re right that there are no guarantees. But for the first time since I left Washington, there is at least a chance that it’s safe for us to get out of here. If we don't take it, I don't know when another one is gonna come along. Do you really want to hide here for the rest of your life?"

"If it doesn't mean dying horribly and having my head karate chopped off by an alien replicant? Yeah. I'm fine with that."

Mulder’s thoughts flicker, involuntarily, to Dr. Parenti’s severed head in a jar, to the gash in Skinner’s forehead, to his own memory of being hurled across Parenti’s lab by Billy Miles.

“Exactly,” says Gibson. “I’m not letting that happen to me.”

“I trust Scully,” Mulder says, thinks. “She wouldn’t call me home if it wasn’t safe. She’s too smart and too cautious to take a risk like that.”

This, at last, seems to convince him, if only somewhat. He may not trust Mulder’s judgment, but he apparently trusts Scully’s, at least enough to finally sigh and say, “Okay. I hope you’re right.”

Despite Gibson’s reluctance, it takes almost no time at all to pack. They don’t have much to take, not bothering with spare clothes. Mulder shoves the stuff he printed about Mount Weather into his backpack, along with a little food, the fake IDs from the Gunmen and all of their remaining cash. They’re out the door and on the road in less than twenty minutes.

On the way to the train station, Mulder stops to gas up the motorcycle and buy four prepaid cell phones from the convenience store. Two hours later, as they’re getting ready to board the train that will take them eastward, Mulder types Scully’s number into the first phone and sends a single-word text message.

“Midnight.”

Once the message sends, he opens the back of the phone, pockets the battery, and tosses the phone in a garbage can.

#x-files fanfic #TXF: Trust No 1 #scullyfic #mulderfic #gibson praise #monica whalesong reyes #john doggett #msr #mulder on the run #a/n: this installment of scenes in between was originally going to be in two parts #and then it turned into three #aaaaaand now it's gonna be four #there are just too many gaps to fill in #hopefully no one minds ;)#i promise it won't take me as long to finish and post part four #as it did to finish and post part three

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alpaca-writes · 3 years

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Mystics Chapter 2.

When Arch becomes hired on at Mystics by strange shopkeeper Lyrem, everything seems to be going well- almost too well. In fact, Arch's life nearly becomes perfection. Soon enough however, Arch realizes that perhaps not everything is as great as it seems....

Directory: [chapter one]

CW: bullying, deadname use (though never revealed), memory problems

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CHAPTER TWO: THE OLD WORLD

Earlier that day,

Their name rang down like an emergency alarm bell in their ears, breaking them from a state full of dreams that they wouldn’t remember by the time their feet had touched the floor. Despite the name not belonging to them any longer, Arch would still be forced to hear it until they could find their own place, their own life, their own bed -without their mother screaming down to them both figuratively and literally.

There it was, the damned name again, screaming down from the top of the stairs, and then the tired list of consequences for being lazy came down with it. You'll be late for the bus, you'll be failing class, you'll be working at McDonalds- which wasn’t fair- Arch knew of several kids in their grade making decent money through working at the one on the corner of twenty-sixth avenue and Carmichael Drive.

“Up! I’m up”-

“You have ten minutes, little lady!”

Arch shook off the comment as they found the shirt that they had worn the day previous laying on the carpet by their dresser. They tugged it on, and added some pants to perfect the outfit. Ruffling short bangs and tufting out the sides more evenly, Arch began to look almost like they had a full night of sleep. They hadn’t. Not with the carelessly loud insomniac who lived above them. Not with the dread of existence in this world to keep them up at night either.

Their mother was never a friendly stranger when it came to change, and after a year of begging her to stop buying dresses and skirts for them, their relationship came to an impasse. It was only a month ago that Arch was accused of heinous things like “being ungrateful for the body their Lord gave them”, and acting treacherously like a boy. At that point, Arch locked themselves in the bathroom with a pair of scissors, and didn't emerge until they had chopped their dark hair off just above the ears- leaving their mother crying on the main floor's hallway and praying to the Virgin Mary to save her daughter from the devil's grip.

Arch gave up going to mass after that too.

The truth was, that Arch was never once ashamed of their body or the way it was made- but they did have a keen sense on how they wanted to act, and apparently, it was too masculine for their mother’s comfort level. They weren’t created to be a boy or a girl, but maybe something slightly in between. The parts of their body didn’t matter nearly as much as who they defined themselves as- and as it was contemplated endlessly during sleepless nights, it was decided, by them and them alone that they were Arch.

In the morning rush up the stairs, Arch nearly stepped on the cat, instead of over it. Maleficent decided the near miss was an invitation to play, and dug her pin sharp claws into the denim at the top of their ankle. Arch kicked her off, unceremoniously and pulled their backpack over one shoulder. They were moving too fast to care whether the little beast had drawn blood this time. Skipping breakfast and any goodbyes, Arch was out the door just in time to watch their bus pass them across the street with the students inside, making obscene gestures with their fingers and tongues at them as it drove away.

Arch should have stayed in bed.

“Shit.” They sighed, taking the opportunity to walk through downtown. At the very least they could start looking for a job, a way out of the hellhole their mother called a home. And by the time they graduated, they would be out. They would be free. They would find this job, even if it took all freaking day.

Presently,

“That’s not what it says on your email or on your resume,” Lyrem noted casually, making a quick scrawl in the margins. “I’ll make certain that your name is respected here, but for governmental and tax purposes, I can’t use Arch until you’ve changed it properly.”

“That’s fine,” They responded. “I thought my chances on getting hired might have been better if I used my real name.”

Lyrem regarded them carefully over the cash desk.

“Arch is your real name. I’ll be looking forward to the day that it is recognized as such,” he advised sagely, “besides, it’s not like I haven’t changed mine a hundred times over. I know it can be a pain.”

Arch looked at them skeptically and stepped back.

“Dude, come on, are you fleeing the IRS? Involved with human trafficking”- Arch shook their head.

Lyrem couldn’t have been younger than fifty years of age, and it was very rare to find a man of that time so accepting of these modern values. He briefly glanced up from the generally unimpressive resume and smiled, almost robotically.

“I was only joking.”

“Can I ask you a question?” Arch inquired, “Your shop has been on this street for as long as I can remember; why do you need someone now? Why did the last part-timer leave?”

Lyrem placed the paper down. It was a fair question, reasonable for anyone to ask if they were being hired on so soon.

“I ran this shop with my wife for many years,” he answered honestly. “But… she is gone now…”

Arch raised their eyebrows, a look of sympathy crossing over their face until Lyrem finished their sentence.

“- Drained my savings account without my knowledge and ran off to Cuba with some ugly bastard named Phillip.”

Oh.

“I just hope she can still find happiness.” Lyrem finished, trailing off.

Oh.

“Sorry I asked.”

Lyrem shrugged.

“You’d have found out eventually, I’m sure. I may rant to you from time to time, I hope that is not an issue.”

“No, never. I love a good rant.” Arch grinned slightly sideways.

“Dress code: simply look presentable, is all I ask- don’t smell like patchouli, I suppose, is another thing, and you can play music in the store as long as it’s tasteful. There’s a record player in the corner.”

Arch had gazed around, there was indeed, a record player in the corner, but an old one- one they had assumed was merely for display use only. The entire shop was set up like something out of a seventies television series. The shag rug in the corner held a couple deep orange velour wingback chairs with the record player nestled between them by the window. Did people just sit in here to hang out?

The hanging chandelier over the desk was stained with a foggy yellow glass, and the shelves of tarot decks and mystical books were perfectly arranged alphabetically by subject, then by author. Lyrem continued as Arch took in the layout of the store.

“There is some Holst, Tchaikovsky, John Denver, Earth, Wind, and Fire and even some Segovia”-

“Mm. What’s Segovia?” Arch asked, turning back to him.

Lyrem’s face fell into utter disappointment. “You heard it yesterday, at the coffee shop.”

Arch didn’t expect such an offended response but then their face twisted in confusion.

“The coffee place was playing City and Colour,” Arch responded, recounting their chance meeting with total clarity. “Everyone knows City and Colour.”

Lyrem suddenly looked quite shaky. Arch moved around the side of the counter as he paled. Unsure what to do, they helped Lyrem into the stool in nestled behind the register in the corner.

“Do you need some water or something? Medication?”

“No!” Lyrem stood upright, pushing Arch away as they crowded him. “No, I’m fine!”

With a raised eyebrow, Arch backed off, suddenly rethinking the opportunity here.

“Apologies, Arch.” Lyrem grounded himself. “I didn’t mean to get so worked up over that.”

Arch looked at him sideways, and changed the subject-

“It happens… Teach me how to use the till?”

Lyrem nodded, attempting to brush off the odd discovery as simply an accident of the aging mind.

The evening shift progressed without further flaw, and after a tour of the store and several small sales later, Arch was taught to close out the till, and to close the store. It was shortly after eight when they both stood outside, and Lyrem handed over a set of silver keys to them.

“There you are. Now, I will put together a proper schedule that will fit around your school hours and have it to you tomorrow when you come in.”

Arch nodded. “Four o’clock?”

“Precisely.”

Arch turned to the left, heading home to the condo toward the southeast. They turned, a thank you, was on the verge of leaving their lips when they realized that Lyrem had left already, and was no where to be seen. The sun was just dipping below the horizon as Arch returned to the street, assuming their employer turned down the alley already to retrieve their vehicle. Arch walked the way home with contented steps, feeling proud- unstoppable, even.

#whump #whump writing #writing #creative writing #deadname #bullying mention #domestic abuse #Mystics by Alpaca #writing blog #whump blog

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thehikingviking · 3 years

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Thor Peak, A Winter Hike from Whitney Portal Road

With limited snowfall throughout California, I had the opportunity to climb in the High Sierra in mid January. I wanted to climb Thor Peak because it resides in the Whitney Zone and it was outside permit season. I called the Lone Pine ranger station all week, and while it was clear that the road to Whitney Portal was closed, no one was able to give me a clear answer as to where the closure started. I spent the day before climbing several desert peaks, and since I was kind of in the area, I decided to drive to the visitor center in Lone Pine to see for myself. Upon arriving, I found a reduced staff due to Covid, and the only person there was a cashier who had no knowledge of the road conditions. Apparently it was safe enough to have someone onsite to sell merchandize, but not safe enough to have someone onsite to advise on the latest mountain conditions. Alas, I decided to drive all the way up Whitney Portal Road to see for myself. There is one giant switchback on the road to the trailhead. At the base of the switchback there was a Road Closed sign, however there was no gate. I decided to drive past this sign, and while I felt a little uneasy at first, I found many cars parked along the road up above. There were some sections of road covered with snow and ice, so 4WD and snow tires were definitely good to have. I finally reached a closed gate at 7,549 ft. Starting here would add an extra 3 miles and 800 ft of elevation gain to my day, but I felt this was well within reason. I sat at the road closure sign and meditated for an hour, doing my best to acclimatize over that short period. I drove back down to town where I booked a room and informed Asaka that I planned to stay one more night. I was exhausted from a poor nights rest the night before, so I got an early dinner and retired to my room. I cranked the heater and watched some playoff football before going to bed.

I woke up in the dark the next morning and packed the car. I ate some leftover pizza for breakfast as I drove the lonely road up towards the portal. Judging by the large amount of cars parked alongside the road, it was clear that I would not be the only one on the mountain that day. I was able to find a parking spot within a hundred yards of the locked gate. I started off up the pavement under headlamp just after 5:30am. After a half mile or so, snow completely cover the road. I alternated between walking on icy and snowy sections, finding the easiest stuff to walk on somewhere in between. After a mile and a half I made it to the usual parking lot, and shortly after I took a right up the Whitney Trail. The snow dissipated as I switched back up the canyon. I guess most of the snow resides at the bottom of the canyon where there is minimal daytime sunlight. Light began to crest over the Inyo Mountains shortly after I began up the trail.

I had been up the trail five weeks earlier, so much was familiar. This time I had the luxury of getting a later start so I had plenty of light before reaching the North Fork of Lone Pine Creek.

There was snow up the canyon, but the trail was well trodden and it was obvious to know where to go. The snow cushioned each step. It was the best type of snow to walk on.

-Ebersbacher Ledges

As I ascended the Ebersbacher Ledges I got my first view of Thor Peak.

I saw my first group as I neared Lower Boyscout Lake. I asked the group of three where they were coming from, but this question is almost meaningless here since almost every time I am told Mt Whitney. I asked if they summited and the one who I assumed was the lead sharply said no. The other two he was with had big smiles on their faces. I could only shed sympathy on the disappointed hiker as I myself had been in similar situations, not making it to the summit due to going with a group that was not up to task. Mt Whitney peered down on us from above.

I made it to Lower Boyscout Lake and was surprised to find almost no snow on the northern facing aspect of Thor Peak. I know snow makes steep climbing easier at times, but I was thankful that I didn’t have to deal with taking out any extra gear. I said hello to a backpacker meditating on a large rock in the fresh morning air then crossed the creek.

I left the trail shortly after and began up the talus field leading towards the ridge above me. I looked back at the route to Cleaver Col, which I used to access Tunnabora Peak the month prior.

-Mt Whitney

-Mt Russell, Mt Carillon, The Cleaver & Gambler’s Special.

At first I was having an okay time scrambling up some large boulders, but as I got higher, the boulders thinned out and I was stuck in some loose scree. This was a bad case of two steps up, one step down, and in some cases it was even two steps up, two steps down. I found myself on all fours and by this time I was wishing that there had been snow on this section. After suffering for a bit, I finally found myself back on rock and was able to scramble the remaining distance to the top of the ridge. I had a front row seat for views of Mt Inyo, Keynot Peak, Voon Meng Leow Peak, Survivor Peak & New York Butte.

The summit was now clearly in sight.

What ensued was about a thousand feet of slowly steepening hiking. I followed a use trail at first but this disappeared as I neared the top. There was some easy scrambling on the final section and I reached the summit at 10:20am. To the west was Mt Whitney.

To the northwest were Mt Russell, Mt Carillon and Gambler's Special.

To the east were the Inyo Mountains.

To the southeast was Lone Pine Peak.

To the south were Mt Irvine and Mt McAdie.

I could see why the peak is recommended by the Sierra Peaks Section. While this peak doesn't have much prominence, it provides a nice perch in the middle of the surrounding giants. Rather than return the same way I came, I decided to make a loop out of it. To my south were cliffs and the ridge towards Mt Whitney didn't look trivial. I followed this for a while, looking for the opportunity to drop to the southern slopes below. I couldn't find anything that looked easier than class 4, so I kept on searching. I recalled a trip report which described descending through a notch. I was able to find a window, and while I'm not sure if this was the aforementioned notch, I was able to downclimb from here down to class 2 sandy slopes below.

Once on sandy slopes, I plunge stepped down towards Mirror Lake. I remember trip reports highlighted some cliffs, and I was able to avoid these pretty easily.

From there I walked down grassy slopes. I was enjoying my day and then wham, I was on the ground. I slipped on some ice underneath the grass and slammed myself on the hard rocks. Damn that hurt. I continued again, but this time more carefully, and I again slipped and fell. Luckily I didn't break anything but I had some big bruises afterwards.

I considered walking across the ice, but instead went around the right side of Mirror Lake. This ended up being a mistake. I found myself bushwhacking and breaking trail through waist high snow. If it weren't for that half mile section it could have been a perfect day.

I reconnected with the trail soon after. I put on my MICROspikes to get a little extra traction for the icy sections of trail, and powered myself downhill towards the car.

Prior to reaching the North Fork of Lone Pine Creek, I spotted the old Mt Whitney Trail. While unsigned, the trail looked pretty decent. I felt like a true veteran as I hiked down the steep switchbacks. I continued my quick pace down the road, and I wore my MICROspikes until there was no more snow on the road. I tried a light jog, but in the end was content to walk. I chatted with a lady for the last half mile. There was some rockfall on the road that needed to be cleared before reopening.

It took me 7 hours and 45 minutes to complete the hike. My total mileage was 13 miles so doing this hike from Whitney Portal would be a cinch. I grabbed a coffee in Lone Pine then drove back home to San Jose that afternoon.

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sergeant-donny-donowitz · 5 years

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The Makeshift Medic

Donny Donowitz x Fem!Reader

Requested by @svonschroeder

(Sorry it took a few more days than I thought :/ )

Let me know if you guys wanna be tagged in these! :)

@owba-chan

*******************************************

"TEN HUT." Donny's voice echoed through the trees.

The Basterds scrambled into a line. The sun's harsh red rays were barely breaking through the horizon, boring through the branches, but they could already feel the heavy humidity sinking in around them.

Aldo was about to run his men through their mission. It was a big one. There was a cabin in the southeast side of the forest, and a few off duty nazi officers were holding a party there. They were high ranking. And they were major targets.

Aldo stopped mid-breath, before his first word.

You weren't there...

You were always there... in fact, you were usually the first one out.

Aldo narrowed his eyes, and turned to the privates. "Hirschberg. Omar."

The two stepped forward, "SIR Y-"

Aldo sighed, "At ease. At ease. Where in hell is y/n?"

Omar narrowed his eyes, "I uh... I don't know..."

Hirscherg turned around, back to the hideout, "She was right behind us."

Aldo muttered southern atrocities under his breath, as he rubbed the inner corners of his eyes, "Of all the goddamn days to fucken-"

He looked up and somehow you appeared in the line up.

Normally, it would've merited a chewing out, but...it was an important mission, there was no time. He narrowed his eyes again when he realized you were wearing a jacket...over a sweater...over a few other layers.

He quickly glanced around at the others. Donny was wearing his white tank top... everyone was wearing a single layer, mostly short sleeves.

He really didn't have time to question you. You were a smart enough private...smart enough for the OSS. You never steered them wrong, why question you now?

Donny didn't quite notice. He was too fired up for the mission, "EYES FORWARD."

All of the basterds stood at attention, their backs straight, hearts pumping adrenaline, eyes definitely forward.

All of them, except for you.

Your eyes hurt, like everything else, your spine was tired, hardly able to hold you up. As Aldo went through the mission, you felt more and more spaced out. Every word seemed further and further away as you felt as if there was mounting pressure around your head.

You were aching, hardly able to hold up your head, struggling to stand, your knees were shaking. You weren't scared. Aldo was the only one that noticed, but he also knew that. It just wasn't like you.

"Y/n..."

You lifted your eyes to meet his. He saw the dark circles under your sunken eyes, "You're pale." He didn't waste an instant. He looked back to the closest thing they had to a medic, aside from you "Wicki!"

You stepped back, simultaneously balancing yourself, "I'm fine, Aldo."

Aldo sighed. You weren't really a liar. Everyone had been overworked lately. He knew you took missions seriously and decided you must be a mess from stress. It happened to the best of them...

... Aside from that, you were the only basterd that spoke French. The only that could get them through without blowing the act.

You all moved out, toward your target.

Most of you...

Aldo couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. He turned around and did a quick head count.

Ten basterds total.

You were missing.

"Y/N?!"

Donny's heart stopped. Without a moment to lose, he bolted back the way you all came. He didn't run too far when he found you resting on one knee as you grappled onto a tree, vomiting.

"Oh fuck!" He ran toward you, though he hesitated for a split second when he reached you. Donny...wasn't particularly good at taking care of others. Not unless by 'taking care' you mean bashing a baseball bat into their brains. He loved you, and wanted more than anything to take care of you, but he didn't know his own strength at times, especially when he was scared.

Then he realized how helpless you looked. He crouched by you, pulled your hair away from your face and did what he vaguely remembered his mother doing when he was a kid. He tried rubbing your back, didn't know if it was helping or not. He just tried his best. "You...you don't look too good, kid."

You knew how important the mission was for him, for Aldo, for everyone...hell, for you. You struggled, your knees shook and you pulled yourself together and stood back up.

Donny knew how stubborn and proud you could be. You were somewhere in the same league as Hugo sometimes...that was a story for another day....

But, he swiftly held on to you, seeing you were already swaying, and on the verge of collapsing. "Hey, hey. Whoa...its ok," he looked down at you, observed the beads of sweat rolling down your face, your strained red, tired eyes, and your pale, scalding skin. He cursed himself for not noticing earlier as he turned back, his heart racing. "WICKI GET THE FUCK OVER HERE."

Wicki had a scant amount of medical training... his sister was a vet...but he was useful enough for the basterds, until you came along. Most of what he knew he got from you. But you were known to be something of a hypocrite, and tended to not take care of yourself half as well as you took care of your basterds.

Not even a fraction as well as you took care of Sergeant Donny Donowitz.... Sometimes he acted out a little, just to get your attention. Not that you had a problem with that...

He felt almost as helpless as you as he looked down at you, a feverish, limp heap. "Y/n..."

Wicki rushed through the bushes, followed closely by the rest of the basterds.

He didn't take much time, or even a genius for him to know that "There's no way she can go."

Somehow, beyond Donny's reason, you managed to shift out of his arms, and stumble, "I can go... I can-"

Donny caught you once more as Aldo shook his head, "No you ain't, soldier. You'sa stayin." Aldo was at a crossroad. Wicki was the medic, but they also needed him because he spoke German. Hugo was too recognizable to some of their targets.

Aldo hesitated, and thought on calling it all off.

As bad as you looked, you still had eyes, and you still knew your lieutenant well. "At least go without me. I can take care of myself. Go."

Wicki shook his head, "Aldo, look at the state she's in. We can't leave her alone. Not like that."

Hugo sputtered "Wicki's right." As much as he held a facade, and made it seem like he could barely tolerate you, you were the only one that knew how to carry out a good, sound argument... in German no less. (Of course, Wicki spoke German, but he lost his head quickly with Hugo's ridiculous claims. ) Hugo respected you.

He'd never admit it, but even he cared about you.

Still, not like Donny did. And Omar knew it. It was mostly a joke, but he suggested, "Ya know, lieutenant... no one's going to take better care of her than Donny."

Wicki and Donny both turned to him, "What?!"

Aldo pondered on it for a second, reasoning that would mean Wicki would be able to go. And...Omar had a point.

Donny held on to you as he also thought about it. He didn't know much about taking care of people... but he had watched you intently every time you took care of an injured basterd.... every time you took care of him. You did more than that for him...

He wanted to take care of you, for once. He'd figure it out.

Aldo nodded, "Ok. Wicki you're comin' with us. Donny, you'll be takin care of her till we get back."

"But I..."

Aldo couldn't help but grin a little. He knew very well how much Donny loved you. Donny once almost drunkenly fought him over you after knowing you for less than a week. "That's an order."

Wicki turned to Donny, "You know where everything is, Donny?"

Donny nodded, and sounded almost disinterested in them, as he looked down at you, "Yeah, yeah, have fun..."

There was an exchange of smirks and mischievous glances between the other basterds as they marched on.

Donny picked you up bridal style. As weak as you were, you managed to mumble a protest. "Don, no, I can w-walk. "

"Don't lie to your sergeant." He grinned a little, expecting you to fire something back. He admired you for your sharp tongue and quick wit.

He was met with silence.

"Y/n?"

He glanced down, and realized you seemed to be drifting off. He usually loved holding on to you when you fell asleep. Sleeping by you was so calming to him... but right now, it worried him. It wasn't like you. He'd never seen you so sick. He noticed you were holding onto your stomach.

"How long you been like this, doll?"

His voice was almost pleading. He knew you well, and knew you wouldn't fess up easily.

"I woke up like this..."

He caught you chattering your teeth before you clenched your jaw so you wouldn't worry him.

"You're a terrible liar, ya know that?" He smirked a little as your eyes met his.

"I know..." You managed to flash a weak smile at him, as you gave up and rested your pounding head against his strong, protective arm.

"So...how long's it been, doll?"

"Dont..." You shook your head trying to pull yourself together, "Don't worry about me."

"You can ask anything. Anything in the world from me, doll, except for that."

You lifted your eyes and spoofed, "Yeah?"

"Don't ask me to let go of you either."

"You know me too well." Your voice was weak, and you broke out into a cough.

He groaned in frustration.

He thought he heard a few muffled, stifled, quiet coughs late in the night. He muttered, "God damn it, Y/n..." He sighed "You feel like shit, don't you?"

"....no..."

"I swear to God, Y/n-"

You were interrupted by a lone, wandering, possibly lost nazi. He screamed something, but his words whisped through your pounding head

Donny wasn't having it. He needed you to get better, he needed to see you smile, and hear you laugh again.

"Fuck off." Donny let go of you, and raised his gun in one movement, and took a shot through the nazi's forehead.

Donny quickly put his gun back, and balanced you in his arms again.

He wanted to take the scalp, but he wanted you to rest more.

"Fuck that guy, right Y/n?" He didn't get an answer, "Y/n?" He looked down and realized you pained face, and you were shivering. He frowned, and started to pick up the pace, "We're almost there, doll, hold on."

By the time he set you down in your bunk in the abandoned inn you all inhabited, he was worried. It wasn't easy to worry The Bear Jew. But you... well... It took quite some time for him to actually admit he cared about you, even if it was clear to everyone from the moment you met. After that, he let no one near you, not without a fight. He loved you, and only you. He couldn't bear to see you in any kind of pain.

"Sh... it's ok doll." He pulled some covers over you, "I..." He looked back, knowing he needed to get the medicine, but not wanting to you leave you alone. "I'm here. I will be.... I...I gotta go get some stuff, but you, you know what I mean."

He sounded distant and muffled, but you could tell he was flustered. It was rare, but when he got like that it was unbelievably adorable to you.

After what seemed like the blink of an aching eye to you, and a lifetime to him, he came back. He sat by you, and you heard the rattling of pill bottles. You opened your eyes and saw a hazey, blurry face over yours... no matter how sick you were, you knew how hard he was trying.

"You're still shivering..." He brushed some hair behind your ear and you mumbled, "It's cold..."

"Cold?! Its..." He was in a tank top and sweating. He eyed all the layers you'd thrown on, "Fuck, y/n, you're gonna suffocate like that!" He pulled the covers off you, "I know you feel cold, but it's hot out, I don't want you to overheat later." He helped you take off a jacket...then another one, and a sweater, and left you with a blouse on. He took your boots off, and though he knew you normally hated sleeping with socks on, he let you keep them on. He helped you back into bed, and pulled the covers back over you.

He sighed, a little content with himself, and sat by you. He couldn't find a thermometer, so he rested the back of his hand on your forehead. Your face was scalding, sweat was rolling down your forehead, and you were shivering. "Y/n..." He got up, and disappeared from your line if sight. Half delirious, and perpetually worried about Donny, you propped yourself up on your shaking arms, "Donny... Donny?"

"Hey, hey... sh, it's ok, I'm here, doll." You felt his warm arms wrap around you as he sank by you. He gently pulled you back down to bed (though... He normally wasn't gentle when that happened...)

"I gotcha some tea, doll. And here..." He put a few pills on your hand, after having read and reread the labels to make sure you were getting what you needed.

He drank some tea himself. He wanted to keep himself healthy enough to take care of you as long as you needed. As the basterds' medic, you did enough for them... and went above and beyond for him.

He wanted you to know how much you meant to him, even if you might've been delirious and may not remember a word he said, he said it anyway. "You don't know much I fucking love you, doll. I need you to get better."

"I'm sorry..."

His heart broke, even if you didn't know what world you were in, he knew your heart was always in the right place. "Hey, don't do that right now. You're sick, kid, you-"

"You should be out there with the boys... You really wanted to go, I-"

"I really wanna take care of you."

"But you've talked about it for so long..."

He sighed a little, and took the empty cup from your hand and set it down. "Yeah, but I think about you all the time. The mission was important, but you mean everything to me, doll. Don't be sorry. You do everything for us, for me. Lemme take care of you, just this once."

You laid back silently, almost as if you'd given in. You didn't have much of a choice to begin with...

"You feel any better, kid?"

You were silent. Even when you were half out of your mind with feverishness, you refused to let your guard down.

"Y/n, come on..."

But when you looked at Donny's worried eyes, you knew he meant it.

"I'm... I'm cold..."

He really didn't know what else to do, so he did the only thing he could think of.

He slipped under the cover with you, and wrapped his arms around you.

"No, I...I don't want you to get sick."

"So you admit it?" He smirked a little and you still protested, "Donny."

"It's ok, doll." You knew there was no way you were going to move him. You finally gave in. He smiled a little as you snuggled your head against his chest. He held you tight, resting his chin over the top of your head.

Some time passed, and you were beginning to drift to sleep when you heard his voice.

"You still cold, doll?"

You didn't have much of a voice left, and you were half asleep, so you simply smiled.

He peered over a little, and saw that smile, and your soft expression. He knew you weren't hurting as much anymore. You weren't sweating. He let you sleep. He was relieved. But even if you were feeling a bit better, he still held on to you. You were his everything, and even if it wasn't much, he did whatever he could if it made you feel better. He planted a kiss on your forehead, and closed his eyes, with a sigh. He could hear the basterds laughing and joking in the distance.

He would've loved to have been part of the mission, and have a couple more scalps around his belt, holding on to his bloody bat.

But there was nothing that he loved more than you, and nothing else he'd rather be holding on to than you.

#inglourious basterds #movies #quentin tarantino #donny donowitz #donny donowitz x reader #hugo stiglitz #smithson utivich #wilhelm wicki #aldo raine #omar ulmer

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recyclingbin · 4 years

Text

The Ugly Truth About Korea: Racism

Growing up moving around England, U.S. and Korea, I was always taken as ‘ching chong Chinese’ or a ‘Jap’. What hurt me even more than the racist name calling was that my country wasn’t even known well enough to have a nickname. With the success of Samsung, Hyundai, K-pop and the Hallyu wave, this is not the case anymore. People still mistake me for Chinese or Japanese, but when I tell them I’m Korean, almost everybody knows the country now. As a child, this would have made me very proud, mostly because I wasn’t smart enough to think about the side-effects of my country’s development.

In the year 2000, during my freshman year of high school, my family moved back to Korea and I started learning about those side-effects. With the developed economy and improved education, Koreans didn’t want to work in manual labor anymore. Like history has shown in developed countries, those jobs were filled by immigrant workers from Southeast Asian countries or India. The name calling and harassment by Koreans were shocking. People would walk up to foreigners on the bus and tell them that they ‘smell’ and they should get off the bus and walk. There was an instance where an old man complained so much to the driver that the driver asked two Indian men to get off the bus. I knew exactly how those two men felt, but couldn’t say anything as it is considered absurd to question the elderly in Korea. I was seriously confused about the values I learned through experience and the values that everyone else around me seemed to have. The two never felt so apart. In the Korean high school history book, it even stated that Koreans are to be proud of the ‘single race’ nation (한민족 국가).

But as I had done growing up in different cultures, I learned to adapt to Korea too and the acts of racism that I occasionally encountered got muted away, until one day, when I was forced into an even worse situation that I remember clearly to this day. After graduating high school, I spent a lot of my time enjoying nightlife at Hongdae. I made a lot of friends that seemed to be into arts and culture and they seemed to be much more open to foreign culture and foreign people. One night, I was at a bar with some friends when a female friend of mine noticed a foreigner with dark skin drinking alone. Rap and hiphop was big back then and my friend showed an interest towards the foreign guy. She asked me to invite him to our table and we started hanging out. He did not speak any Korean so I had to translate between him and my friends. I failed to notice that after about 10 minutes, my friends didn’t like the translating situation and wanted the foreigner gone. Of course, I had to be the one to tell him. I could tell that he was trying very hard not to show that he was offended. I was so embarrassed about hanging out with racist friends and angry at the same time that those so called ‘friends’ had put me in that situation. I decided to leave with the foreign guy and repeatedly told him how sorry I was and how Koreans are not accustomed to having foreign people around. But somehow every word I said made me feel worse. I never went back to that circle of people after that incident.

At this point, some people might think that these are isolated incidents and shouldn’t be generalized to the entire Korean demographic. If you’re one of those people, here’s an even worse shocker. In 2004, a Korean comedian impersonated foreign workers on national television. Foreign workers were portrayed as having poor language skills and often ignorant and lacking common sense. What’s worse, the whole country loved it and “Sajangnim Nappayo”, meaning ‘My boss is not nice’, became a popular phrase in Korea. Think of Dave Chapelle’s jokes about African Americans, but told by a Caucasian. Children would yell this phrase to foreigners on the streets with a forced accent. The severity of racism and ignorance was incomparable to what I had been subjected to growing up in England or the U.S. I couldn’t even imagine what it would be like living in a foreign country where literally the whole country would make fun of me for being a foreigner.

Believe it or not, racism gets even worse. In 2017, accommodating foreign refugees and immigrant workers became a huge issue in Korea. To be fair, there had been incidents where immigrant workers were involved in sexual offense cases. However, the discussions regarding this topic on national radio and television were shocking to say the least. Racist and nationalist comments were taken seriously by the show hosts and discussed as legitimate opinions of the Korean people. Some discussions were actually based on assumptions that foreigners are potential criminals. There was even a discussion about whether the economic benefit of foreigners working manual labor was worth the risk of the foreigner causing social nuisance. The reasons for opposing immigrants were so appalling that it was hard to believe that this was a discussion taking place in 2017. Even worse, nobody questioned the ethics of such ridiculous framing.

The problem is, those subjected to racism in Korea usually don’t have a voice that can be heard around the world. Most Koreans are very kind to people from western cultures. It’s the people from developing countries that are subjected to unspeakable acts of racism. Yet, earlier this year, some Koreans, with the help of another national television broadcasting service, MBC, accused KLM of acts of racism at the beginning of the COVID 19 pandemic. The reason was that the flight crew on one of KLM’s flights had posted a note on the lavatory door saying ‘for flight crew only’ in Korean. MBC immediately framed this as an act of racism and many Koreans were outraged. Everyone seemed to have forgotten about how Koreans were treating Chinese people at the beginning of the pandemic. There were even rumors online stating that Chinese people had to have used bats as sex toys to have had the virus transmitted to people. At the beginning of the pandemic, Asians were considered more likely to be carrying the virus. Even myself as an Asian living in Europe stayed away from other Asians in case they had recently been to China, Korea or Japan, where the pandemic was more serious than elsewhere. KLM ended up apologizing publicly in Seoul. Have I ever seen any Korean organization or company apologizing for racist acts? Never in my life.

As a child, I would have given anything to be from a country that is wealthier and more powerful so that people wouldn’t call me names. But with the tables turned, I feel much more disgusted to be associated to racists than being subjected to racism. Korea is the single most racist country I’ve lived in and the severity is incomparable to any form of racism I’ve experienced. This is a serious problem that even the government is failing to recognize. Historically, Korea has had problems after trying to shut itself away from the rest of the world. Korea is heading straight back to those problems and major drastic changes will be needed to avoid being left behind globally. I thought wealth and prosperity of my country would make me proud. What a short sighted thought that turned out to be.

Comedian Jung Chul-Gyu on KBS making racist jokes: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=veoPkZZUBgs

#racism #korea #korean #south korea #mbc #kbs #racist #대한민국 #인종차별 #kpop #한국 #한류 #단일민족 #한민족 #국수주의 #배타주의 #nationalism #societal problems #societal commentary

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magisterlys · 4 years

Text

Ice Weakens

Written Cross the Stars: Chapter 4

Summary:

Jora's Keep is in an uproar as more norn men betray them, stealing away a group of Vigil in the night. The beleaguered commander leads a team to the Ravenfrost Caverns where she'll confront more than just icebrood. Good thing Braham is there.

It just never stopped.

The headaches, the heartaches; the guilt and the choices. It was hard enough to carry the world when you were in your right mind but the longer Lys spent in the Marches the more certain she became that she no longer was.

The whispers never stopped. Brief reprieves to remind her what silence was like, and then the insinuations began again. It wasn’t so bad at first, she was well used to an abusive inner dialogue. It was the tricks and compulsions, the thoughts that were not hers that were the worst to deal with. The hardest part was pretending it was all okay, being the strong one. Being The Commander.

She found moments of peace up here, high above the treetops. The sound of the wind whistling past her ears as her griffon, Morrigna, played in the air drove the whispers away for a time. She claimed these morning flights were scouting, but everyone knew she just needed some time.

Morrigna tucked her ebon feathered wings and dove for the ground, brushing the treetops and then using her momentum to swoop back up. The wind whipping past her face was biting cold but Lys welcomed the cold for once: it was silent. Her head still throbbed, but she was used to that. She held tight to the saddle, let the griffon soar where she pleased and took the chance to enjoy the view. There was a cold beauty to Bjora Marches from this height, the svanir camps and the shattered Bear shrine below like festering wounds on the snowy jewel of the landscape. Off to the west, the dagger-sharp beauty of Aesgir’s Legacy was shrouded in low hanging storm clouds, a roiling threat on the horizon.

“Commander.” Jory’s voice over the coms startled her, “I’m sorry to interrupt your scouting flight but we could use you at the keep.”

“What’s going on?” A subtle pressure from her right knee and a shift in her weight were all that was required for Morrigna to understand her request. The corvid griffin banked hard to the left, gaining speed with a mighty flap of her wings as the walls of Jora’s Keep rose ahead. “ … Jory?”

The coms opened again to a sharp background noise of raised voices and this time it was Jhavi who responded, “Just get here, please.”

As if she sensed the urgency Morrigna dove hard, pulling up just short of the ground and then rocked back toward the sky, covering the remaining distance in a handful of heartbeats. The pair crested the walls to find a large crowd gathered in the courtyard. The griffon barely had time to tuck her wings back to her side as they landed before people began to press the commander.

“I told you this would happen again!” A woman yelled, to the agreement of several others. “Of course it happened again.” A second answered. “We’ve said it would from the start.”

Lys dismounted neatly and the griffon took wing, sailing up to land on the roof above and keep a sharp eye on things. “Alright, slow down. What’s going on?” A dozen voices all tried to answer at once. She held out her hands, gesturing for quiet and restated her question, “Jhavi. What’s going on?

“We have more missing, Commander. Jory and Braham are - “

The barracks door opened and Jory stepped out, interrupting Jhavi’s response, “There are five by my count.” She gave the commander a nod of greeting as she continued, “All Vigil. Two humans, an asura, sylvari, and a norn woman. Their beds are slept in, but empty.”

“You can add two more to that,” Braham announced as he came down the mess hall steps. He looked nervous, Lys noticed, or … frustrated. “Kruve Grellson and Isvar Axebreaker. No one’s seen them since dinner last night.”

There was an immediate reaction from the crowd, voices raised and a fearful shuffling. “They’ve betrayed us again!” A dark-haired man from the back called out, “Why aren’t we watching the norn men?” another wondered none too quietly. Some physically moved away from norn they were standing near.

“Their bonds are fragile. Such cowards …”

There was nothing more unsettling than finding yourself agreeing with the whispers hissing in your head. She’d been here before, standing in the jungles of Maguuma with the Pact in flames around her. The voices raised against the norn sounded eerily similar to those raised against the sylvari. She’d be damned if she’d see this all play out again.

“Let’s make something clear here.” Lys didn’t raise her voice but she had a well-honed skill for speaking so clearly, so confidently that people reacted as if she had. The look she threw around the gathered probably also helped. “Norn are no more susceptible to Jormag’s machinations than any of the rest of us, and this divisive fear-mongering is exactly what that dragon wants. We’re all Pact. We’re in this together.” She turned toward Braham, leaving no room for argument, “What do we know?”

Braham had crossed his arms over his broad chest, shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “You’ve already guessed that Kruve and Isvar are norn. They were in the common room till late, drinking and keeping to themselves. Talk says they were seen a couple days ago heading southwest like they were on patrol, but neither of them was on duty.”

“Southwest?” Lys cast a quick side glance at Jory, “Toward the caverns?”

Braham nodded, “Yeah, their unit wasn’t heading out until nightfall and they were supposed to be doing rounds near Bear’s shrine. So there was … some gossip.”

She knew what he meant. Several people had been keeping ‘inventory’ on norn in the keep. That those people didn’t see fit to bring this concern to their superiors was … worrying.

“You are losing control.”

The commander turned toward Jory, “Do the other missing have anything in common?”

“Nothing on first inspection, Commander.” Jory responded with a tilt of her head, “Other than all being Vigil, they were on different rotations, shared no similar backgrounds. Their bunks are not even near each other.”

“Commander!” A small voice interjected from the crowd and an asura elbowed his way through, trying to be seen. “Commander!”

She recognized him, he’d been part of a squad that helped clear out a prison camp a while ago. “What is it, Mokk?”

“Please, Commander.” Mokk had finally made his way through the crowd and now stood in front of Lys where she could see the desperation on his face, “They’ve taken Zarri.”

“ Another broken heart, another lost. You should save him from his pain … ”

Lys shook her head as if the dragon buzzing in her ear was a bothersome gnat. Zarri must be the asura Jory mentioned then. “We’re going after them, Mokk. I promise.” They had to move quickly if there was any hope of bringing people back. “Jory. Take Captain Jawspire and a group to the svanir camps. Don’t assume that the missing norn have betrayed us, but … be careful. Braham and I will lead a group southeast toward the caverns.”

“You sure that’s smart, Commander?” The same dark-haired man who had spoken up earlier did so again. “Taking a norn, much less Vowbreaker, along with you I mean.”

Lys didn’t have to look at Braham to sense his spike of anger, it matched her own. Such needling wouldn't normally get to her, but after days of little sleep, under relentless assault, she was tired, stretched thin. She stared at the man, “There are few people in the world I trust more than Braham. And his name is not … Vowbreaker.” She spit the word out as if it tasted sour, “Is that understood?”

The commander’s tone left nothing open for discussion. The man simply nodded, throwing glares at a few snickers from nearby.

“That one will continue to sow discontent. Kill him.”

Lys flenched, unable to completely hide her reaction to that one. She recovered quickly and was glad that the snickers were drawing attention away from her enough that no one seemed to have noticed. She sensed something behind her though and looked over her shoulder to find that Braham had quietly drawn nearer. He was frowning, giving her that concerned look that always made her pause. Damn him for watching her so closely. She gave him a subtle shake of her head, a silent communication between them as he touched her arm, fleetingly.

“I’ll take a third group west toward the forest,” Jhavi stated, blessedly seeming not to notice the exchange.

Lys was happy for the change of subject. “We need you to stay here, Jhavi.”

Jhavi blinked, her tone incredulous, “These are my people, Commander. I can’t just sit by.”

“These are your people.” Lys agreed, nodding toward the gathered crowd, “And they need you to lead them. There’s a very real chance that the intention here is to divide us. You need to be in command here, in the Keep.”

“... we’ll hold the line.” Jhavi begrudgingly agreed.

“Commander.” Mokk spoke up, “I’m coming with you.”

Lys considered the asura with a frown, looking down at him. She wasn’t sure he was up for a mission like this but she’d been where he was right now; knew the gnawing, desperate, neutered terror he was feeling. She couldn’t make him stay behind. “Of course, Mokk.”

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

Braham and Jasper took point, the norn and the bear working to break a path through the freshly fallen snow for the group behind them. Aside from Mokk the commander picked Lessandro and his group to accompany them. If the Svanir were recreating the ritual they’d interrupted before, having people who wouldn’t need to overcome the initial shock and revulsion would be a benefit. Altogether there were two norn, four humans, an asura, and a bear making their way south toward the Ravenfrost Caverns.

“Commander, we got tracks.” Braham stopped and Lys made her way forward, pausing to brush the snow from Jasper’s head as she neared. Their path had indeed intersected with someone else's.

“Several hours old, would you say?” She looked up at Braham.

“Yeah.” He agreed, “It’s been light snow, but last night was all wind. They’d have been covered if they were any older. Looks like a big group too.”

“Right. Let’s follow it then.” The commander started to turn toward the rest of the group to give orders but she saw something out of the corner of her eye and stopped. A flash of blue. Movement.

“They are here to greet you.”

“Eyes up!” She called out, reaching for her bow just as the first of a half dozen Svanir stepped through the trees. There was a moment of stillness as each side took stock of the other, the expectant pause before the battle erupted with force. She felt Braham brush her shoulder as he spun to cover her flank and Jasper gave an angry roar as he bounded over the snowbank, charging straight for the nearest svanir. Lys sent an arrow streaking ahead of her bear. It stuck the svanir in the shoulder. He let out a guttural bellow of anger and didn’t notice the massive clawed paw heading toward his face until it was too late. Leaving her pet to do the work Lys spun quickly to her left, sending a rapid hail of arrows toward the enemies engaged with Lessandro, Mokk and the others. Two svanir already lay dead in the snow and based on the wet sounds and growls Jasper just added a third to the count.

A sharp metallic crack rang out behind her and Lys spun around to see Braham recoiling from a blow to his shield. She braced herself, leaning into his back and kept him from losing his footing as he slid backward in the snow. The svanir he’d been engaged with took the opening and suddenly turned, bolting off toward the caverns

Braham growled, righted himself and charged right after him, calling over his shoulder “He’s going to raise the alarm!”

“Braham, wait! Don’t -” Lys yelled after him.

“Follow him! If you hope to ever see him again.”

She felt her blood run ice cold, watching Braham disappear into the trees. She had to follow him.

“You can’t let him go alone again.”

Behind her, there was still a battle to be fought. The sound of Jasper’s paws on snow as he raced to join the fray, the crackle of the Elementalist's magics, the sharp cry of someone tumbling over into the snow. Growling with frustration she turned away from Braham’s fleeting form and loosed an arrow at the most beleaguered of the three remaining svanir, sending it through his neck. He crumpled like a wet sack. Mokk gave a yell of anger and dodged behind another, slicing the towering svanir in the back of the knee.

“Will you be able to live with yourself when he dies?”

“Stuff it, dragon!” Lys yelled to seemingly no one, taking advantage of the opening Mokk created to help him finish off his adversary. The remaining two went down under the assault of the vigil members and finally, the woods fell silent. “Everyone in one piece?” Lys asked.

“I believe so, Commander,” Lessandro answered, helping Mokk back to his feet.

“Good.” The commander fairly snapped, poorly contained panic rising in her chest. “Quickly then, Braham is … being Braham.”

They pushed on, following Braham’s trail as the trees gave way to a rocky incline. The wind carried the sounds of combat, the sharp crack of metal on metal, grunts, and growls of exertion, the familiar hum of Braham’s magics and then a sickening, wet thud ...and silence.

“Too late.”

Lys took off, terror at her heels. She scrambled up the rock face, bounding from one ledge to the next until reaching the crest of the rise. Looking down into the small valley she saw the crumbled, shattered form of a svanir stained the snow with red and Braham standing over it, virtually unharmed. For now, she thought as she made her way down the hill, because she was going to kill him.

Braham looked up as commander neared, the rest of their party still a distance behind. “Sorry, Commander. I wasn’t fast enough.” He frowned, glanced over at the shimmering Raven barrier blocking the entrance to the caverns nearby. “The whole place knows we’re here now.”

She took a deep breath, then a few more. “Braham. That was … I’m glad you’re alright.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, looking sheepish, “I did kinda run off again didn’t I?”

“Yeah, you did.” Everyone else had caught up, so she left it at that. She wasn’t fully in control of her emotions, couldn’t tell which were hers and which were prompted by Jormag’s taunts but either way, here and now wasn’t the time to let her weakness get the better of her.

“They’ve got the barrier back up …” Observed one of Lessandro’s group, a dark-haired Raven shamaness. Inge, if the commander remembered her name right.

“We can assume they’re up to no good, then.” Lys agreed, turning to give orders. “I’ll use the lens to lower the barrier. Once we’re in, stick together. No matter what you hear or what you think you see, we move as one. Understood?” She looked pointedly at Braham.

“I’m - we’re at your side, Commander.” Braham nodded, echoed by the others.

According to old maps, these caves had once been an open natural passage from the southern mountains to what was now the Aberrant Forest, but with the awakening of Jormag, they had grown into an ever-shifting maze of ice. The entrance was cavernous, jagged icicles loomed high overhead like impending teeth. The walls and floors were solid ice, some natural but most formed of unnaturally dark corrupted ice, teeming with Jormag’s magic. It seemed almost to move, bent the light in unsettling ways. The effect on such a large space was disorienting. Sound too echoed oddly, they could hear voices and rustling, the resonating thrum of magic but it seemed to be coming from everywhere at once. Lys took the lead, she remembered clearly where the central cavern was, but she kept her pace careful. When walking into a trap it was a bad idea to rush.

“Welcome, Commander!” A voice suddenly boomed seemingly from overhead. It sent all of them reaching for their weapons, searching for the origin. No one was there. “You are not Jorasdottir, but Dragon welcomes you anyway.”

Braham had moved ahead of the commander, giving her a clear view of the anger on his face, “Isvar, I’d guess. Sounds like him.”

“Oh!” The voice replied with a hearty laugh, “And you’ve brought Vowbreaker with you. Of course, he’s always hiding behind your skirts. Good, Dragon has a special place for him.”

“Don’t listen to him, Braham.” Lys spoke encouragingly under her breath, “... you know I never wear skirts.”

Braham glanced at her, blinking several times before breaking into a slow grin. “Shall we bash some svanir heads, Commander?”

“We should politely request our people back, yes.” She nodded once, turned to the rest of the group behind her. “Shall we show them how the Vigil responds to traitors?”

Lys lead them forward, up a winding incline that doubled back on itself several times until they reached the main room. As they neared she signaled their silence, stopping near the last bend in the path. Ahead they could see three figures each lashed to an upright post at equal intervals, just like the ritual she and Jory had interrupted before. A half dozen svanir and one massive icebrood moved between the captives and a totem-shaped ice formation that glowed with a sickly green light. Sounds of movement and chanting out of sight left an accurate count of what they were up against as a guess at best.

“Tell me, Commander.” The taunting voice resonated just as before, this time it was coming from the side of the room they were unable to see. “Have you borne any sons?”

Braham looked over at her, brow arched in confusion.

Lys sneered. She’d heard this svanir taunt before. The next implication would be that as a woman her only usefulness was birthing sons, and since she hadn’t, she was less than useless. She wouldn’t give him the pleasure of following along. “I have not, Isvar. But I have seen the svanir transformation ritual firsthand. The pain will be unbearable, and in the end, you will be nothing more than that grunting monstrosity next to you.” She paused, letting her words sink in. She heard whispers, Isvar was arguing with someone. “Did Jormag not tell you that? You will lose yourself under a torrent of ceaseless pain. You will be nothing more than an empty husk that will shatter against Pact steel before the end of the week.”

“Silence!” The voice was sharp with anger, “Dragon’s gift is one we gladly accept. Better that than to rot in fear hiding behind cowards! You know nothing of what struggle so uselessly against.”

Lys ignored the tirade, using the chance to slip forward enough to confirm her memory of the cavern. There was a small ledge on the south side, accessed by a branch in the path farther back. She gestured to the group, indicating they should stay where they were and adjusted the grip on her bow. She looked at Braham, nodding toward the room and made a talking gesture with her fingers. A nod from him confirmed he understood what she meant - keep the hot head talking and distracted. Jasper turned to follow her but she shook her head, gave him a scratch on his cheek.

“Who are you hiding behind now, Axebreaker?” Braham’s taunted as Lys slipped away, “Cause looks to me like it’s two women and an asura. Why don’t you step out and face me like a man? Find out how strong you really are.”

That seemed to hit a button, based on the roaring response that carried down to Lys as she found the side passage she remembered and began picking her away along the precarious edge, keeping tight to the shadows. Reaching the end, she got a clear view of the room below. There were ten svanir, along with the hulking icebrood that she’d glimpsed from the entrance. Isvar was standing in the center of the room along with another norn who she assumed was Kruve. Isvar was doing all the talking, but it was the other norn that seemed to be communicating with the svanir, aiding them in whatever it was they were preparing. She could see their missing as well, three tied to stakes and two worryingly crumpled forms in the far corner.

“You’ll leave a lasting legend as the hundredth brainless svanir to mess my boots this week, Isvar.” Braham was still doing an admirable job riling him, the attention of the whole group had shifted toward the argument.

The commander silently knocked an arrow, drew back her bow and slowed her breathing, her eyes following Isvar as he paced, waiting for the compromised norn to give her a clear shot.

“You think I’m afraid of a toothless, Vowbreaker? Come find me when you manage to become the wolf and we’ll -” His taunt was silenced by an arrow to his throat.

There was a moment of stunned silence as Isvar clutched his neck, eyes wide with panic and confusion as he gurgled his lifesblood. Kruve cried out and several svanir spun toward the hidden assailant, toward Lys, but that was the distraction needed as the rest of the party broke cover and rushed the room.

Braham lead the charge, heading straight for the biggest threat - the massive icebrood goliath. From her perch above Lys could see Lessandro and two others engaging with the svanir, while Mokk and Inge worked to free their people. A couple of well-placed arrows covered Mokk as he helped a limping Zarri back down the passage.

A svanir caster launched a torrent of ice at the ledge, forcing the commander to scramble backward and out of sight to avoid the jagged spikes of magic pummeling the ground. The attack ceased suddenly, accompanied by a bellow of pain and a sharp avian caw of anger. Taking position again Lys saw the shamaness in raven form engaging her previous attacker. She pulled another arrow from her quiver and intended to help but an all too painfully familiar bellow drew her attention sharply away.

Braham was down on one knee before the icebrood, blood pouring from a gaping wound in his shoulder down his now useless shield arm. The goliath loomed over him, maul of a fist raised over it’s head, poised to end the kneeling norn before he could find his feet.

Lys dropped her bow, letting it clatter forgotten to the ground as she reached for her staff. She focused on where she belonged in the natural order of things: standing between Braham and that icebrood. Nature corrected the mistake and suddenly she wasn’t on the ledge far above, she was a wisp of light, streaking forward to her proper place. The commander regained her form in a burst of healing starlight, leaves trailing in her wake as she rose to stand in front of Braham

“No!” She barked the command with such force that her next spell didn’t require a gesture. A wave of cosmic energy sent the icebrood sliding backward, giving her the opening she needed to help Braham to his feet. Her arrival method had healed the worst of his wounds, but he was still covered in blood.

There was no time for worrying though as the goliath had regained his senses and was quite angry. Braham nodded his thanks and stepped in front of the commander. She fell in behind him, wordlessly. They’d fought together for long, no words were needed. Even shieldless Braham charged forward, swinging his mace wide at the solid ice of the goliath's leg. He felt warmth on his back, like the comfort of a summer’s sun but while the commander’s magics were healing for him, the icebrood crackled with rage under the burning assault. He let the momentum of his swing bring the mace back toward the goliath's other leg and a sudden ursine form came barreling out from the side as Jasper took advantage. The goliath’s crystalline legs shattered, bringing it crashing to the ground as bear and norn worked to finish it off.

They’d won. Kruve and Isvar both lay dead among the svanir, the icebrood in pieces on the ground. Lys quickly took stock of her party. The shamaness’ feathers were stained with blood, but most of it didn’t seem to be hers. Everyone was on their feet … other than the two vigil forms in the corner. She felt a sickening dread as she approached them.

What had once been a human man and a sylvari woman lay in a broken heap, tossed to the side like so much trash. His head was matted with blood, features barely visible beneath the gore. The sylvari was twisted, her limbs at unnatural angles and her face … she’d died in great pain. Lys wanted to turn away from it, but she forced herself to look. To do them the honor of understanding how their lives ended.

“So much blood on your hands.”

She nodded. The sylvari had been a deep green, like Trahaerne. And now she was dead, so far from home. She’s left the embrace of the Pale Tree and died here in a cave in the middle of nowhere for … for what?

“For the Pact’s conceit. For you.”

The commander nodded again. All these people looked to her, counted on her. And what had she done to keep them safe?

“It’s your fault.”

“My fault …” She echoed quietly, her vision swimming as she looked down at the remains.

“Commander? You alright?” Lys gave a start, turning to find Braham standing next to her. He glanced down at the corpses with a pained expression.

“Yeah. Yeah, let’s …” The commander swallowed hard and finally turned away, “Let’s get our wounded back to the Keep. We’ll ... return for the fallen …”

Lessanto and Inge each took one of the survivors, with Mokk supported a dazed-looking Zarri as they began their descent. Lys lingered a moment, finally following the rest of the group but kept a distance away as they made their way back down the passage. Leaving almost hurt.

“… please, someone!” The commander stopped in her tracks. It was faint, distant, but someone was there. Calling for her. Without a word, forgetting even that there were others with her, Lys turned and followed the voice.

“Someone … anyone.” Whoever it was sounded young, their wavering voice caught with a sob that pierced the commander's heart. “I don’t want to go to the ice.”

“You’re not alone!” Lys called out, taking a sharp turn down a lower passage she’d walked by unnoticed before. The way was uneven, boulders of ice blocked her descent but she pushed on. “Keep talking, I’m trying to find you.”

“It’s here, it’s here! Commander, help me!” The little voice turned to panic. Lys was spurred on, half running, half sliding down a steep bank of ice as she yelled a response, “I’m here! I promise. Just hang on.” She’d lost all track of where she was, she couldn’t even see beyond the haze of shadows and flickers of light ahead of her but she couldn’t. She couldn’t lose another. She charged blindly forward. She had to find them before -

A strong hand wrapped around her arm jerked her backward. What … who? Lys spun around, lashed out wildly toward whoever had grabbed her.

The voice in need drowned out all sound, thrummed in her ears as if it was carried in her blood as it cried, “Don’t leave me, I don’t want to die!”

She lunged forward, broke free from her attacker and tried to run toward the voice but a pair of arms wrapped around her waist lifted her bodily from the ground. “Stop!” She yelled, desperately fighting to free herself, “I have to help them!”

“Commander, please!” Braham struggled with the flailing woman but managed finally to pin her arms to her side, clutching her against him. He’d barely caught sight of the Lys as she slipped away earlier. When he called out, she hadn’t answered and he knew instantly that something was wrong. He’d trailed frustratingly behind the quicker ranger, heard her yelling to no one as he tried to catch up. “Listen to me! There’s no one there.”

Lys continued to fight, kicking her feet up and off the wall. She sent Braham backward, smacking sharply against the solid side of the passageway.

“Commander! - Oof.” He grunted in pain but didn’t let go. “It’s me, it’s Braham. Stop fighting and listen! There’s no one there, it’s Jormag’s tricks.”

The commander stilled. The sobs and pleas still wrang in her ears, the walls around her loomed so large they pressed in her, blocked her sight. But Braham’s voice cut through.

“Please….” He lowered his voice, spoke into her ear as her thrashing stopped. “Stay with me, Lys.”

“I’m …” She started to speak but stopped in confusion as she heard her voice crack. “Where … what’s going on?”

Braham didn’t loosen his hold, but he did lower her back to the ground. “We’re still in the caverns. Whatever you think you’re hearing, Commander, it isn’t real.”

“I hear them though. They right there - I can’t …” Her vision was starting to clear, like when your eyes adjust to bright light, sparkles and specks as the haze of shadow dapples away, but the sobs and pleas still echoed around her. “I can’t let someone else die because of my failures. Not again, I … “

“Your … failures?” Braham blinked in confusion. “Who do you think you are? Me?” His hold on the commander shifted. He still didn’t trust her not to bolt but he was less clutching her and more embracing her now, his chin resting on her shoulder as he spoke. “You haven’t failed anyone, Commander. You have always done your best, no matter the cost or the odds and you know that. This isn’t like you. This is Jormag.”

Lys squeezed her eyes shut then opened them again, blinking rapidly as she saw where she was. They were standing in a narrow passage of ice, barely high enough for Braham to stand upright. Behind them the path rose sharply upwards and not fifty feet away, right where she had been so desperately running towards, it plummeted suddenly into darkness.

Braham followed her gaze toward the ledge, “Yeah … yeah, that’s why I’m not letting you go.”

“Braham, I’m ... “ She let out a shaking breath, wondered with a start how long she had been crying.

“Are you with me now? If I let you go you won’t bolt?” He turned to try to see her face. “Because if you leap off that ledge I’m jumping right after you.”

She couldn’t look at him. All she could manage was a nod. Her hands hurt and looking down she found them to be bleeding, covered in cuts from sharp ice she must have blindly climbed over. She couldn’t remember any of it. She felt weak, drained and above all deeply ashamed.

Braham turned, putting his back to the ledge and moving the commander to face the way back. He finally, reluctantly released her but laid his hands on her shoulders in a steadying gesture. A worried ursine grumble echoed off the walls and Lys looked up to see Jasper pacing at the top of the incline, trying to find a way down to her. Braham followed her gaze up and spoke gently, “Come on. Let’s get you back to the keep, it’s not just your bear that’s worried.”

#icebrood saga #braham/commander #braham eirrson #gw2 fanfiction #tyriaslibrary #lws5 spoilers #Fic: Written Cross the Stars

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brownstonearmy · 4 years

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2020-04-10: Potty Mouth, Part 2

July 20 (Monday afternoon)

Everyone is having a peaceful lunch break at a tiny cafe near the town square, and the party is discussing how to get Anaxilas to drink the potion. But that peace at Cafe Egg-Selent (specializing in brunch all day) is short-lived as the Muscle Mountain fan club confronts the party. A young girl named Gigi speaks for Muscle Mountain, and she is the most intimidating of the members. From her vantage point in a chair that walks like a giant mechanical spider, she accuses the party of making Anaxilas "go dark." He was scheduled for a posing session today, but none of the adventure gems are able to see him. And since the party was asking around about Anaxilas the day before, Muscle Mountain thinks there's a good chance that the party is behind it.

Q, who goes by Aria today, tells Gigi to stand down with her creepy entitled spider legs and that the party will go and investigate the situation even though they are not responsible. The party departs for Norbert and Anaxilas's house. Norbert answers the door, and tells the party that Anaxilas left in a hurry to tend to some emergency business earlier that morning. Anaxilas left his big belt with a rose quarts buckle behind, because this was something that his sponsors and fans didn't need to see. Norbert shows the party a note that Anaxilas received right before he left, and the note demands that Anaxilas come alone without his belt.

Lucky asks Norbert if she can see Anaxilas's belt. Norbert agrees, but makes her promise to be careful about what she does while the belt is in her possession. There's lots of licensing agreements and stuff on the line with Anaxilas's sponsors, but Lucky tells Norbert not to worry because she has a plan. She slings the massive belt over her shoulder and announces to the sponsors and anyone who is listening that they are going to be transporting the belt back to Anaxilas.

Since Anaxilas left on foot, he can't have gone too far. But there's still the question of where exactly he is. Spleenifer considers casting locate object on Anaxilas's pants, but that's assuming he wears the same ones two days in a row. Aria comes up with an alternate plan that should give them some clues as to Anaxilas's location. Aria casts Sending to Anaxilas and transmits the following message:

"Where y'at? Need help? People worried. Haven’t heard from you. Norbert didn’t know. Teenage fan blamed us. She’s pissed. Sponsors concerned."

Moments later there's a response from Anaxilas. "Don't tell Norbert, but on my way to meet Nick. Trying to blackmail me. We're meeting in the woods southeast of town along the road." It's enough to get the party moving toward their goal.

As they cross the bridge and pass the perfumery, Peggy-Ann Sweetbreeze hails the party. She asks about the status of her crystal bottle from around the time of the gnoll attacks, and Aria returns it. Peggy-Ann has another request, though: the merchant who normally does the perfumery's delivery of essential oils didn't show up when he was supposed to. If they see an older man in a covered wagon named Benton Pickford, tell him that Peggy-Ann needs her deliveries.

Several miles down the road, the party comes upon a campsite in a forest clearing. An older man in a covered wagon is talking to someone who looks like a human woman whose features are a little bit smudged. Also in the clearing is a large house standing on top of four massive chicken legs. The older man matches the description of Benton Pickford, and the lady is trying very hard to get him to try one of their signature salads. Lucky recognizes the woman as one of her lizardfolk friends, and walks into the clearing. Lucky vouches for the deliciousness of the salad, but notices that the man is glancing around in a bit of a panicked fashion.

Anaxilas makes a grand appearance, believing part of the campsite to be illusory since Nick isn't immediately visible. He strides over to Benton and grabs him by the hair and yells "Tell me your secrets, old man!" This scene would be funnier if Anaxilas hadn't actually assaulted an old man. A door opens from the wagon and a much younger human with sizable sideburns hops down.

It's Nick.

Nick is wearing a gaudy hat with an articulated hand on top. In his hands is a spear whose point looks like a giant thorn seamlessly growing out of the shaft, and a shield that looks like a giant dried mushroom cap. Nick launches into a monologue about how he is the only one who can still love Anaxilas in spite of his sickness. Except Anaxilas isn't sick, and this puts a wrinkle in Nick's creepy stalker plans.

So Nick takes Benton hostage and makes Anaxilas an offer: learn to love Nick, or Benton's blood will be on Anaxilas's hands. But Nick wasn't expecting the bystanders to take action so quickly. Aria casts Hypnotic Pattern with their Didgeriboop, which incapacitates Nick. His Slap Cap activates and tries to rouse him from his stupor, but Lucky manipulates reality stop it from happening. Norm and Anaxilas work together to delicately wrest a panicked Benton from Nick's grasp.

The lizardfolk flees back toward the mobile home to get help, but the party works quickly to keep the situation under control. While Nick is still incapacitated, Lucky runs to Benton and Dimension Doors herself and Benton into the driver's seat of Benton's wagon. This bit of magic triggers a wild surge which causes any object she drops to land pointy side down. Norm unleashes the folding boat and uses it to pin Nick to the ground, while Lucky puts Anaxilas's belt on and narrates to anyone listening in at that moment that Nick is an ass and responsible for a great deal of malfeasance.

Nick whines as his weapons and gear are confiscated because it's dangerous to let children have weapons without adult supervision. Spleenifer restrains Nick and tosses him in the wagon while the party tries to convince Anaxilas to drink a cursed potion. But once Anaxilas has his belt on, it's pretty easy to convince him to act selfless and altruistic because the eyes of fans and sponsors are once again able to see him. It is a decision that Anaxilas regrets immediately as the curse takes hold.

Anaxilas asks the party to escort him back to his house and provide moral support while he tries to explain exactly what happened in the woods. Benton follows them as far as the perfumery, where he finishes up his delivery run to Peggy-Ann. The party has to decide on a suitable punishment for Nick, and eventually they come to a consensus that leaving him in the hands of the Muscle Mountain fan club is probably the most appropriate way to deal with him.

Back at Norbert and Anaxilas's house, the whole story comes out. Well, most of the story. Anaxilas still omits the part about his romp with Aria. Spleenifer mentions that the Church of Lathander will provide a complimentary bucket for Anaxilas's personal use during this trying time. As the adventure draws to a close for the evening, the house of cards that is Anaxilas's web relationships is still standing.

Who knows for how long. Stay tuned next time for more!

#adventure log #shits and giggles #Dungeons and Dragons #fishdavidson #5e #curse

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yeet-or-be-hawed · 5 years

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Hunters of Flesh and Money Part 1

Okay guys, this is another big one I’ve been planning for awhile! This one is going to be based off my online character and experiences. I’m honestly not sure how many parts they’ll be but I promise they’ll be lots of good Arthur content! I hope everyone enjoys!

“Knock knock, anyone home?” You called as you entered the threshold of the cabin. You knew better than to come around unannounced, for both parts of the couple knew their way around the shotgun they kept.

Sadie was sitting in the corner cleaning the shotgun while Jake was cleaning in the kitchen. She stood as you entered. “Ah, Ms. Fletcher it’s so nice to see you!” She sat the gun down on the chair and wrapped her arms around your shoulders. You smiled as you returned your hug.

“What brings ya up here this close to winter?” Jake called from the kitchen.

“You know better than to try and navigate those old roads this time of year, they’re almost unrecognizable from all the snow fall! You coulda killed yourself.” Sadie chastised. You wondered if it was a choice for them to not have kids, Sadie acted more like your mother than a friend even from day one.

“Aww hell, y’all know I can handle myself out there, this’ll be my last trip up til the thaw I just wanted to see if there was anything I could do for y’all before I can’t come back for a coupla months.”

“Just here for work eh? What a shame, you’ll miss some of Sadie’s cookin’.” Jake knew exactly what to say to make you stay. You settled into your seat and smiled.

“I’m never here just for work, I also gotta make sure my favorite family is okay every now and again.”

Sadie laughed and stroked the firearm in her hand. “I don’t think you got anything to worry about there, missy.” She sat down the gun and took a seat at the kitchen table across from you. Her face was soft and sweet, the kindest woman you had ever known, and her husband was just as kind. Even from the first time you met the young couple you were drawn to them, now you made it a priority to see them as often as you could.

Sadie enjoyed your company as well. Living a solitary life in the mountains like this doesn’t come with much of a social life, so she looked forward to your visits. She knew Jake did as well. He never complained but he wasn’t born into this life like she was, she knew he had to enjoy your company just as much if not more than she did. “So,” She started. “Tell me about what you’ve been into lately.”

Your horse grunted as you pushed her excitedly, the snow had melted quite a bit since your last visit months ago, but this part of the mountain had snow year round. You were anxious to see the Adlers, it took you longer to get here than expected, bounty hunters crossed your path and kept you moving all across the land, unfortunately moving you farther southeast than you planned. The trip to Adler ranch was longer and harder than you originally had hoped.

As you pulled over the ridge looking Adler Ranch, your heart dropped. The place was burnt to the ground. “Yah!” Your horse sped down the hill at your command and you jumped off before she could even come to a full stop in front of the skeletal remains of the cabin. All that was left was the brick chimney and a few support beams here and there. Your chest tightened as you investigated the property. Whoever did this did it long ago, you felt guilt bubble up, maybe you could’ve stopped whoever did this if you had fame any earlier. As you looped around the burnt house, you found nothing. Any tracks that would’ve been left were long gone. As you approached your horse, a foul smell entered your nostrils. You knew the smell well, and your suspicions were confirmed when you lifted the tarp off the wagon. You had to hold back the bile that jumped up your throat as the putrid smell hit your nostrils and your eyes examined the puffed up corpse on the wagon. It had been decomposing for sometime, the face was unrecognizable, but you knew it was Jake by the wedding band on his swollen finger and the clothes that swaddled his body. You sighed heavily. “Oh Jake, what happened here?”

You grabbed your work gloves from your horse and pulled the bandana around your neck over your mouth and nose. The deadweight was heavy, even being out in the deep wilderness he still had some meat on his bones. It took more effort out of you than you hoped, but you got the corpse off the wagon and onto the tarp and wrapped it up carefully. You then went and retrieved a spade from the old work shed. It wasn’t the first or last time you would have to bury a close friend.

Arthur stood against the wagon patiently as he waited for Mrs. Adler to collect the supplies from the list he had given her. Would she prefer Ms. or Mrs. now that her husband has passed? Arthur wondered to himself. Best not to ask, he decided. Sadie was a firecracker of a woman, and to be honest it scared Arthur just a little bit. He was glad to finally see her coming out of her shell though, he was afraid she would stay the feral terrified woman they found in the mountains just a couple of months ago. He realized that it was the first time he saw her smile while she was reading Pearson’s letter. He allowed himself a small smile, maybe he could coax more smiles from her in the future.

The bell from the shop door pulled Arthur from his thoughts and out Sadie came, looking smug as hell with a shop boy following behind her struggling with all the supplies. Arthur has to hold back his laughter as she barked commands to the young man, he was almost trembling with fear by the time she sent him running back into the store. “You ready?” Arthur asked. Sadie went to respond, but was cut off.

“Mrs. Adler is that you?” Both Sadie and Arthur turned to see a woman dismounting a large horse, Hungarian Half Breed if Arthur was thinking properly. “Christ Mrs. Adler it really is you!”

Arthur’s hand cautiously hovered over his pistol, he could see plain as day the weapons strapped to your back and sides, along with the bandolier and gun belt full to the brim with ammo. He thought you looked like trouble, but the thought dissolved as Sadie’s eyes lit up and she ran to the dirty woman and wrapped her arms around her tight.

You felt tears prickle in your eyes as you wrapped your arms around Sadie. You had lost all hope of ever seeing her again. “What the hell happened?” You asked as she released you. “When the thaw came I headed up to the ranch, what the hell happened up there?”

You studied her face, even though you hadn’t seen her in only a few months it seemed like it had been years. Stress had aged her and her eyes looked dead. She had dark bags under her eyes and her hair was a mess tucked under a straw hat. Her face twisted in pain and darkened at your question. “Some bastards came through and ransacked the place. I hid out in the barn for a few days but... but my Jakie...” her voice cracked and for the first time Sadie Adler looked very small and frail to you. You wrapped your arms around her again and patted her head. “I know Sadie, I know. I found him and gave him a proper burial.”

She looked up quickly and you could see the tears in her eyes. “He had a certain spot he wanted to be buried, I never-“

“He wanted to be buried back with his family, I know. I took him there, he’s where he wanted to be.” Your voice was soft as you softly stroked Sadie’s hair.

A small sob broke from her chest and she clinged to your sides. “Thank you. Thank you so much. I don’t know how I could ever repay you.”

You smiled and put your hands on her shoulders. “You can dry those tears and you can let me buy ya a decent meal.” You eyed the big man standing behind Sadie. Your voice was barely above a whisper. “Are you safe? Is this man touchin’ or hurtin’ you at all?”

“No no, he’s a friend.” She sniffled and raised her voice from a whisper and turned to the man. “Arthur, come over here!”

The man approached cautiously, you caught his hand moving away from his pistol and took mental note of it. You weren’t sure about him just yet, but if Sadie trusted him he had to be a good man. “Ms. Fletcher, this is Arthur Morgan. He and his gang helped me out when the O’Driscolls came.”

You shook the man’s hand. “O’Driscolls eh? I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.”

“It’s a pleasure Ms. Fletching. Don’t worry bout them O’Driscolls they’re some mean sons a bitches. And they’ll do worse to women than what they’ll do to men.”

You dismissed him with a wave, “I can handle myself. I’ve dealt with those milksops before.”

Arthur chuckled, “oh really? We may just have to getcha to stick around.”

Sadie barked a short laugh. “Good luck with that.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow and you laughed while you rubbed your neck, “yeah, I ain’t much of a people person. Sadie and Jake were the closest ta friends I had but I appreciate the offer. I don’t think you want the price on me head followin’ ya neither. Now, why don’t I treat y’all to a meal?”

“Sounds perfect, it’ll make up for all the food I’ve fed you over the years.” Sadie joked.

You smiled, “yer right, I’d say I owe you bout a thousand meals by now.”

Arthur stood in disbelief as the women walked away together arm in arm. He had barely coaxed a single smile from Sadie after two months of traveling together and all it took was one look at you and she’s been smiling ever since. He shook his head and followed behind the women powerlessly. You turned your head back just for a moment to give a short whistle. The big black and white horse whinnied and galloped beside you. It was strapped down with furs and skins from all kinds of different animals. A turkey strapped to each side of the horse with a black bear pelt on the top of a huge pile of various deer, ram, and fox furs. He wondered just how long it took you to collect so many pelts. The saloon was just across the from butcher’s stall. You stopped at the front of the steps and grabbed your horse’s reins. “I gotta take this here load on over to the butcher to sell. You two go on in and find us a seat I’ll be right behind ya.”

Sadie gave a full bellied laugh at a joke you had made and Arthur smiled into his beer mug. Having a familiar face brought out a whole new side to Sadie that he had never seen. This side to Sadie was nothing but familiar to you. This was the Sadie you knew. A bright woman who had a heart full of love and a belly full of laughs. The three of you spent a good portion of the day drinking and laughing in the saloon. Arthur cleared his throat. “So, how did you ladies meet?”

“Well, I was huntin’ some elk up near Colter and a terrible blizzard came through. I couldn’t half see my horse in front of me. I didn’t even know I was stumblin’ around Adler Ranch until I almost ran smack into the house. I made my way around to the door and let myself in.” You laughed. “Little did I know that was a huge mistake. I made it three steps in and I felt the muzzle of a gun on my back. Turned around to see Mrs. Adler with a scowl mean enough to curdle milk.”

Arthur laughed this time. “Oh, I’m sure. When we first found her, she was on the verge a killin’ Micah.”

You smiled at your long lost friend. “Good on you, Mrs. Adler.”

“Oh please, Fletcher call me Sadie.”

You rolled your eyes. “Whatever you say, Mrs. Sadie.”

Arthur looked at you, “You got a first name Ms. Fletcher?”

You raised a brow at him. “I do, but I ain’t givin’ it to ya. You can just call me Fletcher.”

He turned to Sadie. And she shrugged her shoulders. “Don’t look at me like that, she didn’t tell me her name either.”

Arthur huffed. “Best friends and ya don’t even know her first name?”

You shrugged. “Who needs a name? She knows me and that’s all she needs. If you would like me to have a name, call me whatever you please.”

Arthur sighed. “Fletcher it is then.”

You smiled triumphantly. “Thank you, Mr. Morgan.”

“It’s Arthur.” He paused and looked out the window of the saloon. “It’s gettin’ late, I should get Mrs. Adler back to camp. We ain’t too far from here, any friend of Sadie’s is a friend of ours and you’re welcome to stay with us.”

The three of you stood and headed out the door. Sadie and Arthur climbed in their wagon and you mounted your horse. “That’s a very generous offer, but I am afraid I will have to decline. I’ve got a camp not too far from here, I’m better off on my own.” You started off, then turned back around. “Before I go, Sadie I want to stay in touch.” You pulled out a piece of paper and scribbled something down. “Write me. I get all my mail sent to this alias.” You handed the piece of paper to Sadie and nodded your hat towards Arthur. “You two have brightened my day, and I thank you. Keep in touch, maybe we can have another day like this soon.”

And with that, you were off. Sadie scanned the name on the paper over and over, Peony Van Butrick III. Classy, just your style.

#hunters of flesh and money #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur x reader #red dead online #rdr oc #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 spoilers #sadie adler #van der linde gang #red dead redemption 2 #multi part #rdr online fic

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timespassiontrails · 4 years

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A citizen of passion

Arvind Passey

These are times when it is safer to embrace passion popping out of your inbox… and these words aim to brighten up a difficult period. A few of us experienced the passionate joy of travel to some of the brightest moments in the cultural history of our country when we travelled to the #HeartOfIndia a few days back. All these heritage sites still have the power to nudge excitement in any mind and awaken the poet even in those who opt to remain mesmerized by the mundane world. It is completely justifiable to admit that the #TimesPassionTrails begin with poetry, stays with rhymes, peaks with pulsating beats, and the experience spreads through a traveler’s being to remain there forever! Travel makes me a citizen of passion.

The true path to nirvana

Travel is possibly the best way of attempting to appreciate what lies on the other side of the sleep of reason and when it is fueled by the passion of someone who understands the finer nuances of the organic talent spanning thousands of years, everything gets just that bit more fascinating… and interestingly relevant. We were fortunate to have an eminent archaeologist (Padmashri Karingamannu Kuzhiyil Muhammed) who had been with the ASI and the way he transformed every complex bit of our cultural history into memorable little stories was an unbeatable experience. We met equally absorbing and absolutely involved personalities like Muzaffar Ansari or ‘Kalley Bhai’, an approved guide and weaver, in Chanderi and Anurag Shukla, the endlessly energetic travel expert at Khajuraho. Quite obviously then, our trip starting from Bhopal and moving through Bhimbetka Rock Shelters, Bhojpur ShivLinga, Taj-ul-Masjid in Bhopal, Stupa at Sanchi, Udaigiri caves, Chanderi, Kati Ghati, Orchha and then being let into the enigma of Khajuraho was nothing but a journey into understanding the road-map to nirvana.

All our learning is because of Mr Muhammed and Mr Ansari

Anurag Shukla, the endlessly energetic travel expert at Khajuraho

Human nirvana, I believe, happens when the mind is able link everything that galvanizes it with something that amuses the taste-buds… it is this jugal-bandhi that happened every day during this passion trail.

The Molecular Papdi-chaat day

An easy day began with settling down at the Jehan Numa Retreat in Bhopal and then moving straight into the world of pre-historic Paleolithic and Mesolithic rock paintings at Bhimbetka, around 45 km southeast of Bhopal. We ambled around a few rock shelters (there are over 750 spread over 10 km and on and around seven hills), creating our own visual memories of the past.

Bhimbetka - one almost wishes one were a cave dweller telling tales in pictures

Bhimbetka - rock shelters that tell stories from prehistoric paleolithic and mesolithic times

This tantalizing start gently wheeled us into the mystery of Bhojesvar temple with one of the largest linga in India… and ‘what is important here’, explained KK Muhammed, ‘is that the ramp built in Raja Bhoj’s time to transport massive stones to build this huge structure, is still there.’ Such structures are destroyed once the construction is completed… but the temple remained incomplete and thus the ramp survived. This isn’t all… but then I’ll be writing other exhaustive posts and talking about these intriguing facets of our heritage later on my blog.

Bhojpur - Shiv temple where the ramp to cart massive stones still survives

The day, surprisingly managed to push in more surprises and these included listening to Dhruva, India’s first Sanskrit band singing vedic strotas and vedic gaan… and followed by a trail culinary degustation of Madhya Pradesh. The sub-titles for my post are inspired by what we were served here.

The Patthar Gosht Kabab day

The next day began with Jamal Ayub giving us story-dunked tales as we stood inside Taj-ul-Masjid… these stories were about the reflective carpet that never got used to the Begums who went on Haj, and then from the story of the dhai seedi mosque to the matriarchal structure of the Bhopal ruling family. By the way, one of the things that I never doing throughout this trip was to keep clicking pictures on my Galaxy Note9 and my Nikon DSLR… the GoPro Hero7 with me didn’t really get many opportunities.

Bhopal - Taj-ul-Masjid

Tropic of Cancer - between Bhopal and Sanchi

This was the day when I realized that all these years I had been wrongly assuming that Buddha was at Stupas at Sanchi. ‘No, Buddha never visited this place, ‘clarified KK Muhammed, ‘but these along with the Chausath Yogini temple have certainly inspired the architect of Rashtrapati Bhavan.’

Sanchi - our currency note has its picture on it

Sanchi - where each panel has stories from the Jataka tales etched

I have mentioned earlier that each day during this passion trail is packed with mesmerizing visits and the day went on from staring at Ganga on a crocodile, Yamuna on a tortoise and a lot of other facets etched on rocks and walls of caves at Udaigiri to drive back to Sanchi to watch the sound and light show at the Stupa.

The Matar-pudina ka Shorba day

This was the day we drove to Chanderi, the outpost of Bundelkhund – the city with Urvashi and Betwa flowing near, a stimulating series of white, grey, and red sandstone Shaivite, Vaishnaivite, and Jain temples… and, of course, known for Chanderi silk. It is said that 1 km of silk used in Chanderi cloth weighs just 1.5 gms.

Chanderi - the weaver’s loom

This was also a day when we hopped from the gory references of the Kati Ghati story to the horror bumps of the shooting of Stree, a Bollywood movie… and then on to the svelte charm of Chanderi silk, the valid concerns of the weavers, and the photogenic views from Kila Kothi to click this enthralling jhilon ki nagri before moving on to Orchha.

The Dahi-Baigan Shirazi day

I was almost tempted to call this the fresh basil and lemongrass sorbet day because the combination of Raja Ram temple, the fortress, and the chhatris photographed very early in the morning was just that kind of experience. Walking across the rapta over Betwa and then allowing the friendly forest reserve dog to guide us through a dark undulating terrain to the river bank on the opposite side of the Chhatris was more than just-another-adventure. Waking up the chowkidaar at the Orchha fort to get entry into the mahals much before the tourists ambled in was brilliant as we had the entire property to ourselves to explore, pose, and click just as we wanted to. Yes, the monuments viewed from here in the soft morning light were applauded by our cameras. These were our #LiveWhatYouLove moments for sure.

The Times Passion Trail cyclists in Orchha

Orchha Fort - jharokhas as architectural necessity

Orchha - cenotaphs guarded by a pair of owlets

Orchha - early morning at the shore of river Betwa

Orchha - the subtle morning light and the chhatris

Orchha - the chhatris as reflections in the morning light

Orchha - the sadhu is happy to be clicked with the chhatris in the background

Orchha - locals are off to the temple within the fort

Orchha - Ram Raja Temple from the top of the fort

Orchha - the bridge to the city

Orchha - hobnobbing with the Bundela royalty

The day, as usual, surprised us with a meeting with the Bundelkhund royalty and the conversation with Rajeshwari Shah and RudraPratap Shah as we savored Bundeli dishes at their resort, were brimming with nuggets from Bundeli itihaas. With such a lot to keep us in good humour, the long drive to Khajuraho wasn’t as horrifying as it could have been.

The Gulab ki Kheer and Shahi Tukda days

The last two days at Khajuraho were sweetened adequately by the sheer brilliance of the sufi vocals sung by Dhruv Sangari (Bilal Chishti Sangari) creating the right sort of auditory stimulus for the sensual posturing that Khajuraho is somehow known for… though I must say that it is the cultural history, modular architecture, mythological references, Swargarohan temples, Jain temples, the subtle and not-so-subtle links to tantra and mantra, and the spice-infused cuisine surviving through the tumultuous past of the region that are as vital as are the erotic attractions here. Yes, we did miss out on a more personal tete-a-tete with the eroticism of the temples as they were closed due to the Covid-19 restrictions… but then this is just the right reason for us to plan another trip to this place.

Khajuraho - the tales behind the eroticism are many and quite interesting

Gimme more!

The Times Passion Cultural & Heritage Trail in Madhya Pradesh has #SabKuchJoDilChahe and for the foodie in me it covered almost the entire menu from amousse bouche to the dessert as it meandered through the delicious soups, starters, the entrée, sorbet, and the main course.

Burrrrp!

I’m happy.

Arvind Passey: short bio

Blog: http://www.passey.info

Media-kit: http://passey.info/media-kit/

Published short-stories in nearly a dozen anthologies. Poetry published in magazines and journals in UK and India. Work experience includes heading corporate communication and then as the editor of Education Post. Writes on travel, technology, politics, environment, books, wildlife and any other subject that catches his fancy.

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jghouse-asia-pacific · 4 years

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New Post has been published on https://www.jg-house.com/2020/10/16/all-innocent-ones-back-home-paris/

All the Innocent Ones Back Home: Paris

Sylvere placed his saxophone next to its case on the small stage, walked to the bar, and sat on a stool near one end, staring into the black, heavy night. Outside it was hot and humid, but inside it was cool and comfortable. A large air-conditioning unit, humming along softly, was set into the wall opposite the bar, not far from an archway which led to an adjoining room with about 25 tables and a larger number of chairs. Summer in Paris, he said to himself, is getting hotter every year.

Sylvere turned back toward the bar and ordered a glass of beer from the bartender, a boy who would seem to be too young to work in any bar but who had approached from the other end and who now looked to his right at the stage on which Sylvere and the three, other members of his band had just finished their set. The band was popular in Paris among those who enjoyed listening to live music of the jazz variety, although not many people had attended the latest performance, perhaps because it had started at 5:30 in the afternoon and lasted only an hour.

Today had been a difficult day for Sylvere, a talented musician, but, at the same time, an indifferent and, sometimes, careless performer, especially when he was preoccupied by events back home. He preferred American jazz, primarily a series of obscure compositions by Miles Davis, Dave Brubeck, and others of their generation, although this music, Sylvere admitted to his friends, didn’t make sense to him.

But playing the saxophone, for Sylvere, was not, and never was, a particularly enjoyable way to pass the time. The reactions of others to his playing surprised Sylvere and, often, amused him, as if other people’s admiration for his talent had nothing to do with him. Music was a medicine Sylvere took to make it through the day. It was, more precisely, a sedative, something to help him relax and, perhaps, even forget, if only for a short time, the death and destruction.

Now music erupted from speakers somewhere in the building, filling the bar and the adjoining dining room, where a wedding celebration was picking up speed. A few minutes earlier Sylvere had noticed a young man, who, like him, was African or else African European, pass through the bar and enter the dining room, where the man had proceeded to set up the equipment he brought with him, a computer and various other electronic devices connected to it. He was the DJ hired to provide entertainment for the wedding celebration.

Bartender

The boy placed a glass of beer on the bar top in front of Sylvere and slipped away. Sylvere grasped the tall glass in one hand and brought it to his lips. Today, after receiving a report of another massacre of men, women, and children in his hometown, including the killing of a childhood friend, a village doctor, he knew that music no longer could help him. All the innocent ones back home were trapped in a cycle of violence from which few had any hopes of escaping. Theirs was a world of pain and suffering. It offered little possibility of anything else.

Sylvere took a long drink of beer from the glass, then two more gulps, staring straight ahead but seeing nothing, not even the 40 to 50 people eating, drinking, and dancing to the DJ’s music in celebration of the marriage of a French man in his fifties to an African woman in her twenties. Sylvere placed the empty glass back on the bar top. As he looked around, realizing his three band-mates were gone and he was the only one sitting at the bar, he could think of only the people who would die next.

“Another wedding, so much joy and hope,” Sylvere said, but he wasn’t talking to anyone in particular. He had spoken his words in the dialect of his ancestral home. Still, the boy, who had approached from the other end of the bar and picked up the empty glass, looked at Sylvere, raising his eyebrows. The older man, though, turned on his stool, once again, and looked into the black, heavy night.

Suddenly, an image of his third-oldest daughter emerged from the darkness. Sylvere closed his eyes. But the image remained. He could see Julienne clearly. She sat motionless in the back seat of a taxi, staring straight ahead, as the driver loaded her suitcases into the trunk of the white Mercedes sedan. It was the day she left for nursing school in Brussels. She never would look at her father, who stood in the road next to the back door of the vehicle, peering through the window, hoping to exchange some final words with his daughter before she departed.

“Whisky,” Sylvere said, abruptly, turning back toward the bar and gesturing to the boy. Sylvere could still see the image of his daughter in the taxi. But he knew Julienne wasn’t in Brussels any longer. Where was she now? The boy placed a wider, shorter glass on the bar top in front of Sylvere this time, filled the glass with an amber liquid from a green bottle, and moved back toward the other end of the bar. Sylvere stared at the amber liquid, but he made no attempt to drink it.

Young Woman on Street

The bar and dining room occupied the second floor of a popular restaurant outside Combs-la-Ville, a suburb of Paris, where Sylvere had lived for forty of his seventy-three years. He was entering the twilight years of his life, but he didn’t look like a man who was in the habit of sitting in front of a television set all day long, waiting for his death to overtake him.

The restaurant, called El Bulle Petite, a reference to the famous Spanish restaurant, now defunct, located in Roses, Spain, was always crowded. Sylvere, though, called the restaurant, La Bulimia. It was not one of his favorites. Because he liked to indulge himself at mealtime, he carried too much weight on his 5’10” frame, but he would never pass through the doors of El Bulle Petite, regardless of the occasion, if the decision were his alone. Always, Sylvere, when he entered the restaurant, grew irritated.

Life in the small town 30 kilometers southeast of downtown Paris went on unremarkably most of the time, and it even could be full of joy and hope. But, now, Sylvere felt only despair. He knew life would be less complicated for him and for the people around him if only he could accept reality. But he could not. He wanted to replace it. In a world of never ceasing violence and the death and destruction it caused, Sylvere found himself, on occasion, gasping for air but nevertheless, against all odds, resisting the forces pressing down on him and everyone who mattered to him.

Sylvere looked at the amber liquid in the glass again. The music had stopped. He could hear someone giving a speech in the room next door. He drained the contents of the glass, stood up, and removed a wallet from the inside pocket of his dark green blazer, catching the eye of the boy. Sylvere took a few bills out of the wallet and waited as the boy approached.

“Monsieur,” the boy said, speaking in French, “the drinks are on the house.”

Sylvere looked closely at the boy for the first time. Maybe he wasn’t a boy after all, Sylvere realized, thanking the younger man and replacing the money in the wallet and, next, the wallet in his pocket. Sylvere walked over to the stage, picked up his saxophone, and inserted it into its case.

Small Girl

“See you next Saturday?” the bartender said, looking up from some bottles of mineral water he had started transferring from a cardboard box to a small refrigerator. Sylvere, who was walking toward a side door which led from the bar to a set of external stairs and the street below, stopped and stared at the bartender.

Then Sylvere recalled that he and his band-mates had agreed to perform in the bar at El Bulle Petite the following week too. It was their idea, but he realized he didn’t mind. Maybe after the second performance he would even start to like the place. Anyway, playing his saxophone for an admiring audience, no matter where the audience was, or how small it was, would do him some good.

“Yes,” Sylvere replied in French, making his way to the exit, “We’ll be here.”

Sylvere opened the door and stepped into the dark, heavy night, an image of a pot of fish stew simmering on the stove now appearing before his eyes. His house was only a few blocks away. He wondered if his son or youngest daughter had left him any of the fish stew. It was his wife’s specialty and, also, his favorite dish.

#Europe, #France, #LifeCulture #Beauty, #Culture, #Love, #Paris

#beauty #culture #love #Paris

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thehikingviking · 4 years

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Mt Darwin (13,831 ft), A Day Hike via Lamarck Col

My main goal for the 2020 Sierra Challenge was to day hike Mt Darwin. Day 6 had the group heading towards the Socialite, which shared an approach with the standard route to Mt Darwin over Lamarck Col. I had wanted to climb this emblem peak for over a decade, but was discouraged by the class 5 summit block rating. Many of my hiking companions and acquaintances assured me that I would have no problem with the summit block, and even went so far to call it class 3-4. My interest was further amplified after a quasi failed attempt earlier in July. I ran our group into the ground on a backpacking trip to Evolution Basin and Mt Goddard, and we didn’t have enough juice to finish off our trip with a Mt Darwin summit. On our hike out, I considered returning a month later during the challenge, and studied the route from a distance. I also read through many detailed trip reports, but in the end I was still unsure if I would be capable of completing such a strenuous day. A month later I found myself in the best physical condition I had ever been in. I participated in days 2-4 of the challenge, allowing me to acclimate and get my legs underneath me. I then rested on day 5 to hydrate and recover. Even after all of my preparation, doubts lingered. I told Asaka that I could possibly be out for over 20 hours, and may even face the reality of having to bivouac. I had a little panic attack the night before, but I eventually found peace while watching the sunset before bed. The next morning, I woke up fresh. I made it to the trailhead by 4am, parked at the hikers parking lot, then followed a headlamp up the road ahead of me. This turned out to be Iris. I had studied Matt Yaussi’s video of their day hike to Mt Darwin, and was greatly concerned because it took them over 17 hours back in 2017. They had both been faster hikers in than me in the past, so I expect to take even longer.

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She reassured me that they were extremely slow that day, and spent a lot of time waiting for others who were doing a day hike to Mt Goddard. We waited at the bathroom at the end of the road and soon we were joined by Mason, Tom Becht and Tom Grundy as well. We stuck together maintaining a solid pace up the dark trail. I settled in right in the middle of the pack. I remember the stars looking extra bright that night. Chatting with the group was enough to keep me distracted as we made our way up the steep trail. Last time I was here I was struggling with a heavy pack in the heat of the day. Now I felt like a leaf floating up the mountain with a breeze. After several miles, it dawned upon me that I was keeping up with hikers whom I once viewed as superhuman. I was seeing the fruits of my labor and a sense of euphoria filled my being. It was a beautiful morning and my body was feeling great. Lamarck Col came into view sooner than I expected, a familiar sight from not loo long ago.

A young trail running couple, not part of the challenge, showed up out of nowhere. They said they were on their way to Scylla, a very formidable objective. They climbed some talus slopes to the left of the pass. I considered saying something, but I figured they were probably off to tag Lamarck Col Peak as a bonus peak. They ended up missing the col by accident, and at the end of the day they didn’t make it all the way to Scylla. There was a little less snow than the month prior, and we were able to avoid it altogether by staying on the rocks to the left. To my surprise, I had made it to the pass in under 3 hours. I had budgeted 4 hours to reach the pass, and while I wasn’t that tired, I took a short break to soak in the beauty.

The others dropped down towards Darwin Bench while I waited for Bob Burd to catch up down below. I asked if he knew of anyone heading to Mt Darwin. Christine was signed up for Mt Darwin, but she broke her collar bone going over Haeckel Col earlier that week. Bob cheerfully replied that Zee and his friends were going for Mt Darwin, and the young trio showed up shortly after. Fearing that I would be much slower than them, I got a head start and subsequently descended the other side of the col. Bob and I chatted for a while, but slowly separated as we took our own routes down towards Darwin Lakes.

When viewing the map, it appears easiest to sidehill as much as possible to avoid unnecessary elevation loss. However, I found it was easier to simply drop down to just below the 12,000 ft contour. Sidehilling was loose and tedious while a more direct route was across solid granite slabs and grassy ramps.

After dropping over a thousand feet, I regained what was just lost by heading towards the toe of the much receded Darwin Glacier. I stopped at a very nice tarn here to fill up water. I looked around for Zee and his friends but they were nowhere in sight. I expected them to have caught me by now. After a break, I continued up the moraine, avoiding the icy glacier altogether, wondering if I could get to the the start of the scramble without stopping to put on crampons.

I was wise enough to aim for the notch ~100 meters to the left of the lowest point in the ridge. There was one lingering patch of ice that blocked the route.

While short, the patch of snow was extremely steep and icy. It was just enough to get someone in trouble. I sat down on a rock and put on my crampons.

I crossed the patch with relative ease and just two minutes after putting them on I was already removing my crampons. Still no sign of Zee and his friends; strange.

Now began the start of the class 3. There was a lot of loose rock and dirt, and the exact route wasn’t apparent to me. I think I initially went too far left, and found myself on some steep dirt. I got off this as soon as I could across a very loose horizontal pitch. This was hard class 3, and one should be very careful here. I was encouraged though because while I was dealing with these challenges, my elevation was getting higher and higher. I was relieved when I made the notch. Across Evolution Basin was Mt Goddard.

Back to the northwest was Mt Mendel.

I was a little on edge after that sketchy section. The ridge ahead of me didn’t look simple, but I expected it to be relatively straightforward.

What I found was some more class 3. I was very rhythmic and methodical, placing focus on each move. I took in the views of Evolution Basin and Mt McGee below. The Socialite and The Hermit stood behind Evolution Lake.

I knew I was getting close when I was of equal height with Mt Mendel, which stands just a hundred feet lower than Mt Darwin.

I was encouraged when I attained the summit plateau, but remained humble knowing that the exposed summit block lay ahead.

As I approached the edge of the plateau, I secretly hoped that a earthquake or simply erosion had knocked over the summit block. I crossed the rounded plateau and sure enough the summit block was still there in all its glory. I knew exactly what to do. I had to drop from the plateau to the small notch in between where I stood and the summit block. Form there I would descend a dirt chute to the left, then reclimb another chute up the eastern side of the summit block.

Rather than take a break and give myself time to think about it, I went straight for it. I dropped my backpack, only taking my phone and a couple pieces of webbing just in case I needed to hang onto something.

I dropped down to the notch, then further down the chute to the left. There was a lot of steep dirt but I felt in control. So far, so good.

I started climbing up the final chute. There was a large chockstone in the way. This stumped me for a second, but I found my way up and over by stemming around it. On to the next challenge.

The next few moves were class 3. The exposure was not so bad, and the climbing was pretty easy. Just a little more to go.

Finally, the last move. While exposed, there are extremely good holds and the rock is solid.

I heaved myself up with little difficulty. I would call it class 4. To the northeast was Mt Tom Ross. I didn’t know it at the time, but Sean King spotted me on Mt Darwin from atop this peak.

To the southeast were Cloudripper, Mt Agassiz, Mt Winchell and North Palisade.

To the south were Mt Haeckel and Mt Fiske.

To the southwest was Mt Goddard.

To the west were Mt McGee and Mt Henry. My red backpack remained on the plateau.

To the northwest was the tip of Mt Mendel.

To the north were Mt Humphreys and Mt Tom.

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I was very satisfied with my time of 6 hours and 20 minutes. I had a solid chance to make it back down several hours before I expected.

I had lunch waiting in my backpack so I figured I would take my extended rest once on more solid ground. I took in the exposure all round me. The one move of class 4 was easy to downclimb with solid holds.

I even felt comfortable enough to follow the Evolution Ridge a short distance to see the famous traverse first hand.

Standing over here also gave me a different perspective of the summit block.

The technically hardest part of the whole climb was the chockstone. I dropped back down to the notch and made it back to my backpack. I had my lunch then began my way back towards the west ridge. I was still a little concerned with the down climb back to the Darwin Glacier, and I wanted to put this behind me. I took parting glances at the summit block on my retreat.

My eyes traveled down the length of Evolution Valley to the hinterlands in the distance.

I thought about climbing Mt Mendel, but I still had to reclimb Lamarck Col, so I played it conservatively, figuring I could climb this on a future challenge.

Now I turned my focus to the class 3 downclimb. Slow and steady wins the race, I thought to myself.

Descending from the notch took a lot of focus. As I approached the Darwin Glacier, I spotted several people beneath me. It was Zee and his friends.

I did my best to not kick any rocks down on top of them, which was a difficult task that I was barely able to pull off. I was surprised to see them so far behind. Zee told me that they took a wrong route. They all made it across the icy section with no crampons, which was most likely easier now that the sun had time to soften it slightly. Zee asked how much further he had to go, and wondered if he could still make the summit. It was still before noon and I figured he could make it in an hour, so I encouraged him to continue. I warned them that I was scared to death that they would inadvertently kick rocks down onto me and I advised them to be extremely careful. To their credit, not even a pebble fell. I learned later that night that while his friends stopped short, Zee made it to the summit.

I crossed the sliver of glacier without crampons by kicking steps into the hard snow. The talus rock field beneath the glacier was extremely loose and tedious. I took a long rest at the tarn, basking in my glory.

I knew reclimbing Lamarck Col would be tough, but I still had some energy left. I took my time to hydrate, then headed back towards the Darwin Lakes.

I followed a route similar to my ascent route. Again, I dropped low towards the Darwin Lakes, but not all the way. I picked a gentle route up sandy patches and granite ramps.

I started free styling in Spanish to pass the time. I was surprisingly good at it. As I got higher I started singing some of my favorite reggaetón songs. I looked down and noticed a lone figure gaining on me. He must have enjoyed the concert. I met this individual at the col. He was a Canadian named Sayer and he was on his return from Mt Darwin as well. He failed to reach the summit via an alternate route, saying that the loose rock and steep dirt sections sketched him out.

I had service here and let Asaka know that I was ahead of schedule. Sayer was willing to accompany me on the hike down and I was happy to have company. I saw another lone hiker heading towards Lamarck Col Peak. I wondered if this was Sean King, since I just received his text message from earlier saying that he could see me on the summit of Mt Darwin from Mt Tom Ross. I considered this bonus peak myself, but I had started to miss Asaka and Leif, and I wanted to get back as soon as possible.

Sayer and I chatted all the way down to Lower Lamarck Lake. I remember this section being much easier than what I experienced back in July. Cooler weather and a lighter pack made a world of difference.

I stopped to take a swim at the outlet of Lower Lamarck Lake. Sayer continued on and I promised to stop by his campsite on my way out. As I swam, I was accompanied by a Swede in a speedo. Now refreshed, I continued the remaining distance towards North Lake. Sean King caught me with one mile to go, and we hiked out together comparing our achievements. He filled the stat sheet by climbing 5 peaks around Lamarck Col. I found a reserve of energy and jogged out to the trailhead at the very end. I finished the day hike of Mt Darwin in exactly 12 hours and 30 minutes. I drove back down to Bishop to pick up my family, then returned to North Lake where we cooked dinner and drank beer with Jim and Bob Burd, Sean and Scott King, Evan Rasmussen, Sayer and his girlfriend. It would be a late night for some of the other challengers. Most of the hikers still had not returned by the time I left for my motel in the dark. My main goal for the Sierra Challenge was a complete success, and I earned another rest day in Bishop.

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covfeandtv · 5 years

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My New Pot Plant

I pride myself on the décor of my home. I live in a quaint suburban bungalow but it has the space and simplicity of floor plan to let me be creative. And, as it's just me here, I have the money to play around a little with it.

My most recent and enthusiastic addition is a new pot plant in the reception. The large south-facing windows make it an ideal habitat for something tall and green, and given that it's a relatively empty space for such a simple and undemanding function as receiving guests, it's simply asking for something to make for me a good impression.

It burned a bit of a hole in my wallet, but here it is: a beautiful Japanese Fruiticosa. Of the genome Polyscias Fruiticosa, it's a dwarf tree native to southeast Asia, standing roughly a meter and a half tall, with a slender and winding trunk and tufts of long, pointed leaves. I keep it in a corner beside the front door, cuddled between two windows to get it as much sunlight as possible, and in fine view of any visitors on entry. I spend some days pruning and arranging it, making sure that its soil is feeding it as best of nourishment as such a beauty would deserve, before I start thinking of inviting any associates over. I want to make sure that it's just right, and that it looks its best.

Dinner night comes. I've invited over a co-worker for a juniper and redcurrant lamb shanks with a beetroot and tomato borscht for entrée. But, of course, the highlight of our evening will be the unexpected presence of my new pot plant. I find myself as the minutes tick closer to his arrival, sat at the breakfast bar in my kitchen, lost in fantasies of his reaction. Of the wide intrigue and curiosity in his eyes; of the impressed regard he'd hold in me following. I can just hear the sweet tones of elation in his voice, and these thoughts have me so entranced that I nearly miss his knock at the door.

Shaking myself to attention after a brief moment for the knock to register, I give myself and my new pot plant a last check and arrangement in the reception before donning my most charming of smiles and opening my front door. My guest is stood prepared with a smile of his own, holding to his chest a very generous 2013 Chilean dry red, its label very deliberately in presentation, of which I receive with delight, even more so in knowing that his is in just a short moment sure to supersede mine. I make all of the polite fuss one should make of such a gift, and I step aside with a welcoming wave inside, beckoning to the rest of my home, and positioning surely to direct him towards the pièce de résistance: my new pot plant. And surely so, as I help him remove his coat, he sees it.

And that's it. Nothing else. Barely a fucking glance. As if it isn't even there. He just lets me take his coat, and turns away as if to even avoid acknowledging it!

I find myself stunned. Stood there holding his beige gabardine trench-coat, eyes in an unfocused fix on my new pot plant, my mind seeming to deny such a circumstance, and placing my consciousness on hold as it tries to figure it out. My trance is broken as he asks me where to put the wine. After a brief and vacant stare towards him, my voice finds me again. My confident and warm demeanour has slipped to one cold and insecure, but I suppose to at least try to salvage what I can from this failure of an evening and to try my best to present it with dignity and poise.

The meal goes by as well as I suppose it could have done, given the circumstances. Crushed and confused, I find myself almost incapable of listening to a word he says. This naturally kills a lot of conversation, but luckily for me he seemed impressed enough with his meal as to not need too much chatter. I hardly realise how quickly I drain his bottle of wine, and I have the second bought out before we even finish our main. By this point, my earlier defeat has been salved by a dumb alcoholic cloud, and I find myself limber and loose. But with this comes the looseness of my tongue also, and inevitably comes pouring the elephant in the room which he seems to have so blindly missed: his ignoring of my new pot plant.

It just sort of blurts out. How could you have missed it? Is it not glorious? Who do you think you are, to ignore something of such majesty and grandeur?! You come to my house! And you eat my food!! And you don't even have the decency to pay a basic respect to my prized and beloved new pot plant?!

He protests, but I persist. Before I know it, I have his coat, and his cuff, and I stop by on the way to the front door to introduce him to my new pot plant, before throwing him and his fancy coat out of the door, and leaving him with a flustered “go fuck your coat!!” before slamming shut the front door.

Back in the drawing room, I sit in my armchair, my sweet new pot plant parked between my knees, lovingly pruning and arranging its leaves with soothing coos and lullabies. After taking a long and deep drink, I drop the evening's third bottle of wine to the floor as I slump back, knocking my new pot plant, and committing the most reviled of sins as it's porcelain pot breaks into pieces against the hardwood. My world fades into a stuperous din with only the defiled sight of my object of pride occupying my mind before disappearing into the dark.

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grassshrimp56-blog · 5 years

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How I Found My Dad Again on a Solo Trip to Vietnam

Pancakes were my dad’s specialty, mostly because he made them on special occasions: when his parents came to town, after I won a roller skating competition, before a drive to nearby Sequoia National Park.

His favorite special occasions were when his beloved Los Angeles Rams played the San Francisco 49ers. Before his friend Arlie, a Niners fan, would arrive to watch the game with him, he’d make his pancakes. It was a pre-game ritual and a prayer rolled into one: “Dear Heavenly Father of Football, bless these pancakes we are about to receive—and also, if you wouldn’t mind, bless the Rams with strong defense and a lot of touchdowns today.”

The pancakes he made weren’t distinctive. They weren’t whisked from scratch or shaped like hearts or topped with a blueberry smiley face. They were made with Bisquick, oil, and eggs.

Sometimes he’d let me pour the batter into the pan, and together we’d marvel at the sharp, short-lived sound it made on impact. Tzzzuuhhh, tzzzuuhh. How quickly it spread, how gracefully, I thought, each pancake stopped just shy of a collision with the other. We never poured more than two at a time.

“Nobody likes to be crowded,” he’d say.

The result was my then-favorite food: pancakes thick in the center, burned at the edges, and drowned in buttermilk syrup. Pancakes made by my dad and me.

Cooking wasn’t something he did often. Neither was showing up for dinner on time. Vast swaths of my childhood are usurped by the memory of a single, recurring event: my kid brother and I sitting at the dinner table watching ketchup bubble and drip down the sides of a steaming meatloaf, my mother shouting to us from the kitchen, “Look but don’t touch.”

We were waiting for my dad to come home. When at last he'd arrive, he’d kiss my mom on the cheek, and together we’d eat and watch Wheel of Fortune.

This ritual ended right before my 10th birthday, when my dad stopped coming home at all. Soon after, my parents divorced. My dad remarried and my mom got a second and a third job. Lines were drawn, sides were taken. I was not on his. We rarely met, and when we did, we masked our hurt with small talk and wooden smiles. Our before, as in “before the divorce,” became a hollow, infinite after.

Time passed. He started a business and divorced again. I moved to Los Angeles and then to New York. Our fragile “after” morphed into a series of stops and starts, the former marked by awkward attempts at recapturing our pancake days; the latter by the silences between them.

Fast forward to 2010. I am married and living in Tel Aviv. It is late May, and the hamsin have arrived, kicking up dust and stirring the heat. I sit alone on my balcony watching a bougainvillea tree sway in the wind and thinking of the night before. Last night, my husband made his safta’s ktsitsot, and after placing three perfectly round meatballs on his plate, turned to me and said, “I don’t love you anymore.”

He’d spend the next day moving out.

Where will I go?, I think to myself. I am not yet a resident and will have to leave Israel. I think of the friends I will lose and the money this will cost. And then, I think of my dad. Specifically, I think of the day when, while playing with my brother in our overstuffed garage, I found a black, dust-covered box with a gold medal inside. I’d taken it to my mom to ask if I could keep it.

“Where did you find that?” she said, breathless and impatient. “Put it back before your father sees it.”

I would later learn that it was an award my dad won for heroism and valor. In 1969, he killed an enemy soldier while on night watch in Vietnam. Presumably, he’d saved his platoon from a surprise attack. He was barely 20 years old.

He didn’t tell me this. My mother did. I recently read somewhere that over a quarter of a million Vietnam veterans still have PTSD. I’m not sure if my dad ever had any psychological trauma relating to his service. (His hearing, on the other hand, was greatly affected, a fact that makes it difficult for him to converse on the phone, and consequently, difficult for the two of us to converse at all.) Like so many veterans, he never talked about the war. Even now, the subject of Vietnam remains private, off limits to everyone, perhaps even to himself.

On the balcony, a cluster of pink flower petals has collected in a corner. I pick them up and throw them over the crumbling cement ledge. “Vietnam,” I say to the bougainvillea tree. I will go to Vietnam.

I decided to fly from Tel Aviv to Bangkok, with a loose plan to spend three months making a loop: Thailand to Laos to Vietnam to Cambodia. And then? I didn’t yet know the answer.

At the start of my trip, I didn’t think about my dad at all. I was too busy getting lost and feeling out of place and tasting foods I’d never seen before. In Thailand, I ate laap and durian ice cream. In Laos, I toured rice and mung bean farms, and played duc day with locals over Beerlao and tam. I saw ballets, went hiking, and took questionably constructed buses to villages with no name. Through it all, I rarely thought about my dad.

Eventually, however, the eagerness that required I accept every invitation and see every recommended sight subsided, giving way to a slower, more peaceful pace. I spent long, lazy afternoons reading and people-watching and drinking too many Thai iced teas. With more time to think, my thoughts turned to my dad.

These thoughts became especially vivid while researching routes and transportation between Laos and Vietnam. If I heard a laugh like his, I thought of him. If I saw a man with a mustache, I thought of him. If I smelled pancakes on the street—they are ubiquitous in Southeast Asia—I thought of him. Vietnam’s proximity was stirring my emotions. By the time I left Laos, my dad was the only thing on my mind.

When I arrived in Hanoi, the sensory overload shocked me. Vietnam is, at once, familiar and distant. In Halong Bay, endless mist floats over and into junk boats and cliff edges. In Vinh Moc, dank tunnels attest to lives lived entirely underground. In Ho Chi Minh City, buildings with ornate ceilings and bright tiled floors whisper of past French colonial rule.

I was unprepared for the real Vietnam. For its sounds and smells and breadth. For its darkness and vitality and cool. For its many thousand layers of tradition and lore that can never be fully peeled back.

I wondered, everywhere I went, if my dad had once been where I stood. In Hoi An, a port city and UNESCO World Heritage Site near My Lai and the former Vietnamese Demilitarized Zone, he came into particularly sharp view.

I am starting the long walk back to Hoi An’s city center after a day on the beach. Hungry, I turn off the main road and enter a bungalow with a sign that, I hope, says “restaurant.” There’s an upper deck and a small bar and two wooden tables set with unlit candles. In the back, a pond with a bird feeder at its center. There are no customers.

“You want eat?” A woman appears and sets a metal basket full of neon condiments on the table in front of me. “I bring menu for you.” Her voice is staccato and quick, a medley of diphthongs and off-glides and abrupt nasal stops. It is also kind.

When she returns and hands me the menu, I stammer and shrug. It’s written in Vietnamese and has no pictures.

“You want noodle? You want soup?”

“Noodles?” I ask more than state.

“Noodle good. Pork okay for you?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Okay. Cao lầu. Famous food for Hoi An. Only make in Hoi An. I bring you.”

She leaves and turns on the radio behind the bar. I sit and watch the birds stop at the edge of the pond, then quickly fly away.

When my meal arrives, I cup the bowl and admire the salty perfume. There are bean sprouts and greens and chiles. There are peanuts and a squeeze of lime. Fried pork rinds are sprinkled on the braised chunks of pork. Lining the cao lầu’s perimeter are the long, square-edged noodles that give the dish its name. I mix all of these together and take my first bite. It’s acidic and sweet, tacky and dense.

Legend has it that cau lầu noodles can only be produced in Hoi An. Of their three ingredients—water, ash, and ground rice—two can’t be found anywhere else in the world. It is said that the water is from an ancient Cham well just outside of town, and the ash is made from firewood on the nearby Cham Islands.

With each bite I take, a stream of memories pours forth. My dad washing our dog. My dad playing cards. My dad on a ski lift with me. We’d gone snowboarding when I’d visited him in Reno on my 21st birthday, and when his back had acted up, he’d nursed three cups of cocoa in the lodge so that I could have a full day on the slopes. Recalling this, I start to cry. Another memory: My dad pinning my Bluebirds badge on a pig-tailed, six year-old me. And another: My dad clapping wildly for me at my college graduation. And still another: My dad sitting across from me seven years earlier at a restaurant in New York, the last time I’d seen him.

I’m openly weeping now, hunched over my bowl and what remains of my new favorite dish. I can’t stop crying, and I can’t understand why I started.

Now, nearly a decade later, the reason is clear. Though my dad and I didn’t talk during my travels and we don’t speak often now, it was as if he was there with me. Alone in Vietnam, eating a dish whose ingredients aren’t available anywhere else, I felt closer to him than I had in 25 years. It was as if he had finally come home.

Source: https://food52.com/blog/24232-cao-lau-noodles-in-vietnam

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