#calamity grace

[houseofpendragons]

Family Reunion

Summary: Family reunions are the Best, but what’s a reunion without a little drama

Warning(s): Cursing, Guns, Talk of Arranged Marriages

A/N: I told you it wouldn’t take me long to update girlies. Next chapter we continue on in the episode and make it to Coffeyville 😬

The caravan's procession had taken on the somber pace of a funeral march, each hoofbeat upon the dusty trail a solemn drumbeat marking the passage of time since the night's harrowing events. The hush that had befallen the group was not the companionable silence of shared experiences but rather the thick, oppressive silence that follows a storm—the kind that stifles breath and speech alike. After the terror that had erupted in the night, trust was a brittle thing, and the laughter that had once punctuated their days had evaporated like dew in the morning sun.

For Calamity, each step forward was indeed a step away from the horrors of the night before, yet the memories clung to her like burrs on fabric. Her eyes, shadowed and distant, remained focused on the narrow dirt path captured between the flicking ears of her horse. The dark circles etched beneath her gaze were like bruises against her pale skin, like the remnants of a nightmare refusing to fade with the dawn.

She rode rigidly at the rear, her movements betraying none of the wild freedom that had once defined her—a girl grown on the trail, her spirit as untamed as the prairie winds. Her mind was a tempest, thoughts churning with images from the night before—the flash of gunpowder, the scent of blood, the finality in Frank's eyes as his soul slipped away. She could still feel the weight of the revolver in her hand, a cold comfort that had promised protection but had taken a piece of her innocence in exchange.

Amos, riding a few paces ahead, wore his worry like an ill-fitting coat, uncomfortable and heavy. He was acutely aware of the distance between himself and his daughter, a chasm that seemed to widen with each passing moment. The urge to speak, to offer comfort, was a palpable force within him, but words felt like feeble tools against the fortress of her resolve.

It was in moments like these that Amos felt the absence of his late wife most acutely. Birdie had been the wordsmith, the healer with phrases that could mend broken spirits. Without her, Amos felt the right phrases eluded him, just whispers of what she might have said.

"So..." he ventured, his voice trailing into the void as Calamity remained motionless, unresponsive to his hesitant overture. "About last night. Now, sure you've seen plenty a dead body before, but, um... God damnit, what I'm tryin' and failin' to say is that seeing a dead body ain't like watching the life fade from a man's eyes. To watch his soul leave his body to wander up to rest with the stars, well... it leaves a mark. So, if you need to talk about anything, or if you're not okay—"

"I'm fine. I don't want to talk about it," Calamity cut in sharply, her voice a blade that severed the conversation before it could truly begin. She turned her gaze back to the path, but her mind swirled with turmoil. She wasn't fine; the echo of gunfire still ricocheted through her skull, and she could feel the ghostly pressure of Billy's hand in hers—a lifeline amidst the chaos that had threatened to engulf them both.

The sudden stop of the caravan jerked Calamity from her introspection, and she lifted her head, scanning the group for a familiar head of curls. When she failed to find what she sought, her gaze snapped to her father. "Why did we stop? And where's Billy?" she asked, a note of anxiety creeping into her voice as she realized he was missing.

Before he could answer, her attention shifted again. "Who's that?" she asked, her tone sharpening with the instinctive wariness born of the last night's ordeal.

From the front, a murmur of apprehension rippled back as figures materialized on the hill ahead. The group's collective breath caught, the memory of the previous night's violence still too fresh, too raw for them as well.

"Who's that?" one of the travelers echoed the question, letting it hanging in the air, a specter of fear.

The man was a striking presence, tall and lean, his short jet-black hair contrasting with the traditional garb of a cowboy. His Native American heritage was unmistakable, a presence that demanded recognition. As the figure rode closer, another joined him—a younger version, mirroring the elder's stature. The boy rode his horse with the easy confidence of one born to the saddle, just like Calamity. Amos squinted into the distance, his hand instinctively moving to the gun at his hip before recognition softened his features. "Easy now," he assured them, his voice a warm balm against the cold prickling of fear. "It's family."

Kathleen, her mother's intuition never far from the surface, cast an inquisitive glance toward the figures as she leaned forward. "More of your kin, Amos?"

"Aye, Kathleen. You get to meet more of the Grace clan today," he replied, the relief evident in his tone.

Chaska, the proud set of his shoulders and the unyielding line of his gaze, was a portrait of the prairie's own spirit—resilient, proud, and timeless. His son Ira, a blend of two worlds, shared his father's stature but bore the gentle features of his mother. The boy's half-Indian visage was a living testament to the union of Amos's late sister Ida and Chaska—a bridge between cultures.

"Go. Ride," he encouraged Calamity, a subtle command that she obeyed without hesitation, her horse carrying her swiftly toward her cousin with the wind unraveling her braids and setting her hair free to dance with the prairie grasses. The heaviness that had clung to her seemed to lift as she rode, the wind pulling at the fabric of her riding skirt, a reminder of Aunt Clara's care. She let out a joyous whoop, the sound torn away by the breeze as she closed the distance to Ira.

Herding the cattle was a dance as old as the land itself, a push and pull between beast and rider. "Look at you, all city now after that trip to New York!" Ira teased as Calamity drew near, his voice rich with the cadence of family ribbing.

Calamity laughed, a sound that was half-defiant, half-delighted. "Wild thing suits me better, and you know it!" The sensation of the horse beneath her, the vibrations of the earth transmitted through hoof and saddle, revitalized Calamity's spirit—a balm for the wounds of the soul that no words could soothe.

Calamity and Ira worked in tandem, their voices rising above the lowing of the cattle, a series of whoops and hollers that directed the herd's flow. The sounds were both an art and a language, understood by the animals and the riders alike, guiding the cattle with an invisible hand.

As Amos watched his daughter ride, her laughter mingling with Ira's calls, he felt a twinge of hope. Perhaps, in the simplicity of the task, in the connection with the land and her family, Calamity could find a moment's peace. Beside him, Chaska rode with an easy grace, a knowing smile on his face.

"They're good together, those two," Chaska observed, his voice rich with the timbre of the earth. "Reminds me of us when we were young and fearless."

Amos nodded, the corners of his eyes crinkling with a smile. "Yeah, they've got the same fire. Makes me think there's hope for the next generation yet." His face, weathered like the land he knew so well, bore a stoic calm that belied the warmth in his eyes. "Now what are you two doing all the way over here?" he continued.

"Your brother had some business that needed tending to a little ways back," Chaska replied, his voice carrying the weight of recent events. "Heard you'd been roped into a wagon train headed this way close by... and there was a nice sale on some cattle."

The men shared a laugh, the sound a bridge over the chasm of recent silence. They turned their gazes to their children—Calamity, with her golden hair flying free as she rode alongside her cousin, and Ira, his stark raven locks hidden beneath his hat.

The two men fell into an easy conversation, trading stories of the past and observations of the present, the challenges of the land, the joys and sorrows of family, and the ever-shifting dance of life that they both knew so well. The reunion was medicine for the soul, a momentary reprieve from the shadows that clung to the caravan. And perhaps, in the laughter of the children and the camaraderie of the brothers-in-law, there was a promise of healing, a whisper of hope that not all was lost on the windswept prairie.

The once muted caravan now pulsed with new life, thanks to the arrival of Chaska and his son Ira. Their laughter pierced the somber mood, a ray of light that seemed to push away the shadows lingering in the travelers' hearts. Billy had returned with Moss to find this altered landscape, one where Calamity stood at the center, a figure both jarring and captivating.

His gaze followed Calamity as she led the cattle alongside her cousin, her movements deft and assured, her voice ringing out with strange, commanding shouts that sounded foreign to his ears, but was like a melody played on an exotic instrument, both startling and entrancing. Billy watched as she donned the mantle of leadership with ease, her every word and gesture as natural to her as breathing. The strange noises she made, the way she sat in the saddle—it was as if she was part of the very landscape they traversed. She was a living challenge to the world he knew, a spirited enigma wrapped in the guise of a girl who, if not for her cascading hair and the skirt she had since exchanged for pants, would defy all gender norms.

Despite the confusion she stirred within him, Billy couldn't shake the sense of intrigue that wrapped around his thoughts, a persistent curiosity about the girl who stood so starkly different from the rest. Billy's reflections were filled with images of Calamity—the smoky trace of a quirly between her fingers, the sharp cadence of her laughter, the way her hair, once neatly braided, now whipped about her face in wild abandon. She was an uncut gem, raw and compelling in her uniqueness, and he found himself desiring to explore the depths of her facets.

His world, until now, had been painted in familiar hues, girls with demure smiles and practiced modesty. But Calamity was a palette of untamed colors, she existed outside the lines, and that inexplicable place beyond boundaries beckoned to Billy with the allure of the unknown.

Her abrupt return snapped him back to the present, as the thunder of hoofbeats heralded her approach. "Well what are we all waiting for? Aren't y'all ready to get a move on?" Her words were a lance thrust into the veil of hesitation that had draped over them.

Billy's eyes widened, his mouth agape, as he took in her changed attire, the pants defining her silhouette in a way that was made his gaze linger a bit longer than what would be considered appropriate. "A gift from my cousin. I don't believe you could've met before, so this is Ira," Calamity introduced, her smirk revealing that she was well aware of the surprise glinting in his eyes.

"What's the matter with you, ain't never seen a girl in pants before?" Her words, laced with a playful edge, dance around the edges of his comfort zone.

Billy, flustered and caught off guard, managed a reply that only seemed to dim the spark in Calamity's eyes. "No, can't say that I ever have before. Not really something girls are supposed to do where I'm from I guess," Billy managed to stammer out, his words hanging awkwardly between them. He admired her boldness, yet it unsettled him, this deviation from the familiar paths he knew.

Calamity pushed ahead, her pride stung by his reaction, leaving Billy to grapple with the flurry of emotions she stirred within him. He felt the distance more keenly than he expected, his gaze lingered on her retreating form. He needed to understand this girl who defied every convention, whose very existence seemed like a question posed to the universe.

Ira, catching up to him, gave a chuckled at the scene that had unfolded-rich with the knowledge of many such encounters with Calamity. Billy's confusion spilled out in a torrent of questions that were just left to hang in the air as Ira took a moment of thoughtful consideration. "Calamity sees the world differently than everyone else. She's a dreamer, a doer. She dreams of tomorrows filled with possibility. She's always been ahead, seeing the world around her, not the places or the people. And she hates people," he added with a wry smile.

Billy's serious demeanor prompted Ira to continue. "Maybe she's right and that's where we're all headed, and she's just the first to break trail." He nodded towards Calamity. "I mean, she always seems to be at least five steps ahead of everyone else. She makes us all reconsider what we think we know. So, yeah, maybe you should cut her a break."

When Billy inquired whose side Ira was on, the answer came with a smile. "Hers, always. She's like my little sister. I just met you, kid."

Through their laughter, Billy pondered this, the notion of Calamity as a pioneer of a new world order. It was a thought that both unnerved and excited him.

While Billy and Ira conversed, Calamity rode back to her father and uncle, who had taken over the herding. She approached them with a frustrated energy, her brow furrowed as she recounted her exchange with Billy. "He looked at me like I'm some sort of...of sideshow act just because of these pants. It's like he's never seen a girl who can ride and shoot and lead," she vented, the disappointment heavy in her voice.

Amos and Chaska listened, their eyes soft with understanding, before exchanging a knowing look. "You're too young—" Amos began, only to receive a sharp elbow from Chaska and a stern look that spoke volumes. "Shit. Maybe you're not," he corrected, the realization dawning that his little girl was growing up in a world far different from his own.

"Remember, Calamity," her father began, "folks like Billy, they need time to get used to the wind's changing direction. If he's worth your while, he'll turn his sails to catch it.

Chaska nodded, adding, "He's from a different world, Calamity. Be patient. If he's willing to learn, willing to grow, that's the measure of a man."

Calamity's eyes searched theirs, the wisdom settling in her like stones in the riverbed of her thoughts. "How long will it take for him to change? To see me as I am? To know if he's a man or not?" Her questions were earnest, the yearning for acceptance a new and jagged feeling within her.

The men laughed, a sound that held both wisdom and remembrance. "Calamity," Chaska said with a smile, "a person's changing is like the prairie wind. You can't predict it, can't rush it. You'll know when he's a man by the way he respects your spirit, not by the time it takes."

Amos nodded, adding, "And if he's worth your time, he'll come around. Just give him the chance to catch up to you."

Calamity absorbed their words. She realized that understanding and acceptance were journeys in themselves, ones that Billy would have to undertake at his own pace.

With a newfound sense of patience, Calamity circled back to the caravan, her eyes catching Billy's in a moment that held the promise of possibility. "What are you telling him?" she demanded, eyeing Ira with playful suspicion.

Ira winked at Billy before replying. "Only what he wants to hear. About how weird you are."

Calamity's response was swift; she smacked Ira on the arm, prompting him to remind her of the "golden rule—no maiming kin on the trail."

She pretended to consider this deeply before shrugging with feigned disappointment. "I guess you're right. I'll lose seconds for a while." But then she began to eye him dangerously again. "I'll live."

Without warning, she launched herself from her saddle, her attack on Ira a whirlwind of playful vengeance that sent them both tumbling into the earth. Their tussling kicked up clouds of dust, drawing the attention of their fathers. Amos and Chaska, upon seeing the commotion, spurred their horses into action. 

They circled the battling duo, reaching down  with practiced ease, each grasping a shirt collar and lifting. They dragged them in a dusty promenade around the circle, their calls and whistles adding to the commotion as they worked to separate the two before sending them falling to the ground on opposite sides of the ring they had created.

From Calamity's perspective, the world spun—a whirlwind of sky and earth, a dizzying rush that ended in the air knocked from her lungs. The dirt was hard beneath her, the impact a sharp lesson in the physical laws of gravity and momentum. She lay there for a moment to catch her breath, the defiance in her rising like a flame, an unspoken vow to rise again, as sure as the sun chased away the night.

Once the dust settled and the laughter of the men filled the air, the men called out to Calamity and Ira, their voices firm with the command to retrieve the horses. "Now! Or it's gonna be a mighty long walk for the pair of you. Hey, and you better come back with both horses, or you're both walking regardless, you hear me?" The threat of a long walk was enough to spur the pair into action, their youthful energy undimmed by the scuffle or the fall.

With a shared look that spoke volumes, Ira and Calamity, called out for a race as the wagon train once again set forth. The laughter of their fathers rang out, a chorus of "damn kids" and fond recollections of their own youthful misdeeds, tempered by the strong hands of their own fathers. "Just like we were, Chaska," Amos said, the pride and responsibility now mingling together to rest on their shoulders.

Ira and Calamity, having successfully retrieved their horses, now rode alongside the leading wagon where Billy sat perched next to Moss. The clear sky stretched out above them, a vast canvas splashed with a few fluffy, white clouds here and there. The air between the trio was filled with the comfortable chatter and easy teasing of friendship in its early bloom. The air was alive with the sounds of the prairie—birds chirping their evensong, the rustle of the wind through the grass, and the rhythmic creaking of wagons.

Billy sat, his posture betraying the remnants of an earlier discomfort. He was determined to regain his footing, to smooth the ruffled feathers with an earnestness that was as transparent as the clear sky above. He glanced at Calamity, hoping for an opportunity to set things right.

Ira, on the other hand, felt a spark of amusement at the little drama unfolding. He sensed the undercurrents between them, the push and pull of two strong spirits finding their way. He saw the way Billy's eyes followed Calamity, the way their banter had an undercurrent of something deeper. 'They're like two young colts,' he mused, 'each full of fire and spirit, each a force to be reckoned with on their own, but together, they might just set the plains ablaze.'

Calamity, her pride still smarting from Billy's remark, was determined not to let it show. She was a master of her own emotions, or so she told herself, reining them in like the wild mustangs she'd helped to corral countless times in her life. She was vexed by Billy's earlier remarks, yet a part of her yearned for the affirmation she saw reflected in his eyes.

The misstep had begun innocently enough, with Ira praising Calamity's skill, proclaiming her on the path to becoming one of the finest cowboys he'd ever known. Billy, eager to contribute yet wary of further offense, chimed in with misguided amendment. "Cowgirl. And I'm sure she's fine with helping with the cattle, but horses tend to be more manageable, I reckon." He however, found himself in an awkward predicament, felt the invisible lasso tightening around his neck like a noose.

The words had scarcely left his mouth before Calamity's gaze sharpened, brows furrowed, and brown eyes narrowed into slits in a silent challenge. "Why would it matter which was better to manage? I can assure you I have no trouble managing at all.

Billy, his expression a mix of confusion and consternation, scrambled for a response. "I only meant to say that because you're—" Ira, sensing the tension, wore a smirk that threatened to split his face as he watched the exchange.

"A girl?" Calamity cut in, her tone sharpening with each word.

Billy, his eyes wide with panic, tried to backtrack. "No, I don't—I didn't mean that."

"But you thought it," Calamity's quick counter, her gaze steady and unyielding, left him momentarily speechless. Ira's laughter broke through the tension, his joy at the situation clear and uncontained, his fist pressed to his mouth in a futile attempt to muffle the sound.

Seeking to defuse the growing skirmish, Calamity suggested a change of pace. "How about some music to lighten the mood?"

Billy, wishing for his fiddle, began to hum a melody instead. The familiar tune seemed to offer a truce, a common ground where words had failed. "There it is," Ira groaned in mock despair, but Billy continued, his voice gaining confidence as he sang the lines of "Turkey in the Straw."

As Billy's voice picked up the lyrics, "As I was a-goin', on down the road, with a tired team and a heavy load..." Calamity found herself nodding along, a smile breaking through the earlier tension. There was something about the way he sang—softly at first, then with growing assurance—that tugged at her. She mused on this, her heart unexpectedly warming to the tune.

When Billy paused, she picked up the verse, her voice clear and true, carrying the tune effortlessly.

Billy, hearing Calamity's voice rise in song, halted his own singing. He was captivated listening to Calamity's clear, strong voice that carried on where he left off. Her voice, he realized, was much like her—bold, unapologetic, and full of life.

And then, as if moved by an unseen conductor, he joined in, their voices mingling together in harmony, singing of turkeys in the straw and mishaps with goats. They danced as best as they could atop their mounts, laughter spilling from them like water from a spring. For this brief moment they were just children, their laughter and song danced upon the wind, a joyful counterpoint to the steady clop of hooves and the creak of wagons.

Ira, with feigned exasperation, cut in. "Okay, that's enough of that." He declared, though his eyes shone with fondness for the pair. 'They have something special,' he mused, 'like the first light of dawn after a long, dark night.'

Calamity retorted, "We were almost done with the song," her voice laced with laughter. Billy and Calamity exchanged a look, a silent communion in the midst of laughter, and for a fleeting instant, they were simply "us".

The caravan settled to a gentle stop on the outskirts of Coffeyville, Kansas, the final pause before reaching their destination. It was a moment of respite, and the children seized this fleeting opportunity for respite and play. The cattle ambled lazily, their contented lowing a gentle backdrop to the laughter and shouts of the youngsters. The evening air was rich with the scent of earth and grass, carrying with it the distant calls of birds.

In an open space carved out among the tall grasses, Ira, Calamity, Billy, and Sam gathered around a fallen log. The game was simple: shooting at a line of empty bottles perched atop a weathered log, a test of skill and a moment's distraction from the arduous journey. Empty bottles lined the log, glinting in the fading light like silent challengers awaiting their fate.

Ira, the eldest at fourteen, stepped up with the easy grace of one who had spent countless hours perfecting his marksmanship. His Winchester rifle, a reliable companion, lay comfortably in his hands. His eyes narrowed, his posture relaxed yet confident, speaking louder than words. With each pull of the lever and squeeze of the trigger, the bottles shattered, succumbing to Ira's steady gaze and unerring aim. He stepped back, a slight smile playing on his lips, his style of shooting a testament to the man who had raised him. He was the oldest grandchild in the family, and with that came a sense of responsibility—to protect, to set an example, and perhaps to shoulder the burdens that the future held.

Billy, still new to the art of shooting, approached next. The lessons from Moss were still fresh, and Billy's quick, intuitive shots proved he was a quick study. His form was less seasoned but he displayed raw, natural talent. His movements were quick and unhesitating, the gun in his hand as if it belonged there. The bottles fell to his aim, a promising display of a burgeoning sharpshooter.

Sam, the silent observer, joined in with the encouragement of his friends. They stood by his side, offering tips and support, their camaraderie clear in the shared nods and smiles. Sam took his time, steadying his aim with a concentration that commanded silence. His efforts were rewarded by the bullet ricocheting off of a piece of rock that bade them all the drop down. When motioning if he should try again he was met with a cacophony of no's.

Calamity took her place last, grappling with a tumult of thoughts. She grappled with the echo of Billy's earlier words, the doubt they cast upon her unusual place in a world that didn't quite know what to make of a girl like her. She was more than capable, her skills sharp as the blade of a Bowie knife. She wrestled with the notion that perhaps she was too different, that her skills and her boldness might isolate her from the simple joys of love and companionship. It was this self-conscious doubt that led her to deliberately shoot her shot wide. She turned back to her friends, her smile a practiced mask of feigned disappointment.

Ira's discreet nudge to Billy went unnoticed by none. Billy furrowed his brow, puzzled, until understanding dawned. Billy, recalling Ira's earlier words about Calamity's prowess, approached her, his voice hesitant but firm after clearing his throat. "Alright, would you like to stop stroking that ego you think I have and show me what you really got?"

Calamity's eyes flitted to Ira, her glare both bashful and accusing. She took the gun once more, her heart a drumbeat in her chest. She took a deep breath, letting it out slowly as she lined up her sights. The bottles splintered effortlessly, testament to her true skill, her aim true and unwavering.

As Calamity finally revealed her true prowess, Billy's reaction was one of unfeigned astonishment. "Wow," he murmured, genuinely taken aback. "Now that's what I call some shooting." Her skill with the revolver was undeniable; each shot leaving his mouth agape, each shot dismantling his preconceived notions of her.

Calamity, her cheeks warmed by a bashful pride, clasped her hands behind her back and rocked on her heels. "Yeah..." she replied, her eyes bright with the joy of the moment.

As the children's game unfolded, Calamity's deliberate misfires were not lost on Amos. He saw the momentary hesitation, the internal struggle that caused her hand to waver. His heart ached for his daughter, for the vibrant spirit she was and the world that might not understand her. He wanted to shield her from these truths, from the harshness that lay beyond the open prairie.

Chaska rode up beside him, and the two men exchanged pleasantries that barely masked the gravity of their true concerns.

"Why are you really here, Chaska? And don't feed me no more bullshit," Amos cut in, his voice a low rumble of impatience.

Chaska hesitated, his expression unreadable, then spoke a single word of coded warning: "Olvesway." The coded warning sent a chill down Amos's spine. The meaning was clear—wolves were on the horizon, and not just the four-legged kind, their legacy, was under threat.

"It is," Chaska cut in, his tone grave. "And two girls and my boy ain't going to be able to defend it when the pack surrounds them."

A sound, half-sigh, half-groan, escaped Amos. The caravan's slow progression was mirrored in the churn of thoughts inside Amos's head. As he watched the young ones play, his heart heavy with the weight of impending decisions, the word "Olvesway" echoed ominously in his mind.

The discussion turned to the harsh reality of their situation—to marriages arranged out of necessity, to alliances forged in the face of adversity. The idea of arranged marriages, once an abstract notion, now loomed over him like a gathering storm.

Chaska spoke of the need for alliances with rich cattle ranchers, and the possibility of Amos himself remarrying to strengthen their position. Even Quentin, constrained by Clara's infertility, was mentioned as part of the plan. For Amos, the thought was a jagged pill—necessary, perhaps, but bitter.

He had always hoped for a different path for Calamity, a life where she could choose her own destiny, marry someone from the heart, not as a strategic move in a desperate bid for safety. He wanted her to know the warmth of love, not the chill of obligation. Amos's heart ached for his daughter, for the vibrant spirit she was and the world that might not understand her.

He did not desire this for Calamity, for any of them—to be pawns in a game of survival. Yet the wolves were at the door, and he, as their shepherd, must act to secure their future, even if it meant sacrificing the dreams he held for them.

Amos's heart ached for his daughter, for the vibrant spirit she was and the world that might not understand her. He pondered the marriages to be arranged, the alliances to be forged. Each name, each face that came to mind, was a piece in a larger puzzle that he was reluctant to complete. His thoughts were a tangle of love and duty, of the desire to see the children happy and the grim resolve to see them safe

Amos's gaze wandered to Kathleen, pondering if she felt the same pull of duty over desire. Her husband was a changed man, a shadow of who he once was. Did she too feel the pull of duty over the heart's desire? Was she ready to step once more into the breach for the sake of their family?

With a sharp whistle, Amos signaled the caravan's advance. The children, their laughter a brief reprieve from the encroaching shadow of adulthood, raced back to their horses and wagons.

As the caravan set off, Amos was left to contemplate the road ahead, a path that would require him to balance the scales between what was best for the family and what was best for the soul of his daughter. Each turn of the wagon wheels was a step toward an uncertain horizon, but one thing was clear: the survival of their land, their legacy, depended on the sacrifices they were all prepared to make.

[quackingmeup]

Mipha Aesthetic

"But know this: that no matter how difficult this battle might get... if you—if anyone ever tries to do you harm... Then I will heal you. No matter when, or how bad the wound..."

[breathalyzerfail]

There is a very small, very sad moment when Hob assures Sylmenar that he won’t take up much space in her lovely house overlooking a lake because he will often be away on matters of war; especially since their whole betrothal is intended to secure alliances between their courts in the face of war with the Unseelie and Wonder.

The PCs are the PCs. They are — to borrow Andhera’s phrase — at the center of many spokes in a very rapidly spinning wheel. They have other matters of plot and story consequence on their plate in and around this theatre.

But I find this small scene of tenuous connection between Hob and Sylmenar to be so compelling because it is likely happening all over the Bloom and maybe all over the Fey realms. It is a small taste of what it must be like just a little away from the center of the wheel.

Their entire world is taking the plunge into war and faeries high and low, big and small are taking a deep breath and looking for a hand to hold.

All this to say, I think Hob/Sylmenar could be pretty cool actually.

[psionicpootis]

Woah so Spooky!!

I am addicted to spooky month again lol here's spooky month versions of my oc's

[simplegenius042]

The True Sinners & The House Always Wins?

Ask and you shall receive @carlosoliveiraa!

The House Always Wins is a Fallout New Vegas fic and part of my Fallout series A Radioactive Calamity of Love, Bombs & Gore. Here's what I have so far... It takes place a few years after the events of The Waters Of Life Flow (the FO3 fic), and half-human/half-dimensional creature hybrid siblings Ortega "Ore" Brantley and Marissa "Ress" Bishop have been tipped off about atypical activities happening in the Mojave, not dissimilar from the Occult's activities their despicable father, Arcane Urias, lead in the Capital Wasteland and California. Seeing this as an opportunity to put a stop to the Occult and avenge their friends and Urias' victims. However, this is put on hold when they encounter a securitron with a cowboy's face dragging an unconscious Courier through the scorching desert. With no place better to start searching for clues, they help get the Courier, a veteran Wasteland woman named Ryder, to Goodsprings.

Now I don't have any snippets prepared for you, but I can share that Ress and Ore split off to cover more ground; Ore will accompany Ryder to track down Benny, retrieve the Platinum Chip, speak with Mr House, get wrapped up in dealing with the Legion, and win Hoover Dam for House (plus attain any companions along the way) while Ress goes off to track down the Occult by doing the thing she loves most; intimidating the shit out of the locals in the communities she visits, killing people she doesn't like the faces of, bullying the elderly, get wrapped up in doing the NCR's bidding, almost die, then working alongside Yes Man for an Independent Vegas (plus pressuring any companions she meets into following her). All the while Urias second-in-command, Aggravor, chills in the Divide while coordinating efforts to place a warhead into the dam. If only the pesky courier with the mask and long speeches of "something, something, bull, bear" would let him get the location of the remote that originally set off the Divide.

Now The True Sinners is a FC5 fic where it takes place in an alternative setting of Far Cry The Silver Chronicles where Silva Omar's grief still remained long enough to dissuade her from becoming a deputy of the Hope County Sheriff's Department. Without a "muse", especially one chosen by the Voice itself, the Seals can't be opened, and the Collapse can't occur, and the Voice is livid that its muse has decided to opt out. Instead of wasting time in choosing another poor sap (especially since it has history with this one), the Voice instead just re-contextualizes the muse's purpose to Joseph, leading to the Seed Family kidnapping Silva in the dead of night so she can be present for the arrest and still break the First Seal (by technicality). Silva has to balance helping the Resistance from the inside and getting into the Seeds' good graces without sacrificing her morals and values in the process. In the meantime, Silva's (personal? family?) doctor, Kamski Neon, ends up helping to lead the Resistance to rescue the only other person he knew from the Archipelagos, and while great at organization and treating wounds, he is not very popular amongst the locals. Case in point, the snippet below:

Kamski entered the bar, moving ahead to the nearest stool, leaving Armstrong to her own devices outside. He was not unaware of the gazes that were set on him, eyes watching as he steadily sat himself in front of the bar's counter.

Like buitres, Kamski couldn't help but compare the locals to the scavengers. He disliked the bird, more than the eagles that dived at him when he took Silva's invitation into the county, but he understood their importance, despite the little pragmatism they held.

He brought a flask out of his satchel, unlatching the lid to take a swig. He took another swig as soon as he spotted the Pastor making his way toward him.

"Why?"

Kamski lazily glanced to Jeffries, spotting Fairgrave leaning against the wall next to the stairway, watching the confrontation like most of her patrons.

The Good Doctor sighed, scratching at his sideburns, the red in his hair slowly on it's way to becoming white, and asked his own question, "What is the meaning behind this "why", Pastor?"

Kamski took another swig, but found no bitterness reaching his tongue. Upon further inspecting the flask, shaking it about with no signature swish nor swirl, Kamski was disappointed that he'd be dealing with this conversation on a sober mind.

Jeffries took a breath, but his frustration made its way to the tone of his voice, "Why did you kill that man?"

Kamski raised a brow at the Pastor, "You mean the Peggie?"

"A former Peggie. A defector. One who would have exchanged information on John's supply chains, coordination of future attacks, and his next baptisms," Jeffries emphasized, "And you executed him."

Kamski blinked at the Pastor, giving a shrug, "Your point?"

As the old doctor shifted to slide off the stool, Jeffries grasped his shoulder, grounding out his next words with a solemner tone, "Even if it meant losing information regarding Silva's current captivity."

Kamski growled at him, shoving the arm off his shoulder, "I didn't just kill the Peggie. I got information out of him before I gave him what he deserved. It would have been counterproductive to not retrieve whatever information he held, just as it would have been for going through with the escort."

He pulled out a note and slammed it onto the counter.

"Here's all he had. None of it included Silva, by name nor description," Kamski stated.

Kamski made to move but Jeffries stated, "You still killed a man who wanted to change. A way out."

The Good Doctor scoffed, shaking his head at the Pastor's words. He doesn't understand. None of them would. These peggies don't get the right to attempt a vain ploy to change. Not after all they've done. All they do nothing about. It just makes it easier for them to stab us in the back.

He dragged his hand over his face, a fingers rubbing against the scar that crosses the ridge of his nose. His thumb traced the the cut that crossed his bottom lip down to his chin, a reminder that fueled his next response.

"Then he should have never listened to the words of that Profeta," Kamski replied, making his way towards the exit of the bar, ignoring the deep sigh behind him.

"Armstrong," Kamski greeted the sharpshooter at the porch, who only gave a grunt in acknowledgement as she tended to her rifle, "You know where the Jailhouse is?"

Armstrong stopped wiping the barrel, looking up to the doctor, "My pops drove past it sometimes when he was running errands for some old war friends of his. Hard to miss."

"Excellent," Kamski smirked, turning towards the sedan limousine he stole, "Because I'm going to need directions."

[dullweapons]

mother of all tag dumps inbound ..... i am not booping people cause theres like 30 tags lol

here is the page on my google site that lists them all ... i think ? may have missed someone but ill double check later

⸻  SHIP  : ayrin / sahar  ❤︎  you know you hypnotize me always !   ˎˊ˗

⸻  SHIP  : ray / grace ( hyliangrace )  ❤︎  you can be the match & i will be the fuse : boom   ˎˊ˗

⸻  SHIP  : ray / lyric ( lunarscaled )  ❤︎  bleed into my mouth so i may taste you forever ; leviathan  ˎˊ˗

⸻  SHIP  : ray / robin ( wolfvirago )  ❤︎  hold me in your arms & i die a little death so beautifully  ˎˊ˗

⸻  SHIP  : ray / octavo ( bransles )  ❤︎  but he fell in love with the fever & i'm on my knees in a theater .  ˎˊ˗

⸻  SHIP  : ray & ayrin  / link ( uneasedregrets )  ❤︎  city of stars ; never shined so brightly  ˎˊ˗

⸻  SHIP  : ray / volga ( volcania )  ❤︎  your blood like wine get me drunk & make me feel .   ˎˊ˗

⸻  SHIP  : ray / ghirahim ( flamboycnt )  ❤︎  let our love be a flame not an ember ! say it's me that you want to dismember !  ˎˊ˗

⸻  RELATION  : ray & link ( legacyshero )  ✦ no voice to speak of your suffering but i hear you now  ˎˊ˗

⸻  RELATION  : ray & nabooru ( gerudospiriit )  ✦ so if you need to be mean be mean to me . i can take it & put it inside me . ˎˊ˗

⸻  RELATION  : ray & bussaba ( topaz-adorned )  ✦ you with the dark curls you with the watercolor eyes ! ˎˊ˗

⸻  RELATION  : ray & gallilea ( vairuler )  ✦ im made of sugar spice kanekalon & cinnamon : me & my bestie are the sam like a synonym ˎˊ˗

⸻  RELATION  : ray & toba ( askganondorftobadragmire )  ✦ you take away this pain from me : the memories that haunted me  ˎˊ˗

⸻  RELATION  : ray & nabooru ( gerudosage )  ✦ oh she could have been a poet or she could have been a fool . ˎˊ˗

⸻  RELATION  : ray & miri ( somnium-led )  ✦ dear prudence won't you open your eyes ? look around … look around …  ˎˊ˗

⸻  RELATION  : ray & eilian ( somnium-led )  ✦ im sick of apologies from people with priorities that their life matters so much more than ours . ˎˊ˗

⸻  RELATION  : ray & ganondorf ( oocca )  ✦ want to save your men from the fire ? show me that you’re willing to burn .  ˎˊ˗

⸻  RELATION  : ray & link ( twilitae )  ✦ what? land of the free? whoever told you that is your enemy .  ˎˊ˗

⸻  RELATION  : ray & link ( obraveyouth )  ✦ who’s a heretic child ? can you make it stick now ?  ˎˊ˗

⸻  RELATION  : ray & zelda ( spiritmaiden )  ✦ why do birds suddenly appear everytime you are near  ˎˊ˗

⸻  RELATION  : ray & zelda ( telepathyia )  ✦ the moon will sing a song for me : i loved you like the sun ! bore the shadow that you made  ˎˊ˗

⸻  RELATION  : ray & zelda ( regnantlight )  ✦  can you tell me what's the point in building empty empires now? ˎˊ˗

⸻  RELATION  : ray & calamity ( hylianremnants )  ✦  i know you i walked with you once upon a nightmare  ˎˊ˗

⸻  RELATION  : ayrin & sky ( hylianremnants )  ✦  stories of old great adventure : i want to be just like you .  ˎˊ˗

⸻  RELATION  : ayrin & sun ( hylianremnants )  ✦  bright & beautiful : sing me another lullaby  ˎˊ˗

[waitineedaname]

I need to stop getting extremely excited about beating a final boss on the first try only to be disappointed when they pull out a newer, freakier health bar

[sparring-spirals]

i have a feeling that i'm going to end up typoing Patia as Pate one of these days, so everyone keep your fingers crossed that it happens at the funniest moment possible.

[derriskharlan64]

Sorry for all the purah reblogs/retweets but she’s so good ugh

[grooviestsadpapaya]

Thought I would throw up the Speedpaint of my drawing because it’s really satisfying lol. But also because I wanted to share some funny stuff under the cut :D

So anyways I watched a hypnotist show and it was great. Basically I went to a camp with a bunch of other kids and we vibed, but the counselors hired a hypnotist to come and vibe with us. He hypnotized and put a bunch of volunteers in a scenario of “you’ve been pulled over for speeding” and these are the funniest responses. Keep in mind these kids were not conscious.

“My grandma is pregnant”

“My wife’s bell bottom collection burned down”

“It’s my dinosaur’s first day of kindergarten”

*sobbing* “Sir please don’t give me a ticket I’ve never gotten pulled over before this will be my first ticket ever and my mom is gonna kill me-“

“You don’t speed home from Taco Bell?”

“The speed limit is just a recommendation”

He also made them think that their belly buttons had disappeared. That day I was screamed at for stealing a girl’s belly button.

[houseofpendragons]

What We've Lost Holds No Cost, It's Love That Truly Stays

Summary: Sharing is caring…but it might lead to death

Warning: Gun’s, Breif Mentions Death, Cursing, Smoking

A/N: Yeah, no, imma be honest when I say I used ai to make that little song bc I am no songwriter💀 Also it's been a fat minute, since I updated, I'm so sorry. I've been dealing with the loss of my mother, but lately I've been rewatching again with news of part 2 of season 2. That being said you can expect more frequent updates I hope. Next chapter is going to be a sort of filler chapter, taking place on another day on the trail just to introduce a few more people and to develop Calamity and Billy's friendship more. Let me know if you have any ideas of thought, I always open to constructive criticism and/or ideas. Love ya ❤️ until next time.

In the aftermath of the river's tumult, the caravan continued its westward trek, now a mere shadow of its former self. Its numbers were diminished, its spirit dampened. It all leant a haunting silence to the journey, filled sporadically by the rhythmic creak reduced to the few mangy wagons, each creak filled with the burden of loss and uncertainty.

The sun, indifferent to their plight, blazed with a ferocity that seemed to sap the last reserves of their strength, casting a harsh light on the solemn faces of the settlers. The usual vibrant chatter that once painted the air with strokes of life had faded, leaving behind a canvas of solemnity. Each individual enveloped in an aura of introspection, the collective spirit of the group as parched as the earth beneath their feet. Each person was lost in their own thoughts, as well as their own losses.

Amos rode at the front, his figure a steadfast beacon amidst the uncertainty. Though his face was a mask of unwavering resolve, beneath the surface, his thoughts were adrift in a sea of memory and reflection not unlike the river they had crossed. Amos's gaze, shaded beneath the brim of his hat, often wandered to Kathleen, her visage tinged with a hollow sadness. Her soul marked heavy, by the sorrow of watching Paddy withdraw into a silent, catatonic state as her eyes trailed silently after him. The man had retreated into himself, his once-vibrant presence now just a shell, curled up in the back of a wagon as if trying to hide from the world that had nearly claimed him.

He saw in her the echo of his late wife's enduring spirit—the same unwavering resolve in the face of adversity, the same fierce determination to protect and persevere. It was a flame of kinship, not of romance, that flickered in his chest, a recognition of shared experience that transcended mere words.

Another life, another journey on the unforgiving trail.

His mind wandered back to the days when he had led his wife down this very trail, her laughter mingling with the rustling of the prairie grass, her courage as constant as the northern star. He could still feel the grip of her hand in his as they faced each new challenge—the biting cold of early frosts, the relentless torrents of sudden storms, and the searing heat of open plains. He could see that same strength reflected in her gaze—a gaze that had weathered storms and would weather more. It was a flame that spoke of shared trials and a shared resolve, a flame that had once guided him through the darkest nights and the fiercest storms. Her courage had been a beacon, much like his wife's, illuminating the path ahead with hope and unwavering determination, even in the face of insurmountable odds.

It was a connection forged by the shared knowledge of what it meant to endure, to carry on when the path grew steep and the rivers rose.

Now, as he led this group of settlers, each carrying their own stories and struggles, Amos felt the ghost of her presence beside him. Amos's heart ached at the sight before him, not merely for Paddy's pain, but for the collective sorrow that seemed to hang over them all like a shroud. He understood loss, understood the hollow pit that it left in one's soul. His own experiences with grief were a well from which he drew empathy, and he found himself wishing he could reach out, offer some semblance of comfort to Kathleen, to any of them. But he was the guide, the one they looked to for strength, and so he kept his silence, his support offered through the unwavering certainty of his leadership. The trail was an ever-present reminder of all they had endured, of the love that had blossomed in the wilds and the legacy she had left in the form of their daughter, Calamity.

Calamity, for her part, studied the caravan from her vantage amidst the wagons, felt the weight of their circumstances in the set of her father's shoulders and the distant look in his eyes. Her gaze shifted to Billy, the young man had an expression that was difficult to decipher—a blend of pity and a deeper, more complex emotion that Calamity couldn't quite name as he watched his father grappling with the aftermath of the rivers wrath. She saw in him the reflection of his mother, Kathleen—those same eyes that now spoke of a burgeoning understanding of the fragile line between life and death, between holding on and letting go.

Billy's attention shifted from his father to his mother, and the subtle exchange between them spoke volumes. Kathleen's eyes, heavy with concern and weariness, met Billy's, and in that silent conversation, there was a transfer of strength. Billy reached out, his hand finding his mother's, their fingers intertwining in a display of mutual support that seemed to anchor them both. Calamity recognized the silent language of comfort and solidarity, a language she had come to know well. A reflection of the bond she shared with her own father, a connection forged through shared experiences and the unyielding will to persevere.

Calamity's eyes then found her own father, who was still watching Kathleen with a look that seemed to stretch across the distance between them. It was a look of shared understanding, of unspoken empathy. She could see the wheels turning in Amos's mind, the way he grappled with his role as protector and the personal connections that were forming despite the hardships.

With a gentle tug, Calamity drew her father's attention back from the horizon of his thoughts, slipping her hand into his. Amos, pulled from his reverie by the touch, met his daughter's gaze, his eyes crinkling at the corners beneath the wide brim of his hat as a smile, that spoke of a love deeper than the rivers they had crossed spread across his face. In that smile, she saw the reflection of every sunrise and sunset they had shared, the unspoken promises and the history of their journey together.

"Pa," she ventured, her voice carrying the weight of all they had been through and all that was still to come. "We'll make it through this, won't we?"

Amos's hand tightened around hers, his grip was both a comfort and a declaration, his thumb caressing her skin in a rhythm as familiar as the beat of their hearts. "Darlin', we're cut from the same cloth, you and I. If there's one thing I know, it's that we're made of tougher stuff than we look. We've weathered worse, and we'll weather this. We'll make it through, and we'll do it together. Just like we always have," he affirmed, his voice a steadfast drumbeat against the vast silence of the plains.

They rode on, the sun relentless above them, the wagons carrying not just the remnants of their material lives but the collective resolve of a group of people determined to overcome. In their hearts, memories of the past were intertwined with the threads of the present, forming a tapestry rich with the colors of love, loss, and the enduring strength of the human spirit. Calamity, her hand in her father's, felt the truth of his words resonate deep within her bones. They were of the frontier, shaped by its challenges, and together, they would see it through to the end, wherever and whatever that might be.

As twilight draped its indigo shawl across the vast prairie, the caravan settled into a makeshift camp. The day's losses still hung heavily in the air, raw and tender, a palpable presence that drew the remaining men, women, and children closer together around a crackling fire that served as both hearth and heart of their camp. The fire's flames, a defiant dance against the creeping chill, cast a tapestry of shadows and light that flickered upon their faces, in the interplay of darkness and glow, each weary soul found solace in the shared silence.

A little ways away from the close huddle of the McCarty family, Calamity and her father, Amos, sat slightly apart, their separation a respectful nod to the sanctity of another family's grief. Amos tended to their meal over the open fire with a practiced hand, the flames licking the underside of the iron skillet and it hissed and popped in retaliation as he warmed their provisions. The aroma of beans, rice, and the last of their meat filling the air. Their meal, a concoction of necessity, was nestled within the hollow of bread—a clever solution to the staleness that had set in from a day's exposure to the arid winds. To Calamity, however, it was a feast befitting the end of a day filled with too much loss.

Yet, even as her mouth watered in anticipation, poised to partake in their evening ritual, Calamity's attention shifted to the McCarty family, their somber silhouettes a stark reminder of the day's trials. The sight of their huddled forms, particularly the retreated figure of Mr. McCarty, now a withdrawn shadow of himself, beginning to distance his broken spirit, curling up with his own thoughts, gnawed at something in the back of her brain. Calamity's heart ached with empathy, urging her to extend a gesture of kinship, but as she rose, she was gently stayed by Amos—a gentle anchor in the tide of her intentions.

"Are you gonna share everything that I give you with Billy?" Amos's voice was soft, a whisper barely louder than the crackle of the fire, his eyes searching hers for understanding.

Calamity met her father's gaze, her eyes alight with the fierce determination that had been her birthright. "Why not, if I might have a chance to help him?"  Calamity's response was immediate, her eyes brimming with honesty and compassion. To her, Billy was like her, another soul navigating the rough terrain of life, and though words might falter, her actions would carry the weight of a thousand comforting phrases.

Amos's smile, a quiet affirmation of his daughter's generosity, was an unspoken blessing that graced his lips as he let her go. Though his gaze returned to the fire, he kept her in his periphery, a silent guardian always watching, always protecting.

As he watched her approach the McCarty's, Amos couldn't help but mentally compare Calamity to her mother, Birdie. His heart swelling with a mix of pride and a wistful ache for the woman who had handed down her compassion to Calamity. She had her mother's spirit—a spirit that had been as vast and embracing as the plains themselves. Birdie's laughter had been a beacon, her kindness the glue that bound their family. Now, in Calamity's every gesture, in the way she reached out to Billy, he saw Birdie's legacy continuing to weave through the fabric of their lives.

As Calamity approached the McCarty's, heralded by the soft crunch of grass beneath her boots, their heads lifting to track her steps as if drawn by the magnetism of her movement. Billy's eyes, a rich well of emotions churning with the day's events, locked with hers in a silent exchange that bridged the distance between them. Without a word, she offered up the bread bowl, her hand outstretched with the simple gesture laden with meaning.

His instinctive refusal was silenced by her playful tilt of the head, a smirk dancing on her lips, a spark of mirth in the midst of sorrow. "I would have no company if it weren't for you. Besides, I want to watch you eat. You rattle like a bag of bones anytime you walk," she teased with gentle humor, sinking to the grass with an ease that belied the effects of gravity, her body language open and inviting.

Billy's reaction was a smile and his laugh, both a sound most rare and precious, a genuine expression of delight that broke through the facade of grief. He tore the bread in half, his offer a mirror of her own generosity. "I want to watch you eat too," he replied, the faint trace of his mother's accent coloring his words, a subtle reminder of their roots.

A blush, as delicate as the prairie rose, bloomed upon Calamity's cheeks, as telling as the laughter that bubbled up between them. They ate, their eyes locked in a moment of levity, their eyes sparkling in shared amusement as they took bites in unison.

Kathleen, observing her son and the girl who had become his unexpected ally, felt the edges of her own sorrow softened by the sight. She allowed the ghost of a smile to grace her own features. There, in the flickering light, she saw something budding between the two youths, a thread of something delicate yet resilient, weaving its way through their interaction. It was a sight that nurtures the soul, a reminder that even amidst the harshest trials, the seeds of new beginnings could take root.

Her gaze then drifted beyond them, finding Amos, whose attention was divided between his paternal duties and the scene unfolding before him. The smile she offered was an unspoken invitation, a bridge across the divide of the fire to join them in this moment of camaraderie.

Amos hesitated, his half-eaten meal momentarily forgotten, before shaking his head with a chuckle and returning to his food. Amos's response, a mix of reluctance and mirth, was a testament to the gentle push and pull of their own burgeoning friendship. And so, when his eyes sought hers again, he found Kathleen still watching, her smile now laced with a playful dare, her eyebrows raised in playful challenge.

A resigned laugh accompanied his rise, his body protesting the sudden movement with pops and groans that spoke of long days in the saddle. He joined her, settling beside her warmth with an ease of a man who knew the trials of the aches that came with age and hard work.

"How do you do, Mr. Grace?" Kathleen greeted, her voice a kindled warmth against the evening's chill.

"Amos, please. Mr. Grace was my father," he corrected gently, his tone tinged with a reverence for the past and the legacy that shaped him.

"Well, if he was your father, then that implies that you are now Mr. Grace, isn't that correct?" Kathleen's quick wit caught him off guard, her words a playful spar.

He conceded with a soft laugh, caught in the gentle snare of her wit, he could not help but smile in surrender. "Well, I suppose you have the right of it then."

"Since we have come to an agreement, perhaps we can also form a compromise. What do you think, Mr. Amos?" she proposed, her tone cloaked in casual repartee, was an invitation to share more than just conversation—a desire for a deeper connection and support as they both shouldered the responsibilities of their families.

"I think that sounds mighty nice, Mrs. Kathleen," Amos agreed, their shared smiles a gentle acknowledgment of the connection that was slowly knitting together the fabric of their little community.

As they turned their attentions back to their children, Billy and Calamity lost in a bubble of refuge filled, were oblivious to the adults' conversation. It was a world where laughter came a little easier, where the weight of the day's hardships could be set aside, if only for a moment between shared bites. And as the night deepened around them, the fire continued to burn, its embers a constellation of hope on the prairie floor.

Amos, his silhouette hunched over the flames, beckoned to Calamity with a nod. "Fetch me a quirly from my saddlebag, would you, girl?" His voice was gruff but not unkind, the request for a quirly was a tether to the simpler routines of life on the trail.

Calamity obliged, her fingers navigated the familiar contents of the worn saddlebag, retrieving the corn shuck cigarette with a practised hand. She returned to the circle, the quirly held between her lips, practiced in the art, she held as she leaned into the fires own outstretched fingers, her breath coaxing the quirly to life, a dragon's whisper igniting the tinder of survival. The fire's glow reflected in her eyes as she exhaled, the fire's glow briefly painting her face with the colors of night's first bloom. The quirly, now lit, passed from daughter to father, her own cheeks flushed from the heat or perhaps the act itself.

Kathleen's gaze widened, flitting between the girl who'd been drawing the fire's breath and the man inhaling the quirly's smoke. Amos, feeling the weight of her stare, chuckled, a rumble of embarrassment mingling with the heat crawling up his neck. "Bad habit," he confessed, his voice tinged with a sheepish embarrassment. "Should quit having Calamity light these for me." Kathleen's nod was dramatic, an unspoken agreement to his self-rebuke, yet her smile returned as she watched the children.

Calamity, sensing the need for a diversion, began to sing—a family tune that had always brought the Grace family together, even when miles apart.

Her voice rose, clear and sweet, carrying the first verse over the camp:

"In the land of open skies, where the rolling prairie lies,

We lost our gold, we lost our homes, but found the worth of ties.

For the riches that we seek, lie not beneath our feet,

They're in the hearts we hold dear, in memories we keep."

Amos joined in, his baritone lending weight to the second verse:

"The storm may claim our stead, the river rise above our head,

Yet what we've lost is merely dross, against the love we've spread.

For when the fire's light grows dim, and the chances slim,

We'll find the strength to rise again, in the song of kin."

Together they sang the third, their voices intertwining like the threads of their shared history:

"So let the winds take what they may, and the night swallow the day,

For what we've lost holds no cost, it's love that truly stays.

With hands entwined we'll face the morrow, through joy and sorrow,

For in each other's company, we'll borrow hope for tomorrow."

The song was cut short. The world shifted, the horses, those loyal companions of the trail, sensed the danger first, their nervous snickers and restless hooves beating a staccato rhythm of alarm as the rustling of unseen forces encroached upon their circle. Amos's fingers brushed against the handle of his gun, his senses alert to the unseen threat. The men rose, rifles at the ready, their silhouettes stark against the fire's glow as protectors against the unknown.

The campfire, a lone sentinel of light against the creeping darkness, became the heart around which the caravan's pulse beat with nervous anticipation. The night air, once filled with the harmonious strains of the Grace family's song, now quivered with the tension of a drawn bowstring, poised to snap.

Kathleen's hand found Billy's back, her other reaching out to draw Calamity close. Amos however drew Calamity aside, his urgent words were a low whisper, meant only for her. "I don't know what's out there, but you and I both have a pretty good idea," his eyes locked on hers, ensuring she understood the gravity of his message. He wanted her to tell him what else was out there.

She stumbled over her response, but managed, "Nothing but the tall grass."

"Good. Now, the moment you hear that shot ring, you ignore everything here in the middle and you run as fast as you can towards that grass. And you find a place to hide, duck down low. Alone." he instructed, his voice a granite command.

Calamity's eyes, wide with alarm, reflected the flickering flames, her heart rebelled against the thought of isolation. "Alone? No—" she protested, her gaze flicking momentarily to Billy, seeking him out even as her father's hand tightened on her arm.

"No," Amos cut her off, his voice adamant. "The moment that shot rings out, you can't trust anyone. Not even Billy." He insisted, casting a wary glance towards the collective—their camaraderie now a fragile thing, easily shattered by fear. "Just lay low down low until I tell you it's safe to come out."

Tears pricked at the corners of Calamity's eyes as she gave a reluctant nod, but she nodded, understanding the harsh necessity of his words. With a sound of acknowledgment, a tender kiss on her forehead served as both benediction and an anchor. Amos rose, his knee popping in protest, before he gently led her back to be seated beside Billy.

"What is it?" Billy's voice was a mix of confusion and concern as he looked to Moss.

"Horse thieves," Moss replied with a gruff certainty. "You all stay here!" Amos shared a knowing look with Moss.

He then melded into the night with the other men, into the inky embrace of the trees, the darkness swallowing them whole as they ventured forth toward the unseen threat. They left behind silence, soon to be shattered by gunfire.

The sound of each shot shattered the stillness, each report echoing like thunder across the open prairie, a harbinger of strife. Calamity and Billy instinctively reached for each other. Crouched low, the world around them narrowing to the beat of their shared pulse as Kathleen enfolded them and Josie in her embrace, her own body a shield enveloping them.

Frank, unable to suppress his pride, seized a rifle and charged into the fray, against Kathleen and Paddy's pleading words. The shots grew nearer, and panic set in.

Calamity couldn't stem the flow of tears, nor could she resist the instinct to burrow closer to Billy, seeking refuge in his nearness. Kathleen's distressed voice mingled with the chaos, her question to her husband filled with fear. "What's happening?"

"Hell knows," he replied, his voice a gruff command. "Get down."

"What are we doing here?" Mr. McCarty's rhetorical question echoed Calamity's own fears. She feared for her father, for their safety, for the future.

Calamity squeezed her eyes shut, willing the gunfire to be nothing more than a harsh symphony of the wild. But the reality of their peril was undeniable, the dread a heavy cloak around her shoulders.

The gunfire ceased as abruptly as it had begun, leaving behind a haunting silence. The laughter of the retreating thieves was a sinister epilogue to the night's events. The group trembled, the tension palpable—until the crunch of grass signaled a return, halting her breath. Calamity's grip on Billy's arm was a vise of fear, her nails imprinting a memory of the night's terror upon his skin.

"Frank?" Paddy's voice called out at the shadow. Something was amiss. From the darkness, Frank emerged, a figure stumbling as if puppeteered by unseen hands. His approach, heedless of Paddy's call, was a silent march toward his wife, the blood seeping from his side a crimson stain unnoticed by its bearer.

"We got 'em," Frank gasped, his declaration a feeble victory cry. Calamity and Billy watched in horror as Frank, oblivious to the crimson bloom spilling across his side, collapsed at his wife Mary's feet. His eyes, once full of life, now stared vacantly at the sky as though searching for answers among the night sky—a tapestry of stars now obscured by the veil of death.

"Frank?" The disbelief in Mary's voice was a fragile thread in the tapestry of night, a question posed to the cruel cosmos. Kathleen turned away, hiding her face from the grim reality as she shielded Josie from the grim tableau before them.

Billy rose to his feet, a slow and somber movement, a statue stepping out of marble, his sorrow etching a visage of classical tragedy, a beauty marred by grief. Her hand slipped into his, gaze flitted between him and the tragic scene before them. Calamity, her hand entwined with his, conveyed a silent warning—a plea to recoil from the precipice of despair.

The brilliance in Billy's tear-filled eyes, deep and sorrowful blue pools reflected the sorrow of the world, their beauty a stark contrast to the pain that shadowed his features. He was a heart-wrenching reminder of the pain that beauty could hold. In this moment of raw vulnerability, he seemed a figure from an ancient tapestry, a vision of grief and grace frozen in time.

Mary's cry, a lament that tore through the silence, was a sound of pure anguish. It ignited a dormant instinct within Calamity, a chain reaction that ignited her senses. She released a piercing wail, an echo of Mary's despair, before fleeing into the tall grass, propelled by her father's earlier words—a command now etched into the marrow of her being.

Amos, mere paces away, felt the fabric of his world unravel at the sound of his daughter's cry. His feet, as if bewitched by the urgency of her need, carried him through the wilderness, racing towards the source of Calamity's distress—to find her in the labyrinth of grass and darkness, where fear and love collided in the heart of a father racing against the night. Each step was a prayer whispered into the night, each breath a vow to protect her from the chaos that had descended upon their world.

Amos tore through the trees, the urgency of a father's fear giving strength to his limbs beyond the endurance of ordinary men. The forest seemed to fight him, branches whipping and clawing at his skin, each one a stinging rebuke. The air was thick with the scent of pine and earth, a pungent reminder of the wilderness that both cradled and menaced them. Leaves, sharp as accusations, scratched at his skin, leaving behind a litany of tiny cuts, a testament to his frantic passage.

His breath tore from his lungs in ragged gasps, each inhale a fiery demand on his burning lungs, each exhale a burst of vapor in the chill night air. The icy fingers of fear clutched at his chest, threatening to squeeze the very life from him. His heart pounded, a drumbeat threatening to burst from his chest, yet he ran on, propelled by a terror that overrode all pain.

Amos's mind was a maelstrom of dread and desperation, swirling together until they were indistinguishable. The not knowing was the sharpest pain, the cruellest adversary—the fear of what he might find, or worse, what he might not find, gnawed at his imaginations resolve. Her scream was the only certainty in this, the one that had set him on this reckless sprint, echoed in his ears, a haunting refrain that drowned out the cacophony of the nighttime forest.

Meanwhile, Calamity crouched, her body coiled tight with fear, every snap of a twig or crunch of leaves beneath unseen feet sending shocks through her frame. Her hands, slick with a cold sweat, found an unexpected solace as they wrapped around the revolver's grip. The metal was cool to the touch, a stark contrast to the humid air that clung to her skin like a second layer.

She sought for courage, for the steely resolve that she had seen in Amos's eyes countless times before. "Be brave, Calamity. Be the storm, not the one caught in it," she whispered to herself, drawing strength from the words as she had from her father's lessons.

The weapon's weight, once a cumbersome presence, now felt like an extension of her own will—a conduit through which her fear was transformed into a steely resolve. The ivory grip, pristine and smooth, adorned with the engraving of a rearing mustang, seemed to pulse with life against her skin. As her fingers curled around the engraved grip, it was as though the fear that had encased her heart began to unravel, slipping away like water off a duck's back, leaving behind a core of solid determination.

Back in the clearing, Amos's world came to a jarring halt at the sight of Frank's lifeless form and Mary's figure hunched over him in a silent scream of grief that resonated with the crackling flames. His skin turned ashen, his breath caught in his throat. He frantically scanned the clearing for a glimpse of golden hair, for any trace of his daughter. But there was nothing.

The return of Moss and the other men was a murmur in the chaos of Amos's mind. Moss immediately went to comfort Billy, Kathleen, and their family, but Amos was a tempest of emotion. Their presence, their movements, were a distant concern as he tore through the camp, his voice a thunderous roar that rent the night. "Where is she? Where is she!" His movements were wild, unthinking—a bull rampaging through the delicate confines of reason and order, driven solely by the primal need to find his child.

Billy stood amidst the chaos, his young mind grappling with the night's brutality. His thoughts were a tangle of concern—the sight of Frank's lifeless body, Calamity, the sounds of gunfire still ringing in his ears, left him in a state of shock, the world around him a surreal landscape. His world had tilted on its axis, and in the midst of his turmoil, his gaze found Amos's as the older man searched frantically for his daughter. No words were spoken, but volumes were communicated in that brief exchange. In that moment, despite his own shock, Billy felt the weight of responsibility, a foreshadowing of the protector he would need to become.

Calamity, her pistol in hand, was a lone figure of defiance amidst the tall grasses that swayed like whispers around her. She heard the distorted roar of a man's voice, its words muffled by the pounding of her own heartbeat. The coldness of the metal, the smoothness of the ivory grip with its mustang engraving, became her talismans against the night's dread. Her fingers stilled their tracing over the engraved mustang, and she took hold of the gun with purpose. Taking a deep breath, she allowed the slow exhale to be a moment of calm in the storm of her fear.

Rising from the grass, she stepped forward, the night parting before her like the Red Sea. As Calamity emerged, her eyes closed and the gun cocked, the night seemed to hold its breath. The coolness of the metal, the smoothness of the ivory, became extensions of her very being—a transformation from frightened child to emboldened survivor.

When she emerged, gun drawn and poised for any threat, she was the image of fierce determination. Amos heard the parting of the grass and let out a soft, relieved chuckle before turning toward the sound. His relief was short-lived as he found himself staring down the barrel of the pistol, his daughter's eyes closed, her stance unyielding. Billy watched from the periphery, his heart caught between the relief of seeing Calamity stand tall and the fear of what might have been.

Amos stood before her, his hands raised in peace. "Calamity," he whispered, a gentle plea that reached across the stillness between them.

Realization washed over her, her eyes snapping open, and the recognition dawned, the tension in her frame collapsing as she lowered the gun with a hesitation that spoke volumes. The revolver was carefully set aside as she forgot the weight of the gun and launched herself into her father's waiting arms. The tension that had gripped Billy released its hold, and though he remained silent, his eyes spoke a thousand words of gratitude.

He enveloped her, his embrace a fortress against the night's terrors. Amos, now holding his daughter tightly, allowed himself a moment of vulnerability. The chaos of the night receded as he committed to memory the feeling of Calamity safe in his arms. "It's alright, you're alright, you're okay. We're both okay," he murmured repeatedly, a mantra for them both.

Billy, witnessing the reunion from afar, felt the shock of the night's events begin to recede. His gaze lingered on Calamity, the girl flickered in his mind like the promise of dawn after the longest night. For now, he remained a silent guardian, his future a nascent spark waiting to ignite.

In the aftermath of fear and violence, as the campfire's light continued to flicker against the darkness, everyone was lost. No one spoke, no one slept, the night just continued to play her sonnets until the sun began to singe the horizon.

[quackingmeup]

Mipha to Link: I think I'm falling for you.

Link: ...

Revali: Then get up.

[psionicpootis]

Would Grace and Calamity survive FNAF? Answer is yes, apparently.

[casketears]

in every single dnd game ive watched there’s always been at least one person that annoys me. this is, of course, to keep me well fed in other ways by giving me something to complain about to friends

[auratold]

Zelda tags.

[jenoutof10]

HELL YEAH BY GRACE THROUGH FAITH

this is the age of enlightenment