#and they remember the old days in the dinghy

[tekitothemagpie]

Imagine, some time throughout their adventure, Luffy and Zoro get separated from the other Strawhats on some island, which is governed by their enemies.

They're surrounded by strong foes and each fight a strong opponent.

Zoro gets severely injured and loses his consciousness. Luffy, of course, freaks out and immediately goes to help his first mate.

He makes a retreat, seeing Zoro's condition and finds shelter somewhere far away from the battlefield. He doesn't know much but still patches Zoro up the best he can and just holds his swordsman as tight as he can. Waits for him to wake up and for all to be better.

While holding his dearest first mate with the most care and tenderness one can express, he's absolutely furious, with the biggest frown on his face, he swears that whoever did this will pay for it, his Haki oozing out of him and knocking out everyone/everything in range.

[inoreuct]

i actually desperately need 40y/o zoro with reading glasses. thin wire frames with teensy rectangular lenses perched on his nose as he peers down at one of sanji’s french romance novels to see what all the fuss is about— after so many years with his husband he’s picked up a bit of the language and sanji has a stack of them on the nightstand and he’s bored, alright? sanji has something to wrap up at the restaurant and he might as well. he’s farsighted and squints at everything near him and it makes him look even grouchier than usual and the fact that he’s graying at the temples doesn’t help. he looks terrifyingly severe with all his scars and his frowning, until he smiles— he’s been doing that a lot more lately, and then people realise that’s why he has crow’s feet around his eyes. i need him to have a collection of bottles that he’s fiercely protective over; they’re all empty and the labels are faded to hell, but point to any one and he can tell you where it had been drunk. there’s a beer bottle from the first night he’d sailed with luffy. a sweet rum they’d popped to celebrate usopp’s return. the champagne from when he and sanji had gotten married.

i need 40y/o sanji with long, long hair that he ties and pins and styles differently every day. sometimes he makes decorative sourdough and he matches his braids to the patterns. i need him taking on protégés in his restaurant, guiding a new generation of culinary genius even though teenagers are fucking terrifying and annoying and argumentative, because he remembers being exactly like them and at the end of it they’re good kids. they listen to him (…to an extent). they’re sweet and talented and they do absolutely crazy shit in the process of trying to push their boundaries; sometimes they trip and fall, but it’s fine. that’s how they learn. that’s what sanji’s for, as their safety net and their mentor— he’ll give them shit for it and pick them up anyway, nag them while brusquely brushing off their knees. but sometimes, sometimes, they come up with something extraordinary, and sanji gets so proud he could cry. zeff drops by and nags at him for everything under the damn roof. sanji doesn’t mind it.

i need them in their kitchen, in the morning, when sanji’s far too chipper and zoro’s not awake enough, nursing a cup of coffee and half-asleep again at the table as sanji fries their eggs. i need zoro to have one of those old man rocking chairs that he settles into to watch the sunset and drink tea, because sanji’s managed to get him into tea of all things. he’d have never imagined liking matcha a decade ago. i need that rocking chair to be big enough for two so that sanji can curl into his side and thumb through yet another of his novels. i need zoro braiding his hair and falling asleep halfway. i need sanji pulling his glasses off when they slip down his nose and dragging his husband to bed so that he doesn’t bitch about his back hurting the next day. i need them at sanji’s restaurant, teaching the kids about food and liquor pairings— they’re a little terrified of zoro until he squints and pulls his specs out to read the labels, after which they’re running around calling him old man and grandpa roronoa. zoro fumes because for fuck’s sake, he’s forty, not ninety. he’s not old. he brings a bottle of wine three inches away from his face and sanji does nothing to stop the kids at all.

just— zoro with reading glasses. sanji with long hair. doing mundane, boring things that make them happy because they never expected to live this long anyway. zoro’s down to two earrings and sanji has one. their rings are woven straw pulled from luffy’s hat. they have a little motored dinghy out back that franky made for the times they need to go haul their captain’s ass out of trouble (as usual), but none of the crew are ever very far from each other. they stay at sanji’s restaurant in the all blue and occasionally fend off people from their past looking for revenge. or money. or to eat them out of the house and home, in luffy’s case, which then leads to zoro den den-ing the rest of the lot and sighing that they might as well come over for a cookout.

they’ve all gotten older; a little banged up and scruffed around the edges, but alive and well. nami’s making bank as a mapmaker who caters to the wealthy/insurance agent/financial advisor— zoro scoffs and calls her a swindling witch, to which she smiles at him all sweet before stomping solidly on his foot with her red-bottom heel. out of their conjoining workshops, franky and usopp have started a wildly successful demo-smithing company that specialises in custom explosives and bespoke carpentry. robin owns and maintains the most extensive archive of books any of them have ever heard of, and it’s pretty much lauded as one of the greatest libraries of all time; brook does gigs in jazz lounges and bistro bars, jinbei’s a diplomat who’s well-respected for campaigning for equal rights, and chopper runs his own medical practice. luffy, as usual, is doing whatever he wants, which is a little bit of everything. y’know, taking down corrupt governments and all that.

sanji feeds them like he’s always done and zoro brings out the good alcohol to pass around.

life’s good.

[sh4nksslvt]

Hola, yo... Por favor, róbame el corazón. Por favor, escribe una historia sobre Ace y su hermana. La hermana de Ace perdió a toda su tripulación. Murieron frente a ella intentando protegerla. Akainu los mató a todos e hizo que la chica perdiera las ganas de seguir adelante. Regresó a su isla natal. Dadan la cuidó. Pero el trauma que Akainu le causó fue severo. Cuando Garp la visitó, ni siquiera le dirigió la palabra. Apenas comió o durmió. Mucho menos intentó interactuar con los ladrones de la montaña o con la gente del pueblo. Ella estaba allí donde jugaba con sus hermanos de niña. Ese fuerte era su lugar seguro. Sabo, Luffy. Oh, Ace. Se reirían de ella. Pero las crueles palabras de Akainu resonaron en su mente y confundieron su corazón. Entonces, viendo el horizonte, estaba a un paso de caer del acantilado al mar. Dadan se dirigió hacia ella. Pero Ace tomó la mano de Dadan. Cuando la vio, la mujer retrocedió, dejándolos atrás y regresando a casa.

i had to google translate this one>< idk if its accurate but here ya go, tis not much but i hope u like it

Where the Horizon Breaks

After losing her entire crew to Akainu, Ace’s sister returns to Windmill Village, haunted by grief—until a familiar hand reaches out to pull her back from the edge.

tags: angst, sfw, near-death experience, hurt/comfort, trauma,

a/n: this js me trying to write ffs, this is experimental and for fun only, so expect this ffs a bit cringe

word count: 1k

masterlist | ko-fi

: 𓏲🐋 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔ 🌊

The sky over Windmill Village was painted in gentle pastels, streaked with lazy clouds and tinged with orange from the sinking sun. Children’s laughter carried faintly from the shore. But up in the wilds of Mt. Colubo, there was no laughter. No warmth. Only silence.

You sat atop the cliff, where the wind howled against your ears and tossed your hair about like sea foam. Below, the ocean shimmered, the light catching on its restless surface like diamonds. It should’ve been beautiful.

It wasn’t.

It was a tomb.

You’d watched your crew die.

And you had lived.

"Captain! Go! We’ll hold him off!"

Blood. Screams. Heat. Smoke.

Your first mate was the first to fall, charred to ash in a burst of magma. The others followed in a chain of horror, each one yelling for you to run.

You hadn’t moved. Not until he turned his molten eyes on you.

Akainu.

His words had sunk deeper than his fists.

"You stand there, protected by those fools. Weak. Useless. You let them die for you. What kind of pirate captain are you?"

Then darkness.

You didn’t remember how you escaped. You only remembered waking up on a stolen dinghy, drifting through the Grand Line, your hands shaking and covered in blood that wasn’t yours.

Returning to Windmill Village felt like defeat.

Your legs barely carried you off the boat and onto the sand. The townspeople whispered, wide-eyed and pitying. But no one stopped you. No one asked anything.

They didn’t have to.

You made the climb to Mt. Colubo in silence, past the trees that once echoed with your childhood laughter. You staggered through the path that you, Ace, and Luffy once carved with sticks and reckless feet. The old fort—the wooden hideout you all built together—was still there. Weathered. Cracked. But standing.

You collapsed there, at its base, and didn’t get up for a long time.

Dadan found you hours later.

"What the hell... kid?" she breathed, squatting beside your body. You didn’t respond. Just stared ahead, into the distance.

You hadn’t spoken in days. And you wouldn’t for many more.

The days blurred.

Dadan brought food. You didn’t eat it.

The bandits tried to joke with you. You didn’t react.

You barely moved. You slept maybe an hour at a time, if that. Mostly, you just sat, curled on the wooden floor of the fort or leaning against the old beams, listening to the voices of the dead in your dreams.

The wind always seemed to carry their final screams.

Weeks later when Garp arrived, the whole house shifted. His heavy footsteps shook the stairs. The bandits scattered like mice.

He walked into the room where you sat on the floor, staring at nothing.

He stopped a few paces away. You felt his eyes on you.

You didn’t look up.

After a long pause, he made a sound—a grunt of disappointment? Disgust? Pity? You couldn’t tell.

Then he turned and left without a word.

That broke something.

The great Marine hero. The man who once laughed with you, tossed you in the air, called you strong.

He couldn’t even look at you now.

The cliff became your haven.

You visited it every day, sitting at the edge where the fort overlooked the sea. You’d spent hours here as a child. It had been your secret place, your throne. The place where you, Ace, Sabo, and Luffy planned pirate adventures with wild grins and makeshift swords.

Now it was the only place quiet enough to hear yourself think.

And every day, the sea looked a little more inviting.

A little less frightening.

A little more final.

You didn’t plan it, not exactly. But one day, your bare feet edged closer. The wind caught your coat and flared it behind you like a flag of surrender.

You looked out across the horizon, where the sun touched the sea.

Would it hurt?

Would it feel like peace?

You didn’t hear the footsteps behind you.

But you felt the shift in the air.

Someone was coming.

Dadan moved toward you, slow, her breathing uneven.

"Kid," she called, voice trembling. "Come back from there."

Your fingers twitched. You didn’t look.

She took a step closer.

But then a hand grabbed her wrist.

Ace.

He appeared from the trees like a flame in the dusk, alive and breathless, eyes wide and wet with emotion.

Dadan looked at him. He nodded once.

Wordlessly, she let go. Stepped back.

And left.

Ace approached slowly, like you were a frightened animal.

"I heard," he said. His voice cracked. "I heard what happened. I came as fast as I could."

You said nothing.

He came beside you, crouched low, not touching you yet.

"Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you send a message?"

Still, silence.

"They meant the world to you, didn’t they? Your crew. I remember the way you used to talk about them. You smiled so much it was annoying."

You winced.

He saw.

"I know what he said to you. Akainu. He said something to me, too, back then. Before everything went to hell."

You blinked.

"He called me a failure. Said Whitebeard died because of me. That I dragged Luffy into the war. That I led my crew into hell."

He looked down at his hands.

"I carried that for years. And I still do sometimes. But someone helped me realize something. Guilt isn’t the same as truth."

He looked at you.

"You think your crew died for nothing. But they didn’t. They died for you. Because they believed in you. That’s not weakness. That’s love. And love doesn’t make us less—it makes us more."

He reached out slowly and held your hand.

"Don’t let his words be the last ones that echo in your head. Let theirs be. The ones who stood with you till the end. The ones who gave everything so you could keep going."

You turned back to the sea.

It didn’t look as inviting anymore.

You stepped back.

And fell into Ace’s arms.

He held you tightly as you finally sobbed.

You didn’t heal overnight.

Some days were unbearable. Others, almost okay.

But you spoke again.

You ate.

You helped Dadan wash dishes.

And one morning, as the sun rose over Mt. Colubo, you found yourself back at the fort, tracing your fingers over the carved initials on the old beam—yours, Ace’s, Sabo’s, and Luffy’s.

You smiled.

Small.

But real.

And far out on the sea, you swore you could hear the voices of your crew—not in pain this time, but laughing.

Free.

[girlactionfigure]

Today makes 50 years since Yasser Arafat’s Fatah terrorists attacked the Savoy Hotel in Tel Aviv to try to disrupt Israeli peace talks with Egypt. They shot a bride on her wedding day & murdered her new husband, along with 7 hotel guests including men, women & a child.

Just before midnight on this day (March 6) in 1975, 8 massacre-seeking terrorists from Yasser Arafat’s Fatah ended their deranged #Mediterranean “#cruise” to Tel Aviv from #Lebanon by hopping into two rubber dinghies loaded with bombs & automatic weapons.

It was less than 18 months since Egypt & #Syria launched a surprise attack on Israel on Yom Kippur - the holiest day of the #Jewish year.

Whispers of a potential #peace deal between Israel & #Egypt were in the air, & Arafat sought to disrupt any #Arab leaders’ notion that peace with Israel might be acceptable (note the similarities in #Hamas’ barbaric #October7massacre, which was meant to disrupt an emerging normalization deal between Israel & #Saudi #Arabia).

From the #beach, the Fatah terrorists crossed the sand to Allenby Street & eventually reached Guela Street where they started spraying passers-by with automatic gunfire & multiple grenades.

As the terrorists approached an area filled with hotels & foreign embassies, one of those bullets struck 21-year-old bride, Sara Najaj, on her wedding day.

Thankfully, she survived.

Her husband of only a few hours, however - Moshe Deutschmann - was tragically shot & killed.

The terrorists continued their murder & mayhem spree & entered the closest hotel: the three-story Savoy.

Barging through the front doors, the terrorists immediately murdered a woman working the hotel’s front desk.

As chaos ensued, the terrorists also killed 2 unarmed hotel guests before forcibly taking 10 guests & staff hostage at the butt of their #Soviet AK-47s.

The terrorists then barricaded themselves on the top floor & surrounded themselves with the hostages.

Soon, the hotel was a war zone - local #police, border police, & IDF troops encircled the building & a standoff ensued.

Meanwhile, it already appeared to be the site of a mass casualty event with a string of seemingly endless flashing red lights.

Ambulances arrived one-by-one & paramedics rushed to treat wounded civilians like the #bride & sudden #widow, Sara Najaj, who lay bleeding on the sidewalk.

Nearly five hours of negotiations with the terrorists went nowhere; & at 5 a.m., the elite Sayeret Matkal unit of the #IDF stormed the Savoy.

What they didn’t know, however, was that the terrorists had planted several bombs on the hotel’s top floor.

A 5 minute & 16 second-long gunfight ensued, during which 7 of the 8 #terrorists were killed. Two soldiers, Colonel Uzi Yairi & Sergeant Itamar Ben-David, were also killed.

The eighth #terrorist was captured alive, but not before he could detonate the planted explosives (see photo of the destroyed Savoy Hotel).

In the end, five of the #hostages (including one child) were killed, & the other five were freed by the #soldiers.

The murdered child’s father was critically wounded, but he survived.

Decades later, a #WikiLeaks cable from the U.S. Embassy in Israel confirmed Arafat’s direct involvement in & responsibility for the attack.

Specifically, the U.S. Embassy’s communique stated:

“The criminal action of Fatah members in Tel Aviv again testifies to the murderous aims & methods of the terrorist organizations … Any claim to relative moderation which might have been attributed to Arafat has been negated.”

Sadly, but tellingly, the 8 terrorists are still well-known & remembered today as “#martyrs” & “#heroes” in Palestinian society.

Years after Arafat died, Mahmoud Abbas’ Palestinian Authority built these 8 terrorists a grand mausoleum in 2012 to once again drive home the perverse message that there is no greater act for a #Palestinian than to die while murdering #Jews.

[heartz-for-de]

Kirishima x Antihero!reader? 😏

If you don’t necessarily know what an antihero means in this case, it’s basically a person who chooses who they want to side with at random times. Sometimes they’ll help the hero’s, sometimes they’ll help the villains. It’s based off of their opinion on the current situation and problem between the two sides.

.’You knew’.

Summary- Kirishima knew, always had, that there was no changing your mind.

Warnings- MENTION OF PARENTAL DEATH! ANGST NO COMFORT!!! OOC KIRI(super sad Kiri) sad themes and such.

Authors note- ik you probably didn’t want angst but i was in a sour mood sorry lololol. Kind of proud of this so I hope you like it! This is my first angst :p

WC- 2k.

——

Kirishima knew it was wrong. he knew he shouldn’t be asking someone like you for help, but he didn’t know what else to do.

You were bad news, always have been, even in middle school. And yet even as you were so dangerous, Kirishima couldn’t stay away from you.

Local villain attacks had been getting worse, the crime rate spiking up rapidly just because of a villain duo that was relentless.

The heroes had tried everything to catch them, but there was no relief to their problems.

You were his last resort.

You’d known eachother since middle school, the two of you stuck to each others hips since the first day. He tried so hard to get you to attend UA, but he couldn’t shake your hatred for heros. He respected your decision only if you promised to stay in contact with him, which youd kept, until one fateful day in your last year of highschool.

He’d lost all contact. Scared and confused he’d went to your friends asking about you, only for them to be just as in the dark as him.

All of that led to here. He knew where you were now, and what you did. And yet even with that knowledge, it wasn’t enough to force him away from you.

His steps were heavy and lulled, the guilt of being in the dark building weighed him down.

He was a pro hero, top of the ranks. Him being there could tear down everything the worked for. But yet he pressed forward.

There you were, sitting on a chair with your legs hiked up on one side. You used to sit the same way on the couch in his living room. Funny how even as people grow, old habits die hard.

The second he’d seen you all thoughts of the villain duo was gone. He’d had so many questions he’d wanted to ask over the years. And now here you were, right in front of him.

You looked up, knowing before he even walked in who it was. The building was old and abandoned, but he’d heard from around that that’s where you held your business. If you could even call it that.

“Kirishima. Or should I say… red riot..” You spoke first. You knew he wouldn’t be able to do it himself so you had to start something.

“Don’t call me kirishima like you haven’t known me your whole life.” He spoke with a more mature voice than you remembered. It had been years, but the amount of growth he’d gained was nearly unhuman.

“Right, sorry. You shouldn’t be here, but you already knew that.” You stared him down.

“Yeah, I did know that. “ his eyes met yours, his red eyes reflecting the dinghy light that hung above the two of you.

There was a slight pause, the air thickening slightly.

“What could possible force a hero like you to visit such a dangerous individual as myself.” You straightened yourself up in your chair.

“You aren’t dangerous, never were.” His words were firm, unlike the boy you’d known in highschool. “You could’ve been in the same position as me Yknow.” His words caused you to flinch

“Don’t start that bullshit, eijirou.” You sighed. The moment you realized he was coming you knew what that entailed.

“It ain’t bullshit, you could’ve been a damn good hero, y/n. You could’ve been one of the best.” His voice was becoming emote eager by the second.

You let out another harsh breath. You felt your chest tighten slightly, but you would never allow yourself to get emotional in a moment like this. “Could’ve. But I’m not, and you can’t go back and change the past so what’s the point of dwelling on it.”

“I’m not dwelling, just trying to understand you.” His voice had gotten quiet again, the expression on his face was unreadable.

“Well I hope you didn’t come all this way to try and convert me.” You lightly laughed, trying to humor the dull and sad tone in the air. You knew there was no easy way out of this situation, only hurt.

“No, I…I needed to know you were doing okay.” His voice cracked slightly

“I’m doing fine, you already knew that. Don’t lie to me.” There was more to what he was telling you. You had gotten pretty good at figuring shit like that out, so might as well use your skill to your advantage. After all the boy in front of you was still a hero at the end of the day, no matter how much you cared for him deep down.

“Not a lie, y/n. Jesus Christ, would it hurt you to trust a single damn word I said?” You felt the anger in his voice. You felt the betrayal, and the feeling alone almost broke you.

“I stopped trusting you the day you applied to UA.” You reacted harshly to emotions like the ones now, causing you to speak without thinking.

There was another pause. This time his eyebrows furrowed, his frown deepening before he dropped all emotion from his face.

“You don’t mean that.” He let out with a sigh.

“You’re right, I don’t. I wish I did though. I couldn’t hate you even if I tried.” You spoke the truth, you’d always loved Kirishima. Since you’d first met him, but love wasn’t something you let yourself have. Especially not after it had been ripped away from you so many times before.

Another pause.

“Where did you go?” He asked, his eyes squinted.

“Away. As far as I could.” You didn’t want to lie to him, hated it actually. But you couldn’t be completely honest, so you decided that being vague was the best option.

“Why? Why all of the sudden?” Kirishima felt his throat begin to burn.

“I’m not much different than you. I want to help people, I want things to be…right.” You thought for a moment, only wanting to give him half truths.

“Answer my question.” He demanded.

“I did. I did it because I knew what I believed, and I knew the steps I had to take to get there. To get here.” You snapped back at him.

“So you had to abandon everyone—everything?” There it was. The tears. The emotion. Exactly what you had been avoiding all there years.

“It would’ve slowed me down. I had a goal.” You had to shut it down as quickly as you could, before the whirlpool that was emotions dragged you into it aswell.

“We have the same goal.” He retorted.

“Yet your ways of reaching it are corrupted.” You quipped back almost as quick as he’d done.

“So are the villains.” It was a back and forth, the two of you trying to force the other to see their point of view. It was pointless.

“Didn’t say they weren’t. Both sides are. Both are power hungry.” You explained.

Kirishima stopped the argument first. He knew better than to argue with someone as stubborn as yourself, learned that years ago.

“I missed you so much in highschool, when you first left.” He spoke softly, his head now pointed towards the ground.

“I missed you too.” You had a moment of weakness as you let yourself break a tad.

“Then why did you never contact me?” His voice cracked again.

“You were becoming what I hated most, and I was angry.” The words broke you to say, but you couldn’t think of any other way to force him to leave.

“At what? Me?” He asked frantically, the same way he would’ve in high school.

“The world.” The answer was dull, the kind of shit a heartbroken middle schooler would say. But deep down That’s all you really were. Someone who was hurt by society at a young age and had no way to cope with it.

“I could’ve helped you.” He commented.

“Helped me? To what, become a hero like you. Your idea of help is twisted.” Now you felt angry, he had no right to ‘help’ you even if you’d wanted him to.

“No—I could’ve helped you. That first year we met, whenever your parents had just died. Why didn’t you ask for help?”

You felt your heart twist, you had never told Kirishima about your parents. It was something you ignored, like it never even happened. It was a long time ago now, but even then you could remember the feeling in your chest as you got a call from the hospital saying both of them were gone.

And to think they died at the very hands of someone who promised to protect them. What a cruel world you lived in.

“Because I don’t owe you that. I didn’t owe anyone anything. I had myself and at the time That was all I wanted.” You spat out, your blood really boiling now.

“Y/n, I loved you—no I love you. There’s so much I’ve wanted to say to you all these years since you’ve been gone, and that was one. I couldn’t live with myself knowing that you were gone and I never got to tell you.”

You were frozen, shocked. Unable to move even in the slightest.

“I love you too.” You answered before you even registered what you were saying.

He sucked in harsh air, you were making everything so difficult for him, even as he knew what the outcome would always be.

“Then why won’t you listen to me? Why won’t you come with me?”

“You know I can’t.” Was all you’d answered.

“You can, you’re choosing not to.” His voice now held distain as he scoffed.

“I’m not choosing any of this, this is a result of what hero’s have created. I’m a living reminder of everything terrible they’ve done.” You barked, you would never forgive him for the path he chose and you knew deep down he felt the same way about you.

He looked at you. The same way he did in middle school when you told him you’d never go to UA. The same way he did in highschool when the two of you argued when he’d told you his dreams of being a pro hero. He’d always been so confused, but now in this moment, he understood everything.

“You can’t spend the rest of your life in vengeance.” His words were still harsh, the ends of his sentences dripping with resentment.

“Not vengeance, but I’ll live my life however I want.” You responded with the same nonchalant tone you always carried

“I wanted a life with you.” His voice broke, there was no restraint anymore. He was a mess, and you were unmoved. And that alone killed him.

“You wanted unreasonable things. I was never gonna be that girl, you knew that.” He did, he truly did. But deep down he hoped for something more. For something to change and for everything to be okay.

“I did, but doesn’t mean it hurts any less.” He sobbed out. Once that sob broke through you felt tears welling in your eyes. And for the first time since your parents died, you cried. You and eijirou cried, the tow of you nearly feet apart but not daring to take even a step in the others direction. There was a wall there now. There would be forever.

“I’m sorry, eijirou. I’m sorry it had to end up this way.” You whispered. You loved him, and he knew that. But he deserved much better than you were ever capable of giving him.

He turned around, you knew he was debating leaving or not. And you begged silently that he would choose to leave, for his own sake. He slightly turned his head, the tears streaks visible in the yellowish light.

“Me too.”

——

[ladytie]

more of my nat & peter in gotham brainrot bc i can not elp it:

it took natasha romanoff three days to find suitable housing conditions for herself and boy spider. it took three hours for red hood to take note of the newest occupants of crime alley. and yes, while natasha would have preferred an area with less issues going on, it was cheap and no one asked questions. and well she alone can take care of herself and the kid, not to mention the kids own prowess.

she was walking down the street, a baseball hat covering her auburn hair and her hands in her trench coats pockets when she heard grunts and pleads. she wasn’t supposed to be doing the whole hero thing here, not yet at least. not until she had more information on where here was. but of course the kid had other plans, his sense pointing him in the direction of the obvious punching noises.

“pete!” she called after him, taking a slight jog before sprinting when she realized he wasn’t going to stop nor slow down.

when she rounded the corner she saw a man in what seemed to be a bat costume flung into a wall, and peter, the sweetheart he is, helping up a young woman dressed as a cat(?). she had heard of this bat from a few neighbors. he was some crime lord or something around town, because whenever someone had a bruised something they’d always end up cursing the bat for it. before she could go towards peter to help, a young thing, perhaps eleven years old ran to peter. clearly prepared for a fight?

“woah there!” peter said, easily evading the attacks with a sword. peter caught nat’s eyes and she could tell they were thinking the same thing. he must be a child soldier for this bat-thing. her head snapped to the man, she pulled her hat a little lower, trying to conceal some type of anonymity.

“robin,” the man’s voice was far too gruff and gargled to be real. it sounded like he was calling the young child off, but the feral thing wouldn’t or couldn’t stop. she remembers being in the red room, when they’d tell her to stop as a test. when she did, she’d be punished for showing mercy. and when she didn’t, she’d be punished for not obeying her betters.

something inside her burned.

she headed towards the man, there quicker than he had anticipated. clearly the man was trained, and clearly he hadn’t expected her to be. it took her thirteen seconds to learn his fighting style. to use it against him. and it seemed to have taken him fifteen to get used to hers.

one minute she was twirling around him, producing punches with quickness rather than strength, trying to tire him out. and then, she’d be planting her feet firmly on the ground, forcing him to use his strength to try to move her. when he finally landed a blow, a solid right hook to her left cheek she laughed. this was the most fun she had since coming to Gotham.

“misses widow!” she snapped her head to see the young boy had peter cornered, along with another girl dressed in spandex. she blinked a few times before sighing. peter would not hurt the clearly young children, not even if one was around his own age. not even to save his life. maybe hers, but he knew she had herself handled.

playtime was over.

a quick maneuver, one bucky had taught her, using the own man’s weight and weapons against him had him pinned to the wall of the dinghy alley way. “call your child soldiers off” she growled, threatening to break his arm.

“you. first.” he said back, his arm being twisted further and further and yet he made no sound of discomfort. “i don’t think you’re in the position to make demands,” she whispered near his ear, her breath hot against it.

then she heard the specific sound of a gun clicking to the back of her head.

“you sure about that, doll?”

[brabblesban]

𝕽𝖊𝖒𝖊𝖒𝖇𝖊𝖗 𝖞𝖊 𝖓𝖔𝖙 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖋𝖔𝖗𝖒𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘.

Ch 8: A ship does not sail with yesterday's wind

A sequel to Whither is thy beloved gone? (AO3)

After the events of ‘Whither is thy beloved gone?’ Lord Astarion Ancuńin and his consort wife navigate their relationship anew. The ghosts of the past - his, hers, and theirs - threaten to unravel everything they’ve worked for.

A boat ride in an old camp brings back memories and reignites new flames.

Professionally edited and collaborated on by my dearest friend <3 @editing-by-night

Read on AO3.

Masterlist

Art by @dafna-winchester <3

The dinghy looked a tad unsafe, Ban thought, casting a sideways glance at her husband as he hopped into it; he stood there for a moment as it wobbled, then steadied. Grinning, he offered her a hand.

She frowned, taking the proffered hand, stepping into the boat. It swayed under their combined weight and she felt herself shifting off-balance; before anything could go wrong his arms wrapped around her, steadying her.

“Thanks.” She sat, adjusting her skirt, regretting choosing this dress. Astarion had said it would be a nice, wonderful evening, and to wear her best, because he wanted to go somewhere special.

It was special, she conceded, but he should have told her just how inconvenient her chosen outfit would be. His too, for that matter - he was in a crisp white ensemble, which had led her to believe they would be going somewhere… well. Not here.

“So,” she looked around, “special means a boat in the middle of nowhere, hm?”

In the tiny docks of the ruins they’d camped at in Rivington, more than a year ago, now.

The moon had always been beautiful here, she remembered, watching it bathe the landscape in its silvery glow. In front of her, Astarion tilted his head, his smile still in place. He untied the boat, but didn’t bother rowing out, allowing the current to take them away from shore. Ban supposed he was expecting they’d either mist form home or turn into bats if the current took them too far. Probably even if it didn’t; he’d been all too keen to provide opportunities for her to practice, much to her annoyance. Not that she hadn’t gotten better - flying around as a bat was much easier and more consistent, though mist form still eluded her, somehow - but she still found it tiresome.

“Well I daresay it is, wouldn’t you agree? The last place we had nothing but fond memories,” he said, the lightness in his voice sounding a tad forced. “I remember pitching our tent in that corner by Gale’s, and-”

“And yes,” she laughed, “he hated hearing us every damn night.”

And oh, how Astarion had loved it. Those last days before they’d moved into the Elfsong were special indeed; the tension around facing Cazador and the Netherbrain had yet to come to a head. Those final nights, when Astarion had finally been ready to let her touch him, give him pleasure and love him - they were glorious.

She watched him as he chuckled at her words, then took her hand in both of his. “I recall vividly,” he said, thumbs kneading her knuckles, massaging gently.

“You could have at least told me to dress down, however,” she grumbled.

He shook his head. “No. This is special, and our attire matches the occasion.”

Occasion? She quirked an eyebrow at him, and he shrugged. “Not an occasion occasion, mind. I thought we should revisit this place; you’ve been rather… bothered… by the prospect of your family visiting on the morrow, and this was a small distraction that was easy to do. There is also the matter of your continued lessons, of course,” and he smirked when she scowled. “You do need practice, darling; a fair amount of it, if I am to be completely honest.”

Ban rolled her eyes. “Yes, well. It takes time, just like you did when you first ascended.” But she was all too aware that it’d been a year and that her lack of interest in the matter is no longer excusable by their fraught relationship and her complicated feelings about her true nature.

Astarion seemed to humor her, eyes crinkling at her response. He pressed a quick, soft kiss on the back of her hand. “I would have endless ways to refute that should I choose to, but I won’t for your sake.” Instead he looked past her to the inky darkness of the water below, to the other boats further down the river, and finally turned to look at the moon.

“I know you find it… challenging, to think about Roderich and your family,” he began, keeping his eyes skyward. “I merely hoped being here would help somewhat in easing your concerns and bring you some measure of comfort. The palace is our home, but I am aware it may not have as many fond memories as this place does.”

She considered this for a moment. “You’re not wrong,” she conceded, “however, this place also reminds me that this was the last time we were ever truly alright.”

The hands massaging hers tightened for a moment, the motion stilling abruptly. He turned to face her, expression carefully schooled into neutrality. “Even now, love? Even after all the work I.. we’ve done?”

“I mean - Astarion,” she said quickly, realizing her mistake. “We are alright now, yes. I suppose what I mean is that was the last time things were… simpler.”

“For you, perhaps,” he replied, a note of anger creeping into his tone; the rest of his words spilled out in a rush. “I, on the other hand, had everything to worry about, in case you’ve forgotten. Tell me - is the choice of opening up so easy for you, so effortless, that you’ve been remiss in remembering just how difficult it has always been for me to do so - not only the first time, but every single time, especially after you left me?”

She gasped quietly, horror blooming in her chest, realizing that this was probably what all those small moments of resentment had been about.

“Ban…” Astarion gritted out before she could say anything. He took a steadying breath, obviously trying not to let the situation escalate. “Don’t.” His eyes bore into her; there’s a hint of anger there but it’s overshadowed by desperation, a plea for her to not do what she always does when cornered.

The hand holding hers didn’t tighten further - instead it unfurled. He swallowed, shoulders stiffening and expression hardening.

“I wasn’t going to close off.” She kept her hand in his, adding the other to clasp both of his in her own. “I know…” she finally murmured. “It’s not fair, is it? That you had to give me everything, all of your past, all of yourself, so early on, just so I’d bring you into the group, protect you on the road, feed you, help you with Cazador… and then I never did the same. I still haven’t.”

“Well,” Astarion said bitterly, “there was little reason for you to do so. You could have kept your past to yourself for the rest of eternity, and there would have been no consequences. In fact,” he took a sharp, pained breath, “you can continue keeping parts of yourself hidden away from me - can continue punishing me forever. There will be no consequences for that, either.”

“Except your displeasure, your unhappiness,” Ban corrected.

“I’m not-”

“And your pain,” Ban interjected before he could continue. “That’s the more important part. The worst part.”

Silence from her husband; he fixed her with an unreadable expression, shoulders still held in that hard, regal pose. Unsure, her mind offered, of what you’re trying to do here, and shielding himself from the blow, a blow so expected as to be considered inevitable.

A soft sigh escaped her and she squeezed his hands, pressing them together. “I’m sorry. That it took this long, that I never offered to… to give as I took, to make it a more equal exchange. Not just in regards to my past, but… also in our relationship.” He’d always been on the back foot, she realized. First seeking her protection, then her help in freeing himself, and then in winning her back, in keeping her happy, hiding his own fear and resentment, all so she wouldn’t leave again. The thought caused a crushing wave of guilt.

“Equal exchange,” he laughed out. “It’s never been that, darling, and I don’t delude myself into thinking it will ever be.” The crimson of his eyes stood out in the moonlight as he stared at her, defensive and resigned. “I don’t hold you responsible; circumstances dictated that I share my predicament with you and with everyone we traveled with, were I to receive any aid. After that, well,” he shifted, the first break in his nonchalant charade, “I suppose I hid myself so deeply that the only recompense for everything I did was to offer all of my heart to you, without holding back.”

“And you didn’t mind if I said or did anything hurtful, regardless of your feelings? Your needs?”

“No,” he hissed. “I so wish you’d give as much in return, naturally. I would die to have all of you, with nothing held back. To see, to know, to love the entirety of you. I have longed for that every moment since the rite. There was and is, however, little reason for you to do so, and I don’t begrudge you that.” Astarion looked away. “I can’t ever begrudge you anything, Ban, as much as I want to; not for very long, anyways - you know all too well why.”

His eyes moved back to hers, although he looked lost, as if living in memories. “I love you.”

Astarion glanced toward the ruins in the distance and thought there was where he should have said those words first; when he’d finally wrested his mind and body out of the clutches of his past and been able to let her touch him, when he’d been able to lose himself in her touch and her love without any expectation of anything in return other than what he wanted to give. When every night in their tent was filled with nothing but happiness.

The first time he’d actually said it had been in their quiet, private suite in the Elfsong, when he’d offered her eternal life by his side. The words had rolled off his tongue effortlessly. It hadn’t been a lie, not really - but it also hadn’t quite been the truth, either. He’d weaved his fanciful words around her, voice lowering in pitch, the seduction and feigned earnestness flowing from him easily. Spinning the web to ensure her assent, he’d told himself.

I’d never want to control you. I love you.

The next sentence, however, had slipped out unbidden. The moment it was out he’d known he’d fucked up. He had known she’d read between those incredibly thin lines, would see that he wasn’t truly sincere, that it was mainly a calculated move to keep her there with him forever and ever until the sun burns out and maybe even longer than that.

That’s what you’ve been waiting to hear, isn’t it? That’s what you want?

He hadn’t seemed to be able to go without saying it, without hinting that love wasn’t all it was. Some small part of him had wanted her to know and to run, to leave him, to not debase herself, bring herself down to his level. He’d seen, mere hours ago, what she thought of him. A monster, to have condemned so many souls to the fires of damnation - wretched, heartless, without a care in the world other than for power.

Power. Of course he’d craved it - what else was there? What else, after the ritual, after that look on her face, on all their faces? Had he not deserved to carve into Cazador’s flesh, repayment for two centuries of pain? Had he not at least earned the right to relish that moment? Hypocrites. They had all been there, and yet when he’d stepped onto the dais their eyes had refused to meet his, had refused to acknowledge him - except for her.

Hers had judged him.

That’s what you want, isn’t it? To be mine? Forever?

It’d been easier to phrase it that way; that she’d wanted it, not he. Easier to pretend that he’d been manipulating her easily, that she’d bought into every word he’d said. Her brows had furrowed at his words, evidently unconvinced - that too, he’d refused to acknowledge.

Before the rite they had talked about forever. He’d promised to find her a way to join him in immortality, just as she had promised to find a way for him to walk in the sun. They’d had some fanciful ideas; finding another vampire lord to turn her, and then murdering said lord had been one of them. She’d often laughed at that idea, shoved him playfully, but they’d both known there was an underlying seriousness in those conversations. She was human, and he was… well. He would inevitably outlive her.

In the moments after his ascendance, then, it had made sense to want to make her immortal, ensuring they were both spared the agony of being parted by death, whether it be by age or anything they’d face in the coming years. Giving her the words he’d known she’d longed to hear, so that she’d agree to take the gift of immortality… It had been easy to offer, and she had said yes after some convincing; what wasn’t to like?

What wasn’t to like was what you did after, he reminded himself.

Ban smiled at his words, looking down at their hands; his were warm and soft, so unlike her own calloused ones. She lifted one up, placing it on her cheek. “I love you too. Even when things were tainted, I still wanted you. Loved you.”

Astarion nodded. He was aware; recent events had gone a long way in reassuring him of this. All the same, he mused a little on her words, his hand on her face, then did what he used to - a light shove to her cheek, although this time there was no derision in it.

“Even then?” he challenged, as she stared at him in shock. “I used to do that, telling myself you liked it, that you wanted me to shame you, because that was what we did behind closed doors. I thought what is a little more, when you clearly considered yourself so… denigrated by staying with me. I thought that you’d willingly be my spawn and just take it.” He bit his lip. “You saw me as a monster and so I gave you exactly that, out of spite, out of…” he trailed off. Of pain.

He’d known she’d enjoyed the roughness of it all, the interplay of dominance and control, in bed. It had become too easy in the aftermath of the rite to take it further. He’d known she’d resented it; the ever-present look of distance on her face and her emotional absence had said as much. But those little moments of emotion, whether lust or wrath, had been all he’d had left of her. Sure, there’d been moments when she’d been tender, when love would break through, but it had been sparse at best. Those flashes of arousal mixed with anger had been more reliable, more consistent, a sign that she’d still felt something for him; something that he could reasonably expect to elicit by doing certain things, even if that feeling was predominantly resentment.

Thinking back on it, he felt some guilt, but also curiosity. They’d never really discussed this at length, and now that they’d brought this dynamic back into their bedroom, it felt like it was high time they did so. Where he expected to feel anxiety and fear, instead there’s a burgeoning confidence in their bond, a renewal of faith that felt astonishingly peaceful. Like the first droplets of rain after a drought, soaking into the parched landscape; a benediction, promising new life.

She looked down at his words, staring at their joined hands, thoughtful. She gave a comforting squeeze. “I allowed it because I love you. We said forever, so forever it was. It wasn’t always pleasant, wasn’t always wanted, and I didn’t muster the strength to leave until a lot later, but I didn’t expect how… far you would take it at times.” She huffed, a small, dejected noise. “I gave you permission, thought it would help rebuild our trust in some way, that I would reach you again, and… instead the Ascendant ran away with it.”

“I would definitely agree that it went too far,” he affirmed quietly, hands slipping away from hers to hold onto the boat, “even though you expressly allowed it.”

He leaned back, reaching out to her mind. There were no words there, merely the entwining of souls, each assuring the other that this was merely a conversation; nothing bad would come of it.

“Anger and desire were all I could have of you, and my pride allowed me no room to consider any other alternative.” He looked up at the stars; that confession had not been easy. To his surprise he felt the boat shift as Ban moved. There was a gentle push against his legs, he parted them to make room for her to sit between them, her back to him. She set a hand on his thigh, closing her eyes. For a moment they sat in companionable silence, Astarion rubbing circles on the back of her neck.

“You’re going to ruin your clothes that way, love,” he murmured, and she snorted, the silence broken. A second or two passed, and he felt her take a deep breath as she began to speak.

“At times, it did go too far,” she agreed. “It would have been fine had we been in a better state then. Had we actually talked.” He squeezed her shoulder comfortingly.

“You could always have said no; the faintest whisper of ‘Sussur’ would have ended it all,” Astarion remarked. There was also the fact that Ban could have physically stopped him at any time; he wasn’t so delusional as to think her incapable of it. She was the hero of Baldur’s Gate, after all; powerful and strong in her own right.

From the corner of his eye, he could see her move as she shrugged. “Most of the time it was wanted. Most of the time it felt good, other than small moments when it would be overwhelming. Afterward I’d realize it went too far, and I’d tell myself I’d say it the next time it happened, but… For one, you know we barely talked then. And, well.” She cleared her throat awkwardly. He could sense her trepidation and leaned down to place a small kiss on the top of her head.

“You thought bringing it up might be what would finally cause me to compel you.” Not a surprise; he’d guessed it before, when he’d wondered why she’d taken everything without much complaint back then. Oh, there were arguments of course, but she’d usually backed down, despite the looks of absolute rancor in her gaze.

She shrugged again, unwilling to say it, but her mind sent a tendril of assent. Astarion let out a rough exhale. “We both know, Ban; there’s little point in refusing to articulate the truth with words. You offered me your submission in and out of our bed in the hopes of reigniting what we’d had in the days before the rite - your vulnerability in exchange for my heart.”

It had failed, of course. “I gave nothing back, save anger and aggression; the feeling of you pulling away was so painful it served as cause to hide myself even further away. I thought I would spare myself heartache, but it merely caused you to put even more distance between us.” He laughed humorlessly. “Ironic, isn’t it? I’d worsened the very trait I’d wished to banish.”

Small threads of apprehension began to weave through him, despite his earlier confidence. Might he have pushed too far again? His heart began to race in his chest and he frantically searched for something to say - anything, really, just to mitigate any damage because it can’t happen again-

It’s alright. Her presence in his mind, wrapping her thoughts around his; there was nothing there but affection and slight concern, a gentle press of love that urged him to slow down his breathing and his frantic heart.

“Irony or not, it no longer matters. None of it does. We’re here now, and last time… I enjoyed it,” she reassured. “More than you’ll ever know.” Her mind searched for the memories, opening them up like roses in bloom, allowing him to bask in them, in her desire for him, heavy with renewed trust and faith. Love, deep and seemingly infinite, a font without end.

Astarion rubbed her shoulder absently; his heart soaring, recognizing what she was truly offering: not just a thing to explore during sex, but trust. “I suppose you did. In fact, you seemed to rather take a lot of pleasure in being stubborn as well,” he reminded. “Which, if we are to progress further… at your pace, of course,” the hand on her shoulder tightened a fraction as the sheer relief bolsters his confidence, “we’ll have to do something about that, won’t we?”

She smiled at this, head still tilted back. “Sure, we could. We will negotiate and renegotiate as needed. But right now…” and that smile became a grin, “don’t waste the view; kiss me.”

He laughed at that, more relief than anything else, then pulled her close, fingers closing around her exposed throat teasingly. “It would be my pleasure, darling,” he purred, leaning down to do her bidding.

Her lips were cool and soft against his own. The grip on his shoulder however, was strong, fingers digging into his jacket - a good reminder, he thought. She could choose to pull away at any moment; she would be strong enough to wrest away from him. He’d let her go in a fraction of a second if she pulled away, of course, but he hoped she found comfort in her own strength.

But she gave in to him again, giving him her faith and vulnerability and love, and his heart had never felt more full.

The soft heat of his breaths met her cooler ones, a pleasant mix that Astarion moaned into as she put a palm over his cock. He rolled his hips against the touch, and the boat shifted a little in response, eliciting a quiet huff of amusement.

“Going to be a slight challenge,” he breathed, “if you really want to do this in this dinghy.”

Turning between his legs, she faced him with a smirk tugging her lips. “You’ll just have to let me have my way with you, and stay very still.” Her hand tugged his shirt free from his trousers, splaying a hand on his abdomen.

Astarion swallowed. “If you’re doing this as a defense or as a way to divert my attention, Ban, know that you needn’t. I don’t require you to- ahh,” he groaned; the hand on his belly had slipped lower, playfully tracing the outline of his hipbone as it skated downwards.

“Fine,” he hissed, hands flying to his trousers to undo the laces and tug them down; a quick lift of his hips and they’re down around his ankles. “If you- fine; on one condition: you’ll have to take me in your mouth when I come. I won’t have this jacket or this shirt ruined.”

The hand drew ever closer to his cock, its movement painfully slow and teasing.

“Gods. Look - everything is white. We can just have it laundered. Or you could take them off…” She rolled her eyes at him. “But go ahead, give another condition if you really want to pretend you’re still in control of all this.” The smirk on her face merely intensified his want; fingers touched his cockhead and he jerked violently, the boat swaying again.

A smile grew on his face, all teeth and just a little bit mischievous. “Anything? You’ll regret that, you know.”

“I’m eager to prove you wrong.” Ban replied without missing a beat, helping him kick off his shoes and trousers. She positioned herself on the floor, movements slow so as to not jostle the boat, sitting even further between his legs. She quickly removed his jacket and shirt, tossing them onto the pile before wrapping a hand around him, the first strokes gentle and soft. Astarion couldn’t help but watch her hand, fighting the urge to rut.

I’m eager to prove you wrong. How was he supposed to counter that, when she was touching him like that, and oh what in the hells-

He looked down to see her other hand cupping his balls, kneading gently, an intensely wonderful feeling that ended all too soon as her hand moved beyond them. He started to object, before he realized she was moving her hand behind, and a finger touched him there; his heart fluttered deliciously in anticipation.

“Fuck, Ban,” he managed to groan as the pad of her finger gently traced circles around his entrance; he instantly tilted his hips to provide better access. “You utterly depraved minx. I ought to punish you for this.”

“Then do so,” she said, not bothering to look him in the eye or even pause. “Please.”

Scrambling for something, he uttered the first thing that came to mind. “Fine. You can’t touch me for a tenday, since you seem so unable to control yourself.” The moment he said it he cursed himself; that would mean he’d suffer too. “I will touch you as much as I please, but you-” he grinned, “you will not lay so much as a finger on me for the entire time,” he tacked on hurriedly.

Ban stilled then looked at him, thinking. “Did you not want me to?” There was concern in that gaze, and Astarion vehemently shook his head.

“No. No. Just… the first thing that came to mind,” he admitted. “You’ve always seemed to derive such pleasure from touching me, from making me feel-“ a soft moan, as her hands resumed moving, his cock was stroked slightly faster and the finger tested his entrance, “-that.”

“It’s nice, bringing you the pleasure you’ve always deserved,” she replied. “Bringing you bliss that you need not reciprocate. Showing you that you are valued. Loved.” She purred the last word, knowing exactly what it would do to him.

Astarion sighed contentedly, hands settling on the boat, holding on for dear life and rapidly losing the fight to keep still; his hips twitched involuntarily here and there, muscles spasming. “The concern is appreciated, but I do enjoy reciprocating.” She swiped a thumb over his slit, causing him to squirm.

“Let’s make it fair,” Ban suggested. “You can’t touch yourself, either. Nor can you touch me.”

Astarion laughed, haughty and unconcerned. “No, my love. This is a punishment. Your punishment. Fair does not enter into it, nor are you in any position to dictate the terms of this little game. I will not seek my own release, nor will you yours, but I shall touch you whenever I want.” Ban snorted, and he shot her a dark and incredulous look, one that wasn’t very effective considering their current situation.

What she’d just said about showing him he’s loved doesn’t go unnoticed, either: he’d realized what she’d been doing, had suspected it before, and was greatly appreciative. But this was a fun game, and he reasoned one of them would give in well before the tenday is out. Probably himself, he figured.

“We are agreed,” Ban nodded. “You better come hard then, because you won’t be getting anything for a while.”

“Easier than you think,” he rasped; her finger had slowly begun pushing inside him, the all-too-pleasant feeling only adding to the rising pressure in his core. He looked back up at the night sky, reminded of their nights here, in the camp. How she had taken so much joy in finally being allowed to touch him, to learn how his body responded to her, to bring him the pleasure she insisted he so deserved and to show him how much she cared for him.

The knuckles gripping the boat were white, his feet planted firmly to keep himself steady. His hips rolled once, and again the boat bobbed. He exhaled, frustrated. He had to stay still even as her hand stroked his cock, from base to hot, swollen tip, fingers dragging deliciously and squeezing at the head, gods he wasn’t going to last between this and her finger.

“Tell me what you’ll do after the tenday has passed,” Ban urged.

A low groan, and he opened his mouth, babbling. “I’ll pin you against the wall, spread your legs, shove myself in you, deep inside you - carry you to bed, fold you in fucking half, Ban, bury myself to the hilt in you again and again, just the way you like it. I’ll make you feel so good you’ll cry, you’ll beg, you’ll pray, but there will be no gods, there will be only me, only us, and I’ll show you just how much I’ll have missed your- ngh.”

The hand on his cock had sped up; Astarion gave up, his hips now undulated in time with Ban’s hand, the boat swaying merrily in the still water. His ass lifted off the seat with each upward thrust then sank down onto her finger. Close, so very close, the world coalescing into just her finger and the hand squeezing him and touching him where no other ever will, where only love is allowed to tread now-

His cry broke the silence; Astarion looked down in time to see himself come. His seed decorated his stomach and chest as Ban stroked out every drop; a little missed him entirely and landed on the seat. He didn’t even care, riding the feeling, his grip on the boat finally falling slack as he sank down. Ban removed her finger as he did, fondling his balls one last time; she stroked him through the remnants of his release and then let go, returning briefly to clean his skin with a handkerchief.

He tugged her up to him for a rough, quick kiss. He slipped his tongue between her parted lips, exploring and tasting her. She moved to deepen the kiss; he allowed it for a fraction of a second, then pulled away after one last nip on her bottom lip. A tenday, he thought, intending to win this little game of theirs. Ban sighed in contentment and leaned against his chest. “Beautiful view indeed,” she mused.

“Thank you,” she murmured, smiling up at him. “I didn’t expect you to bring me here of all places, but… it is lovely.”

He was surprised and delighted; he gently placed a hand on her side, the fabric of her dress smooth against his palm. The boat had since come to a standstill, barely moving across the surface of the water, still and dark as though made of glass. He peered over and saw his own visage, something he hadn’t been able to do for so long and yet already felt so mundane.

“I didn’t bring us here expecting a conversation about all that; we’ve come here to take your mind off your family, which I am certain we have accomplished with a certain… panache,” he teased; this earned a quick smack to his knee, “and, well. Your mist form does need some practice.”

She let out a small pfft of feigned irritation, but wrapped her arms around him, pressing close and nuzzling against him; the boat shifted yet again at the movement. Astarion held her in turn, resting his head atop hers.

“Mm.” A kiss was placed over his breast, over his heart. She peered up at him, and he found her eyes so wonderfully soft and warm. “Again. Thank you, love. This… this was wonderful. Magical.”

He snorted. “If you want magical, darling, go ask Gale; I’m sure he would be more than happy to accommodate- Ban!” She shoved him and he held her tighter in response, a snicker escaping him.

“I fall, you fall,” he hissed, nipping at her neck, fangs grazing the skin.

“Isn’t it always just so,” Ban remarked, playfully mimicking his cadence, grasping Astarion’s nape, fingers stroking the errant curls on the base of his neck.

He leaned back into her touch, a soft shudder running through him. “I know I just came, but…”

“Not even a full hour and you’re admitting defeat?” Ban teased; her hand deliberately moved to touch the tip of one still-flushed ear.

“Of course not. Merely stating facts. Ah-ah,” he pulled the hand away, “no teasing. We’ll stick to kissing and… well. Cuddles,” he winced internally at the word, “would be acceptable too. At least until we begin the game in earnest.” Astarion tried for haughty but it came out tender; he sighed, frustrated.

“In hindsight, we ought to push it back until after everything’s over,” he suggested, a little cautiously. It wouldn’t do well to have this happening at the same time as Ban’s family’s visit; it was sure to dredge up a lot of unpleasant memories, and he intended to be there for her in every possible way. This would merely be a hindrance.

She was silent for a second, the mirth slipping away at the reminder. Then, she nodded. She offered him a small smile and mouthed Thank you. He returned it with a smile of his own, tender, his heart filled with an intense need to keep her smiling that way, no matter what.

Smitten, he thought to himself. There was no other word for it.

It may not be on the morrow, but he found himself rather excited for when they begin their little game.

It would be a long tenday.

Note: As part of the edits @editing-by-night and I are making on Whither, we have decided to shift into the past tense. Next week's chapter will be in that tense, and we shall be changing the tenses on the other chapters of Remember as well. No other edits will be made to Remember.

Bonus Song Rec for this chapter!

If you would like to see more of these two and their story, consider reading my other entries in the series "If I ascend up into heaven, thou art there: if I make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there."

I am happy to announce that 'Whither is thy beloved gone?' is getting professionally edited as well. I shall keep everyone abreast of when these changes go live. Thank you!

Taglist: @tavamarie @ayselluna @enterthedreams @coltaire @qiific3 @misscrissfemmefatale @vixstarria @eatyourheartoutmylove @linllewellyn @battisonsgf @micropoe10 @thegoodwitchs-blog @akirahime @velcyrptr @i-cant-get-into-my-other-account @babblebrain-blog @asterordinary @last-but-not-the-least @artist4theworld @gracemisconduct @decedentcoffeewizard @rootin-tootin-n-kind @pursuitseternal @youngtacobanana @krispeenuggiez @girlygmer-blog @cheezits4lyfe @vinegarjello @the0ldmann @wisteriaofthegraves @midnight-musings-of-nyx @toni-winchester @icybluepenguin @beepersteeper @hereliesblackdragon @generalstephkenobi

[queenlucythevaliant]

The remnant there who survived the exile is in great trouble and shame. The wall of Jerusalem is broken down.

After the door in the air was shut, King Caspian brought together an assembly of his friends and advisors. There, he called the dwarf Trumpkin to speak concerning what he had seen of Cair Paravel.

“Well,” said Trumpkin, “I can’t say that there was much left of the place when I was there. The walls are in pieces and it’s all overgrown. You’d scarcely know it was ever a castle, if you weren’t expecting to find one.”

“But could it be restored?” asked the king. “In your opinion: as a craftsman and a Narnian?”

Trumpkin seemed to ponder this for a moment, but his answer came readily enough. “We’d have to rebuild it from the foundations. Quarry stone, cut timber, and tear out all the plants that have grown there by the root— and that’s all before we so much as lay the new cornerstone. But if we go about it the right way (I mean, with the good guidance of Aslan and all)—yes, I think we can manage it.”

“But is it the thing that we ought to do first?” asked Doctor Cornelius. “After all, the Telmarine castle stands, and it will serve. There’s much else that needs doing at present.”

“It is a worthy undertaking,” piped Reepicheep, who was now standing atop his seat almost at attention, one small paw on the hilt of his rapier. “One more urgent and noble than any other work before us now. Cair Paravel is the ancient seat of justice in Narnia, and the graves of Old Narnian kings are on its grounds.”

A silence fell, and when it became clear that no one particularly felt like disputing the Mouse’s words, Caspian nodded his head solemnly. “Very well then. We rebuild.”

.

It was a little after noon and the sun was high on the day that Old Narnian exiles first returned to the shores of Cair Paravel. They arrived in row-boats and dinghies and on ferries from the mainland, for no ships had yet been built. Trumpkin and the King were in the lead boat together, and by Trumpkin’s direction the boats made landfall along the stretch of beach that ran alongside the ruins of Cair Paravel. Behind them came a host of Red Dwarves and Black Dwarves with their tools. There were Centuars, led by Glenstorm and his sons, and Beasts of all kinds: Clodsley Shovel and his Moles, the Hardbiters and the Hares, nimble-footed Harts, mighty Bears, Sables, Hedgehogs, Dogs, Horses, and the Mice with Reepicheep their Captain. Then came the fauns, with Mentius and Obentinus. Last of all were the Birds, soaring over the ships and calling to one another in high voices as they went.

When the first boat alighted on the shore, a great cheer went up, starting at the king’s boat and fanning out to all the rest. Caspian stepped onto the soft sand with a crunch and surveyed the place where the ruins of Cair Paravel sat. He could not think of anything suitably momentous to say, so he sank wordlessly to his knees and looked up, giving thanks to Aslan.

That night the whole rebuilding party camped on the beach. The dwarves built bonfires and the fauns played their flutes and there was song and dance. A few of the centuars were old enough to remember living in the lands around the Cair before the Telmarines had driven them off, and those that did wept. A few of the younger creatures wept too, though they could not express why. Yet Dumnus led the singing of loud choruses and some of the others whooped and hollered for joy. The sound of their voices, both the weeping and the singing, mingled together and fled into the night.

The next day, the dryads and naiads of the land around Cair Paravel came down to the beach. The giants, who had come from the mainland on foot, arrived not long after. Their number complete, the Narnians set to work.

.

“One thing we have in our favor,” Doctor Cornelius said, scroll still half open before him. “The historical records on the construction of the castle are exhaustive. There are plans and specifications for every inch of the place.”

Caspian straightened, wincing a little. He’d been helping one of the naiads clean debris from the courtyard well, and his back ached from bending over. “You might try telling that to the black dwarves,” he said. “They still haven’t figured out where to dig.”

Once the dwarves had assessed the ruins of the castle, they used a kind of scrying magic which Caspian did not understand in order to find a quarry of new stone to match the old. The trouble came when the time came for the stones to speak: they would only sing, in voices too deep for words.

“They’re too busy celebrating to tell us where they came from,” said Winnibrik gruffly when Caspian inquired about the progress of the quarry. “And I can’t blame them for that, really. It’s good that there are Narnian feet in this place again.”

Dryads guided parties into the forest to show which trees could be used for timber, and then Horses and centuars dragged the beams back to the Cair. In general, such work would have been beneath them, suitable only for dumb beasts of burden; but they did it without complaint. They knew, as everyone did, that they were in the midst of a great work.

Yet it was the cleaning and removal of debris that occupied most of the workers. Trufflehunter knelt in the dirt, patiently pulling broken bits of twisted metal from the ruin of the small armory. He hummed as he went, something lilting and wordless. A little way behind him, in the courtyard, a group of fauns hoisted a fallen apple tree and carried it away.

.

It was shortly after the foundation had been laid that a band of efreets appeared from the north. They arrived late in the evening while Caspian was dredging one of the cellars and asked to be brought before the king. “If it please you, sire, let us build with you,” said their leader, a broad creature with a toothy smile. “After all, we are Old Narnians too.”

Caspian, who was knee deep in water and soaked to the skin, called for a halt and went to confer with his councilors.

“You ought to have nothing to do with them,” said Trumpkin firmly, “not by my advice.”

“I should think not!” echoed Trufflehunter. “We’ve no need of any congress with creatures of that sort. Cair Paravel must be rebuilt by those who follow Aslan.”

The efreets, however, were less than accepting of this verdict. A few nights later, a Dog reported that he’d smelled men in the woods and a few scouts confirmed that Telmarines were camped a few miles upriver. “It seems that our ghoulish friends are angry with us,” said Caspian, “though I can’t for the life of me imagine what an efreet could have said to make a Telmarine come with him this close to the sea. At any rate, we ought to be alert. Send someone down to the treasure chamber and distribute whatever weapons you can find to anyone who can use them.”

So, as the walls of Cair Paravel rose up, the Narnians carried swords as they worked. At night everyone camped together inside the great footprint of the castle, with guards stationed on the half-built watchtower under the stars.

Reepicheep took more watches than anyone, for he said that he liked to be alone in the stillness of such a sacred place. “We needn’t be afraid,” he told Caspian softly one night. “Cair Paravel is ours, and we are Aslan’s. What can hurt us here?”

.

The Brothers of Shuddering Wood built the entrance to the main foyer, armed with heavy dwarven hammers that seemed to split the air when they fell. The hung the gate one glittering morning when the sun was on the sea. They left it wide open for the rest of the day.

Clodsley Shovel took the Moles to set the king’s garden to rights, and one day the Mice joined them in repairing the Tombs of the Kings. When they were through, they brought trimmings from the garden to decorate the monuments. The Dogs dug holes for posts, and a greenhouse soon followed. Then came the armory, the buttresses, the tower of guard.

“Was all of this really here before?” Caspian asked in astonishment. The water-gate had just been completed and his old tutor was beside him, looking up at the intricate device of bolts and bars that kept it securely lowered.

“Yes, my boy, it was,” said the old man. “It’s all in the books, you see?” Caspian felt a lump build in his throat: something like pride and another something like hope. He tried to swallow around it.

Hogglestock and Trufflehunter split the middle-sized Beasts into pairs for the construction of the broad wall. They told stories as they worked, in loud voices so as to carry down the length of it: stories that usually started with “Remember…” and occasionally, “In the days when Peter reigned at Cair Paravel…”

The great feasting hall came together little by little. The eastern windows were cast by dwarven artisans from enormous panes of glass while Glenstorm and his sons built the dais and drew sketches for the skylight. Wimbleweather carried great stone pillars in his arms and set them down where Ravenscaur instructed from his perch in the rafters. The Oak and the Beech made carvings on the seven heavy doors that led into the hall, and when they were through dwarven smiths fitted them with handles of silver and gold.

They ate in the hall together when it was built, though the walls were still bare and their voices echoed. The Bulgy Bears carried in the first piles of food from the kitchens, which were at last in working order. They heaped it on makeshift tables with little concern for appearance: grilled fish, pheasant, and apples prepared in every imaginable way.

.

When the last stone was laid in the castle, Caspian decreed a day of general celebration. But when he turned the corner down the hallway to the grand staircase, Caspian saw Trumpkin standing at a window looking morose, with tears in his eyes.

“Come now, Trumpkin, what’s the matter?” said Caspian as he came to a stop beside his friend. “Today is a happy day, and there’s no room in it for tears.”

Trumpkin made a sound between a snort and a sigh as he turned to face his king. “Certainly, your majesty. No tears today. But—” he smiled beneath his beard, “—Turnips and thunderbolts, Caspian! If you’d asked me a year ago, I’d have laughed myself silly rather than imagine that any of this was possible.” He swept his hand towards the window and Caspian looked out.

It was a crisp, cloudless morning, the sky bright and clear, and the sounds of singing and of instruments being played filtered all the way up to the tallest tower. Caspian watched the Dogs running to and fro as they prepared for a hunt. Dryads danced in the courtyard and fauns played their flutes. Beyond the wall, a group of dwarves were coming up from the beach, where they’d just arrived with several boats full of gold and jewels from the mainland with which they meant to beautify the castle.

“Why Trumpkin!” laughed the king, “I’m surprised at you. Wasn’t it on your recommendation that all of this was done?”

Trumpkin shook his head ruefully. “My foolish optimism, perhaps. Aslan’s Mane, but times have changed.”

He cleared his throat and nodded towards the beach. “King Edmund said he’d have built a bridge if Cair Paravel had been an island in his day. What say you, King Caspian?”

The castle still needed furnishing, but there were finally tables in the feasting hall and the armory was stocked with swords. Doctor Cornelius was well on his way to reestablishing the library, and soon Cair Paravel would be adorned with the finest dwarven jewels.

“Next year,” Caspian replied. “I’ll put you in charge of its construction.”

Remember me, my God, for good.

[its-a-rat-trap]

BOB GELDOF: OFFICIAL STATEMENT REGARDING CITIZENS OF BOOMTOWN

From The Pen of Bob Geldof:

My Fellow Citizens…

Time moves on alas and Boomtown needs to re-purpose its infrastructural modalities. That’s right Citizens we need to up-scale, downsize and re-position ourselves vertically but on a horizontally focussed axis to be better prepared online-sly speaking for the coming mega-celebratory 50th Boomtown Birthday.

The Citizens of Boomtown site and forum will shortly be seamlessly absorbed into the NEW BOOMTOWN SUPERSITE!! still giving you all the current extraordinary benefits of Citizenship, geeky discursive debating platforms but not really! Wow!!

Basically there’s no point in having two sites in effect doing the same thing so some maddened managerial time and motion efficiency freak begged Pete (blame him) to allow Mayor Jennifer and Techno buff Joke to “rationalise” our online presence, be slightly more professional (who? Us? The Rats? - you’re joking mate) and frankly get it together webbily-speaking. So…

COB is a great album but being released two days before lockdown, like a lot of things and people it got obstructed by Covid 19. So goodbye promotion, tour and what we had hoped would be a different route of approaching the band and music through a site or device where fans would be the same as the band in a shared experience of being Citizens of the “idea” of what Boomtown might be or could be and which, as a result become self-growing, outside of the band where the band and its members became irrelevant to the ongoing life of the site/idea/citizens. But still the background hum that united it all was the music coming out of that towering imaginary Ratopolis.

So feel free to jump in your leaky inflatable rubber dinghy, don your useless safety vest, pay a scumbag Rat-trafficker and migrate the tricky electric tides away from the doomed but forever beautiful city to the fun-lovin’, hip-swingin’, ga-roovey, ca-razey sunny uplands of brand new/old Ratland! That country where even the Rats roam free and zephyr winds carry wafts of gentle heavenly Ratmusik to all the green corners of its lush pastures. Where parliaments of citizens still carry on arcane esoteric deconstructive debates over the “true” meaning of “Do The Rat” and it’s global implications to the coming US elections particularly with regard to the swing states of Pennsylvania and Wisconsin wherever the fuck that is.

So..thank you for all the fun of COB and hello to Ratsite 2. If you think it’s crap you’ll let us know and remember Pete is the one to blame..

Rat On..

BG xxx

[shining-skull]

ADVENTURE REVIEW: SECRET OF THE BLACK CRAG

AUTHOR/PUBLISHER: Chance Dudinack SYSTEM: Old School Essentials LEVEL RANGE: 1-5

THE PITCH

A strange and legendary mountain has emerged from the depths of the sea. Strange fish-people are attacking ships and waylaying travelers. The pirate shanty-town of Port Fortune is where your quest to uncover the secrets of the Black Crag begins.

CONTEXT

I backed this Kickstarter many moons ago when I saw that it was being written by Chance Dudinack. I played and loved his ‘Black Wyrm of Brandonsford” many times and knew that this would be a winner. 

We spent the better part of a year playing this in-person weekly or bi-weekly with one GM and two PCs. Lots of retainers died in the making of this review.

PREP TIME

I read the book one time from front to back over the course of a couple of hours. It’s not that long.

I strongly recommend reading the section at the front of the book about the history and background of the Black Crag: once the party enters that final dungeon it will help the GM a lot to know what the goals of the different factions are. 

Understanding and/or deciding the relationships between Red Rathbone (mayor of Port Fortune), the Sea Hag, the Merfolk, and the Tatunca villagers ahead of time would benefit the GM in the long haul.

Awesomely, the book contains all the content needed to manage ocean travel so it was a great quick reference during play. I still needed the OSE rule book to look up some spells for my players but most of the adventure content is found in the book, including monster & ship stat blocks and magic item effects. 

There are plenty of random tables to roll on if you want to ‘prep as you play’. There are fantastic resources for creating fun and flavorful NPCs on the fly and some very useful pre-made pirate ships & crews that came in super handy. 

NPCs are unique and all have enough ‘personality’ to make them stand out against each other and be easy to roleplay for the GM without having to remember too much. Likewise, the relationships and goals of factions and NPCs are described well and simple enough to run without getting bogged down or needing to cross reference anything.

Take note: some of the labels on the downloadable content don’t match the numbers and letters in the book. This was my one gripe that made things clunky sometimes at the table. Absolutely not a deal-breaker though! Just a smudge on an otherwise fantastic experience.

Overall, this was very easy to run “seat of the pants” and I was super-impressed by the clear layout and ‘just enough’ descriptions. I never planned ahead for a single session and we had a fantastic time.

AT THE TABLE

My party hadn’t played a pirate/nautical themed adventure so this was an eye-opener. After their first day at Port Fortune they attempted to sail the seas in a tiny dinghy. They got lost and a random table had them stuck on a sandbar after their boat was struck by lightning and capsized. The ocean became a ‘faction’ on its own at that point. 

At sunrise, a legendary Great White Shark began circling. The fighter managed to harpoon a makeshift raft to it and leap on its back and steer the beast to the closest island. 

The different islands provided loads of exciting themed experiences. There were giant birds, strange glowing space-eggs, cave monsters, monkey temples and all the fun stuff you’d hope for. Session-to-session the party would just decide what unexplored place to visit or stop by on the way to the place they were heading and they’d often find more than they’d bargained for. 

OLD SCHOOL VIBES

Black Crag is packed with interesting factions and relationships. Much like Chance Dudinacks other adventure “The Black Worm of Brandonsford,” there are loads of relationships and connections between locations and NPCs built into the game that lead players to make interesting and world-impacting decisions. 

They developed interesting ad-hoc relationships with the different factions and were able to come up with their own interesting goals and designs. As the adventure progressed they promised vengeance against the captain of an imperial treasure barge, Lord Duke Baron, who had embarrassed them early in the adventure. One player, after being mutated during a magical pact to gain water breathing abilities, decided to woo the Queen of the Mermaids. Not surprisingly, the party started collecting ships and trying to make their own fleet.  It was pretty epic.

Exploration is a big part of the game. The map of the Salamander Islands was very useful. I printed out an 11x17 size copy of it for the players and they traced their travels and made notes on it using a red pen. It was a useful tool, fun prop, and a great keepsake of the adventure! It provided the chance for meaningful and engaging overland exploration in addition to dungeon delves.

Dungeons have lots of different paths through and there’s often more than one way to solve a problem or make it across a trap. Magical crystals can be found at different places across the map that can be used in multiple dungeon locations so sometimes it’s worth it to revisit a dungeon to use a crystal you’ve found to access a new area. Likewise, some areas in dungeons are flooded and require water-breathing to make meaningful progress through. Accessing potions of water-breathing and longer term solutions became a goal of it’s own in our campaign.

Encounters are definitely not balanced: the party got in hot water a few times and loads of retainers were slaughtered. We ran with lots of retainers from the pirate crews and the cost to convince them to join skyrocketed as word spread of how much of a death sentence it was to be a retainer for the party.

There’s an awesome classic flavor to this adventure with just enough creativity to make it fresh. Giant statue guardians, enormous fauna, volcanoes, strange progenitor races, and the like all make for a super-fun old school vibe. Black Crag doesn’t ever reach ‘gonzo’ levels of weirdness but there’s just enough strange in there to keep things interesting, mysterious, and fun. 

TREASURE AND LOOT

The best treasure was always finding another ship to add to the fleet. 

The loot varied from low-key player-creative stuff like a voice-recording mechanical parrot, to utility items like a conch shell that creates air bubbles for underwater exploration, to magical swords and tridents. There are scads of pirate loot to collect and my players went from Level 1 to Level 5 pretty easily by looting hordes and treasure ships full of gold bars, coins, and other trade goods like casks of whiskey, etc.

The most impactful treasure was a water producing sea-dragon’s pearl that was used to flood a barricaded temple and commit monkey genocide to prevent the rise of an intelligent simian empire.

All that said, the loot may be the weakest part of the module. Nothing made the players stand up and shout. I added in some homebrew items that made use of the gems that I knew the players would enjoy to compensate.

MONSTERS AND FACTIONS

There are lots of unique monsters to this module. Standouts for our adventure were a giant, two-headed roc, the named megalodon shark, intelligent monkeys, precursor beings, and the sea dragon. 

TRAPS AND PUZZLES

Most of the puzzles and traps rely on player’s accessing magical gems to proceed. This can make things a bit simple sometimes but it’s also good because players rarely got stumped by puzzles they couldn’t solve. The traps had pretty simple solutions in most cases which I think is good. It gave players pause for thought without frustrating them entirely. I wouldn’t say that this module is characterized by complex or intriguing puzzles though.

GM CHALLENGES

As a GM, I needed to get savvy with ship-based combat and ocean travel rules, which I had not used before. Thankfully, all the info I needed was in the Black Crag book so quick reference was easy. 

Managing crew-vs-crew combat was also something new for me. I wound up buying some cubes of Chessex mini-d6’s and houseruling group combat basically using the rules from RISK. It worked and was still fun!

Some of the events that could occur were game-changing and led to end-game scenarios that exceeded the scope of the book to describe and run. The final session required a bit of prep on my part to prepare. The map significantly changed and technologies that were not present before came into play. However, we ran this campaign for the better part of a year and the only prep I needed to do was for the finale, so I think that’s fair.

Once more, some of the map labels didn’t match the book which made at-the-table reference a pain sometimes. However, the book is pretty slim and I was still able to cope. Not a deal-breaker. 

PARTY OUTCOME

Our party ultimately succeeded in solving the mystery of the Black Crag and becoming the most notorious pirates in the Salamander Archipelago. Two main characters became wedded to local royalty, one was unrecognizable after being blinded, mutated, and losing his true name in ill-fated bargains with a sea witch. 

We ended with a bit of a cliffhanger as one of the possible ‘big bads’ in the adventure became empowered through the PC’s actions. We may revisit it as a one-shot to have a final battle! 

FINAL THOUGHTS

This campaign is one of the best I’ve ever run as a self-contained module. We got almost a year of weekly or bi-weekly gaming out of it and I pretty much never had to prep anything, so that’s a massive win. If you are looking for a pirate-themed campaign this rings the bell. The scope is big enough for exploration and fun but contained enough to be manageable and have interesting domino effects occur. 

Players really got into watching their characters mutate and evolve, designed their own ‘jolly roger’ flags and named their ships, and grew their influence and renown as pirates. The campaign never got dull and always felt fun and exciting. 

Highly recommended!

[no-truth-left]

1.011 - Go with Jethro

“That sounds great!” Chie forces some enthusiasm into the words, which would be easier if this miasma of rot stops suffocating her. Still, getting an idea of the surroundings might trigger her memories.

Jethro's heavy boots thud as he heads down the docks, and Chie follows in his wake. “Watch your step.”

Holes dot in the creaky dock, some negligible tiny knotholes, but others big enough to catch her foot. Coils of rope, fishing net, and rusty buckets line the sides. Despite their age and varying levels of disrepair, they are neatly organized.

“This is Rin, my coworker and regular pain in the ass,” Jethro says, motioning to the woman as she pulls the net, and its mass of squirming, flopping things, onto the deck. A set of keys jingle at her belt.

“Anymore of that, and I'll feed you to the sharks,” Rin replies, the threat underlined with familiarity and friendly affection. Rin smiles at Chie, wide and jovial. Her teeth are sharp. “Nice to meet you, Chie.”

Chie smiles back, fidgeting with her purse strap. Anxiety stabs her. “Nice to meet you, too.”

Jethro pats the side of the boat, and Chie is thankful for the distraction. “This is the Fog Surfer. She may be old, but she keeps on keepin' on.”

Up close, it looks even worse. Some seats are missing, while others have been patched with duct tape. The electronic navigator at the hull appears broken, the ignition is rusty, and part of the wheel has worn from people grabbing it.

Worse, since coming to the docks, she hasn't remembered a thing. Did she rent the dinghy from Jethro? Or did she steal it from somewhere else? Or did she purchase it for herself?

“Very nice,” Chie says, struggling to stay positive. “She seems really reliable.”

“Much better than a dinghy,” Jethro teases. “There's space beneath, as well-”

“Wait, wait,” Rin butts in, thin brows raised. “What were you doing out there in a rowboat? On a foggy day like this?”

[cinimon01]

Second Coastal Passage

On the 11th of December with a new galley and full fridges we set off, glad to be out of the Marina and finally enjoying Mai Tai as we planned. The mission was to sail to Auckland to meet the fruit cakes for a few days of sailing and then drop them back.

This was out third time around the Cape and it was fairly smooth motoring compared to the last time with Neil. As you can see in the photo, the waves and swell is not huge and we are looking relieved. But it all comes down to planning, and when living on a boat, planning and weather dictate your life. This was a 4 to 5 hour motor as the wind was on our nose and we made it to the tranquil harbour of Whangamumu. An old whaling station is perched on the right hand side upon entry and a cute little beach occupies the front.

We stayed here for 2 nights, waiting for the wind to turn in our favour. Then on the 15th I made some sandwiches for the 6 hour journey and we set sail. The winds were around 13 knots and this Northerly was perfect for us to put up the gennaker and the main and we sailed at around 5 to 6 knots all the way to Tutukaka, which is half way. YAY.

Jumped in the dinghy and set ashore to find a popular fishing club. The fish and chips were passable, but the game of pool was to be remembered. We stayed here for 2 nights as the weather turned a horrible shade of grey and the seas were rough enough to make me appreciate this little harbour.

17th of December was another great sailing day with the wind behind us we had a smooth sailing gennaker up, saw two pods of dolphins, one at a distance but the other pod were up close and riding our bow waves. It was just awesome and I hope to have many more opportunities like this with out time on Mai Tai.

We were on our way to Whangarie (pronounced Foneray), to shelter as there were some howling winds coming our way. We ended up in Urquarts Bay to the right of the entrance to the harbour. Not a good place as the prevailing wind was relentless and we were bumping around most of the night. On our second day, just as we decided to move to another spot....Bio Security came along side. They asked if it was OK to check our hull. Having had the boat out of the water and cleaned 5 months ago, we were sure there was not much growing down there. But after what looked like a 15 year old girl dived down to look, the boss lady said we needed cleaning. Not just you need to have your hull cleaned, but you need to have it cleaned before your leave this harbour. This was the Thursday before Christmas and most businesses were shutting down for the holiday period.

I got on the phone to the only 2 boat yards in Whangarie and one was booked out and the other said he could fit us in for a clean the next morning at 8am.

So we up anchor and motored to Oceania Marina for a haulout.

So on the 20th of December we were delayed by this so called Bio security order. As you can see the hull is not overly covered with growth, even the cleaners said it wasn't bad enough for a "do not leave the harbour" order.

So we left with a clean bum and I thought seeing as we were passing Marsden Cove Marina we should pop in and have breakfast and see if they had any prawns we could set aside for Christmas. So we followed the channel markers into the Marina and as soon as we were in I regretted our decision. The place was fender to fender, boat to boat and all million dollar boats and some super yachts crammed into a sardine can sized marina. We motored our way in and I was panicked all the way. The visitors berth was spacious enough for us to come along side but we were facing the wrong way for an exit.

Ashore, I tried to focus on other things like Christmas dinner, the lunch we were about to share in the cafe, anything but leaving the dock. But reality and time catches up and you must face the inevitable task of getting out of this squashy, badly planned, one way in and one way out marina.

Back at the boat the wind picked up to nearly 20 knots and I went into the worst anxiety attack I have ever experienced. I was so frozen at the thought of how to get out of here without crashing into another boat or the dock I was comatose.

There was a cat behind us and the guy on board looked approachable and knowledgeable. David asked him what was the best way to get out and he was so helpful. He helped us spin on the spot so we were at least facing in the right direction. We used ropes and he held us firmly on the dock while David manoeuvred the boat around and we spun on to eventually face the right direction for exit. It turns out this sailor was the famous Erle Williams who has sailed around the world in a few races, done a few Amercias cup and Sydney to Hobart races.

He sat down for a beer on board and we chatted a bit about the spin we had just done, then he left us to get out by ourselves.

I was beside myself with anxiety and fear. Yes it was raw confronting fear. Fear of hitting another boat, being blown by this wind into the opposite dock, fear of being on a course and the tide pushing us into a super yacht. I have never felt so disabled, so on the verge of tears at the thought of untying our ropes and leaving the marina.

The wind was getting worse and David said we have to just go. So I mumbled an Ok. Took some deep breaths and pushed down my fear to untie and move the boat. David did a great job navigating out and surprise, surprise, we didn't hit anything on the way out. Once out of the Marina, I could breathe, even though the winds picked up to 28 knots I felt better just facing the open expanse of water. We found a spot in Little Munroe Bay for the night and stayed for 2 nights to recover.

22nd of December we sailed to Bon Accord Harbour on Kawau Island. The winds did not stop all day and so we had a smooth sail with winds in our favour. David planned to get to this harbour as it had a small cruising club and we could make it in time for dinner. So we anchored, showered and jumped into the dinghy amongst big waves we got to shore with only a little splash.

Two bottles of wine and a well deserved pat on the back knowing we were closer to Auckland.

[harmonyhealinghub]

The Hidden Island Shaina Tranquilino September 11, 2024

Captain Jonah Hale had heard tales of the hidden island for as long as he could remember. An uncharted speck of land somewhere in the vastness of the Pacific, it was whispered about in seafarers' taverns, a place where time stood still and the rules of the world ceased to apply. Most dismissed the stories as mere sailor's lore, but Hale was not most people. He had spent the better part of his life chasing legends, and this was the one that had eluded him.

For years, he had studied ancient maps, deciphered cryptic journals, and pieced together fragmented tales. His obsession led him to the darkest corners of the earth, but it wasn't until he found an old mariner in a remote village in Indonesia that he finally got the clue he needed—a set of coordinates, scrawled on a scrap of parchment, handed over with a trembling hand.

"The island is not of this world," the old man had warned, his eyes clouded with memories of things better forgotten. "Once you set foot on it, there's no telling what you'll find... or if you'll ever leave."

Undeterred, Hale set sail with a small crew aboard his trusty vessel, The Odyssey. They sailed for days through uncharted waters, where the sea was eerily calm, and the sky seemed perpetually overcast. It was as if the world held its breath in this place, waiting.

On the morning of the seventh day, the island appeared on the horizon, a silhouette against the gray sky. It was small, no more than a mile across, dominated by a single, towering mountain shrouded in mist. Hale ordered the crew to drop anchor in a sheltered cove, and as the boat rocked gently on the waves, he felt a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature.

"This is it," he muttered to himself as he stepped into the dinghy that would take him ashore.

The beach was a stretch of white sand, untouched by footprints or time. Beyond the shore, a dense jungle loomed, its trees ancient and gnarled, their roots snaking across the ground like the tendrils of some subterranean beast. The air was thick with the scent of earth and something else—something sweet and cloying that Hale couldn't quite place.

As he ventured deeper into the jungle, he noticed that the usual sounds of nature were absent. There were no birds, no rustling leaves, no insects buzzing in the undergrowth. It was as if the island itself was holding its breath, waiting.

He pressed on, his heart pounding in his chest, until he came to a clearing at the base of the mountain. In the center of the clearing stood a stone archway, covered in vines and inscribed with symbols that were not of any language Hale recognized. The archway framed nothing but empty space, yet as he approached, he felt a strange pull, as if the very fabric of reality was thinner here, stretched to its breaking point.

Hale reached out a hand and touched the stone. The symbols began to glow with a soft, amber light, and the air shimmered as a portal materialized within the archway. Through it, he could see another world—a world bathed in golden light, where towering spires rose from a landscape of lush, verdant forests. The sight was both beautiful and terrifying, a glimpse into something beyond his comprehension.

He should have turned back then, but the island's pull was too strong. Steeling himself, Hale stepped through the portal.

The transition was seamless, like walking through a veil of water. On the other side, the air was warm and filled with the sound of distant music, a haunting melody that seemed to come from the very earth itself. He was in a vast, open plaza, surrounded by towering structures made of a stone that glowed with an inner light. The architecture was unlike anything he had ever seen, a blend of organic and geometric forms that defied the laws of physics.

As he wandered the empty streets, Hale realized that this was a city of the lost civilization he had read about in his research—a civilization that had somehow transcended the bounds of time and space. But where were its inhabitants?

He found his answer in the city's central square. At its centre stood a colossal statue of a figure clad in flowing robes, its hands raised as if in supplication. Around the statue's base were dozens of stone figures, their expressions frozen in fear and awe. It took Hale a moment to realize that these were not statues—they were people, petrified in an instant, caught in the midst of some cataclysmic event.

A deep sense of dread settled over him as he understood the island's curse. This was not a place where time stood still, but a place where time had been shattered. The civilization had tried to harness powers beyond their understanding, and in doing so, they had doomed themselves to an eternity trapped between worlds.

Hale felt the island's pull once more, a whisper in his mind urging him to stay, to become part of the island's eternal tableau. But he resisted, stumbling back toward the portal. As he passed through the archway, he felt a jolt, as if something had tried to cling to him, to drag him back.

He staggered out into the clearing, the jungle silent and oppressive around him. The portal flickered behind him and then vanished, leaving only the stone archway, cold and inert.

Hale wasted no time in returning to the beach, his heart pounding as he rowed back to The Odyssey. As the island receded into the distance, he could still feel its presence, a lingering shadow on the edge of his consciousness.

When he reached the ship, he ordered the crew to set sail immediately. As they left the cove, the island seemed to dissolve into the mist, as if it had never been there at all.

For the rest of his days, Captain Jonah Hale never spoke of what he had seen on the hidden island. But the memory of that place haunted him, a reminder that some mysteries are better left unsolved, and that there are forces in the world far beyond human understanding.

[papillon82fluttersby]

Famous Five Art Nostalgia #LC20

Introductory post

Introduction to ‘Les Cinq’

‘Les Cinq’ Masterpost

📑🐸🪚 Les Cinq jouent serré – The Famous Five and the Strange Scientist

Original publication date: 1980 (France), 1985 (UK)

(Original cover by Claude Pascal, 1980)

In this adventure, the Five uncover a spy organisation! The original title translates to “The Five Are Cutting It Close”.

The illustrations in this book are particularly cute and there are quite a few funny moments that you will find below. Enjoy!

~~~~~~

Plot summary:

(Disclaimer: All provided translations are my own.)

A series of scientific conferences is organised in Saint-Jusan, a small town near Kirrin Village. Due to the many people coming in from all parts of the world, there aren’t enough rooms in the local hotels to accommodate everyone and some of the guests will be hosted in private homes. Among them, Nicolas Kodkol, a famous scientist from Varania (a small (fictional) country in Central Europe) will be staying at Kirrin Cottage with his 17-year-old son, Alfy.

The Five watch the Kodkols' arrival at the airport on TV, and notice Kodkol’s striking appearance with his impressive head of hair.

(Professor Nicolas Kodkol)

Once the guests arrive at Kirrin Cottage, Kodkol seems to be taciturn but his son is very expansive and friendly. The Five take Alfy on outings, visiting the local landmarks, and they soon have the feeling that his enthusiasm seems fake.

After a few days, the Five come to realise that Kodkol’s impressive hairdo is actually a wig and that the man himself is bald! This rings some alarm bells to the Five because Professor Kodkol is notorious for having found a cure for baldness, and it seems weird that he wouldn’t have used it on himself.

(George gets suspicious about Professor Kodkol’s hairdo)

[TRANSLATION: George: It's impossible for Nicolas Kodkol to be bald! Julian: And why is that? George: Remember... The media listed the major discoveries of the scientists [who are attending the conference]. And Nicolas Kodkol, when he was very young, discovered a cure for baldness.]

An offhand remark from Alfy also makes the children suspect that the young man is a few years older than he claims.

Feeling decidedly uncomfortable with these strange guests, George suggests they go camping on Kirrin island. Alfy unfortunately decides to tag along, which the Five can't refuse without being rude.

(An enchanting camping spot!)

[TRANSLATION: Narrator: The lush grass, the crystal-clear spring, the sheer cliffs on the side of the island facing out to the sea, the majestic ruins of the castle, the trees, the flowers – everything was enchanting.]

Alfy sleeps in a separate sleeping bag due to there not being enough room in the children’s tents. In the course of the night, the Five realise that Alfy is leaving the island on George’s boat. They follow him discreetly using a rubber dinghy, and witness Alfy joining Kodkol on the shore. After a brief discussion, Alfy leaves on a motorbike towards Saint-Jusan. The Five return to the island and hear Alfy coming back a few hours later, claiming in the morning that he slept the whole night through.

At breakfast, the children hear on the radio that a precious document has been stolen from one of the scientists in Saint-Jusan during the night.

(A hearty breakfast! 🍞🧈🍵😋… and perplexing news 📻🤔)

[TRANSLATION: Narrator: The children prepared breakfast with apparent gusto. They all feasted on toast, buttered by Anne*. Newscaster: “Last night, the small town of Saint-Jusan was the scene of a daring robbery. One of the foreign scientists hosted there was robbed of a very precious document.”]

[*Note: Seriously, can’t these kids even BUTTER THEIR OWN TOASTS???!!? Do they have to bother poor Anne about this??!!!]

The Five are convinced that Kodkol and Alfy are impostors and spies.

(Serious discussions away from prying ears)

[TRANSLATION: Narrator: The four cousins gathered aboard the dinghy to exchange their views on the affair. Julian: You've heard the news! That robbery... in the middle of the night... just about the time Alfy was ashore... George: Alfy who we saw taking the road to Saint-Jusan! Anne: Alfy who said he'd slept right until morning!]

They pretend an emergency to go back to Kirrin Cottage and inform Mr Kirrin in the evening. Together, they formulate a plan to unmask the Kodkols.

(Mr Kirrin listens attentively to the children)

[TRANSLATION: Mr Kirrin: In short, you are suggesting that our hosts are impostors and robbed secret documents... in other words, spies! That's a serious accusation. George: We can get proof!]

The fake Kodkols are arrested and it turns out that the two impostors – whose real names are Zékov and Raky – are part of an international spy network, and that the real Kodkols were kidnapped just after their arrival at the airport. The impostors confess that the Kodkols are kept captive in a ruined manor some way away, but when the police arrive, the prisoners have disappeared, moved elsewhere by the spy organisation.

The Five go to the manor themselves to examine the premices.

(Investigations at the manor)

[TRANSLATION: Narrator: The Five found the ruins deserted. There were no onlookers lurking about... George: All the better!]

Timmy discovers a white handkerchief containing a message from the real Alfy, saying that the prisoners their captors talking about their future transfer to "the old fort". The children identify this new location as a ruined fort on the bay.

The Five decide to pitch their tents next to the fort as if they were innocuous passing campers.

(A camping trip to the abandoned fort)

[TRANSLATION: Narrator: The next day, the young detectives set off after loading their tents, sleeping bags and provisions for several days' camping in two light trailers attached to the boys' bikes. Narrator (bottom panel): The fort was about twelve kilometres from Kirrin Cottage. The path leading up to it was steep and rocky, and made even more difficult by the hot weather.]

(The Five loudly announce their arrival, so that the bandits will think that they are innocuous campers)

[TRANSLATION: Julian: Nice! Here's the perfect spot to pitch our tents! Anne: Let’s not go too close to the fort! It's full of snakes in there, and I'm scared to death of them. George: We're not interested in the fort, don't worry! Come this way instead! We'll be fine here, in the shade of the trees and near a spring.]

After a fruitless day’s observation, Anne comes up with a ploy to locate the prisoners. She manages to talk to the Kodkols, who are kept in the fort’s basement, through a barred window well.

(Anne’s plan in three acts: the ploy…)

[TRANSLATION: Anne: I think I've found a way. I'm going to pick some flowers near the fort, and all the while I’ll be singing. Anne (second panel): Let me explain! In my song I'm going to mention something that Alfy's guards don't know about, and that only he knows. George: The handkerchief rolled into a ball! The handkerchief with the message!]

(…the performance…)

[TRANSLATION: Narrator: The young girl had just repeated her verse for the eighth time in her clear voice, when she thought she heard a faint whistling almost under her feet. Narrator (second panel): Whilst continuing to hum and pick her flowers, Anne moved towards the window well... Alfy: Miss... So you've found my handkerchief? Anne: You're Alfy Kodkol, aren't you?]

[Note: Here’s Anne’s song:

J’ai trouvé un beau mouchoir blanc / Qui m’a transmis votre pensée / Mais où donc êtes-vous passé / Vous que je cherche impatiemment ?

I found a lovely white hanky / That conveyed thy thoughts to me / But pray, where are thee / Whom I have been looking for impatiently?]

(…the exit strategy)

[TRANSLATION: Narrator: She got to her feet and resumed her flower-picking, casually, but this time walking away from the fort.]

The Five hatch a plan to rescue the prisoners: Julian and Anne will go to a nearby town to buy a hacksaw with which they can cut through the bars, and George will find a way to let the prisoners know about their plan while Dick watches out for the bandits.

(Making plans)

[TRANSLATION: George (replying to Julian’s misgivings): Oh, you're not going to start rambling again, are you? I know we're taking on heavy responsibilities, but since the thing has been decided, let's get on with it! Julian: Still, it would be better if their bonds were cut before we rescue them. If we were to pass them a pocket knife, perhaps they could cut their ropes. That would give them time to relieve stiffness from their limbs.]

Taking advantage of unexpected shenanigans involving Timmy and a frog (see below, after the summary), George approaches the fort and throws a knife to the prisoners so that they can cut the ropes binding their wrists and ankles, briefly telling them about their rescue plan.

(Taking stock)

[TRANSLATION: George: I gave the Kodkols a knife. Julian: And we're bringing back hacksaws! Dick: No, not here! In the tent. One of the fort's spies may be watching us through binoculars. Let’s be cautious about this!]

The Five put their plan into action at midnight, but are discovered midway through by the bandits, who tie them up and lock them in with the Kodkols. Timmy is knocked out and left for dead in a bush. The Five and the Kodkols manage to free themselves using George’s knife to cut through their bonds. Then, using the ropes, they manage to pull off several bars from the window well. The Five and the Kodkols put up a valiant fight against the bandits, and the police soon arrive to offer assistance, sent by Mr Kirrin after he was alerted by Timmy who had run off to Kirrin Cottage despite his injuries. The bandits are arrested and the spy organisation is soon to be dismantled.

~~~~~~

Bonus 1: Timmy and the Frog

(What follows is the translation of a rather funny moment when Julian and Anne have gone shopping while Dick and George stay at camp to find a way to give a knife to the Kodkols and warn them about their impending rescue.)

[George] tied the note with a rubber band and said:

"Now I'm going to take a casual stroll down to the window well. I'll drop the knife as I go by, without stopping, and I'll be right back. Even if the bandits see me, they won't suspect a thing... I'll pretend I'm jogging with Timmy. Come on, Tim! Come here!"

But to her surprise, George noticed that the dog was no longer beside her.

"Where on earth has he gone?

Barking noises made the two cousins turn their heads. They saw Tim a hundred meters away, at the edge of a small pond. His neck outstretched, he was barking at something invisible.

"What has he found now?" grumbled Dick.

"Let's go and see!"

The two of them started running towards the pond. Tim heard them coming and looked at them. "Woof!" he said plaintively.

"What are you doing, doggy?" asked George.

Tim abandoned his doleful air to start barking furiously again. The two cousins burst out laughing when they spotted a little green frog sitting peacefully on a large stone in the centre of the pond, and that seemed to be laughing at the dog.

Timothy had initially only intended to play with the frog and had very kindly invited it to join him with his first pleading "Woof!"

But the frog was wary about that shaggy, silly dog. So Timmy got angry and spouted some nonsense – in his canine language – that the frog didn't seem to appreciate much... Convinced that George was coming to his rescue, the dog started barking more and more furiously.

"Woof, woof, woof! … Bwoof! Woof!"

"Ribbit!" said the frog, staring at him with round, bulging eyes.

George burst out laughing again. Dick followed suit.

"My word," he said. "With her gaping mouth, this frog looks like it's laughing too, and making fun of Tim."

"I wouldn't be surprised," replied George. "Animals are more mischievous than you'd think... Come on, Tim! Leave that frog alone and come with me for a walk!"

But Timothy was not inclined to obey. The frog's stubborn refusal to join him, its mocking of him, his own powerlessness to reach it – it all made him furious. Without listening to George, he strode to the edge of the pond and let out another furious "Woof!"

The frog responded with a tremendous "Ribbit" and, leaping from its stony throne, literally jumped on him. Surprised by this sudden attack, Tim lost his balance and fell into the pond.

As he tried to regain his footing, he slipped further and almost disappeared. Only his snout was visible.

The mischievous frog landed right on his nose!

The dog resurfaced. The frog jumped ashore. Tim spat out some water, pawed, reached land, snorted... and found himself right in front of the frog, who rolled his eyes at him comically, as if to say: "Catch me if you can!"

The two cousins were writhing in laughter. Right now, they weren't thinking at all about the spies, the prisoners and the terrible MAT [the spy organisation]. They were almost beside themselves with laughter at the sight before them... Tim covered in mud and looking fierce, facing his tiny opponent who taunted him with aplomb.

Between two bursts of laughter, George finally hiccupped:

"Timmy, old chap! Leave this poor frog alone! It hasn't done anything to you!"

But Tim was now as vexed by the two cousins' merriment as he was by his enemy's challenge.

The frog fluttered its heavy eyelids.

"Ribbit!" it croaked again.

And with that, turning its back on the pond and the dog, the frog made a prodigious leap forward and disappeared into the wild grass. Timothy became enraged. He rushed after the fugitive. But to no avail...

The frog kept escaping him, sometimes hiding in tufts of grass, sometimes leaping sideways in the most unexpected directions at the very moment the dog thought he had caught up. George, still laughing but fearing that Timmy might end up hurting the little animal, set off in pursue. Dick followed.

The crazy, disorderly race continued for a while. Tim was choking with fury, and the children with laughter. Alone, unperturbed, the frog continued its zigzagging route, getting closer and closer to the fort.

Soon it was skirting the walls. Finally, it hopped onto a stone bathed in sunlight, just in front of the window well that Anne had pointed out as the basement where the two Varanians were languishing.

"Goody!" murmured George. "What a piece of luck!"

And, still running, she dashed straight for the window well.

Everything happened in a few seconds. The frog made another leap, just as Timmy thought he was reaching his foe. George dived forward to grab the dog by the collar while, in the same movement, throwing the knife, rolled up in the explanatory note, through the bars of the basement.

Then, without really stopping, she turned back, dragging Tim along and scolding him loudly:

"Bad dog! I told you not to go near that fort! It's full of snakes! You could well have been bitten, you know!"

Dick hot on her heels, she ran all the way to the camp. There, the two cousins dropped to the grass, Tim between them...

"Phew!" murmured George. "We did it!... The Kodkols have got my knife!"

At that, her gaze fell on Timothy. She burst out laughing again. Dick joined in. It has to be said that poor Tim looked really shabby. He was covered in mud from his muzzle to his tail and from the tips of his ears to his paws. It formed a sort of crust that was already drying out in the hot summer sun. His hair remained bristly on his back. He looked like a monster from prehistoric times.

"We're going to soap you up, old boy! You can't stay like that!"

Tim looked sheepish. Shampooing was not one of his favourite pleasures.

George and Dick heated up some water and gave him a thorough wash. Covered in perfumed foam, Tim sighed again and again. The treatment he was being subjected to was definitely putting him off frog hunting!

~~~~~~

Bonus 2: Dick and Anne

Anne enjoys putting her housekeeping skills to use:

Dick Thoroughly Enjoys the fruits of her labour:

…But some times, even Anne has had enough!

(Context: The children have been making plans to rescue the Kolkols and Anne has been fretting and worrying.)

"Let's hope it's enough!" murmured Anne, who was a little frightened by the undertaking... "But are you sure we'll be able to saw through the bars?"

"You told us yourself that they were half rusted!" reminded Julian.

"That's true. Let’s hope that the bandits don't catch us just as we're about to..."

"My dear," cut in George sententiously, "nothing ventured, nothing gained! To conquer without peril is to triumph without glory. And the game is worth the candle."

"And he who wills the end wills the means! And what will be will be! And yada yada blah blah blah!" sing-sang Dick, sniggering.

George smacked him. Tim barked. Dick ran away. George ran after him. Julian and Anne ran too. Everyone felt the need to relax. The game lasted ten minutes, which allowed everyone’s general optimism to blossom again... and the chops, which George had placed on the barbecue, to burn away merrily... The children took this little misfortune in stride... and, while they were dining on tinned food, Tim feasted on the burnt meat.

"Every cloud has a silver lining," sighed the incorrigible Dick.

"You're not going to do that again, are you?" said his cousin in mock anger.

"Life itself is an eternal do-over!" chanted Dick, his eyes comically raised to the sky.

"Just like washing the dishes," cut in Anne prosaically. "Come on! Take this towel and help me!"

~~~~~~

Cover art through the ages:

(Disclaimer: This is not an exhaustive list; sometimes the dates are difficult to pinpoint; and I have purposefully not included editions that re-used similar cover art, with differences only in layout and font style.)

(Original cover art by Claude Pascal, Hachette, 1980)

(Paul Gillon, Hachette, 1995 – Sawing through the bars)

(Frédéric Rébéna, Hachette, 2014 – Please ignore these guileless campers who have very innocently chosen this spot with no ulterior motives whatsoever… 😉)

~~~~~~

Thanks for reading!

[playapotrero]

A Potrero Chapter.

Written by Justin McCarter, Costa Rica Sailing Center

Some of you knew Captain Jack. He was here in Potrero for over 20 years and he gave one of the more colorful sailing tours in the country. His tour wasn't for everyone. You had to expect there was going to be a lecture about legalizing marijuana in Canada. And he was going to tell you how Justin Trudeau was (expletives removed) up the country of his birth. 

Jack went by many names over the course of his life. He was born Izaac Warmenhoven, but decided to change that to “Jack” in grade school. As a cussing, drinking, fighting, hard working Canadian construction foreman in his 20's he was known as “The Prince of Darkness” (or so his close friend Paul tells me). I imagine he didn't get that name because he was a kind and forgiving boss. Around town he was “Hairy Back Jack”. That hair was impressive. Also “Silver Back Jack”. But mostly, simply “Cap'n Jack”.  

For us at the Sailing Center he helped us so much in the early days. He made the original platform that has floated out front of the Sailing Center pretty much since we started. He guided us in making our first moorings, showed us how big to make them and what rebar to use. He taught us to make strong splices in heavy mooring lines so they wouldn't come undone in big seas. He was a real sailor, and the community, especially the sailing community, is less with his passing. 

One of my favorite stories about Jack was told to me by some clients of his (also Sailing Center members). He was taking them out to Surfari, his old 40 ft Morgan sailing sloop for a sunset tour. As they motored away from the beach in his 12 ft dinghy, a jet ski tour came zooming through the anchorage. Jack shouted "Hey (bleep) you! Get those (bleep, bleep, bleep, bleep) things out of here!" and then gave him the one-finger salute. 

Well the jet ski guide didn't take kindly to the advice. He swerved around and shouted "Hey (bleep) you! Nobody curses me!" and he gunned his jet ski toward Jack and his clients, steering to try to tag Jack with his fist. Jack (age 70 at the time) angled his boat into the attack with a song of destruction in his heart and swung out with his long arm, almost making contact with the young hotshot and nearly capsizing his boat at the same time. Jack's clients huddled together, quietly clutching each other in the middle of the boat.

Jack and the tour guide kept shouting at each other, giving each other the finger and shaking their fists. Then at about the same time, they seemed to remember they had clients and needed to get back to work. 

Jack swung the dinghy back toward Surfari and said "Sorry about that. Anyway. watch your fingers when we come up alongside the boat..."

And then just a couple minutes later.  "I'm not sure what you think about legalizing marijuana, but I gotta tell you, to me it seems like a no-brainer"

We buried him in the cemetery in Potrero up on the hill where there is a nice breeze and a view toward the ocean. It's tough to think about him being gone. We all expected he would outlive every single one of us. He was someone we could all turn to with a big job or when we needed sailing knowledge.

Jack was like a storm on the sea - quick to anger and just as quick to calm. He was the only Canadian pirate I think I'll ever meet, and I know from now on everyone who learns to sail from me is also learning from Cap'n Jack. 

If you'd like to see my rambling interview with Jack on my podcast, click here. 

Merry Christmas everyone. Remember, it's a wonderful life.

Published with permission. Original Source

[boutny]

Anchor'dventures

The view from Boutny's deck, drying out at Point quay

The lessons have been accumulating, and I have not been good at logging them. There was the spinnaker left too long to fly in the early crossing of Biscay; the gib that came out of the furler reel a few hours later; the lesson that I will learn one day, to reef early and reef often; the auto-pilot that broke down ... all fine until the wind dropped and the shipping lanes filled. There was dragging in Camaret, there was chicken with cargo-ships in a storm, there was setting course for the harbour entrance buoy at Falmouth and almost hitting it at the end of a long night. There was dragging at Trefusis Point, and not having a starboard engine that idles correctly. There was the storm on the buoy in Falmouth and bad innovations in my bridle ... There was trusting my depth sounder and running a-mud when it showed 0.6m ... there really are many lessons to catch up on, and let this list be a reminder for some winter postings.

This lesson is fresher than the others, so here goes. It is my third anchor drag. First lesson: I really must work out what is going wrong with my technique. From no drags on the sandy Mediterranean and Algarve, Brittany and Cornwall, with their powerful winds and tides, their complex bottoms, have brought the average of drags per anchorage to an uncomfortable high.

Here is how the weather turned out last night, and it was more or less as forecast.

I had just spent three wonderful nights - the first good weather in weeks - at the beautiful anchorage in front of Trelissick House.

The forecast was for 30+kts, with gusts perhaps to 40+, from the South West, so best to move across the river to find protection for the night.

I got there early, together with a handful of other boats. I came in closer than anyone, around high tide, taking advantage of Boutny's shallow draft and her ability to sit even on the ground. The obvious point of greatest protection, in the shallow tongue on the east side of Turnaware Point, was occupied, so I picked a place on the point.

The wind during the afternoon was not strong, and the rain was bucketing. I took a stroll along the gravel beach, shingle and kelp with occasional concrete blocks from a feature that Navionics has as a WW1 embarcation dock.

Ah... now I remember another and separate lesson: I tied up my tender on returning from the beach, and settled down to continue writing the report that is taking up my attention right now, when I heard some shouts from shore. My dinghy was drifting down-river with the tide ... How could my knot have come loose? Why hadn't I done what I usually do - have two separate lines to secure the tender? So ... a subsidiary lesson for the day - don't slacken on old rules of thumb, just because your feeling confident.

Andy, from a boat next door, shouted that he would go and get her. How attentive and kind. He came back to Boutny towing my tender, and we talked of the night to come.

"Who will drag, I wonder", he asked. I agreed that we'd all have to look out for each other. I did not think that anyone would drag onto me - if they did, they'd be heading straight onto the beach. I felt quietly confident, though I said that I should probably go and dive onto my anchor to have a look. He talked about adding a second anchor in a V configuration, and I told him I might put one in front of the other, as Jean-Yves had recommended.

I went back below. I felt tired and the words weren't flowing for my report. I ate some left-over pasta and lay down with American Pastoral and was dosing by about 6pm. I had, however, set my anchor alarm properly, this time, after the Cameret lesson. Around 8pm I got up to have a look around, and saw with some satisfaction the waves and white horses on the North bank where I had come from that morning. The trees at the shoreline to windward seemed to be protecting me from the wind, though an occasional gust would come around the point and yank at Boutny's bridles. I turned on my masthead anchor light and returned to my bunk.

The anchor alarm woke me at 10pm. I got out of bed, silenced it, and looked at the track. Perhaps I had set it too conservatively and I was in fact holding. I went on deck and checked my distances. Storm Betty was at full power, by now, and the wind was regularly coming around the point and pulling at Boutny's tethers.

When the alarm went off again at 10.30, I finally took it with the seriousness it had originally required. Another little lesson here, though it feels like a repeat: resist wishful thinking, and do not lie in hope without having tried to fix the problem or properly gathered evidence that there is none. I was seriously drifting, and was now level with the old ramshackle ketch with the 2 noisy wind generators.

Adrenalin gets you moving fast. I started the starboard engine to get some sort of directional control, even with the 30m of chain and anchor dragging. One I was headed towards open space - more or less straight for the Northern shores - I went to the foredeck and tried to get my windlass to bring the chain in.

I have been having connection problems - known about but unfixed - and my remote also stopped working after I started playing with the batteries in A Coruna ... However much I pressed the red button, I could not get the windlass to turn. I am afraid there is an obvious lesson here - fix problems when you've noticed them, not after the crisis when you wish you had fixed them already. ("A stitch in time", and all that...)

So ... it was dark, wet and I was heading into the path of Betty's full force, dragging a lot of chain and stuff. Urgh. I stood astride the windlass and pulled chain in at whatever rate I could muster, all adrenalined-up. I rounded the elegant yacht with the blue ensign that had confidently anchored in the windy channel, having hauled most of it in, relieved not to have become tangled with hers. Lesson: you got away with it, but counting on luck is a poor strategy.

What now? Just as I was considering the question, a voice on my port stern said: "Are you alright, Tony?"

That was it. The hallucination that comes to so many in situations of crisis. Mountaineers talk about the figures who appear, seeming entirely real, from their imagination to help them through tough passes. I had wondered whether any such figure would appear when I solo'd those last crossings. Although I occasionally mistook the creaking of a beam for a voice that spoke, no one had come.

But it really was too real. I went to look astern, and there was Andy in his tender, doing what he'd said he'd do, looking after whoever it was who'd need it in the night.

"Go up river, after the pontoons ... there's a small creek where you should be able to lie alongside the trees, protected. Do you want me to come with you?"

Better than a hallucination ... Andy had local knowledge.

"Thank you, no. I'll be fine and follow your advice. You return to looking after your boat."

Another lesson, a big one: try to be as kind and helpful as Andy. How very reassuring it was to be offered advice in that moment.

Betty's power was in my stern, and I made my way quickly past the pontoon. And there was the micro-creek, that place, right up in the top-right of the Navionics screenshot, that thing that looks like a thorn on a rosebush:

And here it is in satellite view, perhaps more telling for the account of the next 3 hours I spent in the creek, St Just-in-Roseland, Google tells me:

There was a party on in that house behind the trees. Lively. I thought at one point they were calling out to me, but they weren't. I wonder if they even knew the micro-drama yards away from them.

I placed my anchor about where I have the marker. It was the most protected corner, and the northern shore was windy. There was enough light to see the great branches of the overhanging trees swaying and waving as gust upon gust came down or around.

But how much chain to put down? Too much, and I would be pushed into those trees. Too little, and it would be unlikely to hold. I tried 10m, I tried 20m, I tried putting here and putting it there. I tried both anchors. But I never felt confident the chain would keep me away from the banks.

I remember Olivier talking to me about anchorages slipping in strong wind: "If you have to, if your anchorage isn't holding and you've run out of options, you'll just have to keep on your engines, drive onto the chain, relieve it, adjust your position. You'll have to keep going all night if you must. But just don't give up. Remember that you need to save your boat from the shoreline. That's your priority".

So that was now my plan. To use the engines to stay in the right place, to avoid hitting the sides of the creek. And here starts the next lesson ... a rather unsurprising one about tidying lines and fouling an engine prop.

I often find the mainsail sheet - it is very long, and needs to be - dragging in the water. This time, however, it dragged and tangled in my starboard prop. OK, there were odd clicking sounds, some coming from unusual places, but rather than stop the engine and check what was up, my priority was staying clear of the banks, I thought, so I kept revving. Until the poor engine cut out.

Then, in a lull, I opened the hatches and looked at what was up - it would be prudent to have two engines working in these conditions. And here is what I found - the ugly bundle that Anna and Esme, the artists who came on board the next day, immediately called "Misericordia":

This, sadly, is the line that used to go through the triple block on the main sheet, and the rotations had pulled it quite tight around the prop, and had stretch the clew to the point where the tension in the foot of the sail stopped it going any further.

The conditions felt stable enough, so I stripped down and put my wingfoil board into the water, paddled under the boat with my Opinel, and cut through the mess. The party was going full pelt, and I was, at some level, loving the cold lashings and adrenaline of it all. And, of course, the pride and comfort when the motor started again.

By 1pm, Betty, still powerful, was losing some of her peaks, and the tide was low. I might run aground in this minuscule creek, and I would have to watch like a hawk the moment of refloating. So I headed back to where I had originally slipped, dropped my anchor, dried out, and woke every 20 minutes after 4am to catch the moment the tide would float Boutny again. I was worried both that I might drift up the beach and not refloat, and that if I did, I would swing on an untested anchor hold and into my neighbours. I dropped my spare anchor off the stern to avoid the first problem, and waited for the waters to rise to avoid the second.

I was asleep again at 6 and woke, somewhat refreshed and with slightly surreal memories of the night, at 7.30, ready to catch high tide to collect Anna and Esme from the quay at Point.

Many lessons in all that. Keep the lines tidy. Properly check anchor hold, not just with a big reverse thrust. Give up on wishful thinking. Be as kind as Andy.

But maybe another one too. I hadn't checked out the "escape routes" from a dragging in the hours before the storm. If I had, perhaps I would not have gone to the mini-protection of the microcreek. Perhaps I would have pressed on and found easier protection and a better night's sleep upstream: