#boone tries to leave her on the side of the road several times

[lady-starkiller]

[egittae]

[drabble] unfulfilled

tw: death, grieving loss of loved one, referenced child neglect

Lambert wasn’t allowed to be by her side as she reached the last stretch of twilight within her life. The fears of him contracting the already highly contagious disease and leaving Faerghus without a king was too much, and the possibility of it reaching the new prince and effectively killing off the entire royal family in one fell swoop only hardened the court’s resolve in separating the couple.

He couldn’t be by her side and hold her hand as she left, he couldn’t give her one last peck on the cheek before sending her off to the eternal end. She’d march this lonely road without hearing his voice declaring his love to her one last time.

Had this been a year prior, Lambert would’ve rebelled against the court and fought every single individual who stood between him and his wife’s deathbed. He promised her in their wedding vows that he’d be with her in life and death, and he was determined to see that promise through.

Yet the king found himself willingly in a separate wing of the palace of Fhirdiad, heavily guarded to the point it was nearly barricaded from the outside world with shields of magic layered on each other. The air was thicker there, almost choking under the weight of castings of light and passive magic from sigils and runes on every wall to the point that anyone more attuned to magic would’ve surely gotten severely disoriented. Lambert however, saw weakness turn into boon, as his naturally awful magic affinity left him unbothered by the excessive protective measures of his court’s mages.

Him, and the little bundle of life soundly asleep in his arms as the lone king stared out the window seeking for nothing in particular. Both were born with weak affinity to magic, both possessed the same pair of bright blue eyes and a mop of blond hair. And hopefully, the little one would come to possess the star that runs in his veins, as well. He was a perfect little baby, born healthy as a horse and screaming with powerful lungs, yet quickly showed himself to be quiet and docile. Lambert already had a name ready in his mind the moment that child was placed in his arms for the first time, and the middle name was decided by him and his wife, together.

Five months, perhaps even less. By five months, Lambert didn’t lose his wife and his son to the disease that now ravaged through the territory. Perhaps he should’ve considered that a blessing of the Goddess- that her watchful eye showed mercy for the child and hurried for him to be born before certain death, but at that point the king doubted even that. Born and raised to be a believer, and yet now he flirted with heresy and wondered if his prayers for his wife’s health were met with a deaf ear by the Goddess he believed was an all powerful, loving and gentle Mother who dutifully looked after her children on land.

His wife’s death wasn’t an act of mercy. Lambert knew, no matter how much Kriemhild tried to hide it, that the disease was shredding her body apart. That behind every smile and attempts at reassuring him that all was well and that she felt better by the day, that it was all a ruse- a white blanket placed atop a hemorrhaging wound and slowly getting stained by crimson iron. The moment the bells echoed through the capital and reverberated through the palace’s structure announcing the queen’s death on that sunny afternoon, that his wife had died suffering, in pain and alone, Lambert knew there was no divine mercy to be found.

If punishing deaths were meant for those who deserved it, then he was left to sit there and simply wonder what Kriemhild could’ve ever done to deserve being slowly consumed by disease, a punishment not only to herself but also to her family, forced to watch her fading helplessly.

Lambert wondered what he had ever done to deserve this.

Lambert wondered what his son, who was not even a year old, had done to deserve a life without his mother.

He had gotten used to those bells before, having heard them when his father had died, and when his mother met her end as well. For high ranked knights and nobles they too rang, yet now each low rumble felt like a violent attack on his mind and heart. But the king didn’t shed a single tear as he watched birds scatter into the sky, his hands didn’t twitch nor grasp. Lambert faced the sky as if bidding her soul goodbye from his own prison, getting up and slowly making his way towards the bed with quiet steps and a hollowing feeling in his chest, but shoulders held square and his gaze, although tired, still grasping onto meaning. The warmth in his arms was more than enough to remind him that he couldn’t fall to despair, though in this case it was for a much more selfish reason.

The Kingdom depended on him, of course. He’d see this plague through for its sake, but his will to fight for the cure lay within the infant in his arms.

The baby was placed on his back against the soft mattress as Lambert laid right next to him, one hand supporting his own head and the other holding onto a hand much smaller than his’, as azure pools watched over the young one sleep peacefully. Dimitri was too young to understand the world, too young to even understand who or what he was, but Lambert wondered if something in him knew that his mother was gone. He wondered if her spirit had given him a little kiss on the head just before walking into the Goddess’ arms. He hoped that she did.

“Mitya.” The king’s voice was but a whisper, not wishing to wake up the baby- and not wishing to find out if his voice would break if he were to speak any louder. “It’s just us now.”

Actually saying it made his throat close up as he stared reality in the eye, but he swallowed it down and kept his composure. “...I hope this pain doesn’t find you once you’re older. And yet, I hope you are able to remember her in some shape or form.” He knew he wouldn’t. Dimitri was too young for that, but he could only cope with grief by holding onto empty hopes. “At least remember that she loved you, and that she fought through blood and tears to bring you to this world. She never gave up on you.” Lambert refused to believe the medics when they stated that her body had given up- it hadn’t. She fought her battle, and even if she lost it wasn’t cheap nor easy. Lambert refused to have his son grow up thinking his mother had simply given up on fighting the disease.

Iron filled his mouth as Lambert bit his lip, him fighting a different type of battle now- one against his own self and his own tears. It was useless to self commiserate and he had been raised to refuse that kind of behavior, but it sat there as a reminder of everything he had faced so far.

Being born as a necessary resource rather than a product of love, being taught the art of blades before he had gotten to draw his first smiley sun on a paper sheet with crayons. A childhood spent behind fortified walls, groomed from boy to weapon as the Kingdom vibrated and sang prayers of gratitude to the skies the day his crest was revealed. Being resented by his only brother for something he could never even hope to change and getting showered with false love for the same reason. Being treated well by his father and mother yet never feeling like he could ever count on them for anything outside of his duties. Pushed into a throne before he had even memorized the vows for the coronation, when the crown still sagged a slight bit when placed in his head.

Forced to fit a mold that wasn’t real, seen as someone who wasn’t real, needing to act like something that wasn’t real- but that was expected, wished for, dreamed of.

Being king and yet being swiftly ignored and overlooked by everyone around him, as he soon found out that the weight of his word came at others’ convenience and that the world was much more willing to listen to the claims of a man brandishing a blade rather than extending a hand in compassion.

“Mitya, I…” The pressure of his clenched teeth was almost dizzying, but he didn’t stop. Not when it was the only thing keeping his tears from falling on that baby boy’s cheek. He swallowed down once more, took in a shaky deep breath, and stared down at the sleeping face of his son. “...I won’t leave it up to the Goddess to decide your fate. I refuse to leave it in her hands.” Her goodwill too, came at her own convenience. Lambert refused to gamble his only son’s fate on that. 

Another deep breath. “I breathe for Faerghus, but my heart beats for you alone. It ends at that.” Because he knew the day he died, Faerghus wouldn’t remember him. It would remember his crown and his armor, but not the man behind them. “...yet, forgive me. That you had to be placed on a lone road with a father who still cannot even cut his own hair without help. Forgive me, Mitya.” I’m too young for this. I don’t know what to do. No one ever taught me how to face fatherhood alone.

I don't want him to end up like me.

“I’ll raise you myself, in her honor-” Another shaky breath, though one that more closely resembles a suppressed sob. “-and so that you shall never live the life that I lived. I promise you.”

Gently pressing his forehead against the sleeping baby’s, Lambert finally allowed himself to cry silently. “Please, live as yourself. Be yourself and love yourself, my child.”

“You are more than just a jewel on a crown, and much more than any weapon. Know that I will love you unconditionally for eternity and beyond."

____

“Avenge us! Those who killed us…tear them apart! Destroy them all!”

The world went black and the star was extinguished. In a limbo, wedged between the folds of time, yet still holding onto the faintest thread of consciousness. It lasted merely seconds as the brain can only live for so long after losing its blood flow, but it was enough for a single, chilling thought to overstay its welcome- as if catching a glimpse of something seconds before a door is closed.

I wielded my son like a weapon.

[sherala007]

The Landlord, Ch 2

If anyone wants tagging for updates let me know and I’ll start a tag list.  I hope you like it.   @just-the-hiddles​ @every-journey-sassypants-loves​

Summary:  Thorin was cursed to be a vampire until he could find a cure.  That was 500 years ago.  While not suffering the bloodlust, his kin were dragged into his plight.  Lately he’s been dreaming of the same woman for six nights in a row.  Could she help him, guide him, or cause his downfall.

Warnings:  no actual violence, a man does get up close and personal without her permission but no rape or anything like that, public drunkenness 

Ch 2

Dwalin meandered a few doors down, while, almost as an afterthought, grabbed his phone and hit one-touch dialing.

“Eureka,” was all he said.

“Finally,” the voice replied. “Stay in the area and see if you can follow her home.  Tomorrow you can give the info to Bofur and Nori and they can get to work.  Good job, brother.”

“Understood.”  Dwalin ended the call and continued strolling along the way.  He knew the club would close around two am so he had some time to kill.  Constantine’s All Night diner was half a block up. Some food and coffee would be perfect right now.  He always loved Bombur’s cooking.

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

Sofia made her rounds on the floor, the music still loud, heavy, and making her headache.  Two private dances later and she had enough to cover the rest of the rent.  Thank God for that; and no groping which was a boon.  Wandering towards the backroom entrance a shadow figure ducked out the door she was heading for and made straight for her.  They were walking sloppy, feet dragging and leaning to the left, grabbing chairs as they passed so as not to fall.  She noticed the shine from grease slicked hair.  There were only two men who wore their hair like that and looking quick, she saw Herman sitting in his corner, watching over his domain; his goons on each side and his latest bimbo in his lap.

“Good evening, Francis. How’s it going tonight?  You look like you’ve been having fun,” she stated, always polite.  She stood straight, hands clasped tight together in front of her.

“Hey there, Sofie,” he said as his salacious gaze focused on her boobs.  “You did great tonight,” he slurred as he tilted forward making Sofia edge back to stay just out of breath range.

“Thanks, Francis,” she said and smiled evenly.  She kept trying to think of a way to get away from him.  All she wanted to do was go home.  He wouldn’t move.

“Why didn’t you come near me,” he whined.  “I had some tips for you.  You know the teacher is my favorite, he leered and tilted forward again.

“I’m sorry, Francis. When I’m up there I can’t see faces well, with the lights and all,” Sofia gestured towards the stage.  “Maybe next time.”  She tried to find a path around him.  “If you’ll excuse me now, I”d like to get home.”  She made to step around him but he had other plans.

Surprising her with his agility, he shuffled to block her path and snaked an arm out, grabbing her and pulling her to him.  “Now Sofie,” he whispered in her ear, “I know it’s not quitting time yet.  How about one last dance just for me?”  Francis held her tight, eyes hard and now very clear.

“Sure, Francis.  One more just for you.”  Her fake smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.  His hand gripped her harder, fingers digging into her the flesh of her hip.  She knew tonight there’d be no escape.

-----------

Dwalin walked around the block to work off his meal.  Bombur’s meals usually put him to sleep.  That wasn’t an option tonight.  He found the back door of the club and waited, leaning in the shadows while a book on his phone in dark mode to minimize any light.  

One Forty-five AM, the sound of keys hitting the pavement got his attention.  

“No, Francis, please,” Sofia yelled as she struggled to yank her arm from his grasp.

“I’m not ready to let you go yet, Sofie.  I need a bit more personal attention,” Francis growled as he jerked her back against him, as she struggled and squirmed.

“HEY!”  Dwalin bellowed as he stepped from his hiding spot.  “The lady said no, now you best let her go.” He walked closer, stopping a few feet away from the pair.

“Piss Off before you regret it,” Francis slurred.  “This ain’t your business.”  He tried to yank Sofia behind him but lost his grip enough for her to slip away from him. She darted to the opposite side of the alley from the two men, keeping them both in her line of sight.

“It’s good manners when a lady says to leave her alone, it’s best to do so.  Now be a good lad and go home to sleep it off.”  Dwalin was ready to defend against any attack.  He kept an eye on Francis, waiting for any movement, taking special notice of the badge clipped to Francis’s belt.  “Great, a cop.  Just what we needed,” he thought.

Sofia held her place against the wall, not moving, holding her breath.  She saw Francis start to ball his right fist up when a loud crash echoed from within the dressing room area.  Maintaining eye contact, Francis backed into the doorway, a sneer on his lips.

“I’ll see you around,” he spat at Dwalin.  He glanced at Sofia, “See you tomorrow night, baby.”  He slammed the door as he turned to move back down the hall.

“Are you alright, miss,” he turned to face Sofia, keeping his distance, hands open and out to his sides showing he meant no harm.  He relaxed his posture and released the stern look on his face.

“I will be.  Thank you for your help, but he’s going to be pissed tomorrow.”  She squatted to get her keys, never taking her eyes off the stranger.

“Sorry for butting in but you didn’t sound like you wanted him near you,” Dwalin said.

“You’re right but while here I don’t have much choice.  It’s a hazard of the job.”  Sofia stood watching the stranger.  His bald head reflecting the light above the door, illuminating several tattoos.  His brown Henley open at the top two buttons, hanging down to the pockets of his jeans.  His faded Levi’s close in color to matching the dark blue of his eyes. The side buckle on his lineman boots twinkled at her.  Broad in shoulders, chest, and arms, he cut an impressive figure, even at his shorter stature.  Francis had a good foot on him.

The smell of the dumpsters in the alley started to make her want to gag.  The fear of Herman and Francis coming back with the good squad started to make her shake.  It was time to run.

“Thank you again,” she smiled and nodded at him as she turned to walk away.

“Not to bother you, but you may want to take a cab.  I can see you trembling from here,” he suggested.  “I promise you, I’ll keep my distance.  Let’s walk to the end of the alley.  I’ll call and pay for a cab for you and I’ll go on my way.  This way if he comes back I can stop him.  Ok,” Dwalin suggested.

“You won’t come any closer?” Sofia couldn’t believe she was thinking of trusting him.

“No ma’am.”  Dwalin held his hands up in surrender.  

“Ok,” she said.

The alley was wide enough for a garbage truck so she made sure to keep a truck's distance between them. They reached the brighter lights of the main street and she leaned against the wall next to her, backpack and keys held tight, phone within easy reach.

Dwalin pulled out his phone showing her the name of the cab company he was calling for her, Nadadri Cabs, one of the best in town.  All their vehicles were clean and very well maintained.  They were also a unique color; baby blue with a pink “Taxi” light on top.  She nodded her agreement with his choice.

“Good Evening.  Nadadri Cabs.  Where do you need the ride from, please,” the voice echoed through the speakerphone?

He gave their location and the voice gave his ETA.  Dwalin ended the call and waited stoically for a few minutes until the cab arrived.  He opened the door for Sofia to get in, making sure she was comfortable before shutting it.

“She’ll give you the address. Here’s two hundred.  When you drop her off, please wait until she’s inside her building before leaving, please,” he requested.  “Ma’am, I hope you rest well and peacefully tonight.”  He smiled at Sofia and moved away as the car moved off.

As the car rounded the corner Dwalin placed another call.

“Change of plans.  Dori is driving her home in his cab.  I’ll explain why later.  I’m on my way home,” he said as he turned the other way and walked off.  He couldn’t wait to get home and shower, getting rid of the god-awful dumpster stench.

-----------

A shadow watched all the happenings from the rooftop across from the alley.  After the cab left, the shadow turned and followed the other man down the road.  There was much to contemplate later.

 ------------

Translation – Nadadri = (roughly) Brother’s Ri

[shirtlesssammy]

9x01: I Think I’m Gonna Like it Here

Errm, we forgot a season opener episode...so here’s 9x01 for your enjoyment :)

Then:

Heaven’s doors closed, kinda

Now:

Sam and Dean are on the road discussing the fallen angels, and how they’re going to tackle this new situation. Well, Sam is. Dean keeps driving until he tells Sam they have a far more pressing matter than that, or Metatron, or Cas. “You’re dying, Sam.” 

Indeed he is. They’re not in the Impala. They’re in a hospital and Sam’s attached to a bunch of wires and machines. 

The doctor gives Dean the bad news that Sam has severe internal injuries and his recovery is “in God’s hands.” Lol, it REALLY is. And ol’ Chuck isn’t going to let one of his favorite characters die! He does like to see them tortured though. Dean loses his shit, because, at this stage in the game, God isn’t playing. 

He goes to the chapel AND PRAYS TO CAS. 

He tells Cas that whatever happened, they’ll work it out. “Please man, I need you here.” Dean looks up and is shocked that Cas isn’t there. AND I’M EMOTIONAL. He has so far to go. But also, I feel so bad for him right now. Anyway, he gives it about 5 seconds before he puts out an open call to any angel willing to help.   

Business angel, Tractor angel, and Helo all take the call. 

Memory Lane Alert:

Sam continues to have a mental conversation with Dean in the Impala. Dean has a plan, and Sam just needs to hang on. Sam thinks he’s lying (and LIKE, is this his brain trying to rationalize death? Bobby shows up to argue yes.)

In Longmont, Colorado, on a lonely stretch of road, we find Cas. He’s walking and is overwhelmed with angel radio whitenoise. 

For Cas Looks So Fucking Good In This Episode Science:

Also, a crazy driver that nearly kills him. The guy offers to give him a lift to a phone. Cas agrees, adding, “I would fly but I have no wings, not anymore.” 

I need a  moment.

Sam continues to deteriorate. I enjoy the snark in Sam’s mind that he saved Bobby from Hell. Anyway, Bobby and Dean continue to argue about whether Sam should or shouldn’t live. Bobby pulls Sam from the car and they land in a forest. 

Cas’s ride drops him off at a filling station and gives him some money. Cas accepts it reluctantly, insisting he does eat. Meanwhile, a woman watches Cas from a car.

Cas reaches the pay phone, currently in use.

He doesn’t want to hurt the guy, but this is an emergency. The guy is very polite when he tells Cas to try and hurt him. Cas tries the old fingers to the forehead trick. Nothing happens. He tries the old whole hand to the forehead trick (isn’t that usually a smiting move? <nervous side-eye emoji>) The guy brushes Cas’s hand away and tells him that he’s going to finish his call, and then stab Cas. Cas walks away in a daze. 

The woman from the car approaches him. She knows Castiel. She’s an angel named Hael. 

A grief counselor comes to talk to Dean, but he’s not done fighting. 

He realizes that he has the King of Hell in his trunk (not yet you don't ...I think I’ve used that joke before, but it never gets old.) Before he can get Crowley out of the Impala’s trunk, Business angel attacks. He’s looking for Castiel. Dean isn’t talking. Helo pops up and gets into fisticuffs with Business angel. He distracts him enough for Dean to stab Business angel in the back. Helo assures Dean that he’s here to help him, and then passes out. 

Hael and Cas talk about the angels falling and life in Heaven. So many angels are afraid of this unknown new order. 

Cas assures her there is nothing to be afraid of, and there is something better on Earth. Oh, you poor Humanity loving fool, Cas. He makes a case for Free Will. 

Dean puts Helo in a ring of fire to interrogate him. His name is Ezekiel. And he is not here to hurt Dean or Cas. He’s here to help. 

Sam and Bobby take a nature walk while Bobby chips away and Sam’s uncertainty of dying. 

Dean brings Ezekiel to Sam. 

Dean’s phone rings while Gadreel examines Sam. It’s CAS! Insert EXTREME HEART EYES HERE. 

Cas briefly explains that Metatron tricked him, but Dean overrides Cas’s discussion of the angel apocalypse for a more pressing matter: Sam’s dying. Cas explains that he can’t heal him without his grace, but that also doesn’t matter! Ezekiel is a “good soldier,” according to Cas, so Sam’s in good hands. Dean warns Cas that angels are after him and he needs to get to the bunker, do not pass GO, do not trust anybody else. 

The hospital shakes as another angel circles a vessel. Dean grabs a dry erase marker and starts scrawling angel warding all over Sam’s hospital room. He leaves Ezekiel there to heal Sam while he races through the hospital trying to clear it out. 

Cas tries to extricate himself from Hael’s company. “This is your chance to help people. Help yourself.” Cas, you altruistic sunflower! Hael rewards this by whacking him across the head with a plank.

When he wakes up, Hael explains that she couldn’t let Cas go. She blames Cas for the fall but she can use Cas…

Dean confronts angels in the hospital, including the now-possessed grief counselor. 

In Sam’s head, he arrives outside a cabin. Bobby tells him that the cabin will end his life and wishes him well when suddenly he is STABBED! Sam’s projection of Dean killed him. “Bobby was the part of you that wants to die,” Dean explains...uh...reasonably? He starts to punch Sam in rage, trying to get him to fight for his life. “I can’t help you if you ain’t willing to fight for yourself!” Sam...knows that. And...he’s not willing to fight anymore. 

Sam heads for the cabin.

Real Dean is in his own pickle. Grief counselor angel hauls him around, demanding to know where Cas is or Sam’s gonna die bloody. Dean refuses to give up Cas. He’s bloody and exhausted, but blasts the angels out with a banishing sigil. He heads in to check on Sam. Ezekiel sits slumped in a chair. Between the banishing sigil and the warding, he’s incredibly weak and can’t heal Sam. There are “no good ways” to save Sam so Dean, being Dean, asks about the bad ones. 

Ezekiel thinks he can save Sam by possessing him, but Dean knows that Sam would rather die than be possessed. Ezekiel brings Dean into Sam’s head so he can see how bad it is. 

Dean witnesses Death talking to Sam. Death tells Sam that he played a good game! Sam asks for a boon from Death: he doesn’t want to come back. At. All. He doesn’t want anybody else to get hurt because they tried to save him. SAM BBY!

Dean “There’s Another Way” Winchester is appalled. 

Cas is still trapped with an angel Heaven-bent on possessing him. He looks around at the tools at hand. An angel blade. An angel new to cars and driving. He puts on his seat belt. (Side bar: is this the first time any of our heroes has EVER put on a seat belt???) Cas hauls at the wheel, steering the car towards concrete barriers. 

At the hospital, Dean unpacks the proposal. Ezekiel possesses Sam and they both heal together. When Sam’s better, Ezekiel leaves. 

In a wrecked car, Cas wakes up from his second head injury in an hour or so. He unbuckles his seatbelt and stumbles out. Sprawled ahead of the car is Hael. She’s looking...really bad with her body snapped in some really unfortunate ways. Cas swears to help her - and all the angels. It’ll be his life’s work! “I’m one of you. I will never stop being one of you!” She tells him all the angels despise him. BRB weeping!

He tries to walk away, but she vows to reveal him to the rest of the angels if he leaves her. Cas kills her to save himself. So…...first day as a human? Not going super great. 

Sam prepares to die. Dean stops him from leaving the cabin! (Dean apologizes to Death for not bringing cronuts. I forgot those were a thing!) Sam wants to know why Dean is even there. “You gotta let me in, man. You gotta let me help! There ain’t no me if there ain’t no you.” 

Sam says….yes to being saved. Dean transforms into Ezekiel and light fills Sam’s head.

Outside the hospital, Dean and Ezekiel walk and talk. Ezekiel reports that Sam’s in super rough shape. He also suggests that Sam not be told he’s possessing him. If Sam knows he’s possessed, he’ll expel Ezekiel and then die. Dean’s not happy with that plan, but he agrees to hide the truth from Sam. Adding icing to the cupcake of betrayal, Ezekiel promises to erase Sam’s memories of almost dying in the hospital. Oh dear. 

Cas winds up at a laundromat. He’s bloodied and injured, and I guess these are just...normal laundromat experiences? It’s really sad! Unlucky Cas!

But I’m getting ahead of myself because the laundromat experience is also THIS. Lucky us!

Cas loads his clothing into the washer, but he has very little money. He steals clothing and uses his change to buy something to eat and drink instead. 

In the car, Sam wakes up slowly. Dean asks him how he feels. Sam gets the dollar recap of the angels falling and NOTHING ELSE PERTINENT. Sam’s ready to jump back into the fight and Dean feels G R E A T about it.

Shirtless Quotey:

This one goes out to any angel with their ears on. This is Dean Winchester and I need your help

I would fly, but I have no wings

Let's go see the Grand Canyon, then

Anybody ever tell you you hit like an angel?

There ain't no me if there ain't no you

Want to read more? Check out our Recap Archive! 

[ryqoshay]

Tri-Arame: RPG Night

Primary Pairing Trio: YuuAyuSetsu Secondary Pairings: AiRina, Shizu??? Words: ~2.8k Rating: T’ish for some fantastical violence and a mildly suggestive ending Time Frame: First year of college? Maybe second? Dunno yet Story Arc: Stand Alone (for now... I may indulge more in this later)

Author’s Note: This may be my most self-indulgent chapter yet; doing a crossover of sorts with my own unpublished work and even bringing in my screennamesake. And trying a new formatting style to boot. But after Setsu’s Bond episode revealed she liked TTRPGs, I couldn’t stop thinking about this. Well, except to get sidetracked by writing two other scenes...

Anyway for those who are unfamiliar with my D&D story - read: at least 95% of my readers, probably more but that's the cap for a d20 - names may get a bit messy and confusing. Most of my OCs have a given name, family name and a call sign. And several have nicknames. I’ll give a list of who is playing who here at the start, but for a bit more information on the in-game characters, please refer to the notes in my Followup Post.

Player - Character Call Sign - Character Name Setsuna - Dungeon Master Yuu - Ryqoshay - Rebecca Bouteillevoix Ayumu - Yozakura - Hakumei Yaiba Rina - Nullsilver Luna Ai - Recipere (Rx) - Rachel Ira Xaviera Shizuku - Lady Sanguine - Vivian Sexton / Sanguine

Ryqoshay couldn’t help a smirk as she took careful aim. It didn’t matter that her bodyguard, Yozakura, was engaging her intended target in close quarters, in fact that was a boon. The girl knew her best friend’s fighting style better than anyone, so it was merely a task of picking the right moment. The bandit wouldn’t know what hit him.

Dodge. Feint. Parry. Strike. Now. She released her arrow.

“Nice! A Nat 20! Roll to confirm your crit. Perfect. Now for damage and don’t forget your bonus.”

“Yatta!” Ryqo cheered as the bandit collapsed, clutching his throat where the arrow had struck. The man was dead before he hit the ground and the raven-haired archer scampered toward the blonde ninja. “Yoza-chan! Thanks for keeping him distracted for me!” she threw herself into a tackling hug.

“Y-Yuu-chan?” Yoza stammered. “What are you doing?”

“Yuu-chan?” Ryqo cocked her head to side. “Who’s that? I’m Ryqo, remember?”

“Are you guys talking in character or OOC?”

“O-Oh… uhm, sorry Setsuna-chan… I meant Ryqo-chan.”

“Ne, Ayumu, would a super serious girl like Yozakura really use -chan?”

“Aren’t they childhood friends?”

“Well, yeah, kinda like you and me, but…”

“Honestly, are you two in or out of character?”

“Sorry, Shizuku-chan, we’re still learning our characters.”

“It’s alright. Maybe we can talk more about things after this battle is done?”

The DM cleared her throat. “Anyway, Sanguine, you’re up.”

A manic bout of laughter from nearby caught their attention.

“That’s the last of ‘em!” Lady Sanguine practically shouted as she stood over the bodies of several bandits, her two longswords coated in almost as much blood as she was herself. “Too easy! You guys are a hundred years too early to think you could defeat me. And look, your blood has barely sated my blades. Pitiful! More! I demand more bloodshed!”

“Were we not to leave at least one alive for interrogation?” Recipere made her way over to the redheaded barbarian, healing magicks already gathering around her hands.

“Woops…” Ryqo chuckled, rubbing the back of her neck with one hand, while refusing the remove the other arm from around Yoza. “I was just caught up in watching Viv-ne-chan take down all those bad guys that I didn’t want to be left out of the fun.”

“Woah, I got you, I got you, Vivian.” The blonde cleric said as the barbarian collapsed into her arms.

Vivian mumbled something unintelligible as her rage subsided and her personified bloodlust retreated into her mind.

”What’s up, Setsuna-chan?”

“Nothing, nothing. Don’t worry about it.” The DM’s giggles betrayed her words as she read something from her phone. “I’m awarding Inspiration to Vivian Sexton.”

“Thanks.” Shizuku responded with a smile. “This Vivian/Sanguine persona switching thing is turning out to be quite interesting.”

“Ne, Luna-chan!” Ryqo called over to the team’s artificer. “Was that really all of them?”

Nullsiver Luna held a finger to her lips as she stared at some device in her hand. Silence reigned in the roadside clearing for almost a full minute, the local fauna having long since been scared off by the sounds of the battle that had finally ended. Suddenly, the orange-haired girl pointed and a moment later, an anguished cry sounded from a stand of shrubs a short way into the woods. From the sky, something dived into a nearby tree while something else scampered across the road into the brush.

“Race you there, Yoza-chan.” Ryqo let go of her bodyguard and made for the bushes.

“Y… Ryqo, wait! It’s dangerous, let me go first!”

“Nope!” The archer cried happily over her shoulder. “If you wanna get there first, you gotta be faster than me!”

Yozakura couldn’t help releasing a frustrated grumble before she followed her charge. With her training, however, she easily caught up to and passed the other girl, but remained annoyed as the two approached the scene.

“What in Karla’s name are these things?!” A young man, not much older than the two girls cried, his eyes shifting rapidly among several gathered devices.

“They are my familiars.” A blue-haired artificer stepped into view.

“Wait, Rinari, wasn’t Luna’s hair orange earlier?”

“Yes.”

“Huh…”

“Itov Altiui, to me.” Nullsiver held out her arm, upon which the bird-like contraption landed and stood like a well-trained hawk. “Moxt Tonash, Weyog Kornari, maintain your positions.” She instructed the cat-like and spider-like automatons.

“Where did you come up with names like those, Rinari? I love them! You have to tell me what they mean!”

“I’m interested as well, Rina-san. I was intrigued when I read them in your character bio and would love to work something into a future campaign.”

“… I can send it to you two…”

“Thanks, Rinari!”

“Yes, thank you. Anyway, where were we?”

“Those don’t look like any familiars I’ve seen.” The bandit continued.

“I made them.” Luna responded simply.

“Well, now that we have your attention,” Rx suddenly appeared from the direction of the road, a fully healed Vivian in tow “we have a few questions for you.”

“I’m not telling you anything!” The young man practically shouted.

“Oh ho?” The redheaded barbarian grinned, slowly drawing her swords.

The bandit flinched, but otherwise remained defiant.

“We just want to know where your boss and the rest of your gang is hiding.” Ryqo spoke up.

The bandit spat towards the girl’s feet.

“Take me to your leader!” The archer demanded.

“Yuu-chan…”

“What’s the matter, Ayu-pyon? That was hilarious!”

“As amusing as that was,” the DM interjected “I’m afraid neither of your Intimidation checks were successful. Would someone else like to try their hand?”

“Like I said, I ain’t telling you guys nothing!” The bandit insisted. “The boss will kill me if I gave away our hideout’s location.”

“You realize, of course, that we’ll kill you if you don’t.” Rx stated, matter-of-factly.

The young man glanced among Vivian and Yozakura’s blades, Ryqo’s bow and the three automatons. “You guys ain’t got nothing on the boss.”

“Tell me.” The artificer began. “When you cried out earlier, was it because Weyog Kornari bit you?”

“You mean this thing?” He kicked at the spider, which dodged with ease.

“Yes.”

“What of it? It didn’t hurt much.”

Luna raised an eyebrow but did not attempt to dispute the claim. “I believe I should inform you that you have been poisoned.”

“Yeah, so?”

“You may not feel much now, but you will. Soon. Everyone reacts a little different, so you may notice some blurred vision, shortness of breath, chills, perhaps some perspiration despite the chills…” She spoke in an almost unnerving monotone as she continued to list potential symptoms of the toxin.

The bandit held a hand up and stared at its visible shaking.

“Ah. I see. That would be your nerves being attacked at the chemical level.”

The bandit suddenly convulsed.

“It will hurt. A lot.” Luna continued to explain solemnly. “Until it reaches your heart. Then it will hurt more.” She knelt beside him and held out a tiny vial for him to see. “This is the antidote. Only this can save you as I have ensured my poisons cannot be cured by magical means.”

The young man tried to reach for the vial but ended up clutching at his chest before convulsing again and curling into a fetal position.

“Tell us the location of your base of operations.”

“Alr…” The bandit began before choking off. Despite his entire body shaking now, he managed to make what appeared to be a nodding motion.

“Recipere, Lady Sanguine, please hold him.” Luna requested of her guildmates.

“Right.” Rx replied, moving forward, alongside Vivian.

Once the spasming man was secure, Luna pulled the cork from the vial and upturned it into his mouth. Within moments, his shakes began to fade until he lay still completely.

“Is he dead?” Ryqo asked, poking at his arm with the end of her bow.

Vivian delivered a quick backhand across the bandit’s face. His eyes snapped open and he gasped.

“Ready to talk now?” Ryqo leaned over the bandit with an all too cheerful grin. “If you’re really that worried about what your boss might do to you for spilling the beans, let me assure you we’ll be taking care of him as soon as you tell us where he is. Then you’ll be free to run along and join some other bad guys and we’ll meet again when some other town hires us to get rid of you. Sound like a plan? I think it sounds fun.”

The young man stared up in confusion at the archer. His gaze drifted over to Luna, then to the spider automaton and back to the artificer. With a sigh he began to reveal the location of the hideout.

“Alright, that seems like a good place to call things for the night.” Setsuna said, glancing up over the top of her DM screen. “But before I forget, Rina-chan, Nullsilver was the one to get the bandit to talk and your performance was quite chilling so I’m awarding her Inspiration.”

“Mm.” Rina confirmed with a nod.

“Rinari, that was amazing!” Ai marveled, leaning over to throw an arm around her girlfriend and pull her close. “It honestly sent shivers down my spine.” She giggled as she nuzzled the younger girl’s cheek. “Who would’ve thought you could be so evil.”

“Not evil. Just not good.”

“Rina-chan’s right.” Setsuna nodded. “You’re from a guild of mercenaries, technically none of you are good; you’re all Neutral on that scale. Sure, you’re currently contracted with a town that’s more good leaning, but you could just have easily been hired by the bandits instead.”

“Oh dear, is that the time?” Shizuku sighed as she checked her phone. She looked across the table at Ai and Rina. “We’ve missed the last trains of the night.”

“You guys can stay here if you want.” Yuu offered.

“That’s not the problem.” Shizuku lamented. “She’s not going to be happy…” She started typing something on her phone.

Ai laughed. “Just tell her to join us next time.”

“Next session would actually be the perfect time for a new player to join.” Setsuna pointed out. “We can work it into the story that you guys sent for another merc from your guild to assist in the raid of the bandit camp. And I can adjust the threat levels of the encounter as needed.”

Shizuku nodded. “I’ll be sure to ask her again…” Her phone chimed and she frowned upon checking the message. “I know I’m about to get an earful, but I’m going to call her.” She stood up.

“You can use my room.” Yuu said. “If you’re good with a couch, you can use that, otherwise Ayumu will have to help me find our guest futon.”

“Thank you, the couch will be fine.” The younger girl nodded and excused herself.

“Yuyu, you still don’t have an actual bed?” Ai asked.

“I like it.” Yuu shrugged. “Though I suppose there is one bed I prefer these days.” She pointed a thumb over her shoulder to indicate Ayumu’s bed behind her.

“Of course.” Ai turned to Setsuna. “So, does that mean we’re to take your room, Setsu?”

“Yes.” Setsuna nodded. “Everything is clean because, well…”

“Because you sleep here.” Ai chuckled.

“Y-yes…”

“Honestly, I’m surprised you all fit.”

“It’s actually quite comfortable.” Ayumu spoke up, somehow managing to sound less embarrassed than the dusting of red on her cheeks would have otherwise indicated.

“Well we’ll leave you to it, then. C’mon, Rinari.” Ai stood and took the pink-haired girl’s hand.

“Mm.” Rina affirmed, allowing herself to be led out of the room.

“Setsuna-chan!” Yuu threw herself at the raven-haired girl as soon as the door closed.

“Yuu-san? Wha…?” Though the behavior was by no means out of the ordinary, it still surprised Setsuna.

“I’m sorry!”

“Huh?”

“I spent the entire night flirting with Ayumu.”

“You mean your character flirted with hers.”

“Yeah.”

“But, that was perfectly in character? I figured you two would act that way based on the bios you gave me for them.”

“Well, yeah, but I don’t want you to feel left out.”

Upon realizing what Yuu meant, Setsuna laughed lightly. However, she stopped when she felt herself being embraced from the other side as well. “Ayumu-san?”

“Yuu-chan is right,” the redhead said softly “we don’t want you to feel left out.”

“You guys, I…”

“Hey, I know!” Yuu interrupted. “There’s a bunch of other mercs in the guild, right? Why not write up a character of your own to join in the campaign?”

“That’s a good idea.” Ayumu agreed. “I’d like to see what kind of character Setsuna-chan might play.”

“And then I could have my character flirt with Setsuna-chan’s in-game as well!” Yuu concluded.

Setsuna’s mind spun through several possibilities. But as she glanced back and forth between the faces of her two girlfriends, still snuggled in close, something snapped. “Impossible! I can’t!” She cried before a wave embarrassment washed over her from the outburst. “I mean… I…” she fumbled to explain “I have enough to do as DM running the game. It would be too distracting to try to play a character on top of that. Especially if…” She trailed off.

“Especially if…?” Yuu pressed.

“… Especially if you two were flirting with me…” Setsuna admitted sheepishly.

Yuu laughed. “Don’t worry, Setsuna-chan, it would probably be just me doing the flirting, I don’t think Ayumu knows how.”

“I do too know how to flirt.” Ayumu stated, reaching across Setsuna to punch Yuu lightly in the arm.

“Pouting isn’t flirting, it’s just cute.” Yuu pointed out in an amused tone.

“Mmph...” Ayumu puffed her cheeks.

“Case in point.”

“Ayumu-san was indeed very cute tonight with her reactions to Yuu-san.” Setsuna recalled, thankful for a moment’s respite as Yuu focused on Ayumu. “You played your characters well and were in perfect sync in battle. I’m really looking forward to our next session.”

“We did good?” Yuu blinked.

“Very much so.” Setsuna nodded. “With the exceptions of the occasional name slip and confusion about in or out of character talk, but those kinds of things happen in many games. So, honestly, if I didn’t know better, I wouldn’t have guessed this was the group’s first session together.”

“Oh…”

“Huh?”

“Well, it’s just I thought I wasn’t doing as good as the others because I never earned any Inspiration awards.” Yuu explained. “Ayumu didn’t either.”

Setsuna replayed the night’s game in her head, scouring it for memories of each award. She had recorded them in a document on her laptop, but with her girlfriends hanging off her arms, she was unable to confirm with certainty.

“I know!” Yuu suddenly spoke up, excitement in her voice. “Maybe if we get you some of your favorite snacks for next time, that will earn us a few points?”

Setsuna shook her head. “Sorry, no. Actions taken outside the game like that shouldn’t have an effect in game.”

“Maybe I can give you a massage?”

“That’s even worse.”

“Even though you love me?” Yuu cooed.

“Yuu-san, it is because I love you that I need to take extra precautions. I refuse to participate in the impropriety of playing favorites, or even giving the impression that I am. It would be unfair to the other players and jeopardize the enjoyment of everyone.”

“But is it fair to ignore her completely?” Ayumu interjected.

Had she really not awarded any Inspiration to either Yuu or Ayumu? Setsuna tried to recall again.

“Shizuku-chan was awarded Inspiration for making you laugh with inner dialogue acting.” Ayumu continued. “But Yuu-chan also made you laugh multiple times with her antics, yet…”

“Hrm…”

“Rina also earned some for her great acting and giving us all the chills. And while I don’t think Yuu-chan’s character could do the same, she certainly entertains in other ways.”

Setsuna sighed. “Perhaps I was being too cautious.” She conceded. “I’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted.” Yuu said with a smile before craning her neck so she could press a kiss against Setsuna’s cheek.

That was quick. Then again, it was Yuu. Still… “I can’t fairly grant awards via retcon, but I promise I will try to be more fair going forward. I really do want everyone to have fun with this game.”

“We are having fun.” Ayumu assured.

“It was even obvious that Rina-chan was having the time of her life.” Yuu pointed out. “And maybe Shizuku-chan can convince a sixth to join. And if Ayumu and I weren’t having fun we wouldn’t be so excited about the next session.”

Setsuna smiled. “Thank you. So long as my players are interested in continuing, I’ll do my best to DM a good game for them.”

“We know.” Yuu’s tone changed a bit. “And all that hard work deserves a reward, right Ayumu?”

Setsuna gasped as a hand slipped under her sleepshirt to push fingertips past the hem of her shorts and graze across the skin near her bellybutton.

Yuu giggled. “I think Ayumu’s getting a little impatient to issue your reward.”

Whatever Setsuna was about to say in response was cut off as Ayumu covered her mouth with her own.

Author’s Note Continued in Followup Post

[superrobotmonkeyteamramblingsgo]

A Defining Moment

Summary: A hero wants to know what is threatening his home and friends. An alchemist wants to have a chance to help. And a Veron Mystic just wants one moment to share her burden with another. But the road to hell, and the Skeleton King, are paved with good intentions A/N: Some backstory for my OC’s Pheena and Flora, as well as showing my theories about how having an eldritch abomination seal in its core would affect Shuggazoom. Also, here is an explanation for why its ‘Sparks’ here when I normally write it as ‘Sprx’ elsewhere.

~

Captain Shuggazoom may have left all matters scientific, magical, and otherworldly to his friends, but that didn’t mean he was stupid. He did have a city to protect, and more often than not that was on his own. Sure it was always great when his friends were able to pitch in, and the Alchemist’s inventions were always a boon, but a tool could only get you so far. He had to rely on his wits, instinct, and experience to make the most out of his friend’s help.

And then there was his life as Clayton Carrington, where he had to use his smarts to appear as dumb as he did. It was a balancing act, playing the part of airhead playboy while also subtly manipulating his handlers so that his family’s company and wealth were being used how he wanted them to. He had long since learned how to anticipate people’s behaviors, and how to act so that they would react in the way he wanted. It may not be like the volumes of facts and physics and what not Pheena and the Alchemist knew, but it was intelligence all the same and the price he paid for ensuring that Captain Shuggazoom stayed as far away from Clayton Carrington as possible.

But it meant that he knew how to read people. And pattern recognition was an important skin in both sides of his life.

He observed and these were the facts that didn’t escape his notice: Delpheena just so happened to get leave from the Varon Mystics at the same time as a monster attack. But it wasn’t a normal monster attack, the result of his enemy releasing some beast on the city to accomplish their goals. Because if that was the case, the monsters would be targeting the city. Instead, these beasts always focused on someplace away from the city. It was places like desolated quarries that weren’t even used for mining anymore, an island out in the middle of nowhere that was barren save a ring of stone pillars, and a temple hidden among the jungle the Alchemist also lived in.

That one was literally too close to the Alchemist’s base for comfort. Attacks on the city were on thing, because more often than not Clayton Carrington was there and could easily slip out for Captain Shuggazoom to appear. But even at his fastest, it still took him a while to get to the Alchemist’s. Sure, his friend was a great wielder of magic and machines, but he also had a troop of baby monkeys to look after as well, not to mention whatever else was lurking in the Shuggazoom-forshaken foliage.

Something was going on, and it may not be threatening his city directly, but it was threatening his friends and that was enough for him.

Especially when they didn’t even become aware of the beast until they discovered Pheena was missing, and when the Alchemist was able to track her down, there was the beast, with her glowing green sword through its heart.

She had greeted them like it was any other time, like it was routine to meet each other among the corpse of a slain beast.  Or she tried, but it was hard to ignore the surrounding, the dark sludges dusting her uniform, or even how tired she was behind the façade of normalcy she tried to maintain.

He didn’t say anything, allowing his thoughts to stew as she babbled (with more effort and pauses to catch her breath than normal) about whatever caught her fancy, the Alchemist occasionally chipping in with his two cents so there would be some semblance of a conversation

Because here it was again, the way she tried to downplay it and wave it off as nothing to worry about, only to try way too hard. She only seem to genuinely relax once they were back to the Alchemist’s lab and she was playing with his troop of monkeys.

He leaned against a wall, just watching how genuine her smile became and some of the exhaustion left her shoulders as she let them crawl and climb over her. Even Mandarin, the oldest who usually preferred to hang back and observe, approached her as he and Antauri played with the draped edge of her cloak.  She especially perked up when Flora, the smallest and youngest of them, woke up and wanted to be cuddled by her.

Maybe that was why he finally felt time was right to speak.

“Sucks how your leave is always interrupted by monster attacks.”

“Yeah, my luck has just been so bad lately. I don’t know why I’ve been so unlucky, but at least I have my good luck charm here” Sparks chirped in response, and she giggled. “Isn’t that right, Lucky?”” She giggles as she takes Spark’s hands into her own and shakes them in rhythm with her chant. “Lucky, lucky monkey, good luck charm!” 

Sparks squealed in delights with her, and from her lap Flora chirped and reached her hands out to their clasped ones.

She use to do something similar with her siblings, way back when they were kids. Whenever she was babysitting them and a serious issue came up, she would quickly change the subject with a silly song or joke or some other distraction. Anything to distract from the things she didn’t want them to think about.

That was fine when she was babysitting her siblings, but not now as adults. Pheena was a year older than him and the Alchemist and never let them catch up to her. When they were kids, a year meant so much more and did make things different for her. She was the first to double digits, new schools, and graduations. She was even the first to leave Shuggazoom when that Master Zan recruited her into the Varon Mystics. But as they aged and that year became more negligible, she still refused to let them close the gulf. He and the Alchemist had caught up to her, but she never let them in. 

“Well, I’ve been getting pretty lucky myself lately,” At that, she turned to him to stare enough that he caught what he just implied. “Get your mind out of gutter, I mean that things have been going well in both my heroic and civilian life. I’m sure it could help counter your own bad luck, so I’m open to assisting you however you can.”

“Of course that is what you meant Mr. Shuggazoom’s most eligible bachelor,” She chuckled, but it was forced, “But what if instead my bad luck ends up taking over your good luck? Then you or the city could get hurt?” She shook her head and looked him in the eye for the first time the entire evening. “No, its better if I’m still on my own and you keep doing your own thing. So Shuggazoom’s golden boy doesn’t have to worry about little old me, okay.”

He frowned but she just kept staring, trying to hammer the point home without speaking. She only let up when Flora began to climb out of her lap, trying to steady onto her feet and walk over to the rest of the monkeys. Sparks was still by her lap, as was Otto who poked at the nearby Gibson to look his way. Nova, ever adventures, had climbed onto Pheena’s shoulders while were still a playing with her cloak.

He had to smile at the scene, especially how Sparks reached out to help Flora as she tried to steady her stance, Nova chirping encouragement, and Otto clapping his hands. They really were amazing creatures and every time he visited it was a treat to see them grow and develop. Gibson always hung around the Alchemist lab, Otto tried to get his hands on his gadgets, and Nova took to imitating his fighting stances from the battle clips they watched. Antauri had even begun mimicking their lotus positions during meditation!

If he wasn’t so busy, in both facets of his life, he would be severely tempted to ask the Alchemist if he could keep one. He wouldn’t mind the company when he had to be away in the city. Maybe he could ask the Alchemist about it…

Flora slipped, but Pheena quickly had a hand under her belly to catch her. “Don’t worry, everything is okay.” She said with just enough emphasis his way that he knew she wasn’t talking to just the monkeys.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t devolve into arguments. “Well, I have to get going. Got things to do and people to see. Will I get we get a chance to meet up again before you head back?”

“Probably not,” And for once there was a break, a genuine gleam of sadness to her eyes before she fixed it away, “I’ll be heading back to Karaladol once I’m done saying goodbyes to Patches and the monkeys. The masters will want an update about what I’ve been getting underfoot about.”

“Before you leave, I want to show you something I’ve been working on Captain,” Spoke up the Alchemist, who had otherwise blended into the background of the lab and their conversation, “Would you be fine with watching the monkeys while I’m gone Pheena?”

“Of course,” She laughed as the monkeys tried to fill her lap, now empty since she was holding Flora. It was a good thing she was being overwhelmed with the cute, otherwise she might have caught the look that was shared between her two friends. Or that they were walking not towards the Alchemist’s lab, but the secluded hallway that led to the front door exit.

She also didn’t see how Captain Shuggazoom let out a huff. “She’s hiding something,” He said, his frustration venting out through gritted teeth.

The Alchemist nodded. “She is.”

“Do you have any idea what it could be? I figured that it’s probably related to the monster attacks but that is as far as I got.”

“I have some theories, but nothing concrete.”

He frowned as he ran a hand through his hair, as if it would stimulate his brain to come up with a solution. “Do you want to try talking to her about it? You’re better with this spiritual stuff than I am, so you’ll understand it more than me anyway.”

“I doubt she’ll be more open with me, but I can try. I do have some questions for her about the Power Primate that might help illuminate some things.”

And probably would involve things Captain Shuggazoom couldn’t even begin to understand, but he was use to that now.  The Alchemist and Pheena would deal with esoteric magics and spirits, while he would always be here, protecting Shuggazoom and the home they could return to.

“Best of luck to you then, old friend.” Captain Shuggazoom put his helmet back on, but before slipping the cover, he turned towards the front of the hallway to shout. “I’m heading out now, Pheena, see you next time!”

“See you then, Goldie!” Her voice, somewhat muffled by the distance, replied. His helmet’s screen then slide into place, his cape fluttering behind him as he walked out the lab.

(But there wouldn’t be a next time for the two of them)

-

The Alchemist got into the habit of always makings sure the front door slide into place when Captain Shuggazoom left. It was suppose to automatically close, but there was always a chance of a bug or leaf or some other factor interfering with the mechanism. The Captain would probably say his magic could handle any creature that dared to walk in, but his biggest fear was more of what could get out.

His monkeys were at a precocious age, all save the youngest steady on their feet and ready to explore. He had plans that would allow them to stand up against the threats around their home, but that was for the future. For now they were small and curious and needed the front door to stay closed.

It also gave him an excuse to take a moment to think about what he and the Captain discussed, and how he would approach Pheena.

There was the blessing that the time made for a good conversation segue-way. “It’s almost feeding time for them again.” He said as he returned to the monkey covered pile that was his other childhood friend.

“Alright,” She laughed as she careful stood up and gently pried the monkeys off of her. “You heard him, it snack time!”

Pheena still kept Flora in her arms, so he handed her a bottle. The littlest monkey was doing better, and able to eat some solid food, but she still needed some formula supplements. Pheena happily took to the time-consuming task of bottle feeding her, allowing him to focus on the rest of his monkey troop.

He sat down a plate of fruit, vegetables, and other snacks. There was a cascade of squeals as they clamored over the plate, Mandarin trying to ensure some semblance of order by making sure no one monkey hoarded all of one type. But the afternoon playing made him as hungry as his younger peers, so he gave up at a point to stuff his face from the selection of citrus. And then, with bellies full, they all let out a yawn, one by one in turn, and curled up in a file of fluff and fur to sleep.

The Alchemist reached down to clean up the scraps of peels and rinds left on the floor and turned around with the now empty plate towards Pheena, only to find her gone.

Frowning, he placed the plate on one of the many tables that littered his lab, reviewing where she could have gone. She still had Flora, he thought as he put a blanket over the rest of his sleeping monkeys, so he was pretty sure that she hadn’t returned to Karaladol behind his back.

Or at least he would like to think she wouldn’t, but she became more of a stranger with each visit

There was a change in the atmosphere, a slight shifting in the aura of the area that his magical training let him pick up on. It was the same feel when Pheena used her Power Primate abilities and was coming from another room.

Pheena was there, the empty bottle discard off to the side and a sleeping Flora clutched to her chest. Her eyes were glowing white-green, bright enough that he couldn’t see her blue irises but it did seem that she wasn’t focusing on something in the room.

“Pheena?”

She gasped as the glow subsided, her irises reappearing as she turned to him. “Oh, it’s just you Patches! Sorry, I just wanted a quieter place to feed our little Sprout.”

“That didn’t seem to be the only reason.”

She shrugged, “Just scanning the area and practicing my technique. It’s one thing to read a single life force, but it’s another, harder thing to be able to spread it out.”

“And the Veron Mystics taught you that. Did they teach you anything else?”

“Oh, just things that I don’t think you’ll understand.”

He walked up to her, towering over her even with her standing upright. “Try me.”

There was a flicker of something on her face before she smiled. “Oh Patches, trust me, it not something you’ll be interesting in knowing-”

“If it troubles you, of course I want to know.” She backed off at her interruption, “Pheena, Clayton and I both know that something is going on. It’s just not these monster attacks, but your behavior as well. We know you’re trying to hide something from us.”

“I’m not-“

“We know you too well. And it’s because of that we are worried for you. Especially because I know something is up. I can tell with my magic, that you are battling some force far bigger than petty crooks and super villains.”

She was stricken silent, the smile slipping from her face as she stared at him. There was a gaunt paleness to her skin, and combined with the dark coloring of her Veron Mystic clothing, it made her look deathly ill.

The Alchemist’s heart ached with a need to help. He was all too use to being resigned to the sidelines. He wasn’t born with gifts the way Clayton and Pheena were, he didn’t have super strength and flight like Clayton, or read mind like Pheena. All he had was his mind, an ability to consume and absorb the offer conflicting knowledge of magic and science into a harmonious mix.

And it was through knowledge that he was able to do good, even if it wasn’t directly. It was why he labored so long with Maezono and Takeuchi to create the Super Robot, a prototype for future fighting machines that could be used for good. It was why he happily made weapons and tools to assist Captain Shuggazoom in defending the city.  It was why he had such big plans for his monkey team.

It was why he wanted more than anything to know what weight Pheena carried on her shoulders.

He bend down, putting his hands on her shoulder as they stood face to face. “Please Pheena, we’re your friends.  Let us help you, let me help you, even if it as a sympathetic ear for the burdens you bear.”

The silence seemed as heavy as she took in his words, looking away from him mismatched stare. He found himself holding his breath, waiting in anticipation for her answer.

“…they’re called the Dark Ones.” She finally said, looking at him with a steel to her eyes.

“The Dark Ones,” He repeated, mulling over the name. “That sounds familiar, I think that I saw some references to them in some of my arcane texts.”

“You probably have, they’re as old as the galaxy. They remnants of the first evil that threatened all life and existence.”

“And the monsters are trying to complete that goal?”

“No, the demons and cultists are trying to free them, or at least the surviving offspring, no matter the cost to the planet.”

“The planet?” There was a flip of his stomach as a horrid thought crossed his mind. “Pheena, where are they imprisoned?”

“…it seems you have figured it out already,” She said, in a tone barely above a whisper, “But to confirm your suspicion, they lay dormant in the cores of planets, and Shuggazoom is one of them.”

She turned away, her eyes directed at the floor but peering at something far below it. She left out a short, bitter laugh. “You know, I always felt that there was something within the planet. It felt like there was something just crawling under the surface, trying to burrow its essences into every part of the planet.” Her left hand still held Flora, but her right one was free to dig its nails into her left arm, as if trying to claw at a worm underneath her skin. “That’s why the Veron Mystics recruited me, because I can so easily sense them.”

He put his hand on hers, gently pulling it off from the arm and giving it a comforting squeeze. It broke whatever trance she was in, as she turned back to the Alchemist and took a deep breath. “That’s why the planet gets targeted so much, why Shuggazoom always had a protector in the past even before Goldie. They may not be actively seeking it, but its evil subconsciously calls to them and they respond. Normally, that’s no big deal, as freeing it isn’t their main objectively, but lately-”

“But lately there have been one’s going after it.”

She nodded. “The powers of the Dark Ones grows in their dimensions, and with it their influence in ours. Now they have dedicated followers that are trying to tip the balance of the universe in their favor by releasing the ones sealed in the cores.”

“But if the Veron Mystics recruited you because of them, then that must mean that have their own ways of dealing with it.”

“They do, and I’ve become quiet adapt at sealing their evil, but it’s just exhausting because of the size of their forces and areas we have to defend. Take Shuggazoom, where we have three main points of concern.”

He immediately knew the place. “The temple, the island, and the mining pit.”

She nodded. “Right, but we already were able to control most of it. The Arcane Island is supposed to be a portal to their home dimensions, but we reinforced it so that it is pretty much useless. Nothing can come out of it, and while they could get in, that’s only if they have some Power Primate to bypass the seals. Same thing with the temple, it’ll be years before they can work around my wards. The only one we’re having trouble with is the mining pit.” She frowned. “It’s not a means to summon or empower the Dark Ones, but a way towards the weak point of the prison.”

“And I take it you don’t know how fix that.” 

“The ruins on the island and the temple are relatively recent compared to how long the Dark Ones have been imprisoned. For now, all we can do is to try to manage the threats.”

There was a soft cooing sound, and Pheena looked down to where Flora was waking up in her arms. She let out a small yawn before bleary red eyes looked up to her and smiled.

Pheena returned the smile and gave the monkey an affection pat on the head, fingers running down to the pink ribbon tied around her. “I spend so much time sensing and reading the minds of those dedicated to evil and death, that it is such a relief to be here. Being with your monkeys, just being able to bask in their life and innocents, has been a bright spot in all this. It was especially wonderful tending to Sprout and watching her grow up.” She sighed, reluctantly pulling Flora away from her chest, despite the protesting cries the monkey made, and holding her out to him. “She can keep the ribbon, consider it my way of thanking her.”

It was only semantics that made Flora ‘his’, more out of convenience that he was already use to caring for young monkeys.

But it was Pheena who had found Flora among the wreckage left in the wake of the beast’s destruction, cradled by the bodies of her parents who had sacrificed their life to protect their young daughter. It was Pheena who had not let their sacrifice go to waste by bringing Flora to him, otherwise he didn’t think she would have let him or Clayton know she was even on the planet. And Pheena was the one who did most of the demanding one-on-one care Flora required, allowing him more time to see to the rest of the monkeys. He had doubted her chances of surviving, but she persevered, probably because of the extra attention Pheena gave her.

From the very first moment, from being the finder and the found, that was a bond put in place between Pheena and Flora. Pheena didn’t try to show such blatant favoritism, but it was clear once she tied her old pink ribbon around Flora, trying to justify it under the flimsy excuse of ‘being too cute.’

He really shouldn’t do this. Flora was entering a precarious stage of development. As she became more mobile, she would need social interaction with monkeys of her species. The socialization would be crucial to her development, teaching her certain behavioral cues and rules. Who knows how her temperament would turn out without it?

But he kept thinking of the uncensored joy and peace that Pheena always had with Flora, and his decision was made. “Do you want to take her back with you?”

Pheena looked like she was about to fall over. “What? Patches, are you serious?”

I am,” He nodded, pushing her hands and Flora back towards her. “You already showed that you can take care of her, since you’re basically her primary caretaker already. Flora’s going to still need more individual attention, and I have six other monkeys to take care of. You’ll be able to better give her the attention she needs, unless you don’t think you will?”

“No, no, I can!” She hugged Flora again, lighting up like a kid who was told they could get a puppy. “Most of my time on Karaladol is spent sensing for Dark Ones, meditating, studying, all that stuff that will leave me with plenty of time to care for her. And she is such a good girl that I’m sure the masters will be fine with her tagging along with me.” Pheena held Flora up, resting their foreheads together. “Even stuffy Master Zan wouldn’t be able to say no to such a cute face!”

Flora chirped in response, getting a genuine, happy laugh out of Pheena.

The Alchemist had to smile at the display. He could help Pheena this way, he thought as they went about packing up supplies for Flora and going over instructions just in case she fell sick again. 

But his mind was already working on another solution, recalling what he learned about other dimensions and interacting with them. He could make it so they could better monitor the Dark Ones, and if what Pheena said was true about the connection between them and the villains that threaten Shuggazoom, then this could even help Captain Shuggazoom as well in the long run.

In time, he was sure he could make it so that such evil would never be such a threat again.

[ohblackdiamond]

something blue (ace/paul, nc-17)

The ramifications of the glam shit, the femme, androgynous shit, all that was for someone like Gene to analyze. Decide if they really were breaking down the foundations of society and dragging themselves down to a well-deserved hell by putting on heels and blouses. Paul requests drag for his 25th birthday party, and his bandmates deliver.

The ramifications of the glam shit, the femme, androgynous shit, all that was for someone like Gene to analyze. Decide if they really were breaking down the foundations of society and dragging themselves down to a well-deserved hell by putting on heels and blouses. Paul just liked wearing them. Even in junior high and high school, he’d been the lonely kid wearing outlandish outfits, the long-haired kid that people thought might be cool until he opened his mouth. It had taken years—it had taken KISS—before he could halfway manage to pair looking cool with being cool. Feeling cool, well. That was a lost cause.

The other guys ribbed him about it some, his tendency to go over the top with his clothes. It was hard to feel too bothered by it most of the time. Knowing the other three were going to spend the evening’s concert wearing nothing but BDSM gear, same as him, really curtailed the burn of any comments. Plus, for all the teasing, he knew that, ultimately, his bandmates got it, understood it. Would dress up themselves some even when they weren’t onstage.

They’d even been down for dressing in drag for his birthday party today.

So down. Maybe too down. Ace and Gene in particular had committed. He’d watched in their hotel room, not sure whether to be horrified or just amused, as they got out a couple of boxes of waxing strips and promptly deforested their legs. The whining during and afterward had been so minimal Paul wanted to ask if it wasn’t their first time. Meanwhile, Peter had just grabbed the first frock off the thrift store rack that fit him and called it good.

Paul didn’t mind. It was for the hell of it, anyway. Every damn day bled into the next while they were on tour. Even holidays didn’t have a draw to them anymore. Hanukkah got the prerequisite long-distance call to his parents, a litany of “yeah, Mom”’s while Gene stood over him with his hand out, waiting on the phone. Christmas got Peter grumbling around jewelry stores for Lydia and Ace following him around, perkily picking out things for himself and Jeanette both. Peter’s birthday was usually a drug fiasco; Paul’s… well, Paul’s was usually a little boring. The cake, the beer, the roadies. Play for a few thousand people, have a party with less than fifteen in some room backstage at the auditorium. He’d thought drag might liven things up a little. Give them all something to laugh at.

So Paul hadn’t put a whole lot of effort in, himself. He’d shaved his legs, but he hadn’t gotten rid of his five o’clock shadow. The dress was one he’d bought from some trendy boutique, floral print on black with a matching choker, and bell sleeves that weren’t quite enough of a distraction from the wideness of his shoulders. Maybe after the party he’d lob it off to the costume girl and have her cut it down into a top for him. Beyond that, well, he’d gotten a pair of black heels, stuffed a bra one of his groupies had left behind, and been done with it. He hadn’t even bought panties for the occasion, although Gene, in a rare moment of exhibitionism, had flipped up his skirt to show Paul his. Ace had done the same, albeit hesitantly, inching up the hem like he was trying to be coy, only showing one leg and a bony hip and half the underwear. But that brief look was enough. God, Ace had even matched the panties to the powder blue of his dress.

“You didn’t have to go that far, you know.” Even though Ace had dropped the hem after less than half a second, the image was already emblazoned in Paul’s head. The ruffles and lace looked like icing swirls on a tiered cake, no distraction at all from how poorly they contained Ace’s cock and balls. He must’ve been dying in that. A couple million sperm being strangled all for the sake of his party. Paul guessed it might save Ace some paternity lawsuits down the road.

“What kinda girl doesn’t match her underwear to her dress, Paulie?”

“You don’t even match your socks half the time.”

“It’s a special occasion! Hey, you only turn twenty-five once.” Ace said it as if it were something mystical, reaching over to flick Paul right in one breast. The tissues crumpled up inside his bra kept him from feeling anything, but he still rolled his eyes in response. “Thought you would’ve gone a little bigger with your tits there, though. I mean, you stuff your pants pretty good—”

“I do not stuff my pants.”

“Bullshit, I’ve roomed with you.” Ace started cackling, popping open a can of beer and taking a few long gulps before continuing. “You don’t gotta have a complex just ’cause of me and Peter—”

“I don’t! Shit, man.” Paul grabbed another piece of cake and a fork, scraping off the frosting and pushing it into a glob on the plate before scooping it into his mouth. Two sweet swallows of vanilla. Then the chocolate icing up the side from when they’d run out of the white.

“You want the rest of that?” Ace pointed to the bare piece of cake.

“I usually give it to Gene.”

“I’ll eat it. He’s had three already.”

Paul turned his head, catching sight of Gene across the room—he was talking to Lydia, just as casually as if he weren’t in a dress and strappy heels, holding a couple of empty plastic plates. Ace’s eyes followed his, and he snorted, cupping his hands over his forehead like he was a mariner searching for shore. He didn’t put his hands down until Paul looked back at him.

“What do you do that for?”

“Do what?”

“Look for Gene. What’s he gonna do, tell you no?”

“I don’t—”

“Fucking apron strings. You’re even like that in interviews! Shit, how’d he do that to you?”

“Do you want the cake or not?”

“You ain’t his little brother here, Paulie. You don’t need his permission for anything.” The corners of Ace’s mouth tilted up faintly. “Especially not giving away your own birthday cake.”

It wasn’t worth explaining. Ace probably wasn’t drunk yet, but Paul didn’t think he’d understand it even if he were sober. Ace wasn’t the type to admire anyone. But Gene just—had what Paul didn’t. Security. Self-importance. Intellectualism. When he’d first met him, it had pissed him off. When he’d started playing with him, he’d realized just what a boon it was. Ace and Peter could pop off all they wanted, but Paul knew damn well that Gene’s dogged promotion was what had secured their contract with Casablanca. He wasn’t going to forget that just because of KISS’ success. If it made him come off like Gene’s bitch to the other guys, well, that was too bad.

None of that mattered when Ace was still standing there with his hand out, waiting on the cake. Paul shrugged and handed over the plate. Ace didn’t bother with the fork, just took the cake in his hands and shoved it in his mouth. It was gone in two bites at best.

Ace wandered off after that, like a stray dog who’d gotten a couple scraps, leaving Paul alone at the dessert table. Paul didn’t really mind. He chatted with the roadies a bit, posed for a couple pictures beside the mangled cake for Lydia. He asked her if she planned on taking any group shots of the band, and almost started laughing at her shudder.

“Not with the way Peter looks. You can see the bra through his dress.”

“You can see his dick, too!” Ace piped up from a couple feet away. Lydia took a candid of Ace in retaliation, but he just snickered and hiked his skirt, managing a wobbly curtsy before the bulb flashed. Peter had to grab him to keep him from falling forward in the process. So much for thinking the man was still sober.

Paul wasn’t doing much thinking himself. Just watching everyone but him and Gene slowly get wasted. Terribly shy at his own fucking party, hanging around the refreshment table like a girl who’d gone stag to senior prom. The beer and frosting scrapings he’d had weren’t helping his nerves. It wasn’t tonight’s show that was worrying him—the shows never worried him. It wasn’t even his birthday getting to him. Like it could. Twenty-five was nowhere near the downhill slope. He felt great. He was great. He was living his dream. Sure, it’d fall apart eventually, but eventually was a dim speck that only a lonesome night could ever turn into more. As long as someone was with him, whether bandmates or bedmates, anything painful, anything meaningful, could be shifted over to the side like so much cake on his plate.

No, it was petty, what was on his mind now. Pure rockstar excess. It wasn’t that he was upset about the hotel accommodations or the refreshment table or even the way the stars on his outfit didn’t reflect the stage lights as much as he wanted. No, he was upset about losing the silver garter he wore onstage. The most meaningless portion of his costume, the one thing nobody else cared about, and he had the gall to be upset about it. He’d even had the gall to enlist all the roadies that were willing to help in the search earlier today—all they’d found, in any of the hotel rooms, was Ace and Peter’s marijuana stashes (immediately consumed), several condoms, new and used, and some frankly disturbing groupie photos even Gene hadn’t wanted for his album. Paul was half-convinced that Gene had somehow both accidentally and soberly fucked the abominable snowman.

But the garter hadn’t turned up, and he was still ruminating over it as if it were important. He couldn’t explain it. He didn’t know why, but he really—really dug it when people reached up from the front row and snapped that garter. Didn’t matter if it was girls or drunk guys. He tried not to think too hard about what it meant, if he really was half-queer or if he was just so fucking desperate for affection that he’d accept it from anyone, male or female. He wasn’t sure which was worse.

The most pathetic thing about losing the garter was that it didn’t matter at all. Not to anyone but him. He had a couple back-ups at the ready, in case someone snapped the garter off, but it bothered him. He’d rather wear the same garter during the whole tour. Good luck, or maybe just comfortable routine. Maybe because it was tangible evidence of want, like Gene’s Polaroid collection. Something that stuck around long after the night’s groupies were gone. God knew how many fingerprints were on the thing. How much sweat, too.

Whatever. He shook his head, grabbing a Coke this time. He’d enjoy the rest of the party; they’d finish up, then get ready for the concert, back-up garter on, and—

“Ground control to Major Stannnnnley.”

Ace again. No, not just Ace. Peter was there, too, snagging another bottle of beer. And Gene, too, had apparently torn himself away from macking on a roadie’s girlfriend to come on over. It was kind of odd, them all bunched together like they were waiting on something.

“Yeah?”

“We got three hours before the show.”

“I know.”

“Means they’re gonna make us wrap this up soon.”

“Yeah, I know—” Paul paused. That vague feeling of dread was starting to crop up, making his skin prickle. The roadies seemed like they were heading towards the table now, too, none too subtle about it. Aucoin wasn’t looking their way, but he was smiling. Fantastic. Something was about to happen. Probably the guys had all chipped in to get him some obscene gag gift, like a giant dildo or a custom blow-up doll. Paul looked past the gathering crowd, hoping to spot someone carrying a box—with any luck, he could cut them off at the pass—but there was nothing. He cleared his throat. “Hey, you guys sang ‘Happy Birthday’ for me twice already. So what gives?”

“We heard you lost your garter.”

Gene’s face was set in such an impossibly straight line that Paul knew he had to be seconds from cracking up entirely. Paul threw him a suspicious look before answering.

“Yeah? It’s fine. I’ve got some extras—”

“Nah, you don’t need them.”

“Don’t tell me. You bought me a new garter.” Paul rubbed his forehead. “You spent a whole two bucks on me at the lingerie store. I’m so impressed.”

“You think that thing costs two bucks, Paul?” Gene again, his brow furrowed. “It’s custom. There aren’t that many girls with thighs as big as yours.”

“Shut up, Gene.” He could feel his face heating up as he took another survey of the room, staring at everybody in turn, trying to make sure he looked more annoyed than flustered. All right, so it wasn’t in a box, and wasn’t in anybody’s hands. That just left—“Okay, who’s wearing it?”

“Don’t look at me—”

“Peter, c’mon.”

“I swear I don’t have your fucking garter.”

Paul crooked his finger toward him. Peter started laughing.

“I swear to God, Paulie!”

“Up.”

“Y’know, I usually do this to music…” Peter trailed before hiking up his skirt. Each inch exposed just how seriously he’d taken the drag suggestion, coarse leg hair a wince-inducing contrast to the beige maxi dress. Paul cleared his throat once the dress cleared his knees with no garter in sight, but Peter ignored him. He just kept raising that skirt until he got to the goods, the plain Hanes panties that were huge enough to hold his dick in place, though the elastic above it was drooping. The roadies started clapping and snickering, while Peter preened. “You want more and I’ve gotta charge. We got a rate set up yet, Lydia?”

“Keep this up and you might be free,” Lydia muttered.

“Baby—”

“Okay, next,” Paul snapped, looking at Gene. Gene just raised his hands.

“You already got a peek.”

“That was twenty minutes ago.”

“Oh, now, don’t be greedy about it,” Gene said, smooth and enviably cool, as he set down his bottle of Coke and peeled up the skirt of his dress, earning a few more whoops from the crowd. The pleased grin plastered on his face made Paul want to shake him. He stopped mostly-short of the thong he was wearing, Paul regretting the bare glimpse he did get of the damn thing. No garter. Great. So that left the roadies, none of whom were dressed in drag, Aucoin, who saved any residual classlessness for gay bars, and the guy he probably should have suspected first.

“Ace.”

“Paulie.”

Ace was helping himself to another slice of cake. He’d done his makeup, Paul noticed belatedly. Not the greasepaint; just lipstick and mascara, maybe a little blush. It wasn’t heavyhanded. Back when they’d first started, back when they’d all tried for the New York Dolls look, Ace had been the only one who’d pulled it off. He’d looked like Shirley Maclaine—not glamorous, but cute, really cute—while the rest of the band looked like quarterbacks who’d lost a bet. Paul had been so disgusted with his own shots in particular. He could all but feel his own awkwardness emanating through each picture. Knew he’d been trying too hard, him and Gene and Peter, too, while Ace hadn’t been trying at all.

Right now, Ace still looked passably feminine. More than passably. Especially with his hair long, the black dye all but washed out, and the choker hiding his Adam’s apple and the light pink sheen to his lips. It was pretty disturbing, and Ace was only making it worse by staring innocently at Paul, licking a bit of frosting off his lips, taking some of the lipstick with it.

“You’ve got the garter.”

“I don’t, man. I already showed you, too.”

“Show me again.”

Ace didn’t wipe off his mouth before obliging, humming the beginning riff to “Parasite” as he raised the hem of his dress. Carefully. Again. Too carefully. Inching it up like he was revealing the Venus DeMilo to a crowd of perverts. He was getting the exact same view he had before, a view of a smooth leg and just the hint of a blue pair of panties. Paul narrowed his eyes.

“I’m only seeing one leg here.”

“You want all three or what?”

“I want my garter back.”

Ace snickered.

“At your service, sweetheart. Only ’cause it’s your birthday.”

And then he yanked the skirt all the way up. There it was, the silver fabric shimmering just slightly in the dim light. On Ace’s left leg, the one he hadn’t exposed earlier. Up almost to his crotch, the exact position Paul normally had it on himself. Aucoin had told him once no girl would’ve worn it that high, but Paul hadn’t cared—

“You caught me.” Ace was grinning. “Shit, I thought you would’ve figured it out faster! You overthink things, Paulie, you really do—”

“Give it here.”

“Nah. How about you take it off?”

“Ace, don’t be an ass—”

 “Go on. Take it off.” Ace was still holding up the hem of his dress. Dangling it like a clothesline in the wind. “Make me feel pretty.”

 Paul glanced at Gene, half-hating himself for doing it. Gene wasn’t coming to his rescue, anyway, offering just a shrug of his shoulders and a “you heard him.” Peter had stepped closer in to get a better look. Fine. Fine. He wasn’t going to prolong this. Paul headed to Ace and leaned over, reaching for the garter. He hadn’t so much as curled his fingers over the silver elastic before Ace snatched his hand, raising it up.

“Not like that, Paulie. You gotta do it proper.”

“Proper,” Paul repeated dully. Ace blinked, then laughed, letting go of Paul’s hand.

“Ain’t you ever been to a wedding?”

“I went to yours?”

“Aw, fuck, no wonder.” Ace shook his head. “You got teeth, don’t you?”

“Yeah—”

Ace hiked his dress a little higher, exposing himself all the way up to his navel. Paul’s face went crimson.

“Get under there, Paul.”

He could feel all of them staring at him. His bandmates, the handful of roadies, Aucoin. Not even fifteen people there, but it was still like a concert without amps. Just about terrifying. Just about terrifying, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it but bitch or whine or—or get under there.

He sunk to his knees in front of Ace, and felt Ace drop the skirt over his head, where it fell almost to his waist. The thin material was no barrier at all to the sounds of Peter whooping and Gene chuckling. Paul breathed in heavily, feeling his face flush darker and darker. God. God.

He’d tug down the garter and be done with it. Ten seconds at worst.

 Ace’s dick, barely encased in those ruffled panties, wasn’t as unpleasant a counterpoint to the garter as it should’ve been. Distractingly big, even though he was soft right now. Wasn’t even the first time Paul had gotten this close to it. Ace and Peter fooled around all the time in the dressing room, finding it funny as hell to drape their dicks on Paul’s shoulders like a pair of fleshy epaulettes while he was trying to put on his makeup. They did it to Gene, too, only Gene threatened to bite them. Paul would just push them off.

He leaned forward, his nose bumping up against the jut of Ace’s hip on accident. Ace didn’t even move. Every breath was brushing right up against Ace’s skin as his teeth closed around the garter, started to slip it down, slowly, slowly, not wanting to tear the fabric. Halfway down his thigh now.

“Jesus, he’s taking forever.” Peter, grousing as usual.

“Nah, nah, he’s doing fine.” Paul could almost see the lazy smile spreading on Ace’s face. He twitched as Ace felt around, finding the top of his head and patting it through the dress as if he were a dog. “Just being careful, right?”

 Paul’s face felt like an inferno. The garter between his teeth was slightly damp with spit and barely above Ace’s knee. For all that the spandex and leather costumes showed them off, he hadn’t ever noticed just how long Ace’s legs were until now. His mouth was a quarter-inch at best from a thin, pale scar that spanned from Ace’s kneecap to mid-shin. Ace had blamed it on a spaceship crash, but Paul was pretty damn sure one of his car accidents was the real cause. It wasn’t a bad scar, wasn’t even particularly noticeable if he weren’t right up on it.

He didn’t mind. It was a relief to see some kind of blemish on Ace. Something to mar the casual, messy perfection of his playing and the uncomfortable mesh of a too-pretty face and crude mannerisms. Something that made him seem a little less untouchable. Drop him down from that pedestal he only ever reserved for people that were comfortable, that knew who they were, that didn’t ever seem to be anything but perfectly at ease even when they were flat on their backs on the stagefloor.

Paul took a quick inhale. Ace’s hand sunk down against his head again, fingers curling, pushing his hair back blindly through the cloth.

“Good girlie,” he said, out of nowhere. Paul heard Gene laugh somewhere behind him. “What? He is, Gene!”

“I think he likes it down there,” Peter said.

“Aw, ’m not gonna speak for Paul when he’s got his mouth full—"

He didn’t even think about it. Just a burst of awful inspiration, that was all, borne out of the need to shut Ace up, or get him nervy and embarrassed and fumbling the way he was. The way he always was. Awful inspiration that drove him to tug the garter between his teeth, stretching the elastic, and then let it go, watching it snap satisfyingly against Ace’s bare skin.

Ace’s knee twitched, his hand closing in a little tighter against his hair. But that was all. Paul knew that was all because he couldn’t hear anyone’s comments past the general din of the room itself. No one had said anything, so clearly, Ace hadn’t reacted. Still cool and casual as ever. Paul tried it again. No movement this time. Not even that unexpected shifting.

His arms, the lousy things, hanging stiffly by his sides, raised up. He heard an “uh-uh” from Ace, felt him back up just slightly when his hands closed over Ace’s smooth thigh instead of the garter beneath it. Paul’s heart rattled somewhere in his chest as he closed that last space between them and pressed his lips to Ace’s skin.

He felt it then. Ace starting to tilt forward, just a bit. Paul held his leg steady, breath hitching, expecting a curse he didn’t get.

“There you go, girlie… there you go…” If there was any teasing to Ace’s tone, Paul couldn’t hear it. Nothing but encouragement, encouragement that was sending awful spikes of warmth into Paul’s veins. He was trying to embarrass the hell out of him, and Ace was just eating it up. No way. Just no way. Paul’s breath hitched as he pressed another kiss to Ace’s thigh, and another, and another. Hoping for something. A wriggle, an awkward murmur. Something. Ace only coiled his fingers up against his hair through the fabric, up and down, smooth, gentle pets too approving to be believed.

 Paul shut his eyes, licking lightly against Ace’s skin, the faint taste of sweat on his tongue as his hands tightened around Ace’s leg. Finally, Ace was reacting again. Ace’s fingers were grasping at his head, not forcing, just tilting it up and over. Paul let him. He let him even as he realized Ace was turning his face directly towards the panties.

“Jesus, Paul, are you stuck? Should we put a canary under there?”

“He’s good! I told you, he’s just… just being real gentle…” Paul could hear the brief pauses between the words. Ace was testing him. Teasing him. Seeing if he’d go for it. Drawing this out until Paul hit his limit. Counting on Paul’s limit being way before his own, because it always had been. Because Paul would stop short where Ace would plow ahead. Because Paul was tied down to his own insecurities while Ace just didn’t give a damn. Because Paul would get ruffled at all sorts of shit that Ace would just let ride. It wasn’t going to be like that. Not tonight.

Paul’s teeth caught on the edge of Ace’s panties, right up against his hip. They were a lot thinner than the garter. Less resistance as he tugged them down by that single edge, leaving the panties lopsided, leaving Ace to deal with straightening them back out later. He managed to free Ace’s half-hard cock with just his mouth, murmuring against it, offering tentative licks that only got more determined as his hands moved from Ace’s leg to grasp at his hips, clutching them. He’d never done this before. Didn’t have the luxury of being drunk to cover up this insanity. Didn’t have the luxury of being alone with him, either, the crowd a presence the skirt didn’t cover up in the slightest from his senses. But he didn’t care as Ace’s hips bucked slightly against his fingers and his lips curled around his teeth like he’d seen a dozen girls do just this month alone. Paul’s mouth slid open easily, engulfing Ace’s cock inch by inch, spit laving the veiny surface. He heard a sharp inhale of breath, felt one of Ace’s legs start to wobble as he hissed.

“F-fuck, Paulie…” And then Ace’s grip tightened again, tugging him firmly away. Paul mumbled around his cock before letting it go, pressing one more teasing kiss against Ace’s thigh. Ace guided him insistently back towards the garter, Paul obliging, pulling it past his knee, down to his shin before unclasping it with his hands. Ace didn’t let go of his head until the garter was undone and back in his mouth, raising the skirt so Paul could crawl back out to the sound of applause from the guys.

He hadn’t expected Ace’s hand there to pull him up to his feet. Hadn’t expected Ace to be smiling through his hard-on just like he was onstage. But he was.

“Nice work, girlie.” Ace tugged lazily at the garter still in Paul’s mouth. Paul let him have it, against his own better judgment, but Ace only kissed the garter and handed it back, then turned to the group, holding up his arm like he was presenting the new heavyweight champion. “All right! All right, give ’im another hand, yeah!”

They did. Paul looked from one amused, drunken face to the next and couldn’t even feel himself flush. Mr. Sobriety was gulping down the rest of his Coke and shaking his head. Grinning. One of the other roadies came in a bit after, talking about the setup, the stage, and Uriah Heep’s supply of dope, and they all started to filter out. Somebody took what was left of the cake with them, probably bringing it back to the hotel. Paul hung back at first, watching the guys clean up before heading towards the door himself—now that he had the garter back, he might as well go to the dressing room and start getting ready—when Ace draped an arm over his shoulder from behind.

“Hey,” he said. “Hey, Paul.”

“Yeah?”

“You left me hanging, man.” Without even turning to face him, Paul could almost see Ace’s lazy smile. One more step and Paul could feel his hard-on through the dress, brushing against his thigh. Ace hadn’t had the shame to adjust his panties after. “Surprised me, y’know? Thought sure you’d flip out—”

“It’s not—I was only—” Goddamnit. He was actually confronting him about it. Paul forced himself to look Ace in the eyes, feeling his cheeks go warm again as he tried to explain. “I mean, I wanted to—”

“You wanted to?”

“No! It’s just—”  

“S’okay, Paulie. I wanted you to, too.” Ace laughed. “But fuck, man, you gotta make sure everybody’s a little more wasted before you suck a guy off in front of the whole damn crew.”

 “I wasn’t going to,” Paul started, feebly, watching Ace’s hand slide down from his shoulder to cup one tissue-stuffed breast. Squeeze it. Paul was pretty sure he couldn’t feel anything past the padding, but the sharp jolt of want singeing through his insides proved him wrong. “I just wanted to see you squirm.”

“Can’t see anything with that dress on over you.” Ace cackled. “But we got time now, if you really want a good look.”

“Ace—”

“Hell, I’ll return the favor. It’s your birthday, you’ve been a pretty good girl… ain’t knocked up too many chicks this year—”

“It’s January.”

“Exactly. What do you say, Paulie?”

Paul swallowed. His fingers found Ace’s hand, the one still cupping his chest. Tightened around it like he was about to yank Ace’s hand away. He could almost swear he still tasted Ace’s cock in his mouth, the heaviness of him. The way it had all felt for those few minutes, the way everything had stopped mattering except the feel of Ace’s hand on his head and his approving words. Girlie, he’d kept calling him girlie and he should’ve punched him in the nuts for it, concert or no, but he’d liked it, he’d liked it as much as he’d liked every little breathy hitch and every press of skin on skin, the feel of the lacy fabric against his tongue and teeth. Depraved and vulgar and exactly what he wanted.

He raised Ace’s hand up to his lips and started to suck on his forefinger, tongue sliding all the way down to his wedding ring, swiping away the faint traces of cake crumbs and frosting still there. Behind him, Ace stiffened slightly, and Paul glanced back, only to see those dark eyes all dilated, all amused, only to hear three more words.

“All right. C’mon.”

It wasn’t five minutes before Ace had Paul barricading both doors with a couple of tables turned sideways, and it wasn’t six before Ace’s hands were all over Paul, back to playing with his chest at first, then sliding down, squeezing his ass through the dress. Paul grunted—stupidly, he’d expected Ace would just want his hard-on taken care of, and not want any other touching—but he did. That was all right. Paul tilted his head to the side, leaning in to try to kiss Ace’s neck, what little the choker didn’t cover up, but Ace caught him first, lips pushing against his with an urgency he’d never expected. Ace’s lipstick was smearing all over his mouth with each wet kiss, claiming him better than any groupie, leaving him panting as their hips collided, barely able to think past his own insane need.

By the time he dropped to his knees, they were already starting to buckle, the thin stiletto heels somehow seeming like a pair of impossibilities he’d strapped on. He was surprised when Ace sank down to the floor, too, grabbing his arms and tugging Paul on top of him.

It was jarring, looking down at Ace like that. Could’ve almost been convinced he was a chick if his groans and hard-on didn’t give him away. It threw him off, but he dug it, somehow. There was a filthy pleasure there. He was into it, getting into it, cupping Ace’s smooth jaw and touching his lips to Ace’s ear like he was about to whisper something sweet, the way he used to with groupies before they just came with the room. The way he used to with girlfriends before even that term lost its meaning. Kissing him hard, muffling Ace’s grunts with his mouth.

Beneath him, Ace’s hips rocked insistently against his, the thin fabric of the dresses making the friction twice as satisfying, no comparison to the harsh rub of jeans or slacks against each other. Paul wasn’t sure if the spreading wetness against the fabric was his precum or Ace’s or both, and he didn’t care. Ace’s hand grazed Paul’s cheek before sliding back into his mussed curls, tugging through the tangles, the motion too tender to match the needy rutting, whispering against his neck—

“Get down there, Paulie.”

Paul did. He hiked Ace’s dress up before settling between his thighs. He tugged the panties down to his knees, planning to stop there, but a grunt from Ace made him slide them off all the way, the lacy fabric catching briefly on one of Ace’s heels.

“Don’t worry about it,” Ace mumbled, so Paul tossed the panties aside to the floor. From there it was easy enough. Less intimidating now to be anchoring his hands to Ace’s bony hips, to be leaning down, breathing hard through his nose as he started to lap against the full length of Ace’s cock. Almost no teasing—Paul didn’t know how. The chicks were always so overcome by just having him that they never dared.

He got as much of Ace’s dick in his mouth as he could before he started to suck in earnest. Ace’s hand found his head again, no more casual petting but grasps and tugs, urging Paul to start bobbing his head up and down his cock. Paul let him take the lead, trying hard to hum around the throatful, vaguely impressed he hadn’t yet choked. No letting Ace know he hadn’t done this before. No letting him know, but Paul guessed he might’ve known anyway, from the way he kept his hips fairly steady on the floor, the way he never outright yanked Paul by the hair to try and get him to fuck his mouth. Only toward the end did Ace start to get unraveled, really unraveled, grunting, whole body starting to tense and twitch, rejecting the pace he’d set. Paul drank in every response, every curse. Started fondling his balls as he laved attention on his dick, watching the look in Ace’s eyes get more heady and distant and too-close all at once. It sent a thrill through Paul that made his cock ache all the more, watching and feeling him tense up, building toward orgasm, almost there, he knew it, almost—

“Fuck, Paulie. Fuck, girlie, you got it, you got it…” Ace trailed, grip tightening on Paul’s curls. Paul watched Ace’s eyes slide shut, mouth slipping open into a low moan. “Been so good… I’m gonna, I’m gonna,” he warned, seconds before orgasm hit, leaving Paul still hopelessly unprepared. Half his come ended up splattered on Paul’s face. The rest he’d swallowed on accident, barely registering the taste on his tongue.

He raised his head up, almost dazed, lifting his sleeve towards his face. Ace sat up and grabbed it before he could start to wipe himself off, a slow smile easing itself across his face.

“Uh-uh. ’M not gonna let you mess up your birthday dress like that.”

“What, you don’t have a towel—”

“Don’t need one.” Ace’s dress rustled as he shifted to his knees, thighs splayed. He leaned in, resting his hands on Paul’s shoulders. Paul didn’t have time to question him before Ace’s tongue was tracing over the come on his face, licking it up without so much as a shudder. Each lap against his cheeks and nose and forehead tingled, making Paul want to squirm, but he didn’t, Ace pressing into him as he finished up, one hand diving beneath his bra, slipping past the tissues to squeeze each breast in turn.

“You got hard for me, girlie,” Ace said, then laughed. “Well, obviously, but…” and he twisted Paul’s nipple between his thumb and forefinger, chuckling as Paul took a sharp gasp for breath, “right here. ’S nice, ’s real nice… now why don’t you lay back down for me, there, yeah… sweet girlie, good girlie…”

Ace followed him down, dragging a few lazy kisses down the side of Paul’s damp face as he spoke. Paul’s hands were on the hem of his own dress before Ace could get there, tugging it up while Ace was still on top of him. Ace’s eyes glinted in sheer amusement at that, and for a second, Paul faltered, still holding onto the dress, sure that Ace was about to tease or try and deny him or something agonizing like that, but he only grinned.

“I’m getting there! C’mon, have a little faith, yeah?” But he was scooting down, the soft slide of dress against dress nothing short of sinful. He flipped up Paul’s dress the rest of the way, all the way up to just below the bra, exposing his plain black boxers, the fabric straining to hold his erection in place. “Oh, Paulie, that’s not very ladylike…”

“I wasn’t gonna strangle my dick for my own party.”

“Next time, then.” Ace yanked Paul’s boxers all the way down, tossing them aside, nudging Paul’s legs apart with his knee as if he needed to. Paul watched him sink down, watched him kiss and lick at the insides of his thighs, running his fingers against the soft flesh. His heart was racing far before Ace’s mouth met his dick, started to swallow him up, taking him on easily, eagerly. Ace’s hands were roving over his skin, dragging across his thighs and hips and rubbing against his hairy torso. It was bizarre just watching his own chest rise and fall, the contrast between it and the soft fabric and his bare, smooth legs jarring, as jarring as watching Ace work his cock while his dress fanned out underneath him. One of Ace’s legs was up, bent lazily, the strappy leather heel catching the dim fluorescent light—ankle twitching just a little as Ace’s head bobbed up and down his dick, flecks of spit there at the corners of his mouth.

Paul was crying out before long, wordlessly at first, then curses, then, finally, Ace’s name in a loud, ragged plea. Closer. Closer. No holding out, but he wanted something to latch onto, something in all this unreality, all this confusion. His hands clasped at Ace, touching his hair before finding his shoulders instead, rubbing and then clinging against them, nowhere near in time to Ace’s mouth or even his own twitching thrusts inside it. Not enough touch. Not enough to ground him. Paul grunted, shifted beneath Ace, hooking his ankle around Ace’s own, the one on the floor. Ace didn’t move, but Paul could’ve sworn his expression changed, softened, just for a second before Paul’s own vision whirled into a miasma in front of him and he screamed out his own orgasm with one last shudder.

Ace swallowed it all down. Paul just lay there for a few seconds, before letting go of Ace’s shoulders, unlocking his ankle from Ace’s. It almost felt like too much trouble to sit up, but he did, slowly, raising himself up on his forearms, dress starting to shift back down from the movement. Ace tugged it the rest of the way, and then Paul stumbled to his feet, wobbling slightly, breathing nowhere near normal yet.

“Ace,” he said. Ace looked up at him. Paul reached out his hand, tugging Ace up the way he’d done a dozen times or more, on and offstage. The makeup was gone now, swept away by kisses and sweat, the illusion starting to falter. But right now, that didn’t matter. Right now, that didn’t matter a bit. “Thanks, Ace.”

Paul didn’t know how to word it. If to word it. If to dare give voice to all kinds of weird, troublesome shit, and instead, he’d kept holding Ace’s hand. Longer than he should’ve. Squeezing it, even, feeling stupider every moment he did. He could imagine the look on his face right now, sated but wanting, desperately wanting, like that last idiot groupie in the Coop, nothing like the look Ace was giving him back. Couldn’t be. Just couldn’t.

He dropped his hold on Ace’s hand. Ace just smiled and took it again, palm hot against his own.

“Thanks for what, girlie?”

“For… for getting me off.”

“Hey. If you’re good, you get off every time.” Ace lifted Paul’s hand to his mouth, pressed a quick kiss to his wrist. Paul thought he might wink at him, or bow, or make some exaggerated curtsy, but he didn’t. Just let go of his hand. Just leaned in one last time to steal another kiss and another grope. Just that, and that was everything. “Happy birthday, Paulie.”

[snowbellewells]

Run to Me (in the Dead of Night)

Hello Everyone!  I’m presenting the first installment of my second CSSNS offering: my werewolf MC.  The idea for this fic has been in my head a long time, but I really needed this event to finally make me put pen to paper and give it a try.  Though I love reading werewolves in stories, I haven’t really tried to write them myself before – so I hope I have done it justice.  Also, don’t think I’ve forgotten that this is a CS event, just because Killian doesn’t physically appear in this prologue.  You get a hint that he’s nearby, and I promise you’ll see him soon.

** Other things to note: Graham (and a few other characters from earlier in the show’s run) play larger parts in this divergence from early season two than they did in canon.  If it seems like there’s a lot of set up in this first bit, that’s why. I’m trying to explain how some of them are still around and how it fits together differently from canon. Basically – in most respects – we’re at very early season two, the curse has just lifted and everyone knows who they are again, except Graham is still alive (how gets answered as we go along) and Emma and MM don’t go through the portal to the Enchanted Forest.  Rumple never turns the wraith loose on Regina because Belle hasn’t been found; therefore the portal isn’t open for Emma to be pulled into.

I don’t hate Regina.  However, it did bother me that she never even had to apologize or show real remorse for what she did to Graham – nor did it makes sense to me that no one ever seemed to figure it out, even once the curse broke and they knew magic existed.  Since Graham is still around in this and has his memories, what happened comes out, and Regina does stay more of that conflicted, but still vindictive and dangerous, character we saw in season one and throughout season two.

I think that’s it for now…  I hope you will enjoy and come back next week.  I aim to post every Friday for the duration of the story, which as of now I am estimating will be around 10 to 12 chapters.  

Don’t forget to send @wingedlioness some major praise and flailing for her AWESOME art to go along with this.  The two she did for this first part make me feel like my fic has a movie poster!!  (I only pray it lives up to the hype!!)  She did others for me that I will post with the parts of the story they accompany.

Tagging: @cssns @kmomof4 @laschatzi @teamhook @revanmeetra87 @linda8084 @bmbbcs4evr @ps1473-4    (Let me know if you’d like to be tagged for this fic as well.)

 By: @snowbellewells (TutorGirlml on ff.net)

 ~~ prologue: leaves on the wind

           The crisp fall air of late September blew Emma Swan’s long, golden curls back over her shoulders and off her neck, tangling them together and causing a shiver to skitter through her as the chilly breeze of early evening glanced along her bared skin. Even as she clattered down the front steps of the diner, eager to get out of the rather close and over-warm space and the heavy, grease-scented air, she still felt it: the sense that had been following her around lately, more than any simple gossip or slander would account for, resting heavy on her shoulder, of being watched.  Glancing around the outdoor seating area of Granny’s and down the quiet main street, deserted but for a few leaves blown here and there and Marco tinkering with the sign that hung over the door of his repair shop and pausing on his ladder to offer her a friendly wave and doff of his cap.

           Emma tried to shrug off the troubling impression; eerie though it was, she wasn’t sure that it wasn’t just some manifestation of her own jumbled thoughts and fears, a tingling in her bones that had been discomforting her ever since the curse broke, almost a week ago now.  Willing her hard-earned nerve and bravado to reassert themselves, Emma rolled her eyes at herself and how she had just mentally referred to the curse that had changed everything she’d come to know on its head as casually as if it were laundry day or a trip to the movies – just a regular little life-altering occurrence – and gathered the still warm carryout bags Ruby had pressed into her arms just a moment before closer to her chest as she picked up her brisk pace down the sidewalk.  Something in her psyche wanted to kick her for running as she left Storybrooke’s most popular eatery behind her, but Emma honestly wasn’t in the mood.

           The tiny hairs along the back of her neck prickled as she crossed the opening of the alley between Gold’s pawn shop and the library.  She threw a glance down the dim space, but told herself to relax and blew out a frustrated breath before squaring her shoulders and moving on. Whatever sort of creepy premonition vibe she was picking up on lately, it simply had to be in her head.  For one thing, this was the smallest, sleepiest, stuck-in-the-eighties town ever; beyond fights at the local watering hold between whom she now knew were three of her mom’s dwarves and guys she had learned were Jack Sprat, Tom Thumb and a definitely not-so-little Jack Horner, and the occasional clichéd kitten up a tree, nothing ever happened here – or at least, nothing of the normal criminal variety.  Besides, she already knew who the supposed villains were – and she was well-acquainted with the fact that skulking around subtly wasn’t any of their styles.

           No, the sense she felt was probably that same one she had experienced some time back, when Mayor Mills had run her smear campaign trying to overturn Emma’s appointment as deputy. Then, it had been judgmental eyes on her back and whispers that ceased when she walked into a room; now it was awkwardly hushed awe and averted eyes or slight bows when she tried to approach a group casually, and still the constant scrutiny – ill meant or not – and whispers, probably about how unprincess-like she, as their long lost princess, had turned out to be. In any case, the way it made Emma’s skin crawl uncomfortably really didn’t change that much from one case to the other.

           Curling she and Graham’s dinner more protectively into her elbow, Emma sighed resignedly as she walked on, kicking at a stick on the pavement at her feet. Thinking back to those unpleasant weeks when she had almost given in, packed up, and moved on, the upheaval of the last several days didn’t seem quite so intense.  Back then, it had seemed as though she was clinging to her tenuous bond with Henry by such a fragile, thin thread.  Graham offering her the deputy sheriff position – and thus a legitimate reason to remain in town – had been a genuine boon, and when it had seemed as though that might slip through her fingers too – as good things always seemed to do in her life – Emma had almost hit the road once more. She’d been so close to taking off back to Boston, or anywhere really, it didn’t matter… she was always going to be alone.

           No matter where she went, people never truly changed that much.  Emma had learned that long ago, though Henry’s boundless optimism and the quaint little town’s charm had almost let her forget. It never got easier to ignore the labels that had followed her for most of her life – brought back to glaring focus by the newspaper expose Henry’s adoptive mother had ordered in her bid to see Emma ousted from her new town role. ‘Runaway’, ‘Thief’, ‘Orphan’, ‘Hussy’, ‘Teen Mom’, ‘Jail Bird’…those nasty words dogged her steps for the few days after the paper’s publication in the suspicious narrowing of eyes and disapproving pursing of lips as much as in any audible speech.  For all too many moments, it had looked as though the little berg she had begun to hope could be a real home was going to turn its back on her. No matter how far or fast she ran, the barbed tips of both truth and rumor about her never failed to pierce Emma’s hard-won armor.  She might be good at pretending the wounds didn’t sting, but she knew now more than ever that she would do well not to forget just how quickly the tide of public opinion could turn.

           Even now, with the curse broken, and her tentatively coming to believe that she had not been an unwanted infant abandoned carelessly on the side of some deserted road, the lost little girl inside her still flinched at cruel jabs both real and imagined; there would never be enough time passed to make that completely go away.  The childhood and adolescence she had weathered was an inner wound that would always draw blood – even as getting to know Henry, his forgiveness for her giving him up, his boundless blind faith in her, and meeting her parents after all the years lost, and learning how desperately they had indeed loved and wanted her, how they’d had no other choice but to give her what seemed her best chance and believe they would be reunited someday; even all those truths being brought home to her couldn’t undo everything else she had known before.

           Upon reaching the sheriff’s station at last, Emma raised her chin from where she had buried it in her collar against the chilly wind and her hair being whipped across her face and into her eyes.  She turned the knob and pushed into the station’s dingy and antiquated entryway, also finally shedding the odd sensation of eyes following her as she entered the squat cinderblock building.  She could feel her mood lift slightly almost at once.  In truth, this was the first job she had genuinely enjoyed doing in years – not only because she was good at it and got paid well, but for the fulfillment and sense of purpose it brought. Clearly, Graham had needed the second pair of hands; they’d be putting the filing back in order until next December, and the man couldn’t make a decent pot of coffee without somehow getting grounds in it to save himself.  Still, he respected her and they worked well together.  Emma was determined not to let down her guard and grow too comfortable again, but this sleepy little hamlet could almost feel something like a place to belong – not a description she would ascribe to any of the other places she had landed before.

           A wry smile curled her lips just before she called out to let Graham know she was back with their food.  She certainly wouldn’t take back Henry’s appearance on her doorstep and his bringing her here – whatever happened next.  And watching the first real friend – outside of her 10-year-old and her own mother – she had made in years muttering to himself in his office, rifling through the haphazard piles of paperwork stacked all over his desk and running an occasional frustrated hand to swipe his errant curls off his forehead, she grinned even more warmly. They had exchanged one kiss – some months back now – but had decided to simply remain friends rather than risk the comfortable working relationship they shared and Henry’s hurt, as he cared so much for both of them, if it failed.  They had somehow managed to simply go on as if it were a one-time gesture of affection and remain the partners and friends they were – for which she was constantly grateful.  Graham was warm, open, supportive, and just lighthearted enough to crack truly awful jokes simply to see her roll her eyes, snort, and smile, but he was also capable and as driven as she was, determined to do their jobs well and protect those in their charge.

           Stepping into the doorway of the lamp lit office, Emma had raised her hand to knock on the frame, but Graham looked up alertly before she could even complete the motion; hazel-deep eyes finding hers unerringly as if he had sensed or scented her presence before it could be humanly possible.  She used to marvel at the uncanny ability her boss possessed; be it hearing, smell, or some other awareness, it was impossible to sneak up on him or catch him by surprise.  Of course, now that the curse was broken, Emma knew, though she was still trying to wrap her head around it, that it was his werewolf nature allowing him that ability – his lupine senses were heightened and made him effectively alert and aware of everything. Smirking slightly she had to admit to herself that wasn’t at all a bad skill set for a sheriff to possess.

           Shuffling forward almost bashfully, Emma held out the to-go bag in explanation, even as Graham waved her in without question, a welcoming smile on his scruffy face and stood to pull the visitor’s chair facing his desk over to the end of it where they could eat together more comfortably.  Graham took the still steaming brown bag that Ruby had handed her with an understanding and apologetic smile not five minutes before and began to spread their meal out on his desk.  They’d shared their evening meal right there nearly every night they both worked since he had hired Emma, and it was a settling bit of routine normalcy that soothed her jangled nerves as she sunk into the seat before her.

           Graham looked up at her with a grateful crooked smile and the bright eyes that Emma would challenge anyone not to be charmed by (there was a reason she had kissed him that one time after all).  “Thank you, Deputy,” he quipped, a playful emphasis on her title.  “It was definitely time for a break.” He gestured at the stacks of files and paperwork all over his desk at those words.

           Once they had both settled into their seats, Graham didn’t hesitate to take a huge bite out of the Philly Steak hoagie he’d ordered, munching happily and even closing his eyes in bliss with a low hum of satisfaction deep in his chest. For a moment, Emma could only watch, trying to remember if her friend – for all that he looked so trim and wiry – had always had such a voracious appetite and she merely didn’t notice before, or if it was a trait of his recently reacquired wolf within.  She was still sometimes too stunned to believe that both he and his adopted sister Ruby, her two closest friends in Storybrooke beyond her parents (that was taking some adjustment too) could both shift into large wolves by the light of the moon. They had been born with the ability in the Enchanted Forest, and that side had merely been buried along with their true identities while under the curse.  It was why Graham’s birth parents had abandoned him in the woods – or so he had told her, as he could only assume when he didn’t even remember them – to be found by a preteen Ruby on one of her nightly runs and brought back to live with she and Granny, folded into their little family as simply as if he had already belonged there.  Emma had yet to see either of them transform, but she also knew in her bones that neither of them would lie to her.  She had simply attempted to reconcile this one more bit of her new normal in her mind and move on without treating her friends any differently; even if, in moments like that, she did gawp at them in wonder.  “That good, huh?” she finally managed with a chuckle, amused enough by his good natured enthusiasm and almost child-like joy to put aside her own cross mood and paranoia of being followed.

           Then, she bit into her own first taste of Granny Lucas’ unparalleled onion rings and let out her own ecstatic moan at the hot, crisp, greasy goodness on her tongue.  Graham laughed out loud in response, the whooping, uncalculated ring of it doing much to completely repair Emma’s clouded outlook.  “I don’t know,” the sheriff countered her previous jest saucily, “you tell me.”

           Emma nodded enthusiastically, her own eyes alight as well, and her mouth full of her first buttery toasted bite of Granny’s grilled cheese.  When she could speak again, she conceded gladly, “Yep, you’re right.  Granny’s is the best – and Ruby slipped bacon on here for me again.  It’s like Heaven between two slices of bread!”

           Graham snickered at her creative praise, and the two of them settled into a comfortable silence, busily munching on the food spread out before them and humming in pleased enthusiasm.  Once they were finished, Emma began gathering up wrappers and napkins as Graham sat back contentedly in his chair, wiping crumbs from his front with his hand and grinning at his deputy in full-stomached satisfaction.  “Well, that hit the spot,” he stated cheerily, eyes sparkling when she nodded in agreement with his words.  He paused a moment, as if uncertain whether he should voice what he was about to say or not, then added, “I’m glad.  You look a lot happier than you did when you first came back in here.”

           Though she truly attempted not to – had long since decided in the months she and Graham had worked together side-by-side that the good hearted sheriff was trustworthy – Emma felt herself stiffen and begin to close off.  She didn’t need any more concern over her emotional state and how she was dealing; her mother was doing enough of that to serve for a dozen people.  The barrier she threw up was almost involuntary, no matter how well-intentioned she knew her boss was.  Old habits were hard to break, and even more so when she felt half the time as if the town’s very borders were closing in on her, that she would never find “normal” again, and as if her every move was being scrutinized and probably coming up well short of what must have been expected in a long lost royal.

           To his credit, the soft-spoken lawman didn’t push and delve into further questions.  He backed up slightly, hands raised in appeal, before lifting a file from the stack before him and turning to put it in the corner cabinet, offering her a bit more space as if he had read her mind. ‘No, more likely he sensed the fear or frustration on me,’ her mind supplied unhelpfully, remembering his heightened shifter senses once more.  Though he had his foster sister, and Granny, and Henry blatantly adored him, trailing after the sheriff or begging him to ride along on patrols, Graham seemed like a somewhat reluctant loner himself.  Emma sensed he understood self-protective walls and keeping others at arm’s length all too well, even if she didn’t know everything he had been through. He might be willing to listen, but he clearly wouldn’t force her to talk.

           She could ask him how he seemed to know, seemed to be on the outside looking in, but it really wasn’t fair when she was unwilling to share in return. Ruby had explained to her once – on an ill-fated girl’s night that only she and Ruby had made it to the end of – Mary Margaret and Ashley ducking out embarrassingly early – that shifters like them could only be contained for so long, and that though he had loved she and her gran and been happy with them, he had mostly returned to the forest when he came of age, living off the land as a skilled huntsman with a wolf he considered his brother at his side.  It was only after a month when he hadn’t stopped in for even a supper or a quick visit, that they learned he had been commissioned for a job by the Evil Queen – and when he had failed to return, she had feared him dead.  It wasn’t until befriending Snow White and hearing she and Charming’s whole story put together that Ruby had learned the fate of her adopted sibling was much worse: he had been made into one of Regina’s heartless black knights, his very mind and will subject to her whims and control.

           Henry had told Emma all this as well, long before her waitress friend confided in her with newly-restored memories post-Curse, but Emma hadn’t truly believed him at the time, merely nodded along to humor her highly imaginative son as he’d flipped through his storybook not long after she and Graham had shared their single, ill-fated kiss.  Graham’s collapse just afterwards, her panicked 911 call and what the confused Dr. Whale had vaguely labeled some sort of isolated cardiac event, had given cooler heads time to prevail where taking the romantic feelings behind that kiss much further had been concerned.  At the time, Emma hadn’t questioned his awed “I remember” epiphany, chalking it up to disorientation from his impending health episode.  Now she knew that somehow his memories had been returned to him before the curse breaking did the same for everyone else in town.  Henry had been thrilled, and she knew that Graham had listened to her son seriously after that, truly joined his “Operation Cobra”, because he knew Henry was right, and wanted to help bring everyone back to themselves as well.  He just hadn’t attempted to share it with her, knowing she would think him crazy and that it would push her even further from the truth.  Instead, he had bided his time, and helped where he could, waiting and hoping and believing until the Savior could no longer deny who she truly was.

           It made Emma chuckle lowly, and shake her head in amused disbelief; their whole world had changed, and yet here stood her friend, patiently waiting as he always had.  He turned to look over his shoulder at her sound from where he stood at the open filing cabinet, head tilted to the side as he studied her curiously, until Emma finally admitted, “Yeah, I wasn’t in the best mood.  It felt like everyone in the diner was wondering how I could possibly be their Princess.  My parents keep fussing over me and trying to make up for 28 years in a week, and we still don’t know where Regina’s hiding or what she might be plotting next.  It’s just…it’s a lot….that’s all.”

           She blew out a breath, still not sure what compelled her to open up exactly. To her intense relief, Graham didn’t try to offer empty platitudes about it all being fine and not to worry.  He merely nodded in understand, adding, “I’d imagine so.  Our world back in the Enchanted Forest – your own family even – wasn’t real to you at all, and now it’s all been dumped in your lap.”

           Emma bit her lip to hide its almost quivering a little at the emotion he summed up so succinctly.  She wasn’t used to feeling so shaky and out of her depth – and she certainly didn’t like it.  That didn’t even begin to factor in the weird sensation of being watched that she had experienced repeatedly, nor of being followed, though she kept feeling it crawling up the back of her neck the last couple of days.  That had to be just a reaction to the other upheavals around her –if she could only convince herself of that fact.

           Suddenly, Emma had to get out.  The pressures of wondering what the Evil Queen might throw at them next, how to keep her son safe – while at long last getting to actually learn to be his mother, trying to reconnect with her own parents, and trying not to disappoint everyone else looking on, was overwhelming her once more.  The walls of the station seemed to be drawing in, along with the suffocating weight of all that responsibility mentally added up as well. It really was more than any one person – a sane one anyway – should be expected to handle at one time.

           Luckily, it had taken her long enough to fetch their dinner, that a quick glance at the clock back out into the main room over the coffeemaker and microwave showed that it was nearly quitting time anyway.  She needed to get back to her room at the loft – if only for five minutes completely to herself to put her head back on straight – before she hyperventilated.

           Before she could voice some excuse about the supper not sitting right or needing to help Henry with his homework, Graham looked up at her again, warm gaze concerned and voice soft in understanding, “Emma, you don’t look like you’re feeling well…”

           She started to protest, even as she had been about to claim just that, but she didn’t want to seem like she was slacking, nor for her distress to be so obvious.  She used to have a much better poker face.  Graham waved off whatever comeback she was about to voice anyway. “Seriously, this place is so quiet they shouldn’t pay both of us to be here anyway.  I’m closing up myself as we speak.  I’ll put the phone on rollover to our cells at 9:00, and then I’m heading out too.  You’re only gaining about twenty minutes.”

           Shaking her head at his once more almost unbelievable kindness, Emma didn’t even try to protest further. Instead, she slung her jacket back over her shoulders and nodded her acquiescence as she stood.  “If you’re sure,” she finally caved, “but make me return the favor sometime, okay?”

           “Done,” Graham assured her, his expression genuine and further comforting her that he didn’t resent the early exit or her needing some time to regroup.

           Another minute, and she was out the door, hesitating but a moment on the curb outside to button up her red jacket and pull her knit beanie down over her ears against the chill in the late September breeze. She stepped out briskly, crossing the street and picking up speed as the night had already lengthened into dark and the air had gone chill.  It was only as she passed by the storefront with Dr. Hopper’s offices above on the second floor that a scuffling noise caught her ears enough that she turned sharply, peering once more down a narrow alley between buildings.  She could have sworn the shadows shifted as something – or someone – drew further back out of sight.  Emma tried to focus on the area where she had seen movement, practically holding her breath as she stared into the hovering blackness.  Whatever had alerted her was clearly long gone though. She wasn’t running around in the night alone chasing what was probably a stray cat, nor was she going to let her jangly nerves imagine even more monsters than the ones she had already learned were real.

           Turning back to face the street, Emma made herself move on toward the home she shared with Mary Margaret – and now David and Henry too.  She couldn’t help the foreboding that skittered up her spine; no matter how many times she told herself she wasn’t being followed, that nothing was there, she was no longer sure that reassurance was true.

           As if to seal her unease, just as she closed her fist over the door handle to enter their building’s stairwell up to the loft, the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end in the night stillness.  And it was then that a stark, shivering note rose on the chill air – coming from the nearby forest at the edge of town, but carrying in a haunting, wild cry, clear as a bell.  It was the howl of a wolf, letting them all know it was there.

[creativitytoexplore]

The Innocent and the Beautiful by Iftekhar Sayeed https://ift.tt/2YcutQS In Bangladesh, CIA agent Maryam becomes a target for assassination and flees with her lover - but neither are sure where their loyalties lie; by Iftekhar Sayeed.

"The death of 1.7 million children through sanctions in Iraq has aroused no interest whatsoever in the drawing rooms of Bangladesh, as far as agent Maryam has been able to judge." Something seemed to trouble Maryam, as her fingers hovered above the keyboard; the hum of the air-conditioner rose above the tap-tap of her fingers; she smelled the starched pillows and breathed heavily; in the light from the quite redundant lamp, she deleted 'death' and typed 'murder'. She sighed relief, turned off the laptop, disengaged the wireless modem, switched off the lamp, and turned on her side to get some sleep.

I hated her. So I avoided the street - road 9A, Dhanmandi - where she worked and waited for a trishaw or an auto rickshaw every weekday at around 5:00. The situation was dire. After the Gulf and Af-Pak wars, the mujahideen had grouped themselves together, as elsewhere, in Bangladesh, as freedom fighters. No empire can exist without collaborators, and the local elite and government both sided with the American and European powers. A death-squad was formed with the aid of the imperial west, and an unknown number of jihadis died in so-called 'cross-fires', the euphemism for assassination. It was then that the jihadis changed strategy. Instead of bombs and bullets, which had to be bought abroad and smuggled in, they resorted to - knives. An expert 'Knifer', as they came to be called, could aim for a target's heart from a distance safe enough for a get-away. Less efficient ones would stab in a busy thoroughfare, or operate from shadows. The frequent power failures were a boon. The targets also were changed. Instead of attacking government buildings with bombs or agents of the state with bullets, they went for members of what is known politely as 'civil society'. The collaborators, they had figured out, were to be found among the academics and artists who gave legitimacy to collaboration. Two of their biggest kills were a lawyer and an economist, both PhDs from American universities. And where did feminine, friendly Maryam fit in all this? I first met her at the intellectual salon of a socialite: she wore a light green chiffon saree that went with her fair complexion, her dark eyes, dark brows; her arms were bare and I could imagine the rest of her. She asked pointed questions about politics and society, and then sat back, legs crossed, listening in earnest. It was flattering to be heard like that. Soon, we were lovers, meeting regularly in my flat. It was after one of our devouring love-makings that she came out with it. "I actually work for the CIA, Zafar." By then she knew my views, knew how I would feel, and that prompted her to be frank. "After all, we're all collaborators." She was right there: we were all collaborators. And what was the nature of her collaboration? "Nothing much: I just listen in on conversations and ask questions and report what people are thinking and saying. It's not much, Zafar. I just collaborate a bit more closely, that's all." That was the last time we met.

On this fateful day, I spotted her on road 9A, waiting for her usual trishaw. There was traffic on the road, but I stayed focused. She was in a red-and-black shalwar-kameez, her arms bare, revealing teasingly her white shoulders and armpits. Then our eyes met: fortunately I looked away, and watched with horror a man, pillion-riding on a motorcycle, raise a knife towards Maryam. "Maryam, get down!" I screamed, and ran towards the bike. The knife missed, as she ducked. The bike wove between the vehicles, and disappeared. "That was close, Maryam," I said, panting, as I reached her crouching figure. She was weeping. "They tried to kill me!" she repeated. It was as if she couldn't believe that they would try to kill her. And they would try again. Nowhere in Dhaka was safe for her anymore. I could feel eyes watching us, reporting, sharing... Bystanders began to gather around, so I grabbed her arm and asked her if she had any money. She nodded, wiping away her tears. I had some money, enough to buy a pair of tickets. I hailed a trishaw and we made our way towards Kolabagan. We were greeted at the counter of Shohag bus service by the usual smell of urine emanating from the toilet inside. The day was hot and humid, and we were both perspiring. Inside, we sat at the back of the stifling room, a few fans whirring overhead. Our bus wouldn't leave until 11:00. There were a few passengers waiting for the next bus. "You mustn't cry here, Maryam. Let's not draw attention to ourselves. We'll be safe in a few hours." I went out, bought a mild sedative, and a bottle of cola. I made a call to Sujon Chakma from my mobile. His bungalow would be ready for us. The cola was cool against the parching throat. "There's something I have to tell you, Zafar." Her voice sounded cracked. She poured the cola down her mouth. "Not now. We'll have a chance to talk later." After interminable minutes, the Chakma boys and girls began to appear. They were headed home: to the hills in the south-east, to Khagrachari and beyond. They spoke in their dialect which I could vaguely decipher. You could tell them, not only by the language, but the slanted, Tibetan eyes. They were mostly students, but now and then a couple with a child would plump down in the seats before us. I kept a watchful eye open for any of my race. The bus left promptly at 11:00. We would be at Khagrachari by dawn. Most of the journey would be over hills, after the left turn at Baroier Hat at Feni. We stopped at night at a road-side restaurant where I forced Maryam to eat some rice and - very spicy - chicken curry. I was ravenous, and thirsty. Fear had been relegated to remoter parts of the mind. Fatigue began to take over. We reached Baroier Hat just before sunrise. The buses - a Shohag, two S. Alams, and a BRTC bus - stopped to form a convoy, for the road was potentially dangerous. Armed bands, carryovers from a recent insurgency, roamed the hills. Outside, there were five policemen in steel-grey shirts, blue trousers, green felt boots and deep purple berets. Each had a rifle. They all got on our bus, which was a relief, and then we started. At Jaliapara, they got off. We went a little further ahead and two policemen got on - they sat on the raised leatherette bench next to the driver. The one nearest me was called Selim - his shoulder-tag said as much. He was dark with close-cropped hair. The other one was fairer. Selim cradled a rifle on his lap. He held a black walkie-talkie in his right hand, close to his mouth, though he wasn't speaking. The magazines were in a holder attached to his belt at the hip. The other policeman held a rifle between his thighs, nozzle upward. Neither men wore a beret - not very surprisingly, given the heat. They got off a after a few minutes. It was a switchback road. We watched the sun rise - a pale, orange disk - above the forested hills. The gibbous moon floated like a spectre in the west, trying to steal light. The sky was cloudlessly blue. We now turned east, then completely west, the sun now on our right, now on our left. We were bending every way. The sides of the road were sometimes sheer drops of several hundred feet - into seeming green jungle. Sometimes a green wall rose on our right and a sheer drop sloped to our left. Sometimes the road was a break between two hills. The colour was green - green bamboo groves, green banana leaves, green teak leaves, tall green grass. The sun became less benign. From orange, it turned gold. The relative cool of dawn evaporated. The golden rays beat down on our heads. Maryam was nodding in sleep. Various vehicles crossed us and we overtook various others. One pick-up was stacked with bamboo poles; another with jackfruit. We overtook trucks laden with goods under brown canvas. There were regular sentry posts roofed with bamboo and with bamboo sides on hill-tops. Sometimes a soldier with a walkie-talkie could be seen. Tribal women in bright thamis and blouses worked on hillsides. The road ascended towards Alutila and then descended, with many a spiral in either direction. At times, one espied a bend in the road up ahead or below, a graceful inflection. We drove through seemingly ghost towns and deserted bazaars. Only the fascias of the stores spoke to us: STAR cigarette, one announced in blue and white, was bright with its own light. The people were still asleep. Maryam had woken up, and the majesty of the scene held her in submission a while. But she finally spoke above the clatter of the bus and the moan of the engine. "I have to tell you something, Zafar." "The Knifers have put you on their hit list, Maryam." She shook her head vigorously. "They weren't the Knifers." I was surprised, but I didn't want to talk about it then. "Look!" I pointed to egrets flying in echelon. I had seen the knifer, taking aim, casting his missile. What was she talking about? The taste of fear, a dryness of the mouth, a quickening of the pulse, returned.

We got off before the bus reached Alutila. "But there's nothing here!" insisted the driver, his mouth red from chewing betel leaf. I nodded, and got off. The passenger next to him on the leatherette chair continued to sleep with his mouth open. It was good that nobody had noticed, except the driver and his sleepy helper. We disappeared among the teak trees. I soon found the faint footpath that led to Sujon's bungalow. Sujon was an affluent businessman, and he built a modest retreat in the forest for friends like me to spend a few pensive days in. I say 'modest' but it had all the creature comforts of home. The bungalow of whitewashed walls and green, sloping tin roof stood in a clearing in the forest. "Sahib, you have arrived!" The disembodied voice belonged to Robindro Tripura, caretaker of the place. He appeared from behind the trees, a short, dark, stocky character in a lungi. He looked from one of us to the other, for we were quite a sight. It wasn't so much the fatigue as the stress of running that had got the better of us. "I have made omelette and bread," he announced, and draped his coloured towel over his shoulder. The inside of a forest has a stifling humidity. Cicadas crooned without cease. Needless to say, we downed the breakfast in a trice. Next, we proceeded to drink a gallon of water. Robindro told us that the shower was ready and before leaving for the city, informed me that he would try to get clothing for the lady the next day. Considerate Robindro! I stood in the shower, washing off the heat, the fear, the sweat, and the stress. I just stood there, forgetting everything. When I entered the bedroom, I found a showered and refreshed Maryam sitting on the edge of the bed. She wore one of my striped shirts - and nothing else. After we made love like enemies, we got under the sheet and lay there, each with separate thoughts. She was the first to speak. "Do you hate yourself for making love to me?" I did, so I said nothing. "You don't have to. I have a lot to say, Zafar." Her voice came soft and contrite. "I'm listening," I said, opening my eyes, and gazing into hers. I thought again how mesmerizing were those dark circles. "After you left me, I found I was pregnant." I sat up. "What? You should have -" "What would have been the use? You hated me! You wouldn't have married me, and even if you had, what kind of marriage would it have been? Anyway, marriage was out of the question for me as well. I had the abortion soon after." I lay back, breathing a sigh. "But that's not all. Having nearly been a mother, I began to realize what those Iraqi mothers must have gone through. Thank God we didn't meet then, Zafar! My mind was so confused. I stopped seeing everyone. My work for the agency came to a stop." She paused, frightened, for a Tokay gecko had suddenly broken out into its mating call from the roof of the bungalow. "It's all right, it's just a lizard; it won't hurt." "Then I began to work for the agency again. But this time I passed on the messages to the Knifers as well. I started telling them about potential targets, about the biggest collaborators, about the worst of the lot... And the agency found out." "The Knifers would never have tried to kill you, then." "No. It was the agency, imitating the Knifers." "O Maryam, why didn't you tell me all this before? We could have worked it all out together!" "No, Zafar, there are some things you have to work out alone. But now we are together." We put our arms around each other. Then we fell into a deep, long sleep, lulled by the whizzing fan beating down its breeze.

I woke to the scent and rhythm of rain. The bedroom was dark. How long had we slept? The taste of fear had worn off, and hunger remained. While Maryam was still asleep, I warmed up some beef curry and rice in the microwave oven. Then we swooped hungrily. The power failed. We sought some coolth in the netted verandah. It had stopped raining, and in the evening, between the teak trees, we could see the stars. Crickets chirped and frogs croaked. There were no other sounds. "I am wondering about our next move, Maryam," I said. We sat beside each other in plastic chairs. A nightjar called. The air smelled fresh after the rain, and the leaves murmured. The taste of fear had given way to the taste of curry. But we could see nothing around us, only the stars through a chink. She snuggled close to me, in her shirt. "I'm not thinking at all, Zafar. I'm safe here with you." I smiled in the darkness. If only it were so simple. How long would it be before the agency knew where we were? After all, the entire state was at their disposal. "Look!" I said involuntarily. "What?" She raised her head from my shoulder. A solitary blinking appeared above the horizon in the east. It was too slow to be a plane, which would also have had several lights. "It's a satellite," I observed. "Do you think it can see us?" "Not in this power failure," she giggled, and we both laughed. The satellite went out of view between the leaves, and in its stead rose, in a few minutes, a red apparition. "Antares!" I breathed. "What?" "The opposite of Ares, the god of war," I explained. "How I love that name! An-ta-res!" The opposite of war, the affirmation of peace, how I love Antares! "Can we ever have peace, Zafar?" In the dark, I could sense her looking up at me. My breast heaved. I dared not reply, for fear of breaking down. "Can we ever be husband and wife and mother and father?" I swallowed. "Why not?" I asked without conviction. Then her mobile rang. She spoke a few words, and turned to me. "It's them, the mujahideen. They wish to speak to you." "Yes?" I spoke into the phone. "I see... Yes... I understand... Yes, I'll see you there." "What did they want?" I hung up. "They want me to meet them tomorrow at Labanga in Dhaka." Then the power came on, and she had tears. I never thought I would never see her again.

Labanga was a kebab restaurant on Mirpur Road on the first floor overlooking the drag. I walked past the glowing embers, emanating heat and the odour of burnt meat, past the counter, and up the steel stairs. I sat in the corner table next to the door, overlooking the street, and ordered four plates of kebab and nan as instructed. The room was air-conditioned, and outside, in the sunny heat, the traffic jammed on Mirpur Road. I waited. Finally they arrived. They wore pyjamas and punjabis, and turbans and beards. There were three of them, and they drew the chairs around me. "Zafar sahib," began the eldest of them. "Salaam walaikum." They salaamed me each in turn and I salammed them. There was a noisy family, with husband and wife and two children, in the other corner. Two men ate silently at the next table. The men and I began to eat without speech. "Zafar Sahib," resumed the eldest. "The less you know about us the better," I nodded. "Zafar sahib," spoke the eldest through his graying beard and moustache. His eyes were gentle. "You have written in our favour despite your unbelief." "I am an agnostic," I said, swallowing the kebab, "and this is my civilisation." "We know your views. Please tell us where Maryam Apa is, and we'll take her to safety." "You mean, outside the country." "Probably. But I cannot say for her sake." "I'll never see her again?" "No." "Why?" "Look across the street." I looked through the tinted window, and the tangle of wires. A man in black pants and white shirt paraded the other side of the pavement. "You have been followed," he said, calmly ingesting kebab and nan. "The moment you entered Dhaka, you were followed." "So what do we do now?" I asked. "He'll be taken care of." And he was. A stream of men and women flowed past the figure, but one stopped to ask for a cigarette flame; after which, the figure sprawled on the sidewalk, clutching a knife-blade in his belly. "Let us leave." I paid the bill, and hurriedly left with the three men.

Since then, every year, I have been to the cottage in Khagrachari, and have watched Antares rise.

[tomerasange]

Chapter 10: Wyvern Tor

“Your punishment for the actions taken today will be significant and swift. You are hereby banned from the arena, and you will be expelled from the walls of this city.” “Damn your consequences! I am here for victory, and you have stolen it from me!” “We have rules you must abide by.” “I will have my justice and vengeance. I swear my life on this.”

As I awoke, the words of a memory reeling in my head, I could see my effects in the room sustained by the morning air. The night hung on my conscious person, and I arose to greet the day.

My hair was starting to fray and crosshatch from its standard curtain of poise, and my personal opinion was the sooner I could find a measure of peace, the sooner I could attend to my appearance once more. Somehow never to know peace in the traditional sense again, I heard a clatter and a boom from below my location. I could only guess to the reason, and I dressed and descended.

In the tavern’s main room, Urnig had awoken and in a fit of action was eyeing up a half-orc, who was acting in earnest. In a ceremonial beating of the chest, Urnig challenged the half-orc to a contest of might. They had locked arms in a test of strength, only for Urnig to find himself clocked upside the head and driven into the floor. Epide and Artemis sat off to the side with breakfast cheering on the scrum as Fardahr dug into his plate of humble meats. The barkeep was in a row over this impromptu melee, crying out, “Why must you have this dispute in my bar? Can’t this be held outside?”

In a moment of lucidity, I decided against involving myself with the hoi polloi, lest I suffer a deck against the cheek. I walked towards the front of the inn and tried to redirect the poor barkeep’s attention with a nonemotional response. “Just allow them to have this moment, darling. Now, onto breakfast. I think a coffee and... perhaps a light serving of bread.”

The barkeep only shook his head in disbelief, and turned to his work. As I proceeded to survey the ongoing fight, Urnig went for another attack. The half-orc blocked heartily again, and ended it with a punctuated blow. Both Epide and Artemis were stunned that Urnig, the mountainous sorcerer whose violence met no quarter, was fell by this newcomer. I walked over, silver tongue at the ready, to engage with our guest.

“My, my. Quite the showing, there. Absolutely powerful. The name is Tomera Sange. And what might your name be?” “Rokk” “Pleasure to meet you, kind sir. I must ask, however... why did you choose to fight our friend?” “Challenged me” “I see, I see. I must ask, out of sheer curiosity, what your purpose is in Phandalin.” “Lord’s Alliance sent me. I’m your backup.”

A chill and sudden flattening of mood swept though me in a perhaps comedic sense. While I did find another ally in our party perfectly acceptable, to think the Alliance was growing tired of our supposed lack of results. Perhaps they were worried that Glasstaff’s betrayal might occur once more. Perhaps they were still concerned about the safety of Gundren, whose location still evaded us. Perhaps Sildar had been so concerned with other incidents that his report read in listed form cut down to only needed details, like the events of a warfront, and failed to acknowledge we might have no need for backup.

I kept a diplomatic face. “Ah, yes. The Lord’s Alliance! Wonderful, darling. As a representative, I will see fit that you are acquainted well into our group.”

Rokk only nodded in curt acknowledgement and sat down with Artemis and Epide. Urnig, still reeling from the fight, stood up and dusted himself off, content with the results. At this time, Aurora joined us downstairs. With the group rejoined, we greeted our newest company member:

ROKK, the Half-Orc Fighter. He wielded a wooden club with a measure of unbridled confidence, and possessed a fighting style quite unlike mine. A brutish and physically taxing art, he seemed more adept at taking blows than most of my compatriots, let alone my own frame. While we were deciding towards our day’s itinerary, Artemis took a vested interest in talking with him, wanting to know of his exploits.

We sought out the decision for our next exploit. Given we weren’t any closer to discovering the location of Wave Echo Cave, and a travel towards Thundertree seemed like it could wait for us, we agreed that clearing the Triboar Trail would do us and Phandalin the most good. The seasons were turning a colder sorts, and soon winter would come to the continent.

As I examined a map of the Sword Coast, I realized this would be quite advantageous for my reputation. Clearing the Triboar Trail would allow supplies to flow between the North and East and Neverwinter, and in addition give the chieftain of Triboar more weight in the continent’s economy by superseding the high and low Dessarin Valley and Long Trail via the town of Beliard, another frontier town even smaller than Phandalin. Having convened with Triboar’s leader, this would give me a great reputation of one who secured the trade routes.

We set off for town and upon closer examination of the distance to travel, it would take roughly a half day’s travel to the settlement of Wyvern Tor, where most activity was occurring on the trail.

Aurora made the initial suggestion. “Perhaps it would be a boon for our purposes to rent a team of horses and cart for travel. If we come across a lode or treasure.” “So, a visit to Barthen’s Provisions before we leave?” “Would be in our favor.”

As we approached the storehouse, the workers were hard pressed at work unloading supplies for the town, having no more concern for raids by the Redbrands. Barthen was in his store when we arrived. “Aye, welcome back! I’d like to thank you again for your work on the town. You’ve given me and a great deal of people a good boost of confidence. Now, what will you be needin’ today?” Aurora handled the transaction. “We are in the need of a team of horses and a cart to pull. Off to Wyvern Tor to halt the orc raids, and we might happen across some interesting pieces. At the very least, we’ll be given transportation.” “Smart on you to do that. I’ll have the lads hitch a team for you, and that’d run you... twenty gold to rent. In addition, I’d expect additional fees in the case of damages to the cart or horses. Bottom line and all that.” “Of course.” Aurora looked back to me with a knowing stare, and it occurred to me we were in the most advantageous position financially to rent the cart. We payed our share, and awaited outside for the cart.

The midday sun hung high above the town as we set off North. At the helm was Fardahr, driving the horses. Urnig and Rokk took to covering the sides of the cart. Epide, Artemis, Aurora, and I sat in back. I thought back to my first travels toward Phandalin, nearly a week’s time removed from my current situation. And yet, the ease of the ride brought back a similar fondness. The sun and peace let me rest my eyes for a moment.

As we neared the Wyvern Tor, the cart jolted to a halt. I was awoken to the sight of Fardahr looking off in the distance. “What’s the matter, Fardahr?” “Can’t tell. I’m seeing odd movement up ahead.”

I readied my sword in preparation, only to be nearly thrown from the cart as the horses bucked. Something terrified the creatures and the cart took off. Fardahr still at the helm, I had to make a quick decision, and in the confusion I jumped from the wagon. Thinking the wooded area would have a measure of soft loam, I was immediately hoist by my hubris as the ground gave way to a hardened soil. My shoulder hit the ground with a thud and I tried to gingerly ascend to my feet. As I tried to scan for what Fardahr had detected, I could see in the tree line to the left of the road that weapons had been drawn.

As I ran ahead, rapier drawn, I could see Urnig and Artemis pinned in a swarm of vile creatures. They appeared as giant insects, flying and encircling with rapidly beating wings and bodies filled with claret, a long and sharp proboscis the instrument of torture. Aurora had taken her harp from her side and dipped behind a covering in preparation to unleash her magic. Seeing me, she exclaimed, “What a situation we’ve found ourselves in!” I couldn’t agree more, as several of the vermin flew into our vicinity.

From behind, Fardahr wielded his crossbow and attempted to catch one of them before it collided with us. The bowstring snapped with authority, but the arrow soared wide, as the insects continued on our trajectory. Aurora met one in combat, but was quickly stabbed through the arm.

As I set my eyes on one of the smaller blights, the creature lost its height and collapsed to the ground. Turning about, I could see a familiar figure standing no more than six inches tall, floating in a bag of detritus and odors. Epide had cast a spell of sleep on the local fauna, making our task that much easier. Unfortunately, this had the added consequence of putting Fardahr immediately out of commission. This matter would have to be attended to before our eventual conquest against the orc population.

Having seen another of the flying creatures darting into my vision, I stuck the rapier through its carapace, instantly dispatching the creature. It was in this sudden attempt at skewering my foe I remembered the creature was filled to the brim with the blood and sinew of local creatures, and my blade was immediately coated with the viscous red. Gently, I set about removing the still twitching corpse from its perch, which proved simple given the base anatomy of this particular specimen. Still, the effort was disgusting, and I would need to clean my blade in the aftermath.

As the fight progressed, I could see Rokk pulling his measure of the fight. With a unheard-of measure of dexterity, he plucked one of the insects from mid-air and proceeded to bash it into a nearby tree. The resulting mess caused that portion of the field to be drenched in claret.

In this moment, I sought to help Aurora with the creature that had stabbed her through, but before I could react, she had used her rapier to silence the creature. With a taut and simple “No”, acknowledging the corpse that lay at her feet, she rose, ready to dive back into the fray. 

Urnig, seeing his sparring partner take the opportunity to destroy one of the insects with brute force, thought it fair to in turn unleash his magic savagery on one of the insects that had flown into his range. With a fist that rivaled my own skull in size, he grabbed the creature, and cast a blast of magic, slamming the beast over his knee and producing a similar explosion of blood that coated his entire body. Perhaps my time with Urnig had dulled my senses to abhorrent violence, or perhaps I was allowed predisposition, as such from my history of battle, but a peculiar sense of calm washed over my person knowing his simple savagery might win us the day.

Our halfling companion Artemis sought out one of the insects in the swarm she was entangled in and with a further brutal showing used her own rapier to cleave one of them in twain. This was further compiled upon as she used her boot to grind the body into the ground, effectively rendering any postmortem movement silent.

With most of the assault dispersed, Epide took this time to attempt to wake the sleeping Fardahr. The dwarf slept fitfully, a loud commotion coming from his person. A few slaps across the face proved incapable of rousing the man, so Epide, in a fit of complete madness from my perspective, dumped his floating bag of water, his method of transport and container of various corpse trophies, onto the sleeping victim. Fardahr arose from his sleep and immediately at the presence of the stench retched his breakfast twice over.

Epide was not complete with his effort of madness, as he began to run about, leaping onto one of the already dispatched insect and ripping its nose off in an effort to find a suitable weapon. This nose was, in essence, a shortsword to Epide, and I applaud his improvisation, but still condemn his method.

Having now reduced our quarry to two remaining foes, one of which remained asleep from Epide’s spell, I stepped toward the tree line and wielded my blade with a flourish to run the insect through. A costly mistake, as the blade fail to land the killing blow. Rokk, at this point next to my own person, to his chance to land the blow to conclude this fight. Unceremoniously, he missed the swing of his club, and we were both stunned in silence. Which gave way to a tirade of both Rokk and I unsure why this creature was not dead. Artemis, for her part, began rolling on the ground peeling with laughter at our misfortune. While I don’t recall what was said between Rokk and I, the resulting commotion might have been the triggering incident to cause what came next.

As Artemis lie in tears of joy over this sight of incompetence and Urnig dispatched another of the insects for good measure by slamming it into the same tree Rokk had previously used, a sudden rumble from the ground arose. In the woods to my left, the sound of a roar shook the air. It filled me with an oncoming sense of horror, as the very structure of my body was suddenly shaking with the reverberations of the air.

I turned to see a massive form rise out of the wood. I only had to notice the creature’s face to know what matter of violent beast had been summoned by the commotion. This was an owlbear, a creature born of the fiery imagination of lore and reality, a great beast that many knights of yore have slain and few have tamed. To now come upon its form was a measure of daunting I was not prepared to witness.

With a grown sense of immediacy, Fardahr loosed a bolt from his crossbow, only to see the projectile snap against the beak of the owlbear, doing no damage to the beast. If any result occurred, it was the owlbear’s humor becoming perturbed, and I found myself face to face with the creature.

Before I could make my attack against it, the owlbear reared back its claw and swung, connecting with my body. The two entry wounds where I had been impaled with javelins days earlier immediately opened, and as I was thrown against a tree, I could see my blood began to pool on my attire, the red staining my white under attire through. It took all of my fortitude to remain awake in this sense, as I saw the others begin to take their measures in retaliation.

Epide, though small in stature, raised his hands in defiance. Again, a vibration shook the area, as the ground turned in on itself. Below the owlbear, the earth became near impossible terrain, and Epide jumped for joy at the sight of the temporarily confused creature. Taking advantage of this distraction, Rokk took the chance to summon a well of energy and his eyes became a visage of death. With the fighting spirit of a whole regiment, he unleashed a vicious assault on the owlbear, yet the creature held firm.

As I roused myself to wake, I found myself cornered by the last of the insects, with the owlbear’s back turned. Were I to choose a target, it would have to be one that did not pose immediate threat to my wellbeing upon a strike. I lunged in desperation at the insect, as it dodged frightfully out of my grasp. I was beset by fear, violent and tremendous, and I stabbed further still at the owlbear. Again, no luck, and I felt my arm give way to intense pain. The only measure that remained was to flee from the melee in an act of desperation. As I ran in self-preservation, I felt the warm breath of the owlbear on my back, and was met with a stab of pain as the beak wrought itself into my back.

I was safe and away for the time being, but it was clear that I would by on death’s door if struck again. I collapsed to the ground, blood now seeping throughout my clothing. From afar, I only had time to see the hand of Aurora rise up through half-closed eyes, and I felt a burst of magic run through my person. One of assurance and protection, no doubt, but inherently still my being had been compromised. All i heard in my head, ringing like the bells of a cathedral.

I am a coward

I am a coward

I am a coward

I saw Aurora raise her hand again, this time in the direction of the owlbear. With a pluck of the strings, the beast burst into a conflagration. I could not appreciate this move fully, only feel the burning sear of the flames and the rancid smell of flesh and fur alight, only further choking my senses.

Fardahr dove beside me, and with a tuck and roll let loose another bolt towards the owlbear. Striking dead center in the face, the resulting spray of bodily fluids mingled with the flames, setting the face in a permanent shriek as the body collapsed and lay still. I hadn’t the will to cheer or whoop in excitement. Aurora immediately extinguished the fire and set about the body along with Epide. He later gathered the corpses of the insects for his vile machinations.

As I lay there, blood still pooling about me, I felt the warm touch of a guiding hand. I was not unconscious but still beyond any measure of good health, and the divine spell Fardahr cast on me aroused me from my state. My blood began to retreat back into my person, and my wounds were sealed in a process that despite its effect did not hurt or cut with pain. I sat up, with Fardahr holding my shoulder. “You gave me a scare, young man. Are you okay?”

I shook my head awake, my hair a tangled mess getting into my eyes. “I am now. Thank you, Fardahr.” I stood up, groggy and unstable, but better still. Patting his shoulder in acknowledgment of service, I stood up and made my way back to the horse cart. Only to hear further retching from behind me.

Aurora was beside herself with joy at the sight of an intact owlbear. I could see her eyes alight with glee at the prospect of the clothes this pelt would divine. The feathers adorning the arms and legs were still in beautiful condition as adornments. Even the teeth could be split, separated, dried, and crafted into ivory jewelry of untold wealth. I am only keen to this as Aurora began listing these elements shortly after we loaded its corpse into the horse cart, a bit of mania overtaking her eyes in anticipation for its dissection. We were slower going, and it only aided my situation as I still felt a measure of pain while walking. At some point, we halted and I was loaded onto the driver’s perch with Fardahr, allowed to rest and recoup. It was still fitful, having to sleep some time next to the creature that nearly ended my corporeal existence.

The Wyvern Tor itself is a crevasse in the hills of the Triboar Trail, and despite utilizing this route in the tour towards Neverwinter, my caravan had stayed north of the locale, having been alerted previously by members of Triboar of the orc camp. The natural feature has held many different hosts of fauna, given it’s advantageous position when seen from the trail. As we neared the location of the tor, I first smelled the telltale signs of a campfire. We could hear two orcs posted as guards towards the mouth of a cave, with others still in the open. I received in my mind a flash of the goblin outcropping that began our time in service.

By the time the cart stopped some distance away, my injuries had been attended to, as had Aurora and Urnig. While I was clearly in better health, I couldn’t shake the feeling of horror the owlbear had beset upon me. I had never seen a beast as large nor as powerful in combat. I was deemed only useful in duels of honor and fairness. Surely, I had realize the world did not allow for such contests consistently. Surely. Yet, in the deepest hole of my mind, I felt betrayed by this turn of events and fearful still for my life.

We huddled in planning, and agreed Artemis would take the first stab at the orcs, in both a figurative and literal sense. Her size and speed combined with precision would allow a swift attack and retreat back into our party’s numbers. We lie in wait, preparing our methods of war, as Artemis clutched her daggers with pause. Then, she was off.

Across the field she tore through the grass, faster than anyone had anticipated. Rounding the circumference of the open field against the trees, she rounded the final corner and went for the orc guard on the right. In a flash, she slammed headfirst into it and cut the throat, an instant and painless death. Further still, she marked the other guard and again tore into it, a bass cry of pain ringing through the air. With a dash back, she had given us the element of surprise.

With a ravenous want, Epide saw the corpse and began to run towards it across the ground. The blood that had sprayed from the orc’s body apparently was enough to distract him, as he bathed in it like a duck bathes in a lake. Despite this horrid distraction, he still summoned the wherewithal to again form the ground anew, creating a pitfall that trapped one of the orcs.

Fardahr, having reconstituted himself from retching, began to channel a spell with a mischievous look on his face. A form of light took shape on front of him, but suddenly a look of frustration came across his demeanor. Having resigned himself, almost as if the god of his dominion came to warn against a cruel prank, he concentrated further and produced an iron brand, still wielding with an air of confidence. I was confused by the sight, but was quickly made aware of the power of a holy weapon as Fardahr hurled it towards a nearby orc, striking it clean.

Artemis, having set herself once more towards the orcs, struck the trapped orc and produced a rude gesture in its direction. Against the field, I could see more and more a chaotic, ramshackle fighting. I was still in pain. I was still terrified of the scene before me. But again, I felt magic turn to me, as Aurora cast a spell against me. I was grateful for her art, and only wished I could repay in kind her help. I grasped my bow and arrow and took aim at an orc, but my hand slipped in disorientation, ricocheting off the brand. I was lost.

Artemis again was engaged in combat, dodging and weaving with precision, all strikes against her missed. 

I’m back where I started.

Fardahr took a shot and found his mark.

Five years alone, talent wasted.

Rokk, without mercy, decapitated an orc and let a war cry.

I’ll just hope to fire my bow from afar and not get hit. This accursed weapon. It’s brought me nothing but strife.

As it looked like my group of fellow travelers were on the cusp of turning the fight and seizing victory, we were stunned to silence as a mighty roar escaped the cave. From inside, only darkness permeated. Only dank and must. Only sound escaped the cave.

And then it came.

[go-asdasd-us-blog]

England coach Chris Silverwood wants Test team to get the basics right

Bob Silverwood preached a return towards the old-fashioned ideals related to batting time plus relentlessness using the ball as the new England men’s trainer outlined his eyesight associated with a Test group that can restore the Ashes in 2 years’ period.

The 44-year-old Yorkshireman, that comes within the picture from the particular a part of England’s bowling instructor carrying out a title-winning mean within charge at Kent, has been presented at Lord’s upon Thursday. Ashley Giles, the particular director of Cricinfo that appointed him, recognized a good “outstanding” home-grown trainer in whose strong relationships can hyperlink up the state group with the internet advertising game create them “the most respected” is generally the entire world.

England come across the new boon concerning Chris Silverwood yet a fresh huge enhance | Vic Marks Silverwood, who explained he wishes his height inspires extra English instructors, sets away there in direction of this high aim employing a tour to Fresh Zealand that leaves from the particular summary of typically the specific month. A deliberately natural squad play five Twenty20 games – the begin of usually the road to the Planet Cup within Australia subsequent year – before May well Root’s Test side, today fourth in the ranks, face a two-match sequence and then four inside S. Africa after Christmas.

Together with the white-ball set-up thus well-grooved following your summer’s 50-over World Cup succeed and Eoin Morgan’s recommitment to the captaincy, Giles restated that the filling device must now be nudged back towards Test Cricinfo. Silverwood, witness to typically the 2-2 Ashes blend close-up quarters, sights this since a come back to several basic long-form principles.

He or the girl said: “Job No simply one is helping Later on Main, supporting him, generating positive the Test group commences moving forward, therefore, any moment we head to Australia inside two years all of us can create a genuine impact available.

Australia retain the Ashes after England fail to save the fourth Test in Old Trafford “

“One thing we’ll look in is building a playing baseball group that can softball bat a long time, stack up plus put pressure around the resistance. It sounds old‑fashioned yet we’ve got to recognize that. We need the particular right folks within the correct places in the purchase.

“And then you want to be able to produce a bowling strike that may be persistent. We all did find a good example this specific particular summer: the Aussies had been fit, sturdy and produced existence genuinely difficult. ”

The root is practically 3 years into his / her Check captaincy and although prospects have ebbed in addition to running, there has been the perception that, sometimes, this person has tried too challenging to emulate the one-day team’s buccaneering approach.

Silverwood is confident his many other Yorkshireman is on a panel with dialing it lower a touch, something signposted by the call-up for Dom Sibley – Warwickshire’s opener faced 1, 009 more balls than the next most obdurate batsman in Division One this year – and Root’s return to be able to No 4.

“Joe in addition to I had an extremely good long conversation, ” Silverwood said. “I need to make certain that coming from the get-go Joe and I also usually are aligned. Merely what accurately I’m speaking about to you about these days are Joe’s thoughts considering that well. ”

Using this certain shift in outlook appeared an acceptance from Silverwood that Test results may well not follow right away. Players need to have got time and energy to be able to adapt ~ “some cogs will switch faster as compared to others. I found that at Essex” ~ and anxiety concerning failure must not glide in. “They can be found in and they could propagate their wings and they will also fly, ” he or she mentioned.

Silverwood, therefore, symbolizes a new continuation of the peaceful environment under his precursor Trevor Bayliss. But fewer than a week to the career he has previously got one off-field occurrence to address, after photos attained at the Specialist Cricketers’ Association awards meal typically the other time emerged demonstrating Ben Stokes with his / the woman left palm on most of the face regarding his wife, Clare, between a said altercation.

Clare Stokes gives since explained that this specific specific is how generally typically the couple show affection in the direction of each other, instead of anything at all more sinister, while Dan Harrison, the chief professional in England in add-on to Wales Cricket Panel, explained his satisfaction of which, next conversations with all the pair and others present, the majority of the context was “innocent”.

Silverwood, who has similarly applied to the all-rounder thinking of that, said: “As considerably since I’m concerned, just about all typically the questions are questioned. And it’s completed. I wasn’t right this moment there. [But] I'm happy together with just what I’ve been advised. Typically the new lesson for every and every particular person. You know, these usually are high-quality [cricketers]. An individual has to be capable of being careful because blameless items can be obtained out of context. ”

To that end, Silverwood stressed the midnight curfew for England’s cricketers ~ implemented during the post occurrences of the Bristol occurrence in 2017 – may remain in place. Nevertheless, bar this, and although acknowledging he or she must take a new step again from having the ever‑amenable soccer ball instructor, he wants to be able to encourage his charges.

“People are the center regarding my coaching philosophy in addition to seeing them do properly, with the dreams and just what they’re seeking to do, tends to make me smile, ” he or she said.

“That’s why I actually do it. I would like to generate self-thinking, self-sufficient cricketers of which will be successful in addition to if we could do of which, you know what, it’ll cause me to feel the smile. ”

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