#anyway :) thank you for enjoying my skeleton and blog name. it does mean a lot despite my small vocabulary :)

[foxtophat]

here’s chapter 4!!! it’s been about a week and a half, two weeks since John Seed reappeared, and now nick is ready to take his vengence!  by... having john do basic tasks to repair the homestead.  hey, this isn’t eden’s gate -- what do you expect, skin flaying and long-winded religious diatribes?  (weird, that’s exactly what john expects, all the time, from everyone!)

i really love this story and am so thrilled that other people seem to enjoy it too!!! it’s fun to write, and since i know it’s just full on self-indulgent bullshit, i don’t feel guilty for not being ~~realistic~~ about the whole thing.  fuck it! nick is a pacifist now!!!

i’ve included today’s chapter under the cut so you don’t have to leave tumblr if you don’t want to.  if you’re enjoying this story, please consider reblogging so your friends can also enjoy my hellscape! or, you know, do what makes you happy, it’s not like i can force you to ruin your aesthetics blog on my behalf. stay frosty my dudes, i’ll see you in 2 weeks!

Well, John doesn't die. Despite that being the only good thing the man could possibly do, he manages to hang on through the first night, looking better before the week is out. It's a mixed blessing. On the one hand, Nick no longer feels like he's serving a skeleton its last meal; on the other, it means that John is more than likely here to stay. Every time Nick goes to give him food, he finds the room just a little bit more lived in, the tarp turning into a makeshift bed as John struggles to settle in. Just yesterday, Nick had noticed a short series of tally lines scratched in the wall, marking each day of his sentence as though he were confined to solitary.

Nick should probably be happy with how smoothly things are going. He should probably be glad that John is keeping quiet and politely recuperating without so much as a snide remark. It's what he wanted, after all — for John to wave a white flag and agree to an unconditional surrender. And yet Nick can't help but feel short-changed, as if John owes him at least one opportunity to punch him in the face for being an asshole. It used to be something Nick dreamed about doing; he'd fantasized about beating him to a bloody pulp even as John had ripped his skin from his chest. Now, he's not willing to deal with the guilt that would undoubtedly follow.

Nick wishes he could go back to his "fight everyone" thirties. Being a mature adult sucks.

It's bright and early one morning when Nick decides it's past time to do something about the ceiling, which is warped and sagging beneath the nursery. Nick suspects it's a cracked joist, but considering his lack of carpentry skills, he doubts he can do anything to repair it. Right now, all he can do is try to support the weight of the second floor with something other than a wish and a prayer. Thankfully, he saved some of the posts when he dismantled the back porch — now if only Kim weren't going to be busy all day with Carmina, they could actually get some work done.

Except, maybe not!

John has been looking a lot better these past two days, since all he's been doing is resting and regaining his strength. Nick's heard him rummaging around at night, and he's been making himself something of a nest out of the crap left with him. Nick's even heard him talking, although it's anyone's guess who he thinks is listening. Considering how quiet and withdrawn he is when Nick brings him his meals, he doesn't seem interested in what real people have to say.

Honestly, if Nick hadn't been an integral part of John's survival for the past week, he'd think the whole thing was some kind of ploy. Nick's not sure what John would be planning with this act for sympathy, but he isn't going to make the same mistake he did all those years ago and write him off as some rich, coked-out jackass with no thoughts to his name. He's not going to let John sit around and finalize whatever evil machinations he's got brewing in his mind. He's gonna work that sad-sack until the only thing John's thinking about is collapsing from exhaustion.

Nick doesn't reveal his plans until after breakfast. He doesn't want to ruin his favorite meal of the day, not when he can rest aimlessly beside his family around the table, eating ham and eggs while Kim brews coffee. It's the closest they'll ever get to the way life used to be, and Nick can pretend that everything is back to normal as long as he has a cup of coffee in hand. Hell, it's not like watching his eight-year-old daughter methodically clean the family rifle during breakfast is all that weird for Hope County, with or without the apocalypse.

It's probably a good thing that Carmina is distracted. If she realized today was the day John would be seeing sunlight, she'd refuse to go anywhere until her curiosity was satisfied. They've told her as little as they can get away with, given that they're keeping a man prisoner across the hall from them. Mostly that he's a very sick stranger who could make little girls very sick too. She'd bought it for the most part, but Nick's afraid that she won't be able to contain her curiosity for much longer.

"Think I'm gonna get some stuff done while you're gone," he tells Kim, glancing significantly towards the stairs while Carmina isn't looking. "We need to deal with the second floor sooner rather than later."

"Are you sure?" she asks, raising her eyebrows meaningfully back at him. "Is this something you can do on your own?"

"Better to not put it off anymore," Nick replies. "It'll be easier if I have the place to myself, anyway. Less, uh, confusion."

That said, he puts the chore off for almost half an hour after Kim and Carmina head out. He tries to prepare, but there's not much he can do to close off the exits, and it only takes a few minutes to drag all the necessary supplies into place. All he can do at this point is hope that John is only strong enough to help, and not strong enough to run at the first chance he gets. If he does that, Nick's going to have no choice but to shoot him.

Nick does his best to hide his nerves as he unlocks the door. It feels weird to knock so he doesn't, pushing the door open slowly enough for the hinges to creak. John should just be thankful Nick bothers to try giving him any sort of head's up.

John, ungrateful bastard that he is, sleeps through Nick's entrance. He's found the cheap wool guest blanket that Nick would never dream of actually offering to guests, which seems fitting. His shirt is crumpled next to him, leaving Nick with the unfortunate view of his bare torso.

Nick's seen John shirtless a few times now, but that doesn't make it any easier to stomach. His skin is stretched over his jutting shoulder blades, clinging to every sharp, bony angle of his spine. Nick knows there's not much else for it to cling to - he's seen the way John's stomach sags, too much skin with not enough meat to hang on to. It's all been eaten away from months, maybe even years , of malnutrition and inactivity. The only thing left of the man Nick remembers is a goddamn shadow. Looking down at John, Nick's left to wonder how he had survived at all.

Nick nudges John unkindly with his boot, ignoring the grunt of discomfort he gets in return. "Come on," he snaps, "It's morning. If the sun's up, you're up — this isn't the goddamn Hope County Hilton."

John groans, biting his tongue against whatever snide comment might come to mind. That's too bad — Nick would love to start today off with an ethically-sourced beat-down.

Even though he wants to, Nick refuses to look away as John sits up, revealing all of his tattoos and scars. The tattoos are nothing new, and some of the scars look pre-Collapse old, but John obviously didn't let the bunker curb his self-mutilating tendencies. Some of the tattoos have been ritualistically carved out, leaving flat slabs of scar tissue behind. Others have been scratched out less completely, seemingly at random. The worst part is seeing the ten deep, half-moon gouges in his shoulders, leaving behind raw, fresh scars. Nick can only imagine what led to their creation, but he would really rather not.

"Put your shirt on and eat quick," Nick tells him, setting the plate near enough to John before retreating to wait by the door. The more space he has between them, the better. If John is going to pull something, Nick wants to have room to grab his gun, or at least to brace for a fight. And anyway, John still eats like a mongrel and it's uncomfortable to watch.

"Time to put me to work?" John asks skeptically as he drags his shirt over his torso.

"You bet," Nick replies. Should he be a cagey dick about it? Part of him thinks so, out of spite, but realistically he should temper John's expectations. Nick isn't going to be capable of putting John through the kind of torture he's probably expecting. So, he points out the dipping corner and says, "This whole floor is gonna give out if we don't do something about it. Well, I say we , but I mean you ."

John regards the spot with more skepticism. "That's it?"

"You haven't even seen how much of the house you're going to be digging out of the dirt," Nick points out. "Come on, hurry up already, I don't have all day."

——

Despite being sick as a dog, John's strength is still something to be reckoned with. Nick watches uneasily at first as John makes short work of clearing space for the beam to stand, heaving shovelfuls of dirt out the open window without regard to his wasted muscles. If John decides to come at him with that shovel, it's going to be Nick's reflexes that save him, not his brute strength. Nick's reflexes aren't exactly the best these days, so Nick hopes it doesn't come to that.

It doesn't seem like John is interested in fighting, though. Nick sets him to work with the shovel and he takes it up without so much as a snide comment about Nick trying to order him around. He slings dirt silently, practically zoning out over the manual labor as Nick watches from his side of the room. It's almost like he's in a trance or something, and it's only broken when the shovel scrapes against the wooden floorboards. He comes to a sudden stop, staring at the floor in surprise. He looks up and around, fixing a sour glare at the wide-open back porch that Nick is standing guard in front of before finally looking at Nick himself.

"That's it?"

"Hell no, it isn't," Nick sighs, gesturing towards the beam that he'd dragged in from the woodpile outside. It doesn't rain much nowadays, so it hasn't gone to rot, and it should be just about level with the supports in the ceiling. Plus, it's already got the right hardware attached, and most of it even survived the nuclear blast.

"Come on," he tells John, "You're putting this up."

Still no backtalk, not even as Nick gets his own hands dirty and helps John prop the beam up. He remains silent as Nick fastens it in place with the only three-inch bolts left in America. It's a temporary solution, but Nick's proud of it anyway, and he steps back to admire the work. He has to admit, even if John is planning something, at least his plan involves actually being useful.

"That should work for now," he says. He scratches the back of his head as he regards John — what does he do with the guy now? It seems like a waste to just... jam him back up there. He's obviously capable of working, and that's what Nick said he'd do — break his back with manual labor, right?

"Well, now that we're done with that... I guess you can get to work shoveling the rest of this dirt outta here. It's been pretty low on the list, but it's not like you've got anything better to do."

"No, I suppose not."

"Hey now, what happened to just saying yes ?" Nick grins, feeling mean but still pretty funny for it. John scowls, but he's just not the right audience for the joke, so his opinion doesn't count.

" Yes, sir ," John replies. He's probably just being a dick, but the way he says it roils Nick's stomach on impact.

"Hey, none of that shit," Nick snaps, even though he probably should lean into the boss role while he can. "Just — don't be a fucking weirdo about this, okay?"

John frowns and doesn't respond. He doesn't need Nick to instruct him any further, returning to work with the shovel as though he's forgotten he ever stopped. Nick keeps an eye on him as he has lunch, waiting for John to drop the weird, quiet obedience act that he's been putting on. It has to be an act. John's just using their mercy for his own ends, using them for shelter and food while waiting for the opportunity to strike. To take the house and the guns, to take control of everything that he'd felt so obligated to eight years ago.

An hour goes by in silence. John works steadily, almost meditatively shoveling down to the floorboards, dumping shovelfuls of dirt out the nearest window to him. He's lost in his thoughts, so much so that he doesn't seem to notice as he clears out nearly half of the living room, the shovel scraping against wood like the beat of the drum that's distracting the poor motherfucker.

Eventually, Nick can't help but point out, "You don't talk as much as you used to."

John doesn't so much as look at him, which is more irritating than Nick wants to let on. What, is he supposed to shut up now, too? Forget that !

"I mean, you used to never shut the fuck up. Guess even you couldn't stand listening to yourself for eight years solid, huh?"

John grunts in response. He doesn't look so hot; his face is pale and drenched in sweat, and he seems to be relying on the shovel to steady himself. Nick squints, trying to figure out whether or not the guy is trying to pull a fast one on him — it's exactly the kind of thing Nick would do, if he were being held captive — but John doesn't seem to notice Nick's scrutiny at all. He seems miles away from the house, from himself.

Goddamn it. The more Nick watches, the less comfortable he becomes. "Alright, come on," Nick sighs, exasperation masking his discomfort at seeing John near-fainting. "That's enough for one day, now sit down before you fall down."

It's a toss-up which of those options John takes, but moments later he's flopped backward into the mound of dirt. He leaves streaks of mud across his face where he wipes away the sweat. Nick watches, waiting for the asshole to spring his trap, but John looks sincerely too beat up to try wrestling the gun away or making a break for it. His hair, thick with dust, clumps over his face, dropping into his eyes no matter how many times he tries to smooth it back.

To his personal horror, he finds himself offering John his canteen. He should leave John to drink his own spit with their fresh water supply as low as it is. It's what the man deserves. But they've wasted too much time and supplies on John to be stingy with the water now.

"Don't get too comfortable lying in the dirt," Nick points out, "I'm gonna put you back before Kim and Carmina get home."

John nods without complaint. He takes careful sips of water, like he's trying to mind how much he's taking, which is a fucking riot coming from the guy who did nothing but take, take, take for years.

"It's the nursery, isn't it?"

Nick stares down at the dirty bastard in confusion. "What?"

"The room," John repeats with a suspicious lack of irritation. "It was going to be the nursery."

Nick scowls. "Yeah," he says. "Not that it ever panned out."

John holds the canteen out for Nick to take back, which he does. "No," he admits, "It certainly did not."

"No thanks to you." Nick takes a thirsty swig of water. "None of you got a chance to raid our bunker, but there were a lot of other people who weren't so lucky. Lots of people didn't even have a house to hide in."

"Yes," John sighs, "I know."

The nerve John has to brush aside the damage he's done momentarily overwhelms Nick, and before he realizes what he's doing, he's chucking the canteen at John's head in a vicious game of dodge-ball that John just barely wins. "No, you don't know. You managed to find somewhere to survive for eight years, while good, honest people were left to rot away on the surface and suffer through nuclear winter because you burned down their houses, you stole their supplies, you ruined their lives! You destroyed everything before the police ever showed up! You sorry assholes kept talking about the Collapse while all of us were already living through it! Because of you ! You know ? Fuck you!"

Nick reaches his hand out to grab John, to — to strangle him, to shake him , anything to stop him from sitting there and staring cow-eyed up at him. Waiting for Nick to exact a physical price for all the anguish that he's caused, waiting for the inevitable retribution that he deserves.

But eight years is a long time to carry so much righteous anger. Nick must've set it down somewhere along the way; now that it's time to resume that bitter loathing, he finds himself coming up short. Honestly, he's too goddamn old for it. He's too tired. Eight years of fatherhood and living past the end of mankind has run the rage right out of him. The idea of expending that much effort just exhausts him. What would even be the point? John isn't even worth it.

"Just — get up," Nick sighs at last. "Kim'll be back in a while and I... don't want to look at you anymore."

John slumps into himself as he stands, shoulders caving in as he avoids looking higher than Nick's boots. He proceeds without complaint or comment up the stairs; despite that, Nick still braces himself for a surprise attack, his hand clinging to the holster. He stops at the doorway behind John, waiting for some trap to spring and feeling oddly put out when nothing happens.

"I'll bring you dinner later," Nick tells him. "From now on, you're only getting a second meal on days you work."

John nods in response, falling into his makeshift bed with as much grace as he had the dirt pile downstairs. Nick's not sure he's gonna be awake the next time he checks in, but that's probably for the best. Nick doesn't like watching the guy eat, and he hates having to interact with him.

When John fails to say anything, Nick uses his silence as an exit and quickly locks John away. He'll probably sleep until dinner, which means he'll spend all night muttering to himself again. That's just what Nick needs.

There's still time before Kim gets back with Carmina. Nick drags the dining table into the living room, taking a minute to marvel at the amount of dirt John managed to clear out. Maybe tomorrow, Kim can take Carmina on a hike or something so that he can have John do the rest of the room. Once the dirt's all cleared out, they'll be able to build proper doors for the back porch, instead of leaving it open to the elements and potential prison breaks. After that, who knows? Maybe they'll be able to string lights up in here like they did back at the Spread Eagle. They could actually find a use for the generator. Hurk was on the radio recently, boasting about party liquor and gasoline — maybe they could barter for fuel?

Thinking more than a year ahead is jumping the gun a little, especially considering they have to get through another winter without heat, but this is the first time Nick's let himself imagine that far. Kim is already prepping for next year, of course, but Nick's still a little stuck on bunker time, where everything felt like a tightrope walk to survive and keep sane. But now, well — there's floor space, and Nick's even stacked plates and silverware on the kitchen counter for dinner. It's progress that he can't miss, and for once he breathes a sigh of relief and actually feels relieved.

Kim and Carmina come back before dusk with three rabbits and, in Carmina's case, a turkey so big that it nearly drags on the ground as she carries it on her back. "Shot it herself," Kim tells him, dropping the rabbits on the table. She does it almost without a second thought, wrapping her arms around Nick before realizing, "Oh, the table's back!"

Nick grins. "Figured we could use the extra space. Look at you, kiddo!" Nick turns his attention to Carmina, who still has the turkey slung triumphantly over her shoulder. "That is one big bird."

"Yeah," she says, trying to look as casually confident as her mom. She can't help but brag, "It was coming right at us. I had to do something. "

"That's my girl," Nick says, "I need somebody to protect your mom whenever I'm not around."

"Hey," Kim protests, playfully shoving out of her supposedly loving husband's grasp, "I can protect myself, you two. Carmina, take that thing into the kitchen and start plucking."

Heaving a very exasperated sigh she must have lifted off of her dad, Carmina drags the limp poultry away. Kim watches her go with a satisfied smile, telling Nick, "She's got great eyesight. I didn't even notice it in the grass."

"Thank God. Can you imagine if she needed glasses out here? We would be royally screwed. So! What do you think?"

Kim looks back at the clear floor and the table with four legs on solid ground. "I admit, I'm impressed," she says. "I expected to come back to a funeral pyre. But look, you even got the support in!" She furrows her brows at him. "Did you have any trouble?"

"Nah. Actually, it was... uh, painfully easy. He didn't put up a fight or anything."

"Hmm."

Nick's not sure what Kim's thinking as she eyes the progress that's been made. Maybe she's wondering what John's endgame is, the same way Nick wonders. She's probably worrying about how to explain it to anyone who might ask about it — Grace, mostly, maybe Jerome, if he'd ever come out this way. Nick's sure he can just take credit and leave it at that, but maybe she's seeing some hidden angle that he hasn't caught on to yet?

"If we string some lights up in here," Kim points out thoughtfully, "We might actually be able to use the bottom floor, instead of camping outside all day."

"Hey," Nick laughs, "That's exactly what I was thinking."

"Am I supposed to pluck this whole thing myself ?" Carmina exclaims in horror from the kitchen.

"I'll be right there, honey," Nick calls, offering Kim a chair at the table. She takes it with a grateful smile, leaning into his hand as he briefly strokes her hair. "Not bad for a day's worth of work, huh?"

"Not bad," Kim agrees. Nick heads for the kitchen, unable to keep from humming some old-world song he can't remember the words to, happy to put aside his doubts about John for a couple of hours yet.

[dishonoredrpg]

Congratulations, TARYN! You’ve been accepted for the role of THE MOON with the faceclaim of FRIDA GUSTAVSSON. In spite of a few understandable bumps in the road, you really blew me away with Maiden! The Moon is a very understated character, to me, in that their subtleties and smaller notes are what really make them interesting. You took them in a direction I wasn’t expecting, but I enjoyed the ride nevertheless -- I also enjoyed the ups-and-downs of the plots quite a lot, and how you tied everything together with a nice little bow in regards to her interest in botany and the past which she is still trying to uncover. Altogether, this was a delight to read, and I can’t wait for Maiden to grace the dash!

Please review the CHECKLIST and send your blog in within 24 hours.

OOC NAME: Taryn PRONOUNS: She/her AGE: 21+ TIMEZONE, ACTIVITY LEVEL: PST & currently I’m stuck at home and rarely allowed to leave the house because I’m immunocompromised… bleh. In a week or so I’ll be considered okay to rejoin people, and then I’ll be on the job hunt - which I only mention because it may change my activity ability once that’s happening! I also do help out behind the scenes at another roleplay, so some creative juice goes there. Overall, ideally I’m at least online everyday to chat, plot, or post a reply. Some days the ole mental health needs me to stay off screens for a bit or just says You Aren’t Writing Today, but I’d say it’s been a while since I’ve gone more than 3 days without posting on an rp account, so whatever that translates to -- 7/10, maybe? ANYTHING ELSE?: Other than what I already messaged you about (and thank you again for your understanding!!), I just want to say I interpreted things a little differently than the recent skeleton edit/your anon answers imply -- I thought her magic manifested at thirteen with the instance of Moon freezing her mother’s arm, meaning her mother knew from that early age that Moon had powers, and only told Moon to leave when the rumours spread. I think that switches up the dynamic you might have imagined, but hopefully you still like it! I was also a little confused as to whether or not the Moon’s mother ever instructed her in the work she does -- because there is the “All she ever does in return is chuckle and pat you on the head, but you figure that she’ll tell you one day.” line, but it seems that’s when she’s younger, and I figured if she’s working as a botanist at the castle she must have been lessoned in the stuff to some degree. So there is mention of her mother teaching her botany in her history, but it’s not an ~important detail at all and could literally just straight up be removed from the bio without issue. Can you tell I’m anxious and need to over-clarify everything? Lmao. Anyway, thanks again Julie!! IN CHARACTER SKELETON: The Moon NAME: Maiden Mallorian / “Triss” I don’t largely go into naming conventions but I think there’s some worth in discussing it here! The use of Maiden as a given name is meant to embody an Otherness by using a commonly-used noun in place of a traditional name (... though I guess all names are nouns too… anyway), as well as a mystique. EG: If every young, unmarried woman is a maiden, then who is the girl we call Maiden? Is she all of those young women, or none of them - is she a person, or a concept? Can a woman even have an identity with a moniker shared by so many -- a similar question to can a girl have a sense of self if she is raised in isolation, if her teachers are not people but the meadows, the crows and the heaths and the moors? There’s also certainly the archetype of The Maiden in literature, particularly in relation to the trio of Maiden / Mother / Crone. Beyond her mother embracing this triumvirate of feminine archetypes and deliberately naming her after as much, there’s just that very literal interpretation - I’ve named her after the maiden archetype, pure and simple. Her mother is, clearly, the mother, and I see the High Priestess rounding out that divine feminine trio as the crone -- the most aged of all, the closest to death, and the bearer of the most knowledge. Furthermore you have the scrubbing of this name and the replacement of it with Triss -- a simple, short nickname that bares no importance or meaning, and instead effectively erases the things that made her unique. Maiden tends to forget or, at least, forgo introducing herself with the alias both because she dislikes and genuinely forgets to use it -- so you may have a smattering of people who know her in-character as Triss, but to those that she knows better and/or takes a liking to immediately, they’ll know her as Maiden. Which, if I’m continuing to be a little extra with the name analysis, is also a good representation of her duality/contradiction -- two names, two selves, two parts to the moon (glowing at night; invisible by day-hours), the illusion/deception part of the moon tarot, and all that jazz.   FACECLAIM: (1) Frida Gustavsson (2) Ashley Moore AGE: Twenty-five DETAILS: So, full disclosure, I’ve said it a dozen times to a dozen different people but I had the hardest time deciding on a character -- I was literally stuck between five or six skeletons until like 48 hours before the submit closed. They were as varied as The Moon to Temperance to even the dark horse of The Hermit plowing its way through my heart, and what attracted me to that array of characters on the whole was just the ability to see a story in them. I could find in each of them a distinct past and complex future, but the Moon ended up pulling ahead as I started to collect inspiration and jot down notes -- it was Maiden’s story that wouldn’t leave me alone. And I will go into an attempt to tell you why below, but realistically that’s almost the best reason I could give you -- because they won’t unstick from your shoulder or let you reach for someone else. They demand to be spoken for. Truthfully, I love tales of daughters and their mothers. I love the narrative passed between them, how one can be an extension of the other -- I love a retelling of an immaculate conception where the magic is found in the mother, not an absent-holy father (even if said immaculate conception is just myth, because who says a story isn’t as important as a truth). I love women and their stories, and how no girl is ever so far from being a witch -- basically, I adore that Girl Magic, so it was her background that appealed to me first. Because while we’re talking about Girl Magic, there’s such a potential for that with The Moon. I saw her at the crux of an eccentric mage and a clumsy apprentice, possibly hovering in the middle because she has no instructor, only herself -- so she is forced to experiment and create and learn all at once. I also love archetypes of wild women, though that doesn’t have to mean the ones that run with wolves -- sometimes it means the ones who sleep next to them. I’m very drawn to stories of the Others, the ones a half-step from society, who hold something unusual and distinctly enchanted about them -- and Maiden, whose magic has manifested in a way that may prove unique to all humanity, certainly has that Otherness going for her. Women in real life (and in fiction) are so often grouped into homogenous categories or expectations that being able to write one who not only defies societal conventions, but exists outside them entirely, and with contradictions inside her -- phew. That’s some shit I can fall in love with. I do find it difficult to dissect and lay out who Maiden is so plainly -- to me, that’s like writing an analysis on a novel I haven’t finished yet. I can’t separate her bones for you yet on the table because I’m still unrolling them from the skin myself, measuring out the angles of her joints, sizing up her feet, etc. But I like that I know this muse is going to unravel for me with time, despite how much I already have done -- that’s actually a very important note to me in a character, feeling that there is still progress to be made as both myself and the muse go through the roleplay together. Though, that being said, I also don’t remember the last time I’ve been able to create such a long-term character arc from the get-go -- which is super exciting, tbh, and yet another reason I got drawn into the Moon’s lunar pull over the others. Got me out here feeling like I could write a novel 😭 BACKGROUND: let us begin, as all stories do - and as they must - at the beginning. to be fair and honest, as stories never are, we must admit that this is not quite the true beginning. that beginning, in this case and all others, would mean the black-star start of the world (or in the very least, if we are to cheat just slightly, the origins of magic - but i digress), when everything came from nothing and nothing meant everything. but for both your time and mine, we will skip past the first red, slashed dawn of the world, and even beyond the fantastic sky-breaking initiation that brought magic, though they did not come all that far apart, as you may think. i also feel that it is my duty to you, dear reader, to state my bias. that is all. i state it. i type it in bold letters, black like stones from the bottom of a cold ocean and just as cold. it has been relayed, and i have done what is necessary. i have no obligation to further explain to you what it may be, or to who i am favored or embittered - indeed, i staunchly oppose such action, as you yourself must have an active part in this tale, a responsibility to seek out what is truth and what is exaggeration - and there is no point in asking. but don’t read too much into this. all this facetious, drawn-out text is only a disclosure. this is a story, real as your whale-blubber bones, and i am not lying about any of it. all i mean to say is this: it is a sign both of humanity and of narration that we should always, must always, pick a side. it is simply necessary, just as it is necessary to remember this when one is the listener. never believe a narrator who does not disclose themselves upon the opening of a story, and never trust one that calls themselves impartial. they are lying. it is only natural to crave loveliness, or wickedness, or both, and it can only be expected that a tongue slants and bends to accommodate such reactions of the heart. there is no story that is all truth. there is only love and the words we create to try and express it; never quite accurate, never quite enough, like a burr soaked in honey and left on your tongue. stinging and sweet, but no matter how you try, you cannot spit it out. (remember, look closely, but not too hard). this is our story. i leave it in your mouth. there are three things in succession: a bargain, a girl, and magic. the order of these both matters and does not. it does not matter because all these things are one and the same in the end. it does matter for reasons that will become apparent shortly. there is, as many tales go, an unhappy woman (why it is never a man that is so morose and dissatisfied with life in these stories, we shall leave for the scholars to explain). she lives in a stretch of land where few who are not seeking her come, and spends her days shucking the cures and harms out of flowers and counting the wolves that pass by her road. the first bargain, by all accounts, happens some time ago, before we begin the meat of our tale: the woman lives simply but she lives alone, and for that fact alone she is considered both strange and in necessary want of a companion, for it is a truth universally acknowledged that even a peculiar woman is in want of a husband. yet no sojourner or knight come to her door seeking remedy is invited to stay longer, no boots left at her doorstep despite the impressive if not daunting presence of her beauty, and in the absence of romance the people in the farmlands grow restless, then talkative. what does a woman want beside a mate, they wonder? particularly when she is young, and beautiful, and alone, they add, because in these stories and every one that will be told thereafter until my throat is split in a great red grin, that is all that matters to an active audience. a child, they murmur finally. it must be a child. there are varying accounts of what happens next, but let me give you the gristle: a swell comes to the solitary woman’s belly, and in more moons, so comes a daughter. no one remembers when she is born, and it is something of a wonderment that she exists at all; far and wide she is eyed thrice-over by all those who see her babe form swaddled in her mother’s arms, wondering over which crib she has been snatched from. the farm-folk in the nearby flatlands believe that she was not stolen or bred but placed, a changeling offered to her mother in exchange for a bargain made with the undying god, or conjured up by spell and pure maternal desire alone (for you were a fool if you believed these simple folk saw a woman, young and beautiful and alone and with her fingers in the dirt, and never called her witch). others still swear the child came from the unfolded petals of a white flower, her minute form bundled up where the pollen was meant to be. whether this gossip speaks to the audacity of the men in the telling of the lie or the stupidity of the listener for believing something so unnatural, i will let you decide. or perhaps you believe in magic. do you? i digress. so as you are learning, the first bargain is both unimportant and not. completely individual and irrevocably part of a far larger, grander whole, indistinguishable from the rest. but next comes the girl, as i promised. and she is very, very important. she is our story. she is her mother’s in full, because blood and magick are one and the same, and the farmers are right in this alone: her mother loves her as meat loves salt, as lions love flesh and blood and not cabbages, and there is no unnatural thing in this world she would not do to make her borne. she loves her from dusk to dawn and dirt to moon, and so she gives her a name stitched with irony so that the fates will not sew it into her bones: maiden. a thing from every story, a girl on every street. she names her after a concept so that she will always be real, made of life. so that the tales whose paths she walks will not decide for her. mother and maiden live in the little cottage in the wide grasslands between wicked wood and dry cropland, and in the nothingness they have everything they need. mother hunts for their supper and teaches maiden to carry a bow when it is time, and more importantly how to give thanks to the beasts they carve up on the wooden table. they collect logs for fires and till the gardens by hand, taking from the earth all that they need and never - as mother instructs - a drop more. they play games of knots and crosses in the dirt and maiden makes dramas with the figures mother whittles, and to give you the very best truth of all, they want for very little that they do not have. she learns how to be a raven (observing), a fox (clever), a rabbit (swift), a riddle (everything all at once, and only sometimes a girl) from mother and the animals both, and she walks about the meadows barefoot and learns from the trees and birds, loves them the way she never loves people only because she has not had the chance. mothers and fauna are all well and good to take lessons from, but they do make a strange girl. she tells her secrets to the bees and watches the far-off puffs of smoke from the farmlands, pretending they are streams from a dragon’s nostrils and not the warmth of a hearth with children her age sitting next to it so that she does not feel sorry for herself. to her, there are but two people: her mother, and the people she trades with. it is not so bad; they are both very good at being alone, and the people of the nearest town are even better at reminding them to stay that way. when they blow into the hamlet on the western breeze maiden makes games of hanging off porches and climbing things that should never be touched, and she laughs so freely all the other children cannot help but come out from their hiding places and join her until their fathers call them back in. not with her, they say. not that one. — but o, how sweet and precocious a child she is when the visitors come, wrists knotted behind her back and eyes tied forward as she questions their intentions and demands, as if in secondary payment, life stories as recompense for mother’s skills. how you would have loved her, i tell you, that girl with her flaxen hair and moon-eyes, tugging on sleeves and walking the verbal-stride of a child who never learned how to shrink herself — how i love her even now! and if i must tell you something else: magic is rarely courteous, and almost never consolatory. when it arrives, no matter how many pieces of furniture i have shifted in my heart to make way for a girl called maiden, it comes with no such open space in its pit. where i have crafted an open sitting parlour it has bedroom sets and wicker fruit baskets and even a few grand lamps (never mind the fact that lamps do not yet exist; in the cavity of magic, there are always lamps), and so when it arrives she feels the weight of all these things dropped upon her head. and mother, who does so well at holding her silence it resembles a newborn babe swathed in cloth, still grips the quiet as carefully as church glass - even with one arm in disuse. you know by now, of course, what has happened. it is no secret to you or i what occurred that day, as some pieces of stories swell until they brush up against the audience independent of the narrative altogether. the effect was grand even if the moment was not, for unfortunately sometimes even the greatest plot devices happen when the writer is sleeping and cannot pause to fancy it all up. one moment a hand is merely a hand passing twine and foxglove, the next it has frozen in place. it might have been a lovely image under any other circumstance: the look of a pale, slim arm grasping a hanging purple head of flowers beneath thick, glittering ice like a delicately painted carving in a snowglobe. But indeed, how the image shook them instead of the other way around. in an effort to distract her, mother peels open the earth’s secrets at the seam and lets her peek into the sticky, moist centers and slurp the knowledge for herself. she shows her how to unfold plant-magic on the large wood table and lessons her on how to use it kindly in poultices and elixirs and bunches of dried ravensmaw. she learns what is used for fresh wounds and the herbs best combined to stave off heartbreak, and they are more similar than you think. but things are, distinctly, never the same: in a house that has only ever had two voices, there arrives a great sweeping of silence. mother is far-away in a place of wondering, the spot where mothers are ought to go when considering how best to protect their child. maiden too spends time in that same seat questioning who it is that has made her and why they stole from two separate bowls of clay, though the pair never seem to sit down and share a table in that place in peace. life goes on this way, i am loathe to report, until it gets worse. there is an awful quiet that does not leave that house, suspended between the unasked questions of what to do and what am i? maiden is kept from leaving the cabin or its surrounding pasture in ever-climbing extents until she is nought but bound to them, and mother makes the trips to the farmlands for supplies alone and ushers her out of the room when clients arrive. so, here she is in full, with flaxen hair and a moon hidden underneath her tongue: clever and strange, curious and lovely, tall and just a little too spindly-boned. a raven, a fox, a rabbit, a riddle, and sometimes a girl. magic bound in bones. a shut-in who never had reason to grow a heart, but did anyway, and now she is left to the lonesome. truly, can we blame her for what she did next, for answering the door all those moons later simply because someone knocked, and letting them in without checking if their teeth were bicuspids or fangs? can we fault that lonely creature for believing she could help, and fixing the tonic herself rather than waiting for mother, as instructed? can we accuse her for what came next, the slimmest moment of ice crystals skittering across a workbench, cold little diamonds that another less-shrewd eye might have ignored, but this one picked out? and what of the day the child got lost with a thorn in its foot, how she snuck from the cabin and cooed for them till it was yanked free, the simple smoothing of her thumb over the sole leaving it smooth as milk — i ask you that, in true: what crimes would you charge her with? do you blame the tiger for its hunting? it is only following nature, after all. or do you cast your stones on the people who threw nets through the trees and called it protection, expecting not to bleed. one cannot take in a wolf and expect it to never look back at the forest, no matter how well fed it is kept. like a flower cannot choose its colour, we cannot help what we become. she could not help what she did. it was only in her nature. so like rain, like a black cloud, like bad omens, the rumours come for the maiden, the one in the meadow, the one in the little wooden hut with the strange-beautiful-alone mother. daughter is even worse than the mother, they say. i heard it was ice — no, wind — nay, she is vitalus too — they build and rise until mother-maiden can hear the gossip in the air, having travelled by raven-feather and west-wind. of course none of it is the truth, for she bares a reality that no one yet knows — something hidden away like an egg inside an egg at the deepest part of the world — but it does not matter. audiences do not look for fact, they clutch only to wickedness or sweetness, as i have already told you. mother grows panicked with hydrangeas of fear spouting out of her ears, demanding a flight to be taken, and daughter lies awake at night wondering how to do so without wings — questioning how it has come to pass that she knows the roots and berries and grass, but not the woods or how to survive in them. you know, still, what happens next. there is another knock at the door, and despite lessons learned, the maiden answers the call: and this time it is death standing there waiting. they come to an agreement. sometimes death, too, is kind. history peeks its lazy, pinned-down eyes around the corner when the maiden of this story leaves her little hovel, fingers made of revolutions and religions clinging tightly to the doorframe to watch her go. the journey is perilous and full of dark places and occasional humour, if you are interested in that kind of adventure. i will tell it another time, when the back of my tongue has been given rest. i wish i could tell you, dear reader, which sort of story this will be: drama or comedy, mask one or mask two. but i don’t know yet. we will find out together, which makes us accomplices, you and i - like colleagues. two thieves after the same jewel. i have told her story because i love her, this much you know to be true by now, because we do not let the ones we love tell war stories. which is, in essence, what every story we can ever tell is: a battle of wits, or a conflict of hearts, or the combat of self against self. there is always a fight against something. it’s the nature of humanity, to push and poke and burn. —- – and now you see what i meant at the beginning of this tale: bargain. girl. magic. all of it comes in that necessary order and none at all. bargain. it arrives first, before her birth, a rumour; at the same time, it is the last twist, the thing that brings her to this castle. girl. she is born; she exists. magic. her blood, her marrow; a complexity of sparks and hope. a beginning, a middle, an end. a circle. a moon. PLOT IDEAS: These are laid out in a potential arc/chronological order of when I see them happening, but with the exception of a few, almost any combination could work! I. SHUCKED FROM PETALS. I’d like to grow Maiden’s role as a botanist -- both in terms of having her interest in botany itself swell, and also expand this into something of an inventor or potioner function. While she’s currently making strange concoctions at the King’s request, as an inherently curious woman I see these demands as something that will spark interest in her to create on her own. While in her youth she quizzed her mother on the applications of leaves and stems, now that she has no mentor for the process, she can only question and find answers by working through the hypotheses and methods herself. II. ON THE BASIS OF MORALITY. I see very strongly Maiden descending further into the plot to assassinate Septimus and joining the group of revolters in a more tangible way. Her ability to fight and knowledge of courtly life are both lacking, but she offers a unique vantage point of visiting all manner of individuals with the perfect excuse -- their health. As she becomes more decidedly entangled in the rebellion efforts and subsequently offers up her services to them, she begins to craft salves and potions with hidden effects, used in application against those they stand against (a poultice made with an herb that lends to truth when tending to someone with information / a drought with added pollen so that a guard may sleep through their shift that night, etc). Less fleshed out, but still worth noting: if the laced salves and elixirs are a no-go, she could slide into something of a spy/informant role fairly easy. Again, she has easy access to any array of people as the castle, and can come and go from different bedsides silently -- listening in on conversations all the while. III. FASTER THAN MINE ARROW. At the behest of the revolution -- where intentions ring with righteousness yet impact may be less virtuous -- I see Maiden encouraged to embrace her Inferni powers by rebel cohorts. While it’s not a path I see her arriving at and walking on her own, as she entrenches herself in the ideals and plots of the revolution, it would still be a willingly-made choice -- albeit perhaps still a reluctant one. She far prefers to heal than harm, but as the plot to kill Septimus ripens, she would accept the notion that an offensive skill gained by her becomes a shield and sword to the cause. I interpret this as less of an embrace of violence and more an eventual acceptance of her magic in all its parts; Maiden removing her gloves and making attempts at practicing Inferni magic brings with it an acknowledgement that not only are these powers part of her but they are hers alone to control. If she can develop some mastery over them, she can use them as she sees morally right, rather than their use dictated to her by others (so she believes). I want to see her not think of her magic as an intrusion and a mystery, but rather some native at the pit of her -- like stone in a fruit. As long as it is there, one could not bite straight through her. Sub-bullet because it’s not a huge thing, but I’d love a moment where she’s practicing with the ice in the greenhouse and loses control, subsequently destroying much of the flora in there beyond salvation -- cue a sobbing Maiden. Also! Would love to use this as an excuse for the Hierophant to become a sort-of mentor for her -- a dynamic she would undoubtedly seek out and beg for if the time came. IV. WHERE TRUTHS CONFLICT. As clearly as I envision Maiden’s loyalties knotting tighter to the revolutionaries, I don’t believe her resolution is iron in every aspect. While she may agree that King Septimus needs to be removed, deciding which successor she wishes to support would be far harder. This plot could be as simple as indecision and uncertainty on Maiden’s part, or could be as complex as a more nefarious individual taking advantage of her courtly ignorance and indecisiveness by manipulating her into backing their pick for future ruler. V. THE CURE & THE RUIN. Working intimately with anything lends to cross-contamination -- including poisonous plants. My thoughts on this fork a few different ways here, albeit my personal fave is the first bullet: Through her own misinformation or inexperience, Maiden accidentally begins to poison herself through prolonged exposure to toxic flora and their materials. Seeing as she’s in the greenhouse for hours at a time nearly every day, this would lend to a good, steady incline of symptoms -- paranoia, delusion, hallucinations, etc until they potentially culminate in a kind of temporary “madness.” An individual or party on the loyalist side discovers what she is doing for the revolters, and applies the same concept -- a slow poisoning, made to look accidental by exposure to the wrong flower. This may be less likely as it might be implausible for another character to have a knowledge of botany that surpasses her own and plant something toxic in the Greenhouse without Maiden realizing, but I’m totally open to it! Similar to the last, rather than a loyalist poisoning Maiden, they find a way to access her stash of concoctions and alter them so that they harm rather than heal those she is working with. Could be particularly dramatic if she is working long-term on a member of royalty or influential revolution member -- ie. something like visiting them daily to apply salve on a new wound that needs consistent tending. VI. WHAT ARE YOU, SWEET CREATURE? Maiden’s dual powers are bound to come into public knowledge eventually, and I think there’s the opportunity for some terror and delight there. I’ve been ruminating a lot on what the hybrid of her Inferni and Vitalus powers mean -- An Inferni rarely lives past thirty, and Maiden is already twenty-five. I’ve been imagining that she has not seen or felt the costs of her power like other Inferni due to the innate nature to heal, which is undoubtedly something other Inferni would desire. Whether Maiden willingly lays herself down to experimentation in the name of aiding the Hierophant or she’s literally captured by Septimus and crew for a less careful kind of research -- I’d love to see her secret blown up and her safety compromised as a result. VII. IT HURTS TO BECOME. I have little octopus tentacles coming out of this plot because I can see multiple variations on the same idea, so -- As inspired by the “Vitalis magic often manifests itself in nobility” line from the magic page, Maiden is discovered as the descendent of a noble bloodline. This could mean her father was the bearer of a title, or that even in a Mother Gothel-esque fashion her mother took her from a family in the desire to have her own child (though I favour the former). This is less about an advancement in her social standing/hierarchy and more about playing further with the themes of birth and identity. Particularly as an individual that isn’t well-matched to courtly manner and expectations, what would it be to disturb her peculiar existence further and force her into a lifestyle she has no interest in? How does it detract from her purpose and goals? Her mother is found out as someone who previously stayed at the Temple of the Undying and departed in some form of scandal known to the High Priestess. I think this would be particularly impactful if her mother’s time there overlapped directly with the High Priestess, and their relationship marked by some form of betrayal on her mother’s end. This would make her mother a necromancer, a fact that if going from this route was certainly kept from Maiden, or we could work with the concept that perhaps she was merely an emissary there. This bullet is less formed as it would require plotting with at least one other player, but essentially it boils down to braiding the High Priestess into her backstory (or, at least, the Temple of the Undying) -- a completion of the maiden/mother/crone build, if you will. Realistically, the above could be combined -- her mother has a past tied to both the Temple of the Undying, and her father is of noble descent. Lastly, this idea could also be twisted into a falsehood/manipulation of someone from Septimus/the Loyalist side -- she does not have noble blood and/or her mother’s past is made up, but they have fed her this story(s)  in an attempt to distract/derail her from her purpose, or otherwise sway her onto the side of the Crown. VIII. THE MAIDEN IN THE TOWER. I see very clearly what Maiden could be in years time -- in the same way the King has the Tower, or perhaps even The High Priestess, I envision the capacity for Maiden to become an advisor in the arcane arts to the future ruler. This is very epilogue-esque content, the resolution to a tale long told, something far-off and subject to change depending on how the roleplay unfolds -- but if I was planning her arc from where I stand now, that would be the resolution. A femme!Merlin now in tune with her magicks, a strange figure forever working away in her greenhouse-laboratory in the highest room in the tallest tower, descending to the court only to offer counsel and smile at a few bugs… art. And maybe, just maybe, there’s even a bard out there singing about a strange moon-touched woman and her magic, who came from the Farmlands and ended up in a castle. That, I think, would make an awfully good story. CHARACTER DEATH: I’m definitely not opposed to it! If you see a plotline where her death makes sense I’m open to at least having the discussion -- it would probably depend how I’m feeling about her character development, as I do see quite clearly how far Maiden could develop with extensive, long-term rping (the Merlin-esque shit) and it’d be super cool to get there. WRITING SAMPLE SAMPLE #01. TWENTY-FIVE. CASTLE TYRHOLM, THE GREENHOUSE. Based on headcanons found in the extra section! it is the damnable wine she calls to blame for her recession from the great hall. yet still unused to its potency, it turns her stomach and her mind with it, until she is unbalanced and sure a marble placed upon the centre of her would roll only to one side, lolling comically behind her left ear. maiden swears she can hears it as she takes her leave from the night’s feast, a hideous clacking circling around her skull as she takes the steps to the greenhouse. the sound was a well accompaniment to the noise of heart against rib, that lub lub that reminisced so closely to collection of stones in a velvet satchel. how is that for an appraisal, she thinks. an inferni and a vitalus yet, and yet you cannot even hold your liquor. down below, music begins. septimus is performing one of his many wonders, conjuring up new entertainments like a foreigner’s god and his labours – things meant to fell mortal men in their spectacle. the sound, though muffled by stone, is light and deceptive with a beat kept by tambourine and wound through with panpipes. it crashes and crawls as a serpent through brush, dragging its body across the span of men’s shoulders and up the marble spires until it reaches the slender ankles of maiden high above, who slips from the darling (albeit pinching) satin slippers borrowed from the magician. o, that that song had teeth. it would sink them pit-deep into that lovely, exposed ankle. the footfalls that emerge from the far entrance are remote in distance, yet the cadence of it -- quick and spry, in the pattern of a courtly dance -- are close and recognized by ear in an instant. “your skill is in the making of noise, bard. so i would suggest --” she calls to armel with a bland hum, bent over a troop of growing windflowers as she cuts the largest at the stalk, her sharp fingernail used in place of scissors. “leaving behind these foolhardy attempts to remove sound from your being altogether.” maiden looks up then to the musician’s hiding place, half-covered as he is by bushes camellias and hanging vines. the look given beneath her brows is chiding, but it is a reproach with a single candle lit within, a glance perhaps warmed by liquor despite its meaning. “how do you always do that?” he asks, and maiden decides there is something rather feline about him as he emerges from the brush, shoulders rolling with that mandolin hoisted over one. “i didn’t say a word.” “you do not need to. your stroll speaks for you.” the air is moon-hot and the music swells below them, rising like tide to their knees, now their hips. her voice is cut-rope, one end loose in the water, and maiden lets the tide of the pull her, only one end remaining on shore. “asides…” she sighs, “you limp on the left.” “i do not.” “indeed you do. like a horse with a lame leg.” it is a full-force lie, dropped into a casket of wine and pulled out stinking, and armel catches her half-crescent smile at the same moment he spots her bare feet. “i suppose you won’t be returning to the ball, then.” maiden turns and takes to walking the length of the greenery. her back turns to him, but not unkindly; instead her slow, graceful gait seems an invitation to join, though he does not follow. she listens to armel as she winds through the tall grass, eyes upon the stalks, searching for anything that might catch her eye. in the moonlight she is all silhouette and odd-shapes, ever and always a little too-tall, a little too sharp-boned at the joints. but when she moves like this, slow and easily-flooded as moonlight itself, one could forget all that. “dancing slippers are quite unsuitably named,” she says by way of answer as the bard begins an absent strum on his instrument. “they give me no motivation at all to partake in such merriment.” armel does not answer, instead quite pensively continuing to pluck at notes while looking at the near distance -- assumedly undergoing great internal debate as to whether or not he was, truly, a lame horse. “a peace —” she slides the long stem of a gore-red windflower behind his ear when next she passes, as natural a move as though it were but tucking a strand of her own hair behind her ear. maiden smiles. “you actually limp on the right.” //

SAMPLE #02. AGE FIFTEEN. A MOMENT OF WEAKNESS & A DESPERATE ATTEMPT. Fire, it would seem, had ceased to be a friend to her. As a girl she had delighted in it, waving her hands above it, warming herself on it, staring at every passing wooden cart laden with people in the chance that one of them could be a fire-eater. Ice, that thing that ate and yawned across lakes and thatched roofs as if it remembered it had once devoured the world, was far more cruel in Maiden’s opinion. Could I not, at least, have had that which heats and provides sustenance? And more than even these sweet instances from childhood, she knew of fire intimately as an adult. It was a different kind of flame that brewed in her than what ran free in the wild; it was less violent and more warm, meant for thawing out the cold hands of children or creating delightful ever-shifting silhouettes on walls. She walked alone because she liked it, and spoke to strangers for great lengths of time because it excited her. That was her kind of fire, and so Maiden - it could be said - was as much flame as anyone, even as she chilled the air around her with her very presence. That was why, as she sat on her knees before the great outstretching flames of the parlour’s hearth, she had no caution as she threw paper into its guts. “Enough of this!” The girl was alone, but spoke aloud: it was part of her charm. Like a girl in a folktale who was subjected to life in a tower, she existed brightly when on her own because she knew no other way. The Mallorian girl did not need the accompaniment of another to prove her own worth. The fire sputtered charmingly in response, engorging itself as it swallowed paper and turned it into little pieces of nothingness. “No more curses, no more ice or damned magic!” Her hand shakes, but her heart holds its breath and remains steady. Stained at the tips with ash and melted ink, Maiden sits back on her thighs with a great tremble and stares into the flames before she falls to the pose of prayer. “Undying God, harbinger of all things, if this is your doing, let it be undone. I have wronged you not at all, nor my mother; I am not your child. Please.” Her ears burned pink with fear for addressing a deity with the same volume she would have a man standing before her, but it was too early to stop now. She pauses momentarily, straining to listen for a rumbling voice come from within the fire or swung in on the wind and branches. There is nothing but the crackle of pop of breaking wood. “Then -- then if it is the household spirits come for me, unhappy gnomes with rumbling tummies ‘for we have not been feeding them, emerge now! Or call it all off! Call it off, I say, spirits - take this magic from me so I may live in peace!” Again, she waits. And perhaps, if you would hold your hands over the ears of your heart and allow this young woman to admit it, she might have told you that she truly expected a troll-like little fellow with a green cap and scowling mug to emerge from beneath the ottoman. But there still is nothing, not even the tap of impatient little feet from behind the curtains, and her brows furrow as she stares into the hot gold and rose colours of the fire. Maiden sighs, a heavy breath that drops out of her mouth and rolls into the soot of the hearth. She suddenly feels much too old for these follies. Looking over at the pile of hastily-written spells and official decrees of intent (from Maiden to the Undying God, officially) to rid herself of this curse, the wheat-and-snow coloured girl pauses (and it pains me to say it, dearest reader, but the truth of the matter is that in the light of this blaze, she very much resembles the beautiful women you read about who either have very tragic ends or very wonderful ones in tales you all know). She had burned not even half yet, each one a representation of a day that had been ruined by questions or cold or mother’s worry, and there were still more to go. But no sign of the Undying in her great black steed, or impish house elves crawling out from the cracks beneath the woods. For a moment, she considers stopping. She considers picking up the remainder of the letters, tying them up with some of mother’s twine, and returning them to their proper drawer in the study. But as her hand hovers of the papyrus, her heart protests and causes her to pause. She is, after all, no girl in the tower. She will not sit in anybody’s stomach and wait for the woodsman. And if, in the odd and unusual chance that this circumstance of odd and unusual proportions is caused by something otherworldly, Maiden Mallorian shall not bow to it. No, no bowing indeed. “Now listen here --” Her voice raises, grows taller and older. It might be imagination, but the fire seems to as well. “Whether you be Undying God or lowly household gnome, I shall have no more of this. Do you understand? Are you listening, creatures?” There is nothing so impressive as unafraid, youthful folly. “I shall not be carried away to a cold temple to be a child of misery, and will not let this magic ruin me if you shall not bring me answers. If one of you are indeed responsible for this, it ends now. I am Maiden Mallorian, daughter of Yareli; and a right all in my own!” The sweet curves of her breasts rise and fall like toppling empires as she throws the remainder of the pages into the fire, staring fiercely into the contents as if to decipher an answer in their ash. There is a sudden seizure in her instead, a tight and pressing thing foreign to her soft-spun body. It demands something of her, as intent as fingers pressing into her ribs. She picks up the letter opener at her side, brought from the study to slide open old envelopes, but now she raises it to her chin and cuts in one fell swoop. It does not happen with ease, but off comes a handful of her hair. The edges of her locks are jagged, but the pieces in her palm look like fine oat straw that glitter in the light. She throws that, too, into the pile, and does not realize it has chilled. “There.” She speaks. It is solid and sure and sane. “There is my tribute.” Magic cannot be made by offering someone else’s liver. You must tear out your own and never expect to get it back. “Please... take it away.” Her voice, once grand and ringing of dynasties past, now calms. She begins to sound once more like only a girl of this century. “I am… Maiden Mallorian… and I do not wish to live a life of unhappiness.” The strength that once held her shoulders aloft departs in a gentle breath, leaving her soft to touch -- quivering. “If you shall not take this from me... I will make my own way, no matter who has done this -- be it God or beast or some creature in between --” She stands, in possession of some quiet power. “One day I will find my truth. And then I will know a free heart at last.” She leaves before the paper and hair have all disappeared, trusting the fire -- that once-longtime friend, that formerly beloved and willingly indentured servant -- to do as it is meant to. As the cold evening wages on the flame starts to die, and, left unattended, everything turns to ash. All that is left in the hearth of the Mallorian home is the same colour: black. But it is not a frightening colour if you look closely. It seems, perhaps, the ink in this story is drying. It is time for a new chapter.

EXTRAS A NOTE ON ~MAGICK: I just wanted to state that while I loved imbuing her story/personality with themes of oddity and enchantment, I don’t expect any of these things to be real. Her biography was supposed to be an exaggerated verbal retelling, and in example: the rumour that Maiden’s birth was the result of not a normal conception but pure willpower and magic is just that -- hearsay crafted by unnerved townsfolk trying to justify a strange, unmarried woman in the woods and her peculiar daughter. I’m also not sure what balance you’re looking to strike between realism and fantasy, so if things like her pet owl are too much the former -- no problem!! I could definitely tone down anything you think is too out there! PINTEREST: here. MUSE TAG: here. CHARACTER INSPIRATIONS BIG AND SMALL!: Kayley (Quest for Camelot), Garrett (Quest for Camelot), Phoebe Buffay (Friends), Amalthea (The Last Unicorn), Rapunzel (Tangled), Merlin (The Sword in the Stone), Arthur (The Sword in the Stone), Taran (The Black Cauldron), Eilonwy (The Black Cauldron), Katrina van Tassel (Sleepy Hollow (1999)), Nimue/Lady of the Lake (Arthurian mythology), Honey Lemon (Big Hero 6), Vasya Petrovna (The Bear and the Nightingale by Katherine Arden), Kida (Atlantis: The Lost Empire), The Mage (King Arthur: Legend of the Sword), Luna Lovegood (Harry Potter), Thumbelina (fairytale), Circe (Circe by Madeline Miller), Yvaine (Stardust) HEADCANONS: She has a mild form of associative prosopagnosia, a type of facial blindness. While Maiden can distinguish faces from one another, it’s essentially difficult for her to recognize those she’s newly met or has not known (and subsequently seen) for a certain amount of time. As her youth in the woods meant infrequent visits from varying strangers and acquaintances, Maiden learned from a very young age to identify those she met with other signifiers -- the pitch of their voice, their cadence, the pattern of their boots on her mother’s shop’s creaky wood floor -- and she has become exceptional at it. While she may struggle to associate new faces with names, if she has heard your voice or the template of your gait, it is likely she can recognize you from the sound of these alone in the next room. Contingent on the above, I like to picture a longstanding game between Armel and Maiden with him attempting to sneak up on her, trying to outdo her hearing abilities only to be smoothly called out each time -- like the first twenty seconds of this scene from Tarzan. -- And obviously this was inspo for one of my writing samples! Major sweet tooth, and most likely has a standing relationship with The Hanged Man who provides her with desserts in exchange for tonics or pouches of seasoning curated from Maiden’s personal collection up in the greenhouse. Alternatively, she’s The Hanged Man’s personal Garfield, constantly being chased out of the kitchen before she can stick a finger in icing or steal a hot bun. Another Armel headcanon because I’m a sucker for a Found Sibling dynamic: Maiden has been teasing him for ages with the concept of knowing (and withholding) an Epic Folksong that her mother taught her and that would be just perfect for him to perform. There’s every likelihood that there is no song and she’s made it up to amuse herself, but every once and a while she hums a foreign tune or drops a few words from the “lyrics” to keep him interested. If it is a real song, bonus points if she’s making Armel do little chores etc to earn another piece of the song. Subject to plotting with Death’s player, I imagine her nickname/alias Triss was borne from a singular moment where they introduced her to someone within the castle upon arrival -- only to bluster that she used that strange name, Maiden, which confused the third party. Death makes a quick save by adding that “she means only that she is a maiden from the Farmlands,” and creating the assumed name on the spot, forcing Maiden to adopt it. Both due to falling asleep atop a text after extensive nights reading and researching and the comfort of being around plants, Maiden often sleeps in the greenhouse -- in fact, she prefers it to the cramped quarters she’s been given, and keeps a spare blanket there at all times. In the greenhouse has also come into residence a fat, one-eyed grey cat who she has named Augrunn, known affectionately (or otherwise) Auggie. Grumpy and demanding, Maiden found him taking shelter in the greenhouse on a particularly rainy day, and though he comes and goes as he pleases, it’s now effectively his home. Auggie is known to both yowl for personal space if you’re too close and swipe if you stop petting him too early. Similarly, Maiden has an owl-friend whose name I haven’t decided on, but the front-runner is currently Archimedes. Unbothered by Augrunn’s attempts to snatch him out of the air, he’s a chill little feather-loaf that watches the comings and goings of the greenhouse from the carved wood perch she has made him. He is aware of the location of Maiden’s sleeping quarters, and can occasionally be found sitting on her windowsill when she’s there. She bruises very easily, even in circumstances unrelated to use of her Inferni magic -- just as likely to get a mark from walking into a corner as she is to scar from the use of her ice powers. Insects don’t bother her in the slightest. Growing up in a small home filled with plants, there were always bugs crawling around the flora, and Maiden appreciates them all. She will 100% pick up the scary spider you’re flinching from and make sure they get back to their web. Prefers to be barefoot, and likely does not share the same feelings of taboo around exposed skin as most others -- to her, flesh is only flesh, and a very natural thing at that. Temperature is a funny thing for her -- given that she seems to emanate a kind of cold, I think it stands to reason that she doesn’t easily chill, but that it is also hard to heat her up. I picture it like a normal hand held above a flame, then one stuck in the snow -- it’s going to take longer for her to melt before she feels any pain from the fire. CONNECTIONS: *Obligatory these are just ideas and I’m totally open when it comes time to plotting with these players! THE HIEROPHANT: Chihiro and Haku vibes (that sort-of-romance entirely unnecessary, though I would be down for Maiden to have a little crush), basically. Give me a Maiden as impressed by their showy nature as their inner fire to overthrow Septimus -- an Inferni mentor, even, or just an individual that helps guide her through the dangers of Tyrholm’s court. Also… ice and fire... I meant to do more but ran out of time rip

[askbloomtale]

Chapter 16 is up!!! This chapter has 8000 words and it took me a lot to write! Sorry for being inactive, I just wanted to have it all neatly tied before I continued forward. This chapter is important! So please enjoy and read carefully~

In other news... this blog almost reached the 1000 followers!! It’s a really HUGE number, specially taking into account that this is a fic, and generally fics get less attention than comics, [sad truth </3], so I’m really excited for this! Thank you all for following my story <3

I think that once I reach 1000 words I’ll start working on a small comic featuring Athela <3 So you get to know her better... know what I mean?

Really, guys, THANK YOU! I am so pumped!!!

I’ll leave you to the fic now~

For those who can’t access AO3 or just don’t want to do it, the chapter is pasted under this sexy cut!!!

Bloomtale

Chapter 16 – The last light

   After spending what felt like hours roaming around Snowdin Forest, Athela had finally done it. Finally.  After encountering angry teenagers, dogs, bunnies, ice, giant snowballs and purple flags, she had finally managed to find a save point. How delightful.

The young skeleton was so glad to feel at least some little bit of progression. She just ran to it when she saw it, and would’ve bumped it if the glimmering star had any kind of physical form. But it had naught. It was just a piece of light.

Smiling widely, Athela cupped the shiny fragment with her bony hands, trying to get at least some warmth from it. She was freezing, so much that she could barely feel her fingers. And just staying next to that thing was good, so…

  “Phew,” she let out a relieved sigh when she felt the warmth getting through her bones. The flowers coming out from her eye sockets seemed to get less rigid, too, but it wasn’t exactly enough. She still felt them a bit stiff, so the skelly used her own magic to warm them up.

  Soon enough her left eye started steaming, like a coffee pot. With a pretty blue hue, the vapor went up into the… sky? Ceiling? And made Athela giggle because of the funny, bolstering fog. That felt so much better.

  She didn’t want to save her progress yet, though.

  First, she took a look around her. She was a curious lady, and she wanted to investigate everything. She felt safe enough, since the room was empty of any living being; and she wasn’t going too far, so she left the saving process for later.

  What called out her attention first was the plate of… food, now at her left. Sitting atop a small wooden table, there was what definitely looked like food. Intrigued, she took a better look…

 …

  Spaghetti?

  It definitely looked like spaghetti. There was even a fork next to it… maybe it was someone’s lunch? Athela wasn’t going to lie to herself, she WAS feeling hungry. A bit.

 Rummaging through her belongings, she discovered she still had Toriel’s pie. Looking at it filled her with nostalgia and sadness… she missed the old lady. But she wasn’t answering her phone, so what could she do about it…

 Anyway. She should eat that piece of delicious pastry soon, but… it felt like a waste, to eat it at that precise moment in time. She should leave it for a special occasion... It just felt wrong, to eat it in the middle of the forest.

 She left the pie alone.

  Her eyes went to the spaghetti yet again. Maybe she could eat it… but it surely was someone else’s food, right? And she wasn’t sure about eating food from a foreign place anyway. What if it was bad? Athela was quite picky, after all.

  Hm, what to do…

  While she thought about it, she noticed a note lying next to the table, on the ground. She bent down to get it, and then read it out loud.

  “I made too much spaghetti, so rejoice! I will hereby donate this great leftovers to the public! It’s like a playground for your mouth!” Athela couldn’t repress a growing smile as she read through the message. It was pretty cute. And a really nice detail, to top it! She read the signature, which was written in bigger, somehow cooler letters “Nyeh- heh- heh, Papyrus.”

  A signature! Great. Now she knew that the one who made the spaghetti was named Papyrus.

 …

 She didn’t know that Papyrus person at all, so the name didn’t tell her anything anyway.

  Athela sighed as she left the note on the ground again, wishing she did at least know who Papyrus was. She would thank him… or her, she wasn’t sure. Papyrus sounded like a guy’s name, so she would go with “he” for the time being. Yes, she would thank him for the food, and maybe they could be friends… maybe. Or maybe not, maybe he would also be a weirdo that enjoyed attacking her just because.

 But she doubted that. She would believe in that seemingly kind person, because leaving food for people was something nice. Surely he would not be a strange guy. In fact, the only strange thing there was the location of the plate itself. Why leave it in the middle of the forest? Wasn’t there a place less… cold?

  Oh well, she wasn’t going to say no to free food.

 …

 Or maybe she would. It would all depend on the flavor of the dish itself.

   She gave one final look to the plate and went for the fork immediately afterwards. With it, she went for the spaghetti. She poked them with it.

 …

 The spaghetti was completely stiff. And also stuck to the plate.

  “Wow.” Athela rose an eyebrow, partially confused, but mostly disappointed. That meant no food was gonna be eaten, then. What a shame. She poked a bit more, frustrated. Even the tomato sauce was rock hard. She tried grabbing the plate, but the plate was also stuck to the table.

  How sad… it was too cold for you to leave your food out there, apparently.

  She left the fork with a heavy sigh, and then noticed… the microwave.

  To her right, there was another table with a microwave. Maybe she could heat up the spaghetti and then…!

  …

 …

  Huh. It was unplugged.

  “Why…?” Athela sighed, disheartened. Food was nice, who would do this? It all felt like a big prank where she was offered food but could never eat it. Why put it there in the first place?? Sad face. To add more of the ridiculous factor to the whole thing, all of the microwave settings said ‘spaghetti’.

Well, she would not blame the person who put that there. Surely that Papyrus guy did it with all his good intention, and didn’t expect the food to freeze like that. The unplugged microwave was… something else, alright, but still. It didn’t look like something done out of ill will. Maybe Papyrus never realized it didn’t work. So it was all fine… well, mostly.

Because poor Athela was even hungrier now that she had seen food. She wanted to eat something… but alas. Nothing could be done. She whined a bit, and then… a squeak. Surprised, the skeleton rose her head and looked at the further wall. There was a small mouse looking out from one hole. What a cutie, she thought. Maybe it was hungry too?

 But she had no food to offer. It was all frozen. Like herself. She was like a plate of spaghetti out in Snowdin Forest, doomed to freeze if left alone for too long.

 …

 That was a bit depressing. Begone, bad thoughts! She was not going to freeze! That’s what hunger gets you, a miserable skeleton. But… so what!?

  So maybe she could never get the pasta. What about it? She would eat something eventually, for sure!

 But the mouse? If the mouse lived there, maybe it would be able to get it! Maybe one day it would find a way to heat up the spaghetti, and therefore eat it. She could already imagine the little rodent chewing on a noodle, with a proud expression on its cute rodent face.

  And that thought.

 It filled her with a good feeling.

   “Ouch!” Athela quickly brought a hand to her skull and grasped her hair once she felt a painful pressure on the right side of her head. What a familiar feeling…

  Looking behind her, she saw the save point glimmering more intensely than before. So that meant her progress had been saved, huh? As always. She was already getting used to the process… but she could never get used to the overall feeling.

 At least she didn’t have to worry about suddenly dying and going back to the box road anymore, and that was good. So she just sighed, and after warming up a bit more next to the golden light she decided to continue her journey. Maybe there wasn’t much more of a road to walk. Maybe the town was… just ahead.

 Hehe.

  It wasn’t.

  Of course it wasn’t. Athela sighed once more as she saw a more deserted area, which had a few more pine trees covered in snow. She took a step ahead, and then noticed a sign that was right next to one of the first trees to her left. She got closer to it and read it out loud.

  “Warning: Dog Marriage,” she pronounced those words with quite a confused tone. “What does that even mean?” The skeleton pondered as she rubbed her temples. Could dogs even marry?

  … Well, that was a dumb question. She just saw a dog monster that was taller than she was. There were surely more. And maybe some were married. Athela spent some seconds imagining a female dog monster dressed with a white gown, smiling as she grasped a beautiful bouquet of white roses. A dog with a fancy black tuxedo waiting for her at the altar, with a silly smile on his face. She chuckled at the thought. It was just like in those cartoons she watched when she was really small… what was the name of the show again?

 She couldn’t quite remember.

  But wait, that wasn’t the time to be fascinated by dog weddings. That sign was a warning signal. Warning. What was the warning about, exactly? She didn’t know. But… maybe she should just avoid dog monsters in general. In fact, after her last encounter with one of them, that seemed to be the best possible idea. Yes.

  The sign truly worried her, actually. Regardless of whether she would encounter married dogs or not, it meant that there would BE, at least, some dogs in the area. She looked around, nervous. Which path should she take now?

  She looked at her left. The road ended there, the end of the cliff let Athela see a beautiful sight; it was really dark and it was hard to see, but… she could see something if she stared for a bit. The trees looked really small, and there was a little house, and… and… she didn’t want to get any closer to the edge. She didn’t feel comfortable around high places anymore, because she could fall down and break into dust yet again. So she would… go forward.

 There was another path at her right, but she had been going forward all the time, so she would stick to that. She gave a brief look to the snowy path and then started walking again.

 This area didn’t seem as eerie as the latest ones, Athela thought as she took a look around. She didn’t know why, but it was less creepy. Still not her piece of cake, but at least she wasn’t scared to walk around there, unlike the very first path she walked in. The skeleton took a second to remember the tall trees from the beginning of the forest, the sensation that someone was following her.

 …

 Well, she was certainly being followed. By Flowey. Athela didn’t have the slightest idea where he was, but he surely was creeping around. As he always did. It had been a while since she saw him, but no way had she forgotten about him so fast.

  Trying to forget about the flower demon, Athela came to a stop.

  “A dead end…” She groaned as she looked at the literal end of the road. Another precipice, huh? Great. Now she would have to take the other road… not like it annoyed her much, but she had been wanting to get to a cozy warm place for a long time, now. She didn’t enjoy retracing her steps.

  She was about to turn around, when suddenly…

 A bark.

  “Huh?” Athela tried to look for the source of the noise. She didn’t have to look much; right behind a tree, a fully-armored dog watched her with big, intense eyes. He was wielding a stone dagger… and the skeleton didn’t like that.

  Why was there an armored pup in the middle of the forest?

  Athela would not really think about it too much.

She laughed weakly as the dog got out of his hiding spot, panting softly.

   “H-hey, doggy…” She shakily waved a bony hand, and the dog followed it with his eyes. Oops. Maybe that had been a bad idea… It would be really horrible if that pooch thought her hands were a dog treat. Athela decided to retreat. “Sorry, I… I have to go…”

  She took a single step backwards.

  The dog took a single step forward.

  Athela gulped, feeling a chill down her spine. She took another step back, and the dog followed. He emitted a tiny bark and cocked his head to one side.

 …

  To be fair, he looked quite cute… Maybe she could… give him a little pet.

 No, no, no way. He was looking at her weirdly, as if he wanted something from her. Something like a bone. No, not her bones, she needed them to live!!

  Scared, she decided to try and ignore the dog, so she walked faster to take the path she needed to walk. Heavy steps followed her, and she felt like freaking out. The faster she walked, the faster the pup followed. Maybe he meant no harm, but boy, she was afraid.

  Barks intensified.

She started running.

  And soon enough, she was on the floor. Bumped by a big, armored dog, who was extremely heavy. Her head almost hit on a rock that was merely inches away, and Athela felt her SOUL skip a beat. Well, maybe more than a single beat.

  “Eek!! Get off, get off!!” She pleaded as she desperately tried to lift her body upwards. Thankfully, she had managed to avoid her face sinking in the snow, because that would’ve led to some painful, freezing moment. Her flowers wouldn’t have liked that.

  However, the dog was too heavy. Surely most of the blame was on the armor he was wearing… Athela was pretty weak, and putting such a heavy thing on top of her was… well, it was bad. It hurt. It hurt a lot, and it made her sink in the snow more and more.

  The dog was not obeying her, he kept sitting on top of her and yapping. Athela knew she would break soon enough. She knew she was going to die. A single tear escaped her left eye as she tried to wiggle her way out… but to no avail. She wasn’t getting away.

 It was cold. Her clothes were wetting, and it was freezing. It was painfully heavy… she shrieked a bit, but her voice came out muffled.

  She would pass out soon; Athela didn’t know when, but soon. It was that, or bury her face in the snow to make it quicker. She didn’t want to die… but she couldn’t do anything.

  For the first time ever, she wished she could just go back in time by herself. To the save point. She wished it with all her might. To escape the pain. Just… escape…

  …

  Of course she couldn’t do that.

  Her ribs snapped.

She was hiding.

  It had been a couple resets already, and Athela couldn’t be feeling more desperate. She was probably forever scared of dogs now.

 Behind a tree, next to a pile of snow, Athela hid and cried softly. She didn’t want to attract the dog with her whining, after all. The second time she went to that area, the skeleton ignored the path she took the first time and headed south… but there were spikes in the way. Hateful, hateful spikes.

 So she freaked out… and stood there, thinking about what she should do, for too long. She looked for a way around, for another path going down the cliff… maybe a switch hidden on a pine tree that would lower them… nothing.

 After some minutes, the same dog from before appeared and crushed her again with his cute fervor. And the third time, her face was just buried in the snow by a very enthusiastic tackle. That pup just seemed like he wanted to hunt her and crush her in the snow, apparently…

  She didn’t know what was better, the crushing pain or the freezing pain.

  Because the crushing pain wasn’t so intense, but it was slower and made her feel helpless and desperate. The other kind was incredibly intense, and it spread through her whole head… so it was kind of unbearable. But it was fast… so it ended soon, and…

 …

 Was she actually pondering which death was worse? Seriously?

  Dying was bad! She didn’t want to die, and she didn’t want to face that dog ever again!! He was obviously a bit too intense for her. Maybe he just wanted to play, or maybe he wanted to eat her because she was made of bones and dogs like bones or whatever, right??

  Take a deep breath, Athela. Take a deep breath and don’t cry. He can surely hear you if you keep doing that annoying weeping. She needed to think fast… what to do?? She had been hiding for too long, maybe she could find a solution for the spikes, and maybe she could do it right now? Quick, what seemed suspicious over there?

 …

 No, Athela, don’t panic. You can’t think if you’re panicking. Deep breaths, again. Come on, you can do this. Wipe out your tears and Look for suspicious things… suspicious… suspicious…

 ….

 That snow in front of the spikes… Wasn’t it too… loose?

  Like, it looked as if it had been stirred. She had to fixate her sane eye to actually realize this… it was difficult if you only had one eye – partially covered with flowers, to even make it worse – to see what she had around her. She just tried her best anyway.

 Maybe the button was under that thing? She wanted to hope it was.

  She walked to the suspicious snow and bent down to remove a bit with her hands. It was freezing; she gave a small, unconscious yelp once she felt the coldness. She had yet to get used to it, apparently.

 There was too much show… Athela decided to get rid of the sleet with her feet, since she was wearing shoes. She kicked it, and saw the snowflakes rolling away quickly. Just as she thought, there was something hidden there! Black lines? She needed to kick all the snow away if she wanted to make sure of what it was.

  Suddenly, she could see two shadows in the snow. They came from behind!!

  Turning around as fast as she could, she gazed upon two monsters. One strange creature with a really big, round head and a strange, spiky cap made of ice. Athela would mentally call it Ice Cap. So, Ice cap and…

 Uh.

 What was the other guy supposed to be?

  Athela didn’t know… She stared at it for a while, not sure how to feel. The monster let out a yawn, not covering his mouth while doing so.

  “The Wi-Fi here sucks,” it said, making the skeleton blink in disbelief. What was it talking about? Wi-Fi? What’s Wi-Fi? She was about to ask, but the other monster rolled its eyes and let out a sigh, clearly bothered by its pal and by Athela herself.

First impression: Annoying.

  “Where’s YOUR hat?” The capped monster said. Athela rose an eyebrow. That other monster was also weird. Not even a greeting, just right to… criticize her for not having a hat? At least that’s what its eyes were saying.

  Athela didn’t like hats. She liked to have her head naked, so her hair would be majestic and free, like it should be. Because her hair was really pretty, yes it was. Like her mom’s.

 But she had no time to think about stuff like that. She needed to find a solution for the puzzle! She still had to discover what was underneath the snow, so…

  “Eh… sorry, but I don’t have a hat. I’m busy right now, so maybe we can talk later?” She tried to be polite before turning around. She heard one of the monsters sigh in annoyance.

 “Wow, you guys SUCK at this.”

 “Shut it, Jerry!”

  Oh, so the strange monster was named Jerry. That name fit it, somehow. But she didn’t give it any mind. She needed to be fast, before the dog arrived. Sadly, Ice Cap didn’t seem to mind her rush, it sounded really annoyed.

  “What? What are you doing?” It inquired, with an angry tone. Athela, worried about the change in attitude, turned around.

 “I… er…” Oops. It didn’t seem pleased. But… but she didn’t have time for this! She needed to hurry, and… and she had been polite!

 “Guys, it’s COLD. Does anyone care?” Jerry asked, crossing its arms. Athela would agree, but the conversation was really getting a bad turn there, so… she ignored it. Ice Cap also ignored Jerry, since it had other things to complain about rather than just the cold. Would it even mind about the cold anyway? Its hat was made of ice. And the monster, too, looked like a little snowman itself.

 “Hello?? My hat’s right here!!” It said, frowning. Pointing to its hat. Cap. Whatever it was, Athela didn’t care. But it WAS a nice one, she had to admit…

  Maybe she had been offensive because she never complimented the monster’s hat? Maybe it was upset because she ignored it…

  She managed to tear her eyes away from Ice Cap’s hat once she noticed a really familiar sensation. Her SOUL right in front of her, as purple as always. Maybe a little less bright than she remembered? She wouldn’t trust her memory on that matter anyway. Her memory was bad and she should feel bad.

 She stared at her own SOUL for a few seconds before panicking; that meant battle!! She snapped just in time to see some icicles fly towards her.

  Yelping, she barely managed to avoid the first row of three. But somehow, they kept coming. More, and more, and more… did that assault ever end?? It was the longest attack she had ever suffered. Was it really that mad??

  And meanwhile, Jerry just watched while eating powdery food. It licked its hands loudly.

 Eww, gross.

  One icicle pierced her shoulder, making her shriek in pain.

 She couldn’t just avoid them all, could she…?

 That added another death to the counter.

  “Wow! You have a great hat!” Athela had turned around as soon as she saw Ice Cap’s shadow and complimented it. The teen monster’s face lit up; it seemed pleased. Immediately after that, however, it frowned and made an arrogant smile.

 "Duh! Who DOESN'T know?" It said, truly proud of itself.

 “Ka-SIGH,” Jerry shrugged and looked elsewhere with a bored expression.

  For now they weren’t attacking her, so Athela started removing snow again; being extremely careful not to look like she was ignoring them. That sufficed…for the time being.

  “I’m sure you’re jealous of my hat! Everyone is!” Ice Cap just stared at the skeleton lady, not really willing to help. But that was fine with her.

“I wouldn’t wear it as nicely as you, sadly.” She didn’t want to say she wanted to wear a hat, because that would be a lie. She tried to… redirect the conversation a bit with a smooth remark.

  Ice Cap was truly flattered.

  “That’s true! You seem to know well who has the best hat around!” It said, nodding. A faint blush on its face. Jerry sighed again, and started eating powdery food again. Athela tried to crack the best smile she could… and failed.

 She could barely even see them anymore.

   After some nice attention to Ice Cap, and none to Jerry, – because Jerry wasn’t really asking for attention, Jerry was just doing gross things, like sneezing  without covering its nose and then licking its hands after eating even more powdery food, – Ice Cap decided to leave. Looks like it was satisfied with the attention Athela gave it.

  The young lady sighed, relieved, once she saw it leave. No offense, but she was still in a hurry. Remember, there was a dangerous dog around…

  “Well… this is it. Looks like a map,” Athela stared at the black lines on the floor, crossing her arms in distress. She was getting cold, and… sadly, skeletons lack any kind of body heat, so she couldn’t really warm herself up.

  She tried glowing her eyes again…

 …

 She was still cold.

  “Oh, no…” She tried again, but to no avail. Her right eye was completely dysfunctional, apparently; she couldn’t feel any kind of warmth from it. And her left eye… it glowed, but not that much.

 Panicky, she tried moving the left side flowers aside for a bit whilst doing her best to ignore the pain. She could see a bit better… but it was awful to even touch the flowers. She was too cold. And let’s not forget, the flowers were in her eye sockets. It still felt like putting your fingers inside your eye: not nice.

  Well, there was nothing to worry about. Not for now, right? There was a save point really close by, she could just go back to it if she got too cold…

 …

 Maybe she was just avoiding reality… but at least that helped her stay sane.

 She was doing her best, and…

   “Why are we doing this? What a fail," Athela frowned and turned around.

  Why was Jerry still there?

  Its friend left, shouldn’t it just go away too? Well, not like Jerry was dangerous or anything like it… Athela had yet to see it attack. Jerry was harmless, and that was good. But…

  "Well... can YOU give me a ride home?" It said, crossing its arms in a sassy gesture.

  Gosh.

 It was so annoying.

  “No, I can’t,” she answered quickly and went back to the puzzle. Maybe Jerry would go away if she just… kept ignoring him.

  On the other hand… let’s concentrate on the map, shall we?

  She was GUESSING it was a map, because it was a square with lines, and there was a red cross, like a treasure map. But that was no treasure hunt. More like… a switch hunt? Since Athela’s main goal was to lower the spikes that kept her trapped on that room.

 Finding a treasure would also be pretty cool, though.

  No, Athela. Focus. The red X was over there, at the top-right part. Gosh, the map was huge… she could fit inside and by much.

  “Hmmm…” Trying to ignore Jerry’s snarky comments about how much everything sucked, Athela tried to locate herself on the map. It wasn’t hard, actually. She could see the similarities between the room and the drawing pretty well; the big space had to be the area in front of where she had come from… She positioned herself at that point on the map and started walking on it. As I said, the map was huge.

  So she was standing at the bottom-left part of the map. That’s where she was. Good. Funny how even the trees were represented there, with black dots. So much thought put onto that puzzle; Athela was impressed.

 It would be even better if there wasn’t a dangerous dog trying to hunt her around.

  But that wasn’t the person who made the map’s fault.

  So, the red mark was at…

  …

  …

   Oh, no.

    She had to go up again?? But that’s where the dog was! Oh no, oh no… what could she do now? No way was she going up there for a second time!!

  “So. Like, I need to go to the bathroom,” Jerry announced. Athela just nodded, somehow wishing it would really go away. But it didn’t, of course. It stayed with her, like a leech.

  The skelly was just exasperated. Going up… that would mean certain death. And not like Jerry was going to help, that was for sure. Ugh…

  A simple head turn and she could glimpse something golden in the trees far ahead. Squinting her eyes, she focused on it…And a shiver went down her spine.

  Flowey.

  …

  Wait, was he giggling??

  Oh, just great. Of course it was funny. She was about to die AND stuck with an annoying weirdo that wouldn’t shut up. That was certainly amazing. Great, Flowey, laugh as much as you want. She deserved all that mocking.

  Ugh. Now she was cranky. Well, maybe she could just…

   “Sssh! Girl, I’m THINKING!” Jerry continued talking. Gosh!!

 “Jerry. Go away,” Athela just said that as boldly as she could. She was more than done with it. She didn’t think it would work, though; surely it would stay there. Jerry was about to say something, but it sneezed again. Really loudly. And of course, no mouth or nose covering whatsoever. That was so gross; good thing she was far away enough from it.

  Athela sighed, done with the world. Something told her that being with the dog would be somewhat better than this.

 Of course, that pessimistic point of view disappeared once she turned her head north and saw the dog right there, staring and panting with his tongue out.

  Now Athela just wanted her mom again.

   “Sure. Whatever.” The skeleton looked at Jerry, bewildered. Did it just agree to leave??

  Yes. Yes, it was gone now. Walking away. Athela couldn’t believe it… She would’ve done that a long time ago if she had just known. But… now she was alone against the dog again. She felt as if she had gotten so far, and now…

  The dog barked and ran to her. Athela yelled and braced for impact.

  It was the first time she fell on her back instead than on her face; it was way better. Now she didn’t have to worry about dying from the cold, since the flowers were out of the way of the snow. But… the dog was as heavy as always. His fur was right on her face, and it smelled strongly of dog chow.

 At that moment, Athela knew she preferred a death by sudden freeze. Anything that wasn’t as long and excruciating as the crushing, please, she couldn’t stand it! She felt like crying… but no tears came out of her eyes. However, her voice was still cracked, as if she were, despite everything, crying. She snapped.

  “No! No, go away! Bad dog!! Bad!!!” She yelled as loud as she could, pushing the pup desperately. Or… trying to push him. He was such a heavy doggy.

  And maybe it was the despaired expression on her face. Maybe it was the loud yelling. Or maybe it was the fact that she called him a bad dog, who knows? That Lesser Dog whined. He wasn’t a bad puppy, he just wanted a friend and some bones. He just thought she was playing hide and seek… but now she was sad, and he was a bad dog.

 Some of the weigh was lifted, and Athela felt a warm, wet tongue going up her face. Puzzled, she watched as the dog got off her and sat on the ground, head and tail down. Whimpering.

  “… Oh.” She didn’t know what to say. Why was he acting like a scolded pupper now? Was it because she had insulted him? True, she was desperate and crankier than before, that’s why she did it, but… Oh no, now she felt bad. She didn’t like dogs that much, but let’s be fair, dogs are so cute. She couldn’t ignore a whining puppy. Even if that pup had killed her before. “I… I’m sorry…”

  Lesser Dog, however, just turned around and left.

  Great. Now she felt like garbage.

   “Hey, will you look at that! He’s gone!” Abruptly, Flowey popped out right next to Athela, making her yelp once again.

 “Eeek!!” She yelped and fell on her butt. Ouch, that hurt. Flowey just yelled.

 “Priceless.” He nodded. “Looks like you did it! You made someone feel bad! Next step: Murder!” The flower shifted his face slightly, to make it look creepier.

  Athela wasn’t faced anymore by that, anyway. It was just a threat, and some scary faces, but just that. If he had added some pellets, then she would be really scared. But it wasn’t the case.

 “No, thank you,” still, she had to be extra careful with her wording. Who knew when Flowey would actually try to attack her? A misstep could be lethal.

 “A flower can dream, hey,” he smirked. Then, he made a kinder face and looked at Athela in the eye. “By the way, how are you doing?”

  She stood there, silent, for a while. Surprised and apprehensive.

  “Why do you care?” She asked. Flowey just laughed.

 “Golly! Because we’re best friends, silly~” And he winked. The skeleton didn’t know if she should feel angry or sad because he was clearly mocking her. Anyway, she decided to continue with the conversation.

 “I can barely see you now,” Athela restrained herself from saying that she was almost glad. Because that would be mean, and… well, she preferred to know where the little demon was at all times. Just in case.

 “Hee hee… what will you do when you stop seeing completely?” He asked, with a mischievous smile. Athela shivered.

  She didn’t know.

  What would she do?

  The idea of going blind before even getting to a safe place terrified her. The forest was really cold, and… she would not survive for long if she wandered around there for too long. She would certainly freeze to death, and…

  And…

  …

  Flowey was gone.

  “W-where…?” Athela turned around and moved her head to see if he was hiding in one of her blind spots. But no; looks like he was gone. Maybe he went to hide behind the trees just to spook her.

  Well, it was working.

  The poor skeleton shivered once again and decided it would be a good idea to run back to her last save point again, since she was almost feeling numb. Her head and eyes hurt… and she could always go solve the puzzle later.

  Chilling next to a warm spot at that moment didn’t seem like a bad idea.

“What’s that smell?” The male dog’s voice reverberated again on Athela’s head. Just like it did last time. And the time before that.

 “(Where’s that smell?)” The female dog’s voice echoed right after the male’s, sounding as wary as she sounded the first two times.

  Athela breathed in and out, determined. She could barely see them now; there was barely a tiny inch of light that she could see through on her left eye.

 The flowers had almost consumed everything.

  But she could still see. She could still FIGHT.

 Or… dodge. Whatever.

  “If you’re a smell…” The male continued his speech with a deep, serious voice, and his partner walked right after him.

 “(… Identify yoursmellf!)”

  They started walking around her, in erratic circling, as they sniffed the air, looking for the source of that new smell. She was right there, still as a statue, since the first time running away didn’t work as planned. Athela didn’t have a heart, but she could feel her SOUL inside of her, pulsating strongly. Uneasy.

  Since this could be her last chance.

  Athela kneeled down and grabbed some pieces of the awfully cold snow. It was so cold… and painful. Her fingers started feeling numb soon. But she had to do it. She stood up again, just in time for one of the dogs to get right beside her. With his snoot next to her skeleton arms.

  Sniff, sniff.

  “Hmmm... Here’s that weird smell,” he murmured, sniffing her arm carefully. Athela needed to stay still, or else they wouldn’t be able to sniff correctly. And that would be bad.

  Though that situation was bad for her hands, too. The snow was freezing her fingers. She needed to… stay… strong…

  “Smells like bones,” the canine monster didn’t seem completely satisfied with that, though. He moved his nose and started sniffling her clothes. Athela took the chance to rise her hands packed with snow. The dog, meanwhile, kept evaluating. “This smells like snow…”

 “I’m so sorry…” The young skeleton muttered as she felt her nonexistent heart break into a million pieces.

  Then, she splashed the snow on her hair.

  It was so cold she wanted to yelp. The snow was slowly permeating through her silky, precious hair. And getting to her skull. To a normal human, that would feel like a brain freeze after eating ice cream too fast. But Athela didn’t know that.

 Luckily, the flowers were INSIDE her skull, not outside. Therefore, she didn’t die. Instead, she just… froze for a few seconds.

  “This also smells like snow,” Dogamy said as he reached and sniffed Athela’s hair, now wet because of the snow.

“(Are you actually a snow skeleton?)” Dogaressa mumbled, interested. She poked Athela’s arm. She was warm… Athela wanted to cuddle her. But she was still wary and afraid of dogs.

  She nodded. Unlike the first dog, it was clear they could see her, and… unlike the second dog, they could talk and reason. But they didn’t seem very smart, either; or at least they weren’t able to recognize what she was if they didn’t have a clear smell.

  The first time she died to them, she had tried to run away. Sadly, that went terribly wrong… and it ended with an axe on her head. Athela preferred not to remember that. So, the second time she acted smart, and analyzed everything the dogs did. They smelled her, and she smelled like bones and like snow… except for her hair. Her hair smelled like human.

 And that made them want to eliminate. Eliminate HER.

  Clearly, her clothes smelled like snow because that enthusiastic pup had tackled her to the floor earlier… but her hair still smelled a bit like human. Maybe because she got it from her mom.

 Athela wondered if her mom and her hair smelled the same. That would be really cool.

  In any case, Athela learnt the lesson. There was no way she could dodge two dogs at the same time, so she had to do something before she encountered them. It broke her heart to make that to her precious hair, but… it was better to be wet than to be dead.

  “Can you give us a bone?” Dogamy asked, eagerness growing in his voice.

 “(We love bones,)” Dogaressa affirmed, equally thrilled. They were waving her tails in excitement, and Athela found that really cute.

  Athela’s teeth were starting to clatter.

  “S-sure…” Oops, her voice sounded so muffled and hoarse. Maybe it was because of the cold? At least using magic implied getting warm… and she needed that. She concentrated and started making her eyes glow.

  Well, her eye.

 Or… what was left of it.

  She tried her best, and the dogs could see that. They watched as her left eye shone as strong as it could for a short period of time. Then, the light blinked, as if it were glitching.

 It was the first time that ever happened to Athela. She got a little scared, and the spell went wrong.

  The bone was extremely small.

 And she felt extremely tired. She needed to sit down… her legs were failing.

  Dogaressa held her, worried.

  “Are you okay, snow skeleton?” Dogamy asked, equally worried. “Hot dog, I think she’s sick.”

 “Hot… dog…” Athela murmured, a little bit out of it, and Dogaressa soon clarified.

 “(He means me.)”

 “Oh…”  The young skeleton doubted that was the dog’s real name, but for now she would be the hot dog, alright.

  Athela didn’t get to do much after that, though. She felt awful, and luckily the two dogs had enough body heat to warm her up, because she would’ve died if they hadn’t been there. She was taken away someplace else, but she couldn’t see where exactly; she felt too dizzy to even open her eyes. They seemed to have good intentions anyway, so she didn’t struggle. They didn’t walk much, though, and meanwhile she could hear them saying something about “resting for a bit”.

 They also apologized.

 She was left on the floor, with her back peacefully resting against a wall. A couple pats to her beautiful, wet hair, and then it was cold again.

  …

  …

  …

  Wait, it was cold!!

  Athela abruptly opened her eyes, just to see… almost nothing, alright. Looking frantically in every direction, she could guess they had taken her to the spaghetti room again. In one hand, it seemed logical, since that seemed like a chill-out place to just rest, and what she needed was rest.

On the other hand… it meant that the town wasn’t near enough for the mutts to take her there. She felt her SOUL sinking at that thought…

  But no! She didn’t know for sure that was true! Maybe they just took her there because… well, she couldn’t think of a proper reason now, but maybe!! Surely?

 The town had to be close by now, it had to be!!

  And she had managed to pass all the obstacles on that room… so! She was one step closer now! She just had to keep going, and then… then! She would make it! She had gotten so far already… she couldn’t just give up like that! She would surely get there, all she had to do was keep her positivity. Baby steps.

  Doing her best to keep determined, Athela felt a slow wave of pain going through her skull. It started at the exact same place where the prior pains did, but this time it expanded slowly, making her feel as if he was having a heavy headache. She growled and brought her hands to her head, grabbing it softly.

 It hurt.

  Progress saved.

   It was not long after that her pain went away. She didn’t feel… great. But she was fine. The save point was there, she could see its bright twinkling and feel its warmth. She decided to stay there for a while, since her hair needed some serious drying.

 She shivered and stood there for a while.

  Then, just in case, she saved again. The pain came back, but she stood it; she needed to do so if she wanted to maximize the amount of time she would pass down there. And so, after doing this, Athela walked through her previous steps one more time, getting deeper into the forest.

 Closer to freedom.

 Thankfully, the spikes were still down, and Jerry was nowhere to be seen. Excellent news.

  The road led to a new place, and it was the first time for her there. Feeling a little bit nervous, Athela observed it as best as she could while caressing her flowers. It was getting even colder now, wind was howling mercilessly and her eyes were feeling the painful breeze from the forest.

  “That’s… a sign,” Athela could distinguish a button on the floor, and a lonely sign placed next to some rocks. The rocks were aligned strangely… of course, that must be a puzzle. She prayed that it was something safe. She read the indications out loud, and her voice turned out hoarse once more… but she didn’t mind it. “Turn every X into a 0. Then press the switch.”

  Wait, X? What X? Athela couldn’t see any…

 Oh.

 Of course, she couldn’t see anything because she was almost as blind as a melon. Following basic logic, she guessed the Xs were inside the closed areas the strangely aligned rocks formed.  The skeleton bent down to confirm… and yes, there it was.

 Upon touch, the X turned into a 0.

  “That was easy!” Pleased, she went to the other side. Luckily, there were only two she needed to change. The button was pressed, and then… then what?

  She heard a sound, but…

  Inspecting the room, she noticed some small holes on the floor that looked like lowered spikes. Athela sighed, smiling; it was good, but she should just check the whole room before doing things, shouldn’t she?

  Athela’s thoughts were stopped by the howling wind, once again. She yelped and covered as many flowers as she could, but sadly, skeleton hands weren’t famous for being able to protect you from the icy wind. She was still freezing…

 Shivering, the skeleton wondered for a second time how big was the mountain itself to have wind and micro climates. Because the Ruins were warm, and this Snowdin place had snow, so… that was really strange. Why would that be? Athela was no speleologist, so she couldn’t even take a wild guess. Her brain was as frozen as herself.

  Frozen…

 Athela remembered the spaghetti. She just left them there like that… hopefully the mouse would eat some day. She was hungry as well, but she had no time to spare imagining a nice slice of pie. She had to hurry… wind was too cold.

  Walking faster, Athela encountered yet another puzzle. Or what looked like it, of course… not like she could see the whole thing. She just knew about the spikes blocking the way after walking and exploring for a bit.

 This new puzzle was way more complicated. With her reduced vision she barely managed to find all the Xs, and… sadly, difficulties rose up once she stepped twice on one tile, turning it into a green triangle. Growling, she tried to reset it, and tried again.

  And again.

  And yet again.

  Who knows how much time she spent trying to solve it? Her whole self was hurting once she pressed the switch and the spikes were lowered. The exhaustion from using magic constantly, to keep herself warm, had worn her greatly. She felt like fainting.

  “I… I have to go back,” she muttered, shaking like a leaf. She had focused on the puzzle way too much, and now… would she even manage to go back to the save point? Her body was stiff… and…

  What if she died? Would she become blind, at last? But then… she would not be able to solve the puzzle like that. Her eyes… she needed her eyes. She couldn’t die. Not yet.

 Please, not yet.

 Athela didn’t know if there would be a save point in the next room, but she couldn’t take the risk... or… more like she didn’t want to take it. Saving as much time as possible was crucial, being as terrified of freezing to death as she was.

  So she retraced her steps.

  Stumbling, with her whole body rattling and partially numb, she tried to quickly go back to the last save point, to the spaghetti room. At least, as fast as her near-sighted eye and frozen legs would let her, of course.

  But… midway, her legs gave away. She fell on her knees with a surprised, weak cry, and immediately after, she tried to remain steady by holding herself with her arms.

  “No, not now… please, just… just a bit further…” Looking up, she saw the snow map she discovered before. She was almost there… pleading, desperately praying under her breath, she tried to stand up. She tried using her arms to push herself up, feeling how her SOUL shriveled in fear.

 Her arms also failed to support her.

  Feeling like she couldn’t make another single movement, Athela fell to the snow. She tried turning her head so the flowers wouldn’t enter in direct contact with the snow. Maybe she would be able to get up… maybe… She couldn’t die now. Please, no…

 Trembling, she tried to move. For a second, it looked like her numb body would move… but she fell again. This time, not to stand up again.

  And the world went dark forever.

    Athela - LV 1 Snowdin – Spaghetti Nº Resets: 40