#creature obscured by its own feathered wings

[gottawritesomething]

Chase me

Scene of Tav and Gale doing illusion magic for the tiefling kids

_______________________________________

Dust clogged the air as the patter of a dozen or more pairs of feet swept through the grotto. Gale stepped clear as the little tieflings almost swept him off his feet. Seemingly singularly focused on their chase, save for the hoots and yells that escaped their mouths as they scrambled up and down the rocks of the inner grotto. The installation of Karlach's improved heart required the utmost precision, so their troupe had remained at the Grove for the greater part of the day. Compared to the ongoing chaos that took place outside the green covered walls it had seemed almost mundane and so far, this had been the most interesting occurrence since their arrival.

Gale craned his neck to catch a glimpse of what had so enchanted the youths. From his vantage point he could see one of the tallest children had cornered what looked to be a small fox. Except for the simple fact most foxes’ fur did not spark with blue lightening. Small bolts danced from tuft to tuft as the children marveled at the curious creature. Suddenly with an audible pop, the fox became obscured by a shimmering cloud, the thick fog entirely obscuring the place the animal had just occupied. The children began to argue and encourage those closest to wade into the fog. Just as the tallest had seemed to gather their courage enough to take a step, an echoing cry shook the small audience. Faster than the eyes could track, the fog was pushed apart by the great wings of a translucent raven. With a single beat it soared over the heads of the children, once again rallying them to chase it. Gale watched the bird carefully as the tielfings split themselves into smaller groups, attempting a new strategy of capture. The raven tucked in its wings and hurtled towards the ground, moments before impact, opening its wings and a burst of feathers to transform into a glittering pink deer galloping about the cave. 

Gale allowed himself to be the slightest bit impressed; he’d always held a soft spot for illusion magic, but it rarely gathered accolades within wizarding academics. Every illusion produced was judged with the rigor of a professional art appraiser putting a piece of fine art up for auction. The illusions stemmed from one’s imagination and represented the creativity of the caster, so to put one on display was to share a part of yourself with an audience, hoping for an unshattered heart by the end. Perhaps sorcerers had no use for this mentality; he mused. Gale watched Tav’s fingers trace the air as though mixing paints on a pallet. Her eyes stayed on her conjured animal, which had recently become a unicorn with a great glowing horn, much to the children's delight. She had a fluidity and looseness in her movements that would never have been permitted while he attended school but it was hard to argue with the beauty of her work. Gale watched the Weave gather around her fingers like she was pulling it into her arms to sculpt, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth as she watched her beast burst into a dozen flaming butterflies. The genuineness of her enjoyment in this act of creation warmed him like a hearty stew as he felt a similar smile begin to spread onto his own face, when he heard a soft sniffle.

Gale peered around the rock outcrop to see the previously silent tiefling child Doni, his arms wrapped around his knees, watching the others run. A few tears peppered his face, but he seemed unharmed. Gale knelt to the boy’s level, much to the protestation of his knees. Doni did not appear fearful, only overwhelmed. In a bid to sooth the boy’s upset Gale recalled a spell he’d learned early in his training. Showing Doni his palms and indicating he mirror them. Doni looked curious but shook his head, failing to raise his hands from his lap. Gale hummed for a moment, waved his hand and then with a gentle pop, a velvety rabbit hopped to the ground. Doni looked stunned, reaching out a hand to pet the animal only to find his hand pass through its form. At the child's hesitation, Gale gave a second wave of the hand and the rabbit became three rabbits, then five. By this point Doni was on his feet. The sniffle was replaced by a beaming smile as he assessed the solidity of each rabbit, his fingers only finding the rocky ground beneath, causing him to giggle. He turned back to Gale, then pointed at Tav’s now rainbow-colored hawk. Doni watched, eyes wide, as the rabbits became swallowtails, their feathers a royal purple to match Gale’s robes. With rustle of feathers and the flapping of many wings, the birds appeared to land gracefully on Doni’s shoulders and waiting hands. Before Gale could say anything else, Doni was off towards the gaggle of other children.

The first two that spotted him ran full tilt at Doni, as he lifted the birds towards them. He beamed as the others joined into the semi-circle, mimicking petting each of the birds. There were hushed discussions of names and which was prettiest. Gale’s chest swelled with quiet pride as he caught Tav’s gaze on him. Her eyes met his, and their smiles matched. She gestured to his newly conjured birds, mouthing “Beautiful”. He did a small performative bow, mostly in an effort to obscure his now pink tinted face and all too pleased smirk. 

As he rose from the bow, he watched her hand attempt to obscure a smile. He watched her hands move to dismiss her own illusion; and something like loss stirred in him. With his careful direction, his birds took flight from Doni’s shoulders, encircling her hawk before merging into a single bird. Its tail now filled with long, curling purple feathers, small sparks falling harmlessly from every wing beat. Gale looked to Tav, half encouraging, half imploring. She raised her hands as their birds began to dance across the air. They tumbled and wove, Tav’s favoring large swooping movements while Gale’s intricately dove through the turns. They chased each other across the sky, darting between the rocky terrain, twirling and twining like vines. The hawk's wings beat slowly as the grand purple bird rose to meet it in midair. The children had given up the chase while most of the Grove had stopped to watch their dance as the two birds rose in tandem, their wing tips brushing, the light between them now blinding. With a final musical cry, Tav’s dissolved into glittering snowflakes as Gale’s burst into falling stars. As the claps faded and they’d taken their appropriate bows, their eyes met once more, and his heart leaped as if to follow the path the birds had taken across the sky.

[holly-fixation]

Another Special Trait

Summary: Sephiroth's wing appears while he's in Wutai. Though his Second Class friends helped him control it, it always had a mind of its own. He knew Hojo would find it one day. It was only a matter of time. 

A prequel to Another Part to Hurt

…

His whole life, he knew he was special. His whole life, he knew he was different from the rest, his silver hair and reptilian eyes never allowing him escape from that truth. 

His whole life, the same nightmare haunted him. 

He wished, he prayed, the dream was exactly the same each time, but he knew all too well how it adapted. The scenario never played out the same way twice, no loop to continuously circle through. The tall monster with large tentacles and claws chased him in a sky with a mirror of water reflecting the clouds. Sometimes it was night. It made more sense when it was night, the creature dark and obscured. Sometimes it was day, blue sky and white clouds clashing against the obscured monster. Its red eye always pierced through clearly.

The first time, he dodge its tentacles to the left. When the nightmare began a later night, he attempted the same strategy and barely splashed back to his feet as he tripped from its near grab. Each night it evolved, growing more details and more skill. He knew he needed to keep this up forever. He knew its success delt death.

Well, he assumed.

It learned enough. Or maybe it decided tonight was finally the night it would claim victory. He never had anywhere to run. This night, it wrapped one of its many tentacles around his ankle the moment he tried to sprint. First one ankle. Then both. Then he found himself upside down, dangling from the indestructible limbs like an apple on a tree. His kicks and strikes did not faze the creature in the slightest. He braced for impact, expecting to be slammed like a ragdoll at the whims of this malevolent force. This was it. This was the end of his life.

But instead of pain, instead of colliding with the infinite water, another of its many dark tentacles pushed against his back. He tried to stop whatever it was doing, tried to break free, but it silently slithered another around his knees as it turned and laid him on a bed of the active limbs, the pile beneath him slithering like worms in wet dirt. He hated it. He hated its soft touch. He jerked his body in any direction to escape. 

The rounded tip of a tendril slowly touched his shoulder blade. It held him firmly, not painfully, as it traced circles along his back, both with the tentacles he always ran away from and the claws he always feared. He thrashed in its grip but it didn’t tighten or harm him, in fact he could barely harm himself. Its hold adapted to every one of his movements, never allowing even the force of his own strength to impact him. It only petted his back, its red eyes never moving, never blinking.

He watched its silhouette against the starry night sky, the blue legs of the galaxy the only solace he found in this repeated hell. He found his gaze pulled to the creature, and the last thing he saw were two perfect silver wings extending from its back.

He awoke to the imploding pressure in his back and his own muffled cry against his bedroll. Thousands of daggers ripped through his back and the undeniable smell of blood filled the tent. The wound stung, extending far past his own body yet somehow…being a part of it. 

The teen forced his reptilian eyes open, constricting his pain as he was always taught to do, his seething pants slamming through his teeth. He came face to face with…

…what the hell did that creature do to him? 

This isn’t a dream.

Shiny black feathers dripping blood protruded from his back, layers upon layers, with joints and muscles almost visible through the soaked exterior. In his surprise, the mass moved, the tip at the end curling behind him in animalistic fear. 

He grabbed it but flinched instantly. It hurt. It hurt? …Oh no. Oh no no no no no. Every childish instinct leaped to the surface. To hide, to cower, to cry, to run. He forced his breath to regulate as terror threatened to claim his mind from a simple worry: 

What will Hojo do to him if he sees this?

That small thought sealed his resolve. He needed to either control this limb or run to the front. If he could win this war on his own then maybe, just maybe, he can convince the President that he doesn't need his yearly check ups with Hojo and his wing will never be discovered. 

Front. 

That's right. In his panic and disorientation, he didn't think about the troops and comrades sleeping just beyond the fabric of his barely sizable tent. He listened carefully. No soldier except for those on active watch moved a muscle. Watches and patrols were currently on opposite sides of camp, each too far to notice his muffled pain and the crimson splatter on the walls in the darkness. 

He needed to clean the latter. He used the water he had on hand and a single thin blanket as a cleaning rag. Silently he thanked the gods for his insomnia. If he awoke at dawn, he wouldn’t have time to complete any plan without drawing attention. Once his task was complete, he would attempt to rest again. If this wing remained by first light, he would make good on his promise to himself.

* * * 

After a dreamless sleep, the wing disappeared. He could almost convince himself it was only a part of his nightmares, but the tear through his sweater and the remaining smears of thin blood and bone around the tent denied him the satisfaction. He found himself thanking the gods once again, but this time for the limited personal space within this foreign wilderness. 

Thus a new cycle began: battle, the nightmare, the wing, unsatisfying sleep, retracted wing. He did not allow his anxiety to impact his performance. However, he did force himself to spend less time with his comrades, especially at night. Well, mainly the two Second Classes that claimed to desire friendship with him. He believed their intentions were true, but taking unnecessary chances may be the final straw to keeping this new secret under wraps. 

After a particularly spectacular victory, Sephiroth allowed himself to relax by the bonfire for just a bit later than usual. Though unable to participate, or at least he felt he was unable to participate, his comrades’ joy always brought the tiniest sliver of joy to himself as well. Conversations had finally shifted from the battle itself to the personal lives of the soldiers, sharing stories from their homes. 

Home.

…He should head to bed. 

“And where, pray tell, do you think you’re going, Sephiroth?” The theatrical voice interrupted his ascent. 

“To turn in for the night,” He answered simply, but before he reached his full height, a pair of hands on his shoulders loosely held him back down. He found himself completely allowing it. 

“Before we get the chance to celebrate?”

“If I hear one more word of that fortress, I’m at risk of falling asleep right here.”

He gave a melodious chuckle. “A war hero not one for war stories?” The soldier plopped himself down next to the First. “I must say, you are far more interesting than anyone gives you credit for.”

“Genesis,” a stern voice called and the boy with shoulder length, dark hair appeared with a glare. “Let him be. It’s been a long day for all of us.”

“Oh hush, Angeal. The long day is exactly why I’m doing this now.”

“To exploit and bother our leader after an exhausting mission?”

“To learn what he’s all about.”

“What you see is all there is,” Sephiroth explained simply. 

“But I want to get to know the real Sephiroth. Not whatever those magazines spit out or imaginary stories of what you’re capable of.”

“Real Sephiroth,” he repeated under his breath as Angeal intercepted. 

“You have my full permission to smack him if he’s being dishonorable.”

His silver brows knotted. 

“And you have my full permission to tell Angeal where he can stick it.”

Sephiroth didn’t know what ‘it’ was or where ‘it’ was supposed to go.

The taller teen shoved the redhead in the shoulder before taking a seat next to them. It seemed to be a game when Genesis hit back just a bit harder.

“How about you choose a topic of conversation because apparently my way of handling this will get me dishonorably discharged. How dare I, a soldier working under your rank, attempt to speak to you in a friendly manner.

Heavy silver shoulders shrugged. “I have nothing to talk about.”

“There’s always something to talk about. We have all night.”

Angeal muttered, “If you like the sound of your own voice, maybe…”

“What was that?”

“What do you two usually talk about?” Sephiroth found himself asking. 

“Oh you know, the usual. Home, memories, family.”

He swallowed thickly. “Of course...”

“Speaking of which, I hope you don’t mind me asking,” all of a sudden Sephiroth was face to face with the redheaded Second, “but which of your parents had those eyes? I’m just so curious. I’ve never seen them anywhere else. Are they from the Northern Continent? I've never been.”

The silver soldier’s expression was stone. A painful pause passed through them, and Genesis actively sat in an attempt to back down. 

“I apologize. You don’t have to answer.”

“I never knew my parents.”

Angeal glared. 

Genesis looked down, the smallest ‘sorry’ leaving his lips. 

“...Can you see in the dark?” 

Both sets of eyes landed on the black haired Second. The confusion completely threw the First off.

“You know. Like a cat.”

“My eyes are not feline.”

“Okay but do they dilate like a cat’s?” All of a sudden Genesis was chipper again. 

“My eyes are not feline.”

“Maybe you are. You have those cat-like reflexes, that’s for sure,” Angeal joked, a light smack to the shoulder finally getting a small smirk out of the Silver Soldier.

He should be offended, but he found their comments just a tad amusing. “I think I would know if I was part animal.”

“What about catnip? Have you ever tried catnip?”

“Not… to my knowledge. What is catnip?”

“It’s an herb that makes cats act weird but they love it,” Angeal explained. “It also grows like a weed and it's impossible to get rid of.”

“We should get you catnip tea!”

“What do you think will happen if I take it?”

“Best case scenario, your eyes get all wide and derpy.”

“‘Derpy’?”

Both Second’s couldn’t hide their laughter. The word coming out of their superior’s mouth was absolutely hilarious to them and foreign to him.

Slowly, Sephiroth laughed too.

* * * 

The nightmare changed the day after his wing bloomed, and tonight followed the same new pattern. Instead of the ground beneath his feet, he was trapped in the creature’s grasp on a bed of its many slithering limbs. His wing was always out, always being cleaned and fussed over. It wasn’t painful anymore, and his terror was muffled by his confusion. 

The creature’s trunk, torso, still hung above him, now accented with metal wings shimmering in the light of the moon and only the moon. It never became day again. The stars and their patterns remained a constant solace in this horror. He knew once his wing was clean, he would wake again to a tent full of black feathers to stuff into his blanket before dawn.

Dawn.

The faint light of the sun sank his heart as it reflected off his perfect black wing. Soldiers roused from their bedrolls. Patrols changed shifts. Scouts returned with new intel. And he was trapped in this tent with a wing. Even if he forced himself asleep, there was no guarantee his wing would disappear in such a short time. 

He could escape. If he ran out of camp before being seen, he could take out any enemy forces that laid eyes on him. No one would know. No one would tell Hojo. No one would question him about another unique difference in his appearance.

Two knocks on the entrance to his tent told him otherwise. 

“Sephiroth, we have new info and are ready to report,” came Angeal’s voice.

Right. During their conversation at the bonfire, they joked about being up all night. They had the midnight shift. “In a moment.”

“Understood.”

But they didn’t understand. Neither shadow allowed light in. “Stand clear of the door.”

“But it’s a tent-” came Genesis’s expected counter.

“Stand clear, Second.” He hated the tone of his own voice, of who it reminded him of.

They both shrugged and gestured to each other silently before finally stepping away.

Now or never. He readied his blade as he slowly unzipped the entrance. The moment he spotted one of their uniforms, he shot past like a bullet, speeding out of the camp and into the wilderness.

“What the hell was that?!” He heard Genesis yell as his rapid heartbeat slowly submerged their voices and footsteps.

“It had Sephiroth!” Angeal announced, and all other conversation was too far and too muffled to understand.

The teen wove through the endless trees like a hawk. At times, his feet didn’t hit the ground. He didn’t want to think about what that meant. If he was lucky, there might be a cave or a lake to hide in until his soldiers passed. They might return to camp, begin a search party, while he’d find a squad of Wutaian troops to take down so it didn’t look like he abandoned his post. 

“Sephiroth!”

How far did he need to run?

“Sephiroth-! Ow!”

That reaction sounded more like discipline than an attack. Angeal probably smacked Genesis for shouting in enemy territory. Wait. Enemy territory. They just returned from a scouting mission. If they ran into anyone-

The telltale singing of blades releasing from their sheaths suddenly smothered him. The clashing of metal threatened both reprieve and ultimatum. The Seconds weren’t knocked out. They could handle this. They could handle an ambush- wait, how far were they from camp? More troops were behind them, right? Other soldiers saw them run, right? 

Who was he kidding? He knew the answers well. Too many enemies on enemy land, and too few soldiers exhausted from their late shift. He prayed they would prove him wrong. Six enemies. Two allies. It was possible. It was possible even for their skill. Improbable but possible.

Metallic clanging and shimmers of spells shot through the air as each side battled with everything they had. But Wutai had enough.

“Get off me!” Genesis’s voice met Sephiroth first as his feet moved before his mind did.

“Let him go!” Angeal roared but soon the battle ceased, and neither Second shouted in victory.

“Take them back to the fortress. They’re valuable enough. If they cause too much trouble though, kill them and send their heads to President Shinra.”

The Silver Soldier shot into action before his mind or body accepted the consequences. He flew through the forest- yes flew- arcing and wisping passed trees without a single toe touching the ground. His blade sliced through the neck of the warrior dragging his friends along. Like clockwork, despite their taunts and threats, the remaining Wutians fell victim to the metal piercing their heart and lungs, their bodies thrown as projectiles to knock the next man standing to the ground.

Sephiroth froze as the last corpse crashed into a pool of blood and dirt in front of the two Seconds, the air so silent the descent of his black feathers scraped the cold wind. He wanted to hide as they hesitantly stood, as they watched him carefully.

“...thank you,” Angeal spoke softly, trying to approach slowly.

“Sephiroth, what the hell hap-?”

“Go back to base and speak nothing of this.” 

“Sephi-”

“That's an order.” He dashed off, hoping against hope they would listen to him. 

They, in fact, did not listen to him. Though with much greater caution, the Seconds tracked him down. A ring of fire surrounded him twenty feet in every direction. He could launch over the obstacle easily, but he couldn't allow the smoke to draw attention. 

Sephiroth stopped, checking his materia but knowing he had nothing to quench or choke the flames. “Put it out…” His words came without thought or filter.

“Sephiroth, we just want to talk-”

“I said put it out,” he cut Angeal off.

“Only if you swear not to run off again!”

“I’ll stay right here if you put it out now!”

A green orb in Genesis’s sword glowed emerald, activating precise tunnels of wind that snuffed out all flames and sparks without a single chance of spreading the fire.

Sephiroth never faced them, his wing curled tightly and trembling. He was silent, his sword unwavering in his hand. True to his word, he remained.

“...does it hurt?” They asked him kindly.

…what?

“Are you alright?”

“...I am in no physical pain.” His stilted response came only to silence them.

“What the hell happened to you though?! Did it just appear overnight?” Genesis questioned in absolute confusion.

A sigh left his lips. “I’ve had it for nearly a week now.

“How did no one notice?”

“It…appears and goes away at night. Usually.”

Angeal’s brow raised.

“I go to sleep at night. It appears when I wake up in the middle of the night. I go back to sleep. It disappears by morning.” He shook his head. “I didn’t wake up last night… and it was too late this morning.” Now their silence burned him. He wanted to run again, another thought leaving his mouth without his consent. “Am I a monster…?” What was happening to him? Was this wing destroying his control? His entire life, he thought about every decision he ever made and now he’s revealing things he never wanted in the open.

“You’re not a monster.”

“Most people would be jealous of a wing like that. You can fly. Honestly, I’d love one if I got the chance.”

“Genesis, not now.”

“You don’t want this,” The silver teen countered, a lone reptilian eye glaring through the feathers.

“Sorry. Sorry…” He scratched the back of his neck. 

Angeal turned his attention back to the winged man before him. “You’ve managed to get rid of it before?”

“I said it goes away.”

“And it’s consistent?”

“Yes. I told you already-”

“Then we can make it happen again.”

Sephiroth finally turned to them, his sword still at the ready and his face still emotionless, but his wing relaxed, softening and still. 

With Angeal’s aid, the Silver Soldier managed a mindful state of calm, lowering his heart rate well below that of his waking rhythm. Enough slow breaths and enough time led to the wing wrapping around him and dissipating into a billow of shadows and loose feathers.

The relief on his face was undeniable. A moment of bliss flowed through them before he focused on his back.

It was still there, lying in wait, ready to break at a single tip of the scale, a single scratch, a snap or influx in emotion.

“Alright, here’s what we’re going to do,” Genesis spoke up. “When we return, we will check in your tent first thing every morning without fail.”

Sephiroth opened his mouth to protest, but found himself falling silent anyway.

“Angeal will help you get rid of your wing if you need to, and I’ll distract anyone who attempts to speak with you until then. Okay?”

He nodded.

“Good. Now you have to promise me one thing.”

Both silver and black brows knotted. 

“Make sure Hojo never sees it.”

Inhuman eyes fell. “...I’ll try.”

“Also can I make one request?”

“Genesis,” came Angeal’s parental tone.

“Oh come on, just let me ask.”

“What do you want?”

Genesis smirked in victory as Angeal frowned. “Can I touch your wing?”

His expression fell flat.

“What?! I’m not gonna do it without your consent! It just looks so soft and fluffy and I want to see if it really is.”

“That’s like asking to touch my hair.”

Genesis scratched your head. “Yeah, that’s fair… My friend, the fates are cruel…”

“...I’ll allow it.”

Angeal face palmed. The redhead jumped in victory.

“Really!?”

“Yes. I see no reason not to. It’s… different. It feels different, and I want to test a few things.”

“I’m happy to help!”

“But if you do, you must stay in my tent until the wing disappears.”

“Uh…”

“And enter before it appears.”

“Um…”

“I don’t need anyone catching a glimpse of it after today.”

“Sephiroth, that’s gonna look weird,” Genesis finally spoke up.

“Hm? Why?”

“A lower class hanging out with an upper class in their private tent at night is going to get people’s attention.”

“...I don’t understand the problem.”

The rustling of leaves was the only sound through them for a moment before both Genesis and even Angeal smirked with small shakes of their heads. 

“You still have so much to learn.”

Sephiroth glanced down a bit, but when he felt their reassuring hands on his shoulders, he smirked too. 

True to their words, they followed the plan exactly. To his surprise, the touches to his wing didn’t bother him like touches to his skin, though the act was never repeated after allowing Genesis the simple test. For a few weeks, Angeal aided him in hiding the limb. As the war turned in their favor, it seemed they finally regulated the unruly wing. But just when Sephiroth allowed himself hope, he received the letter of return to Midgar with a checkup scheduled with Doctor Hojo.

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Thanks for reading!

Author’s note: A prequel from a fic I wrote over a year ago? It’s more likely than you’d think!

[the-puffinry]

But among classical writers, it is Ovid (43 B.C.–A.D. 18) whose satirical use of parrots proves most outrageous and enduring. This use occurs in the sixth poem of book 2 of his Amores: a sixty-two-line elegy for the death of his girlfriend’s rose-ringed parakeet. Beginning the exercise in a heroic vein, Ovid summons all feathered creatures to join in the obsequies for Corinna’s pet: Parrot, winged mimic from the dawn-lands of India, has died: come in flocks, ye birds, to his funeral. Come, pious poultry, and beat your breasts with your wings, and rend your tender cheeks with the unyielding claw… As for the Ismarian tyrant’s crime, which you, Philomela, lament, that same lament has been satisfied in its own  time; turn now to the sad last rites of a rare bird. Your cause of grief for Itys is great, but it is ancient history. (2.6.1–4, 7–10; my translation). Both Ovid’s occasion and his tone here suggest mockery. Certainly—to compare early things with late—that is how the same subject matter functions in Evelyn Waugh’s gleeful trashing of all things American, The Loved One (1948). Waugh’s protagonist, the English expatriate Dennis Barlow, embraces a career as a pet undertaker in Los Angeles, which career culminates in a parrot funeral reminiscent of Ovid’s elegy: “Mr. Joyboy would have an open casket. I advised against it and, after all, I know. I’ve studied the business. An open casket is all right for dogs and cats who lie down and curl up naturally. But parrots don’t. They look absurd with a head on a pillow. But I came up against a blank wall of snobbery” (140). Waugh’s humor arises from the discordant juxtaposition of human obsequies with pet care, and this is what Ovid offers us as well, two thousand years earlier. Moreover Ovid—like Persius with his Pegasean nectar—is clearly engaged in literary parody. And in Ovid’s case, the literary victim has a name. By composing a dirge for the death of his beloved Lesbia’s pet sparrow, Catullus (c. 58–55 B.C.) influenced generations of Roman love-poets to come with his tender evocation of intimate feelings: “Lament, o Venuses and cupids, and whoever is most charming among men. My girlfriend’s sparrow is dead, that sparrow, my girlfriend’s delight, whom she loved more than her eyes…. It now travels by an obscure way to that place from which no one knows how to return” (3.1–5, 11–12; my translation). This kind of tremulous emotion, however, could not have been farther from Ovid’s approach to love and sex. Where Catullus and his imitators leave the reader “convinced of the sincerity and the seriousness of their love and their bitterness at finding that [its] fulfillment is impossible” (Du Quesnay 7), Ovid seems to relish the role of the lover, which he presents not as an emotional abyss but as a game of seduction.

 Against this background his grief for Corinna’s parrot sounds derisive rather than genuine, marking the distance between his experience and his predecessors’ innocence. For instance, Ovid’s language is a little too grandiose, a little too exaggerated, for the sentiments it conveys. Catullus keeps his verses strictly in the personal register, describing Lesbia’s feelings for her sparrow and recalling her behavior with it in intimate detail: “For it was sweet as honey and knew her as well as a girl knows her mother, nor would it move from her bosom, but hopping about this way and that it would chirp to its mistress alone” (3.6–10). Ovid, by contrast, presents the loss of Corinna’s parrot as an event of epic magnitude, grander than Philomela’s rape or Procne’s murder of her own son, Itys. (Likewise, he compares the bird’s proverbial friendship with the turtle-dove to Pylades’ friendship with Orestes.) As Catullus understands, the relationship between a pet bird and its owner is too fragile a subject to sustain the weight of heroic allusions. For a poet intent upon making that relationship look ridiculous, however, such allusions are perfectly chosen. Nor does Ovid simply inflate Catullus’ diction. He also exaggerates the structure of his poem so that where Catullus offers a delicate eighteen-line lyric, Ovid responds with a full-scale formal elegy. This extends from a call to the proper mourners (“Come, pious poultry”), through an outburst against divine injustice (“The best things are often carried off by greedy hands” [2.6.39]), to a death-bed (death-perch?) scene in which the expiring bird, sensing that its hour is at hand (or at wing?), squawks out a desolate “Corinna, farewell!” (2.6.48). This moment of high bathos, in turn, gives way to a formal consolation in which the parrot finds its place in Elysium, within “a grove of black ilex” (2.6.49) designated as “the good birds’ home” (2.6.51). As the classicist John Ferguson has remarked of Ovid’s poem, “the whole thing is amusing and utterly unfeeling” (353). It’s also brilliantly pitched, employing the death of a natural mimic as the occasion for a barbed exercise in literary mimicry. Even so, Ovid handles his subject so deftly as to leave many readers doubtful of his insincerity. Even a near-contemporary of Ovid seems to have taken his poem quite seriously. I refer in this case to the poet Statius (c. A.D. 40–96), who produced his own parrot-elegy (Silvae 2.4) in obvious (but to my mind misguided) imitation of the master. Silvae 2.4 bewails the demise of a parrot belonging to Statius’ patron Atedius Melior, and this shift away from parody turns his poem into a fawning thing. Yet his obsequiousness extends still further, for the poem is not just a token of respect to Statius’ patron, but also, in a way, an act of literary ancestor-worship. Imitating Ovid as he does, Statius abandons the attitude of irreverence essential to satire, and he replaces it with a bookish kind of bowing and scraping: Flock hither all ye scholar fowl, to whom Nature has given the noble privilege of speech; let the bird of Phoebus [the raven] beat his breast, and the starling, that repeats by heart the sayings it has heard, and magpies  transformed in the Aonian contest [the maidens who challenged the Muses and were turned into magpies], and the partridge, that joins and reiterates the words it echoes, and the sister that laments forlorn in her Bistonian bower [Philomela]: mourn all together and bear your dead kinsman to the flames. (2.4.16–23) In Statius, the parrot has ceased to be a vehicle for satire and has become once again an instrument of flattery, including the sincere form of flattery born of imitation. For poets, as for natural historians, the bird remains both a servile and a transcendent creature. Efforts to fix its meaning in one category or the other seem hopeless.

from Parrot Culture: Our 2500-Year-Long Fascination with the World's Most Talkative Bird by Bruce Thomas Boehrer.

[birdo-is-here]

decided to write the typical Azrael-taking-dead-souls experience

written in a second-person perspective because we stay silly

warnings for death of course and also some descriptions of body horror

You have died.

That much was immediately obvious. It didn’t exactly take rocket science to figure out, especially considering you’d found yourself standing over your own deceased corpse.

You decided it was best not to look down at your own lifeless form. It didn’t matter too much anyway, as the scenery around you had suddenly changed to a misty, dark forest.

You looked down again, to see if your corpse had followed you, and all that was below you was nothing. Absolute nothing.

You still found it best not to look down.

There was something perched in the trees, watching you. It seemed humanoid, but you could also make out a pair of dark, feathered wings behind it. It had so, so many eyes. A ring of blue light glowed dimly above it.

Why, it had to be an angel. Or perhaps some sort of demon, posing as such a creature of light.

“You’re rather quick to figure things out, aren’t you?” It spoke with an abnormal casualty for the exquisite ethereality this creature held within itself. It almost felt wrong, to see such a thing reduced to something so… human.

You had never spoken once, but the figure tilted its feathered head at you, as if you’d spoken every single thought aloud.

“It’s time for you to go,” The entity’s voice was impassive. You didn’t want to go.

“Most don’t, but you don’t get a choice in this situation” Weren’t you already here anyway?

“This is only the barest of beginnings. Currently you stand at the threshold. You’re not even in the room yet, you may as well be standing in the doorway into another house.” You wanted to go back.

“You don’t get to do that. You’ve had your chance at life. How did you spend it?”

You wished you could go back. You prayed for a chance to try again.

“So you’re unsatisfied?” It laughed, “You’d be shocked at how many are, especially those who die before the age of 60.”

The creature descended from the tree, suddenly inches away from you. It had an innumerable number of small wings wrapped around its head, obscuring much of its face.

“Do not pray, human. There’s no one here to answer those anymore.”

And then the wings unwrapped from its head, exposing its face. It had too many eyes. Oh, so many eyes. More than before. Too many. But who were you to decide was ‘too many’? Who were you to believe you had any sort of authority over this… thing?

And then, the entity’s face opened, the skin splitting into five segments and peeling back. A ghastly, abhorrent flower of light blossoming in such a nightmarish, magnificent way.

Red-stained teeth rimmed the edges of its mouth. It almost looked like a star, the inside of its face now glowing the same blue light its halo did.

You could only marvel in the horrific beauty of it all as it consumed you.

[kuzupeko2022]

Trolls 4 ideas (part 4) New species

Hebi- a species that inhabits the land of Nichibotsu. They are usually around 2 meters tall creatures covered with white scales, like those of a snake. From their backs, in various sections of the spine, they have large, membranous wings, and in the area of the coccyx they grow a long tail. They have eyes with vertical pupils with irises obscuring; wavy, upwardly curved horns sprout from their heads; long and pointed ears and pointed teeth. They use magic, which manifests itself as a multi-colored aura on their head (it replaces their hair) and at the end of their tail, as well as the color of their eyes and horns. Magic is divided into two types – positive and negative. They use positive magic to create all kinds of spells, but only when they aren’t too stressed too much (the only exception is, when they’re furious). Negative magic arises when positive magic is used up or through general functioning, and too much of it accumulates in the body causes its painful release in the form of a wave of energy and later passing into coma. But fortunately, it can be prevented through some activities (bathing in hot springs, meditation, physical exercise, singing, listening to music). Their attire usually consists of multi-colored kimonos with varying degrees of formality, geta or zori sandals, and various kanzashi in their hair (they can style their hair, don’t ask how). For battle, they wear loose, black outfits made of durable material. They have their own language and culture, separate from the Trolls (due to hundreds years of separation).

Shidareyananagi – but sometimes there are exceptions among the Hebi. These are individuals who have only negative magic in them and are able to use it with a much stronger and more destructive effect. They also have the ability to drain negative magic from other Hebi and use it as their own. They are characterized by increased stature, black ornaments on the skin, and the fact that their magic is a mixture of dark colors with oily black. They have a very bad reputation among the Hebi, cause they are considered a cursed, selfish monsters (mainly due to Ren’s influence). The most famous representatives are the aforementioned Ren and Yoko.

Defenders - these are robots that live in the Circle of Defenders. They have an identical similar design, i.e. 1.75 height; a large, hairless head with big eyes with round pupils and narrow, black lips; long, slender arms; narrow chest and waist; wide hips; massive legs without feet; mechanical bird like wings with blades replacing feathers; single halo above their head and number displayed on the chest. However, among them, 6 Generals stand out. They are 2.0 meters tall and have double halo. They also have unusually shaped pupils, so called hair and wear clothing. Generals are the only Defenders who have developed personality, morals, interests, and attitudes towards others (this is due to the fact that they have been around for several hundred years and watched [stalked] Hebi).

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[seogoogle1]

Untold Stories of Factory Farm Cruelty: Shedding Light on Animal Suffering

In the bustling metropolis of modern society, there exists a hidden realm obscured from public view, where the silent cries of billions of voiceless creatures echo within the walls of industrialized confinement. These are the untold stories of factory farm cruelty, narratives of suffering and exploitation etched into the fabric of our food system. While the glossy veneer of supermarket shelves may obscure the grim reality, beneath lies a world fraught with unimaginable torment.

Factory farming, with its emphasis on efficiency and profit, has transformed the once pastoral image of agriculture into a dystopian landscape where animals are reduced to mere commodities, stripped of their inherent worth and subjected to unspeakable horrors. Behind closed doors, away from prying eyes, lies a labyrinth of confinement and cruelty, where the principles of compassion and empathy are sacrificed at the altar of mass production.

The first whispers of these untold stories emerge from the heart of factory farms, where overcrowded and unsanitary conditions serve as the backdrop for a life of perpetual suffering. In cramped cages and barren enclosures, animals are deprived of the most basic freedoms, condemned to a life devoid of sunlight, fresh air, and the ability to engage in natural behaviors. Pigs, confined to gestation crates barely larger than their own bodies, are forced to endure a living hell, unable to even turn around or lie down comfortably. Chickens, crammed into battery cages so small they cannot spread their wings, suffer from broken bones and feather loss, their lives reduced to a cycle of despair.

But perhaps the most harrowing aspect of factory farm cruelty lies not in the physical confines, but in the psychological torment inflicted upon these sentient beings. Denied the opportunity to express their natural instincts, animals are driven to the brink of madness, their spirits broken by a relentless onslaught of stress and despair. From the incessant clanking of metal bars to the overpowering stench of ammonia, every aspect of their environment serves as a reminder of their subjugation, leaving psychological scars that may never heal.

Yet, even in the face of such adversity, the resilience of these animals shines through in moments of quiet defiance. From the mother pig who fiercely protects her young despite the confines of her cage to the chicken who refuses to surrender her will to live, there exists a flicker of hope amidst the darkness—a reminder that even in the bleakest of circumstances, the spirit of compassion cannot be extinguished.

The untold stories of factory farm cruelty extend beyond the confines of the farm itself, casting a shadow that stretches far and wide across the landscape of our society. From the environmental degradation wrought by industrialized agriculture to the public health risks posed by the overuse of antibiotics, the ripple effects of factory farming are felt by all, regardless of whether or not they choose to acknowledge them.

It is a testament to the power of ignorance and complacency that these stories remain untold, hidden beneath a veil of secrecy perpetuated by an industry that profits from our collective apathy. Yet, as the demand for transparency and accountability continues to grow, so too does the opportunity for change. Through education and advocacy, we have the power to shine a light into the darkest corners of factory farming, exposing the truth behind the glossy facade and demanding justice for those who cannot speak for themselves.

In the pursuit of a more humane and sustainable future, it is imperative that we confront the untold stories of factory farm cruelty head-on, challenging the status quo and demanding an end to the exploitation of sentient beings. By choosing compassion over convenience and empathy over indifference, we can rewrite the narrative of our food system, creating a world where the untold stories of factory farm cruelty are replaced with tales of resilience, liberation, and hope.

In conclusion, the untold stories of factory farm cruelty serve as a stark reminder of the ethical and moral implications of our food choices. By confronting these narratives with courage and compassion, we have the power to spark a revolution rooted in empathy and justice—a revolution that transcends the boundaries of species and embraces the inherent worth of all living beings. Let us heed the call of conscience and stand in solidarity with the voiceless, for in their liberation lies the true measure of our humanity.

website: cruelty.farm

[veilbornenomicon]

The Endless Search

In a world forgotten by time, where shadows clung to the ruins of a once-majestic civilization, a lone raven soared through the desolation. Its ebony feathers contrasted sharply against the gray landscape, and its eyes gleamed with a distant intelligence. This raven, an ancient creature, traversed the barren lands, seeking a sign of life that had long been extinguished.

The air was thick with the stench of decay, and the skeletal remains of buildings reached towards the overcast sky like the bony fingers of long-forgotten giants. Nature had clawed its way through the cracks in concrete and stone, reclaiming the land that had once belonged to humans. Vines snaked through broken windows, and the wind whispered through empty corridors, carrying with it the ghosts of a bygone era.

The raven perched on the rusted remnants of a wrought-iron gate, its sharp eyes scanning the desolate landscape. It longed for a glimpse of the vibrant life that had once thrived here, but all that remained were the echoes of a civilization swallowed by time.

As the raven explored the dilapidated remnants of a city that had crumbled under the weight of its own hubris, it discovered fragments of the past. Tattered flags, half-buried in the rubble, told tales of forgotten kingdoms and lost glory. Abandoned books, their pages yellowed and brittle, whispered of knowledge that had faded into obscurity. The raven hopped from one decaying relic to another, hoping to find a flicker of warmth in the cold embrace of oblivion.

But there was nothing.

The sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the desolate landscape. The raven's wings beat against the still air as it ascended into the darkening sky, searching for a glimmer of life that eluded its grasp. It circled above the ruins, its mournful caw echoing through the empty streets.

Just as soon as the raven landed, it soon took off again to continue the search for something no more. The world below remained silent, a graveyard of memories swallowed by the relentless march of time. The raven, a solitary witness to the end of an era, disappeared into the fading light, leaving the ruins to the ghosts of the past.

[curseshared]

If she could call on any creature to accompany her, Lilith's first choice would be Hooty… though maybe her best friend shouldn't be classified as simply a "creature". Of course, she also has her palisman—the startled bird has taken an unsteady flight to the television screen, squawking displeasure over being awoken at this hour—a lifelong companion carved by her own hands. He hadn't turned out quite the way she envisioned, but with the passage of time that fact has only led her to love him even more.

But things don't usually work out so well for her. Perhaps that is the lesson the Stars want her to remember, as she blinks in the sudden brightness of the room… and the equally sudden darkness, as their bizarre midnight broadcast comes to an end, leaving more questions than answers. She only caught half of it, as it had been a scramble to find the source of the noise.

"It's alright, Mike. You can go back to sleep. I'll…" Her attempts to soothe the raven break off with a yawn; evidently, her rest has been just as disturbed. "…figure it out… in the morning…?"

Something else has caught the bird's golden eyes, and he stares fixedly into a dark corner of the room. Lilith follows his gaze, instantly alert. There—something is definitely moving, its outline obscured by shadows.

Claws click quietly against the floor; the sound sends a shiver up her spine.

Why does this feel... familiar?

With a piercing shriek, the creature leaps. A mass of beating wings and tangled talons almost knocks her over; there's a prolonged struggle and many feathers shed before Lilith finally manages to get hold of the creature and pin it under her weight. Mike hops around on the floor, adding to the cacophony. Hurt! Hurt! he cries, and Lilith turns to him in alarm. He's hurt?

Then she looks down. No... she's hurt. Blood is welling from scratches on her hands and arms, under which the intruder is still snarling and squirming.

"Get the light," she says, and illumination quickly fills the room.

She almost regrets getting a better look. The light reveals a wretched beast, with a stout body covered in oily black feathers and a long raven's beak. Its eyes are a dark void, reflecting nothing even in the brightened room. A low growl fills the air.

She's seen this creature before.

Or... has she? It was never so small before. In her dreams it was an oppressive presence, against whose towering form she had no hope of fighting back.

Yet here it is, helpless under her claws—and her hands do look like claws, in a dangerous state of half-transformation with feathers sprouting about her wrists. This is real, right? She isn't in a dream right now?

Her palisman flies into view with a bag in his grip, a roll of bandages half-unravelling from his beak. And he pauses, flapping hard to stay in the air.

The little beast, Lilith realizes, has gone quiet. The growling she hears is coming from her own throat.

Her stomach turns, as if all the guilt she's swallowed is trying to come back up. She lets go, sitting up on her knees.

If the beast is grateful, it doesn't express as much; it picks itself up with an indignant squeak and darts out of the room.

Mike lands, looking between Lilith and the doorway as if unsure who he should check on first... but he isn't sure for long. He dumps out the contents of the emergency bag, and deposits a small bottle on the witch's lap. The palisman rarely chooses to land on her, usually preferring to perch nearby, but now he settles on her shoulder, pressing his body close. Lilith understands.

But her eyes stay fixed on where the raven beast vanished to, in a blank unfocused stare.

"What am I supposed to do about this?"

It's a rhetorical question.

What can you do?

She uncorks the elixir bottle and downs it in a single gulp. The feathers shrink away, leaving only a few strays stuck to her shirt. But she doesn't relax; how can she, when the beast is still here? Her heart pounds loudly in her ears.

It's so little...

"You don't understand. That isn't just any demon, it's..." She can't say it. "I—I don't care what happens. I have to get rid of it."

A tremble in her voice gives her away. "Of course, it feels wrong. I just..." Don't know what else to do.

When the raven beast comes for her in her dreams, she doesn't fight back. She doesn't even try to run. She already knows how it ends.

Mike, lacking hands or mind-reading abilities, has set about gathering the first-aid supplies on the floor, nudging them in Lilith's direction with his beak.

Her arms have begun to sting. The scratches are mostly shallow, though blood still trickles from a few deeper cuts. With healing magic, this would be an easy fix... but she doesn't have magic, so she'll have to deal with it the old-fashioned way.

After the deliberate process of cleaning and bandaging the worst of her wounds, she does feel a little better. A little less life-or-death, more haunted by a lingering dread. Her shoulders are sore from all the tension.

"The mess can wait. We have to..." standing up takes more effort than expected, and she trails off with a pained grunt. "We have to deal with the monster."

Monster, she calls it. As if it was something evil, an intruder upon the sanctity of her life.

She holds out her hands, and her palisman recognizes the command: he returns to wooden form, materializing the staff in her grip.

The beast could have gone anywhere. But of course, there is only one place it would go—straight to Lilith's bedroom. When she steps into the room and flicks on the light, she expects it to be under the bed... she's startled to see it resting on the bed instead, not hiding at all.

It growls, and she freezes. The growl is in her voice, a mimicry of the sound she made earlier.

She points her staff at the beast. It... really is small. More like a misbehaving pet than a monster. But its black eyes seem to stare right through her.

"Get off of there, you filthy thing—" she swings, but the beast dodges. "Urgh! Why do you have to make this so difficult?"

"Why do you have to make this so difficult?" the beast echoes, tilting its head to one side.

"What are you—oh, shut up! Get out!" She isn't playing this game. It probably doesn't even know what it's saying.

"...so difficult?"

"We don't have to do this the hard way."

...Though, she sure is talking to it like she expects it to understand.

"Monster."

"If you'd just leave, neither of us has to get hurt..."

"Monster! Monster!" the beast repeats, hopping around almost gleefully. It's calling her the monster.

And she can't exactly argue with that.

She's responsible for this creature, after all. The curse was her own fault, and the raven beast... was somehow created within her when she took accountability for her choices. It exists as an embodiment of her shame. Her proverbial inner demon, an actual demon.

"Would you please go away?" Lilith tries, forcing a sweetness into her voice. It must be unconvincing. She sets her staff aside, folding her hands in a more peaceful manner. "Wouldn't you rather go outside, where you could be free?"

It doesn't respond.

"Come on, say something. You were so chatty before. How about... we make a deal? I'll give you something, and in return, you do me a favour. I can give you food. I can give you... money? No, I don't suppose you'll have any use for it. Oh, but you like to collect shiny things, don't you?" She really thought that one would be a hit.

"I could make you art. I could make you... tea? I could... give you a bath, I think you could use one."

The creature hisses.

"No bath then. Fine! Look, I'll give you anything you want, if you just... you know what?" It's all too much; she feels light-headed. She is shouting at a small animal. "You don't even have to leave! You can have one of the empty rooms, there's plenty of space. Just get out of my room!"

Silence.

Exasperated silence.

"Come on, there has to be something you want. What do you want?"

"What do you want?"

"What do I want?" Lilith repeats. The creature stares up at her with an unreadable expression. She stares back, incredulous: both at the question, and at the sudden clarity with which she feels the answer. How often does anyone ask her what it is she wants? "I want... to go to sleep."

And that's it, really. She's exhausted, she's hurting, and she doesn't want to deal with anything else right now.

The beast seems satisfied by this show of vulnerability. It steps back, giving her room to flop down on the bed—an offer she accepts gratefully. Then, the little creature waddles right to her, and curls up against her side.

"Oh..."

Was that really it? She can't be sure this isn't a trick—but she's almost too tired to care. She barely manages to crawl under a blanket before she feels she's become too tired to move.

Her little intruder (tormentor or friend?) stays snuggled up to her, and eventually she drifts off into a dreamless sleep.

[cannedcrow]

Who Are You, Really?

A/N: The Void has a peculiar effect on memory. Boatem wonders if ignorance was bliss.

CW: blood, panic attack symptoms.

As the world crumbled into a levitating swarm of blocks, the copper rocket of Offworld Escapes had shot straight through the Boatem Hole and into the void, shooting down and down and down and then, when the world was no longer visible, up. Or perhaps sideways. One could not tell in the indifferent blackness. Perhaps distance did it, or maybe it was the moon crashing just hours behind their departure, obliterating S8. Whatever the cause, something broke for the 5 people sitting around the ship's meeting table, chatting blithely in excitement for the next adventure. A mental shield as thin and firm as a bubble.

Grian was the first to feel it. It was as though a truck had hit his mind, and he gasped audibly at the suddenness of memory before falling from his chair. He sat on the back of a white llama, whose lead was held by Scar. He saw Scar dead, bloody and broken at the bottom of a ravine. From a perch on the hill he watched an explosion toss three limp bodies into the air and cave a chasm in the ground, and he crowed victoriously with manic laughter at the beauty of it. He saw Ren, crowned with a circlet that gleamed with blood and carrying a banner. He saw hundreds of wolves streaking down a hill after a man who leapt wildly alongside them, holding a torch aloft and howling as though he were one of them. He saw earth erupt as though the desert were the spine of a massive creature who'd reared and roared, and screams of terror and pain sounded through the clouds of sand and smoke, their utterers unseen. Uncaring of the chaos around him, a blue-haired man wailed and clutched another man's body, ignoring the smears of blood the corpse left on him. He was on a mountain with Scar, the both of them bloody and bruised, cactus needles buried in them like arrows. He leant over Scar’s body and sobbed, smelling the salt of tears and sweat, the acridity of blood, the dust, felt the waves of heat that left the body even as he held it - as though by doing so he could undo what he had done.

And he was in another place, one of stone towers and wooden walls, where he laughed and loved his companions before they were ripped asunder. He chased down Mumbo in the adrenaline of killing, driving a sword through the chest of his closest friend, who had come back at his calling in instinctive, deeply rooted trust - the heartbroken look in those dark crimson eyes that met his even while his heart felt the point of diamond. The heavy spine of a crossbow weighed against his own and rockets were quivered at his hip. And the man who’d run alongside wolves ran with him, and they were predators welded together by violence, a pair of creatures ostracised even by those of their affliction, hunted til the bitter end. He felt the axe blow that tore through his chest and felled him, its owner leaving him to drown in the tide of blood that pulsed forth, hot and angry with hate.

These memories and more tore into him one by one, sweet or scalding as knives. Grian found himself knelt on the floor, hands over his head and wings splayed in a soft shield over himself, feathers spiked and trembling. His breath was fast and ragged and his heart seemed wrapped in ever-tightening wire.

But the others, in their own torment, could spare no thought to him.

Impulse had stumbled back as though hit by a charging ravager, vision obscured with the static of a headrush. He was in the stone circle of foundation that promised a castle, laughing with Cleo, Tango, and Bdubs. He was nailing a red banner to his shield, trading with villagers and collecting noxious arrows. A bowstring was drawn to his cheek and he released an arrow through a sheet of flame that plunged, fire-tailed, through Etho. He felt the heads of arrows plunge into his back as he splashed through Stygian water, running from the man to whom he’d been most loyal, the man whose blood-spattered clock had so easily turned his hand. He was in the Southlands, sitting atop a wooden wall, laughing as he observed his companions with a spyglass. He was in the Nether, slashing through waves of wither skeletons in determination to acquire a skull. And another arrow came from a blue haired man - Scott, he found he knew - as he stood atop the ramparts of a snowy castle with Grian, watching with glee the destructive path of a wither he’d helped loose.

Scar fell against the wall as though all the strength had left him, as he too was flooded with a rush of unforgiving memory. Grian, a desert, a promise. A bunch of lilacs that begged forgiveness. A stolen banner and a snowy-pelted llama. Heaving a lever that tore the desert asunder. He remembered offering Grian his own life, and he remembered the way they’d fought like dogs at the end of it all, a fight meant by neither of them but ordered by the laws of this world; he remembered how death had closed gentle black wings over his eyes as Grian held his head on his lap and smoothed his hair, tears drawing clear tracks through the dust and blood on his face and speckling Scar’s own.

And he remembered a mountain, an unwise choice of a business partner who died and died until he was but a shell whose hollow scarlet eyes met his across a broken bridge. He remembered the exaltation at his collection of souls, the power of the fact, dulled at the realisation that all those who approached him were parasites. He knew the loneliness and abandonment that twisted his heart to cruelty. He relived the agony of losing life after life, taken by force or bartered away - and he remembered falling into a churning pool of lava as Grian screamed his name in a too-late warning.

Scar sank to the floor, flattening himself against the copper wall of the room, wary as a fox that hears the baying of hounds. The flood of memory seemed to tear through him like a freezing gale, overwhelming him with too many thoughts and emotions to count, suffocating him in fear and joy and sadness.

Pearl had curled in her seat at the table as though in pain, covering her eyes. She was staring into the clear cerulean eyes of a man whose name she knew to be Scott, searching for a glint of red that might suggest danger. Cleo stood below the wall and asked for refuge. Collared wolves rolled in the grass surrounding the moss-roofed cottage, or else dashed and ripped at the heels of her enemies, blood soaking their silver muzzles, their pearl teeth. She was clambering over rocky slopes, breath ragged as the air rang with the whoops and shouts of the pack of red-names behind her, wild and savage as hounds, before feeling a crossbow bolt rip through her back - seeing the glinting head coated in her blood and protruding from her sternum for only a minute before death swept in.

Mumbo’s hands were clenched on the table rim, white-knuckled with tension as he too was barraged with memory. He too remembered the Southlands, repeatedly losing his spyglasses to the consternation of Jimmy. He remembered standing atop the bottom of the world, the atmosphere a suffocating mass of red fog, watching Grian be struck with an arrow and fall down, down, lost in the bloody mist. He remembered Grian coming back, the ragged feathery shape clawing itself to the top of the ladder, begging for friendship and for company even if it meant murdering his closest friend - before the last shred of himself made him leave Mumbo to live. He remembered end crystals and obsidian, heists and explosions, shrapnel, blood, cries of pain. Grian was calling him through the trees, and he, even injured, had returned only to be run through without hesitation on the diamond blade. And he watched Grian’s golden eyes flicker momentarily with grief as they met his own before everything was gone.

Grian couldn’t breathe. He knelt on the cold floor, and every time he dragged in breath it seemed to fall through him like water in cupped hands. He vaguely felt his arched wings spasm but couldn’t bring himself back in time - every part of him was falling out of sync, a set of metronomes breaking rank. It was too much, and he didn’t know if he was alive. Everything was blood and smoke and fire and dust. A hand touched his back gently, and a voice full of tremulous love murmured soothing words, a hand stroking his hair rhythmically, the repetition slowing his gasping heart and commanding steadiness of those metronomes.

Upon recovering the vaguest sense of self, Mumbo had noticed Grian’s crumpled form and heard the sharp, uneven intakes of breath. Scar was crouched against a wall, Pearl curled in a chair and sobbed quietly, Impulse leant against the wall as though pinned there, eyes closed and expression taught with shock. It was Grian he moved to, however. Instinct said that mental anomalies could be dealt with later, but now, Grian needed reality. It was a situation that quelled any sense of embarrassment, and Mumbo handled him as he would a distraught child, stroking his hair and rubbing his back, murmuring comforting nothings that pressured for no answer. Presently the fluffed feathers flattened and Grian drew his wings into his body, giving him the look of a little broken bird, but still more time passed before he sat up. He only glanced at Mumbo for a moment before burying his head in the other man’s shoulder, shoulders shaking with sobs.

“I don’t know who I am,” he gasped between panicked sobs, “What’s happening?”

“You’re a pesky bird,” Mumbo said gently, “and I’m afraid I don’t know what’s happening, but it’s happened to me too.”

“I’m scared,” came the smallest whisper, to which he replied only “I know. But we’re safe.”

Impulse was next to regain a semblance of composure, and he moved to Pearl’s side, gently putting an arm around her trembling shoulders, hoping the simple touch would help her cling onto reality. He looked at Scar and was surprised to see him crying too, though not like the other two. His eyes were glazed and he stared into nothing from his place on the floor, unnoticed tears trailing down his cheeks. He’d never seen Scar so affected before, and it scared him. Scar was usually known to brush off any situation with a facetious comment or a laugh - hell, so were Grian and Mumbo.

What had he remembered? Impulse thought, watching him, and Grian, and Mumbo and Pearl?

When Scar stood, Impulse couldn’t help but see a different Scar than the one in the mahogany tailcoat. He saw the broad-chested man whose sun-darkened skin was scarred and dust-covered, who wore no shirt but for a rough-spun blanket about his shoulders. Scar’s movement was robotic now, his eyes hollow. His gaze lingered on Grian for just a moment before he wordlessly climbed the ladder to the sleeping deck, his boots on the metal rungs counting a metronome in the silence.

Pearl eventually dismissed the comfort of her cocoon, raising her head to show eyes red with crying. She silently leant her head on Impulse’s shoulder, too worn out and overwhelmed to consider anything else. And they were all silent, each reliving every memory of lives they’d forgotten leading even as they wished they could stop. They stared at each other, unable to conduct interaction. It was as though they were strangers suddenly, memories and relationships from another life threatening this one.

Five people bound together and apart, split by invisible walls.

It was quiet, and Grian’s sobs had subsided into tiny breaths.

[bubble-tea-bunny]

come fly with me

[hermes x reader]

author’s note: every time i see his name i pronounce it like the brand out of  habit even if there’s no accent grave lol

word count: 2,572

You sense the bright light of morning through your closed lids and it prompts you to wake. But even as your eyes slide open, you still feel as though you’re dreaming.

A man is kneeling down next to you. You don’t know who he is but perceive he means no harm, for his gaze as he observes you is concerned, no doubt wondering what you’re doing out here. You don’t remember falling asleep outside, but the weather has been so nice as of late, you wouldn’t put it past yourself to have drifted off after laying beneath the stars, simply appreciating their magnificence.

As your vision comes more into focus, and the blurred edges merge into finer lines, you note that the sun shines behind this stranger’s head, and it appears remarkably like a halo. Your focus slides lower, drifts over brown hair pulled back into a neat braid to avoid obscuring his face, the highlight of which are his eyes—brilliantly blue, like crystals, and putting the backdrop behind him to shame. He’s beautiful.

Suddenly you’re nervous to be the center of his attention, so rapt it’s like he can see right through you. You must look a disheveled mess in contrast, your own hair tousled, your eyes bleary with the last bits of sleep. But as if he can hear your thoughts, he smiles gently, a gesture to put you at ease.

“Hello,” he greets you. His voice is hushed, taking care not to disturb the peace of these early hours, and it’s warm, washing over your skin and fighting away the chill of the cool evening.

You open your mouth, poised to speak, but at first nothing comes out, though from nervousness or from the fact your vocal chords are still waking up after hours of not being used, you don’t know.

“I… I must have fallen asleep out here,” you state rather dumbly, because what else could it have been? It’s not as if anyone had carried you out here in the middle of the night. Your cheeks redden from embarrassment but the man’s smile widens, amused and—if you aren’t imagining things, owed to the idea that maybe you really are dreaming—charmed. Though for what reason, you haven’t the slightest clue.  You struggle to call yourself a picture of grace at any other point in a day, least of all fresh from sleep.

“It seems you have,” he responds. “I imagine it was comfortable?”

Not wanting to continue this conversation while still laying down, since it’s a little awkward, you sit up, and he backs away slightly to give you space. The notion of sleeping on the ground certainly doesn’t sound comfortable, and so you assume he asks this in light jest, but oddly enough, you don’t feel any stiffness or aches. Your body is relaxed, pliant. You feel well-rested.

“It was, yes…” you trail off, absentmindedly pondering on this anomaly.

The man nods, satisfied with your answer, and stands. You have to crane your neck to look at him, and as he turns his head to look out at the rolling hills, lush green and divided in the middle by a dirt path, you see a string around his neck which is attached to a golden helmet. The brim swoops and lifts in the back, colored silver to resemble a pair of wings.

Then he turns to you again, now offering you his hand. “Well the day is too nice to waste staying here. Would you like to take a walk with me?”

You’ve been aware this entire time that you don’t know who he is, and logic would dictate you turn down his invitation. No matter how nice he may be, it would be unreasonable as well as  unsafe. But even for all that, you find yourself not tied down by any semblance of reason, and perhaps it’s against your better judgment that you accept.

You take his hand and he pulls you up easily. Maybe it’s his smile that does well to quell any apprehension, for you think you would follow him anywhere. Maybe you were incorrect and to go with him now was the better judgment on your part, because you don’t feel that this is wrong or dangerous. And he’s right: the day is splendid and it would make no sense to stay on the ground alone. It’s better enjoyed with companions.

The two of you follow the trail for a while, pausing whenever small creatures cross from one side to the other: mostly bunnies and deer, but at one point when passing by a lake there’s a duck and her ducklings plodding single-file behind her. As the world around you wakes and you walk in comfortable silence, your anxiety melts away and you instigate a conversation.

“Were you just passing by and happened to see me?” you inquire.

The man glances down at you briefly before looking ahead once more. “I was.” He nods. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

He’s sincere as he says it, and it makes you grin. “Well I’m glad it was you who found me.”

The smile on his lips mirrors yours. “I am too.”

Flowers line the path, leaning inward as if to welcome any who walk past. They grab your attention, and you skip ahead to pick some of them. They only require a gentle tug for the stems to snap and you gather them until you’re holding a small bunch of the white flower in one hand. You bring them closer to your face so you can smell them: the scent is subtle and fresh, like the air after it rains. The man finally catches up to you and you twist around. There’s that expression in his eyes again, one of amusement, and again you blush, attempting to hide it by the flowers as you duck your head, but you don’t think you’re successful.

He peers over your shoulder. “Let’s go this way now. There’s bound to be more flowers in that direction.”

You turn and follow his line of sight. The trail has led to a forest, and veering off here would lead you into the thick of it. The man takes the last few steps to close the distance and stand next to you, and you look up at him. “Okay.”

Sunlight pierces the gaps in the foliage, the rays which light the ground soothing to behold and to walk through. It’s like a painting, calm and peaceful, displayed on the finest marble and you’re honored to be in the midst of it, maybe not as the subject, for you think the birds who cast shadows as they soar above you are more worthy of the privilege, but you’re content to be there at all, even just off to the side.

The woods lead to a meadow and the man was correct: there are more flowers here. Their colors vary, from white to lavender to yellow, and the sun envelopes them all in its heat, unhindered in this clearing. The tall grass shifts with your every footstep and brushes your calves, light as a feather, and you giggle. It tickles.

Your eyes rove over the expanse before you. There are more trees, another portion of forest,  on the other side, but this place is so peaceful, and the sun is in the perfect position, centered in the sky, that you would hate to leave so soon.

“I’d like to lay among these flowers…” you murmur. It’s an aside you mean to mutter only to yourself, but given your proximity to the stranger—no, not a stranger anymore, but more of a friend—he hears you fine despite the low volume with which you said it.

“Why don’t we?”

At this, you blink and glance up at him. He’s already watching you with a twinkle in his gaze and he’s smiling. You can’t help smiling too and you feel so warm to be in his presence.

So in the middle of the clearing you find a suitable spot and settle down, lying on your back with the bunch of white flowers still clutched in one hand. You have to squint and use your free hand to shield your eyes from the glare of the sun, but then you close them and the furrow of your brow relaxes, and you can fully enjoy the nature which surrounds you.

Dragonflies buzz and you can hear them flittering along, the beating of their wings louder as they approach, then becoming quieter as they pass. The grass shifts as your friend comes to join you now. He sits, and you hear a brief shuffling before he follows suit and lays down. Together you bask in the sunlight, but for how long, you aren’t sure. Not that you’re interested in tracking the time.

“Your suggestion to tarry a while was a good one,” he compliments, breaking the silence. “It feels pleasant to rest here.”

His compliment makes you grin and your eyes open. You turn your head to look at him. He’d removed his helmet from where it was hanging around his neck and placed it next to him to allow him to lie back comfortably. “The sun makes you feel so refreshed, doesn’t it?”

He hums. “I think it has more to do with the company.” He opens his eyes and also turns to look at you, and the blueness of them is incredibly soft. Your smile grows.

And though you’re confident you could pass the rest of the day in that meadow, the two of you move on. It’s done with a bit of reluctance on your part, but it fades quickly because you agree with him: it’s the company which makes you feel refreshed. The colors of the sky are shifting as mid-afternoon turns into early evening and it occurs to you that you have been walking since the morning yet you aren’t tired, nor has it felt like many hours have transpired. You know it has to do with him. You think you could do this forever, walking with him.

When the sky is a blend of indigo and orange, you ask if anyone is expecting him. We’ve been together all day, you explain. No one might wonder where you are?

He chuckles. “That’s kind of you to be concerned.”

Your cheeks feel warm. He’s awfully good at getting that reaction out of you.

“No one’s expecting me,” he continues. “But even if someone were, they’d understand my lateness, given I’m with someone so sweet. I’m not keen to part ways too soon.”

Your chest feels tight, like your heart is wrenching and you’re scared it might break. “Me neither,” you state shyly.

Then gradually the indigos and oranges transition to black as the sun fully disappears below  the horizon and you are sad to see it leave. You’ve also long since left the meadow and the forest surrounding it behind. The land you walk through is wide, flat, empty. There aren’t any plants or animals and it feels foreign, adjusted as you had been to the lush scenery of this afternoon. The only feature worth noting are the mountains that come into view now, which, while you’d already assumed them to be tall, are taller than you first thought as you get closer, so high they seem to touch the clouds, perhaps even extending past them.

“This way.” The man’s voice pulls your attention away from staring up at the clouds. There’s a path that leads farther into the mountain. “Watch your step. It’s rather dark.”

What light of the moon reaches through small gaps in the mountain reflects off the helmet strung around his neck. He takes care to move slowly to ensure you don’t lose him but the glint of his helmet serves as a beacon. The more you venture in, you wonder where you’re going. Should you ask him? The idea of doing so hadn’t crossed your mind all day because you’d been happy just to be with him, no apprehension about the destination, or whether or not  there was one. But now…

The words are on the tip of your tongue, about to be voiced, but they die out once you turn a final corner and spot a river. The water is dark, almost black, and a haze settles above it that obscures what might possibly be on the opposite shore. Once you do speak, it’s still a question, but it’s no longer about where the two of you are headed. He doesn’t need to tell you that.

“Wanted to let me down gently, didn’t you?” The manner in which you ask this is quiet, lightly teasing but also laced with a sadness you do little to hide.

Hermes—for now you know confidently who he is—leads you right to the edge of the water and then stops, twisting around. “I chose to take the longer route with you.”

You meet his gaze. His eyes are sorrowful, yet for their melancholy they are still just as beautiful, and they’re tender as he looks at you. “Why?”

He takes a deep breath, momentarily glancing at the water then returning his focus to you. “You hadn’t realized what happened, and I didn’t want to tell you. I decided we would venture through the nature you love so much, taking breaks where you desired, to listen to the bugs and to feel the sun.”

Thinking back to this morning, you recall that when you’d woken up, you hadn’t checked behind you. If you had, you would’ve noticed your body there. You’d been too enamored by Hermes to do that. Though you suppose there are worse ways of being led to the Underworld, and you’d always be grateful to Hermes for choosing to take the long way.

“Through it I’ve grown very fond of you,” he confesses. He offers a small smile, and you surmise it’s a struggle, at odds with a frown because of where he has brought you, and what it implies. “A day with you was a lifetime, and it still didn’t feel long enough.”

You muster a smile of your own. “One day or an eternity, I don’t suppose any length of time ever would.”

A boat comes into view, appearing to materialize through the fog, and once it stops at the small dock, the front bumping gently and the water lapping against the support beams, Hermes gives the ferryman two coins. Treat her well, he instructs. And then he turns to you a final time, and when your heart squeezes, you really think it has broken.

Glancing down, your eyes settle on the flowers you’re gripping. You’d kept them with you the entire journey. But now you hold them out to Hermes, and the heaviness in your chest seems to lighten slightly as he takes them and the expression on his face becomes a little less crestfallen. You would hate to leave him in such a forlorn state.

“Thank you, Hermes.” You hope he can detect the sincerity, and when he smiles faintly, you know that he has.

He helps you onto the boat, clasping your much smaller hand in his to provide support, and he stands on the shore as the ferryman pushes away, watching you until the fog engulfs the boat once more. And though he’s alone, the flowers in his hand make him feel far from lonely.

[tabletoptrinketsbyjj]

Cloaks, 1: The humble cloak has a rich history in tabletop roleplaying games, D&D especially with it having its roots based on Lord of the Rings and medieval fantasy. A heavy dark cloak with a deep hood is perfect for instantly creating a mysterious stranger at the other end of a tavern, their face obscured by the deep cowl. A cloak is often a cornerstone of a PC’s appearance and enchanted ones even more so. The following is a collection of unique descriptions of cloaks for DM’s to give to their players as magical or mundane loot and for players to use during character creation to help flesh out their personal style.

A dark grey, military style shoulder cloak clasped by a silver brooch in the shape of a bridge of stone, lit by ruby flames. The back of the brooch bears an inscription that reads: “First in, last out.”

A tattered red cloak that patches itself up whenever the bearer sleeps in a graveyard.

Cloak of the Aardvark: A nondescript light brown cloak, which causes the bearer to develop a slightly longer tongue and a mild but persistent craving to eat ants.

A beautiful cloak whose tattered silk designs resembles the dusty wings of a moth in flight.

A sturdy leather cloak with a large number of interior pockets. Every day at noon, a random worthless object appears in one of the pockets. The item vanishes back to whence it came if not removed from the pocket within one hour. The items are never worth more than a few coppers, never quite useful and are always small enough to physical fit into the average pocket. After inspecting a few of the objects the cloak produces, the bearer experiences the nagging feeling that the cloak is just stealing junk out of other people’s pockets. ---Note: The items that appear are always at the GM’s discretion. I personally recommend making use of the many Worthless Trinket Tables from this blog to get ideas.

A cloak comprised completely of gleaming iridescent feathers. It is heavier and much more durable than a cloak of feathers has any right to be.

An iridescent blue cloak the color of the sea that appears to ebb and flow of its own accord.

A worn patchwork gleeman’s cloak. Each brightly colored square patch is unique and the cloak sports a dazzling array of combinations of colors, patterns, fabrics and symbols.

A well-made black cloak that is completely waterproof. But looks as if something is occasionally...writhing beneath the cloth. This is disconcerting to observers, but the bearer never sees it.

A Randomly Colored oilskin cloak with the phrase “Random Motto” stitched along the interior of the tip of the hood. With the hood pulled low, the bearer can feel the spirit of the motto press against their consciousness, attempting to guide his decisions. The influence is subtle and never forces the bearer to violate any firmly held beliefs.

—Keep reading for 90 more cloaks.

—Click Here for a complete list of every trinket table

—Note: The previous 10 items are repeated for easier rolling on a d100.

A dark grey, military style shoulder cloak clasped by a silver brooch in the shape of a bridge of stone, lit by ruby flames. The back of the brooch bears an inscription that reads: “First in, last out.”

A tattered red cloak that patches itself up whenever the bearer sleeps in a graveyard.

Cloak of the Aardvark: A nondescript light brown cloak, which causes the bearer to develop a slightly longer tongue and a mild but persistent craving to eat ants.

A beautiful cloak whose tattered silk designs resembles the dusty wings of a moth in flight.

A sturdy leather cloak with a large number of interior pockets. Every day at noon, a random worthless object appears in one of the pockets. The item vanishes back to whence it came if not removed from the pocket within one hour. The items are never worth more than a few coppers, never quite useful and are always small enough to physical fit into the average pocket. After inspecting a few of the objects the cloak produces, the bearer experiences the nagging feeling that the cloak is just stealing junk out of other people’s pockets. ---Note: The items that appear are always at the GM’s discretion. I personally recommend making use of the many Worthless Trinket Tables from this blog to get ideas.

A cloak comprised completely of gleaming iridescent feathers. It is heavier and much more durable than a cloak of feathers has any right to be.

An iridescent blue cloak the color of the sea that appears to ebb and flow of its own accord.

A worn patchwork gleeman’s cloak. Each brightly colored square patch is unique and the cloak sports a dazzling array of combinations of colors, patterns, fabrics and symbols.

A well-made black cloak that is completely waterproof. But looks as if something is occasionally...writhing beneath the cloth. This is disconcerting to observers, but the bearer never sees it.

A Randomly Colored oilskin cloak with the phrase “Random Motto” stitched along the interior of the tip of the hood. With the hood pulled low, the bearer can feel the spirit of the motto press against their consciousness, attempting to guide his decisions. The influence is subtle and never forces the bearer to violate any firmly held beliefs.

A luscious bison fur cloak with horn buttons. The style seems to be that of a backwoodsman bachelor who had more time and energy than actual skill.

A Randomly Colored cloak that always flaps gently, as if pushed by a slight breeze.

A tan leather cloak that writhes as though alive and screams when damaged.

A thick hide cloak lined with a strange blue fur. The fabric is cut to hang on the bearer in a traditionally Random Humanoid Race style.

A feathered cloak which changes its coloring to match whatever bird is closest.

A double lined cloak. One side it is a dull, dreary brown; the inner lining is black. The cowl is particularly capacious.

A full yellow cloak with large silver clasps and symbols of the divine aspect of Random Neutral Domain boldly presented in dark green.

A once-fine cloak, maroon colored with a gold trim, now somewhat torn and worn from age. Careful examination reveals a hidden pocket containing a signet ring with a gold wyvern crest.

A reversible cloak. The outside is black while the inside is a gaudy gold color. The wearer can flip the cloak from one side to the other in just a few seconds using both hands.

A leathery grey cloak made from stitched ghoul skin. This unholy garment is cold to touch and causes revulsion in living creatures that see it.

A dire bear pelt fashioned into a cloak fit for an ogre, bound by a large, crude pewter clasp.

A cloak of griffon feathers set on black velvet. The material is warm, wind resistant and lightweight, perfect for a griffon knight.

A voluminous cloak with a large hood that comes halfway down the bearer's face. The cloak’s exterior is completely waterproof and the wool inner lining is snug, warm and removable. The exterior of the cloak is covered in a whorled camouflage pattern of green’s, brown and blacks. The interior has several pocket of varying sizes making the cloak perfect for wilderness travelling and adventuring.  

A heavy cloak made from the fur of a polar bear. The material is ridiculously warm and will keep its bearer alive and moving despite frigid artic conditions.  

A black cloak embroidered with a web-like pattern in white silk

A brown robe covered with an embroidered pattern of dozens of open eyes. Creatures around the bearer always have the disturbing sensation that they’re being watched.

A blonde cloak woven from human hair, that weeps softly for an hour if blood is spilled in its vicinity. The hair is always clean, silky and shiny no matter what happens to it.

A reversible linen cloak that has an outer layer of fabric in a mottled black pattern and an inner layer of a bright Random Bright Color. Reversible cloaks are worn for the sake of fashion, in theatre performances, or to aid a quick appearance change as part of a disguise. This cloak in particular was most definitely used for the latter as knowledgeable PC’s will notice that the cloak’s clasp has the emblem of a notorious thieves’ guild worked into its design. A practiced bearer using both hands, can undo the clasp, flip the cloak and redo the as an action equivalent to drawing a weapon.

An audaciously red cloak that if worn around certain seedier districts in town might attract the attention of lonely individuals looking for a date for the evening. Their treat of course…

A brown and tan cloak that resembles a massive, flat slug with a bronze clasp covered in patina. When worn, slugs, snails and any creatures resembling them are non-hostile toward the wearer of the cloak until provoked.

A loose fitting bright yellow cloak cut in a feminine style. More than a dozen small silver bells are sewn into the fabric and twinkle with every step the bearer takes.

A ghostly, pale white translucent cloak, that billows on its own volition.

A white cloak whose golden accents glisten (even in darkness) whenever it billows. The mere sight of the cloak bring hope.

A black satin cloak decorated with golden stars.

A sky-blue velvet cloak decorated with vines and flowers along the edges in thick silver embroidery.

A perpetually damp, light grey cloak which always leaves a faint trail of mist in the bearer's wake.

A cloak woven from airy linen, with intricate silver patterns stitched along its edges. The cloak's clasp is an ancient medallion, which radiates a faint aura of wisdom.

A snowy white cloak of thick wool whose many folds hold an aura of purity and peace of mind.

A dirt-stained cloak that was woven in shadow from the burial shroud of a condemned murderer.

A dark hooded cloak, decorated with embroidered comets, moons, and stars along its edge.

A large bearskin cloak that is almost too big for a human to wear comfortably. When the bearer becomes angry, the hairs on the cloak bristle menacingly.

A garish, red velvet cloak, embroidered with gold-threaded patterns of masked harlequins engaged in acts of sinister revelry.

A fireproof cloak made of dragon wing skin, trimmed with Randomly Colored scales. It naturally flutters towards gold no matter the wind direction.

A purple cloak that seems sheer at times and opaque at others. It is soft to the touch and light as a feather.

A swirling multi shaded grey, shiny (Nigh-wet looking) leather cloak that looks more like wet granite.

A tattered and faded, black linen cloak. Although it has seen better days it is perfectly serviceable and instills the bearer with a deep sense of grim determination to keep pushing on despite the odds or costs.

A hooded dark blue cloak with silver edges and a line going down the middle in silver with motif of white flowers embroidered into it.

This cloak is fur-lined and clasped by a golden livery collar. The fabric of the cloak and appearance of the livery collar changes to bear the heraldic insignia and personal colors of the creature who wears it.

An ancient silk robe that shimmer with the twinkling light of a thousand stars.

A heavy cloak fashioned from the scales of a mighty sea dragon. The scales are skillfully joined together and the cloak can be drawn tightly around the body, creating a covering that is light, flexible, yet incredibly tough.

A cloak woven from the hair of innocents, dyed with the blood of sorcerers and imbued with the essence of a star stolen from the night’s sky.

A hard, waterproof sea cloak that resembles a large octopus. The baggy hood looks like an octopus mantle while the cloak itself simulates the rubbery webbing between an octopus’s tentacles and the corners have tentacle-like tassels.

A jute cloak that changes its appearance to match the current season. Its color is bright green in spring a darker green in summer, red and orange in fall, and brown and white in winter. If the material is not exposed to sunlight, the cloak gradually turns grey until it is refreshed by natural light. ---Note: In areas with other natural seasons such as flooding, drought of typhoons the cloak may change to new colors as per DM discretion.

A thick leather cloak, charred and blackened around the edges and always smells faintly of the soot of a recent fire.

A mottled green cloak with a pair of colorfully hemmed slits in its hood. Although impractical for most races, it is perfect for the long ears of the elves with fit comfortably into the slits.

A hooded cloak made of various patches of unidentifiable leather, all obviously from different types of creatures. The cloak fastens in the front with a belt like a bathrobe.

A checker patterned cloak of black and white that imparts the bearer with a deep yearning to play skill-based, board games.

A cloak of faded and patchwork design sporting heraldry of a great many nations and cities. It seems to give a comforting warmth to the bearer and the open road feels more like home with it on. After some time with it on, the bearer may notice a new patch on the cloak; A bloodstained piece of heraldry from the bearer's homeland.

A soft, fuzzy cloak with a buckle on each corner. It is pale brown with a green hill in the middle and a row of red stars above the hill.

Cloak of the Endless Sky: A long cloak fashioned of broad overlapping blue and white ribbons attached at the neck, but not affixed elsewhere. This construction allows access for wings or other appendages to operate freely.  The cloak is clasped with a silver cloud. Instead of ceilings, roofs, tree cover or other overhead objects, the bearer perceives open, clear, blue skies dotted with clouds on all surfaces above himself. The bearer can suppress this illusionary effect at will if needed but while active the bearer becomes immune to the effects of claustrophobia. This is greatly appreciated by bearers capable of natural flight who are often uncomfortable in the caves, crypts and dungeons that adventures so often find themselves in.

A noble's cloak made of high quality cloth, with gold and silver thread stitched into the hem.

A light, loose fitting burlap cloak, with a generous sized hood that can fit over even the largest of helmets.

A shimmering cloak that seems to be spun from pure quicksilver. Its form constantly ripples and flows around the bearer and light dances across its surface.

A rust-red cloak made of slick satin. Rips, tears and stains done to it are instantly mended when fresh blood is poured or prayed over the damaged area.

A draping black cloak that turns into a sparkling mantle of tiny, cascading stars when worn.

A full-cut black cloak that hangs to mid-boot. Cut to overlap on the chest and cover the bearer's arms, it has a high collar and a separate pullover hood. It is embroidered with a white upraised human palm in a circle on the right collar, a purple dragon on the left collar, and another on the center point of the hood (So that it is displayed to the rear when the hood is pulled back).

A white silk cloak embroidered with a large grey spider on the back and webs radiating across its surface.

A cloak of mysterious emergence, fashioned from multiple layers of fine silk. Along the hem is a row of glittering red scales, molted away by a dragon.

A voluminous, emerald-green cloak trimmed with an intricate design done in gold thread. Each of its two clasps is a golden disk engraved with the crest of a long-extinct noble family and set with a small emerald.

A cloak that resembles a tangle of thick, black cobwebs when not worn, but smooths into woven black cloak of coarse threads the moment it’s donned.

An ugly, poorly cured, leather cloak made of mottled leathers stitched together in scabrous, thick seamed patterns. Made from the skins of wild beasts and humanoids, killed by kobolds, it is sized for a small humanoid.

A heavy cloak of black silk and linen that seems to trap shadows in its interior, even during broad daylight. The bearer seems to be partially submerged in darkness in shadowy light or darker.

A cloak made of navy colored linen, as fine as silk but with a durable quality to it. It flutters in even the lightest wind and always billows when its wearer walks. In darkness, the cloak seems to disappear, though its wearer does not. It is embroidered with no patterns, but those who stare at it for long moments see smoky shapes moving in the weave.

A fine linen cloak in a drab olive grey color, with a creamy lining. A scene of a mockingbird singing in a garden is embroidered in black on the back of the cloak, so that the mocking bird faces it’s bearer's on the right panel. When worn, the wearer’s voice becomes more beautiful and resonant.

An inky black cloak that has no features, but its hue is so deep that it makes people looking at it feel slightly vertiginous, as if looking down a very deep hole.

A blue cloak embroidered in green thread with whorled patterns, not unlike a finger print.

A cloak of blue silks embroidered with stormy cloud shapes in black and white thread.

A small sized cloak of auburn fur is lined with black fey silk. A mithril cloak pin is sewn into the collar.

A cloak, made of silks in multihued primary colors that blend and shift as the light hits them, is so sheer that it is nearly translucent. When worn, it seems to flutter and curl with the direction of prevailing light, though wind doesn’t seem to affect it at all. The bearer is lined in prismatic, flattering colors, making him fascinating to watch.

A cloak made of peacock, crow, and swan feathers woven into which are preserved heads of each type of bird.

A deep pocketed cloak of many faded colors, sized for a halfling.

A beautiful hooded cloak of deep blue. When it moves around silver threads become apparent quickly sparking and then disappearing once more, resembling a clear night’s sky. It is also always cool to the touch, like a cool night’s breeze.

A full-length cloak made of woven hair dyed a vibrant red and has a clasp craved of bone, decorated with archaic runes.

A cloak that seems to change color when looked at from different angles. The leather splits into six strips at the shoulder, each having a different color metallic scale at the top with a corresponding chromatic scale at the bottom of the strip. The strips fan out behind the bearer, almost like tails.

A deep green cloak with a voluminous hood, embroidered with gold trim and symbols of cultural significance to the elves.

A cloak of dark leather and gold trim that occasionally shimmers with small sparks of blue energy across the shadowed lining.

A cloak made of a thick oilskin smock, with a button-on hood and fleece lining. The front of the smock has a covered pocket sewn into it and while it feels normal from the outside, the pocket is always pleasantly warm within

A grey cloak made of a textured fabric that allows the bearer to blend into the shadows with more conviction.

A sturdy black cloak with many pockets in various shapes and sizes on this inside. The elbows have been reinforced with oval cuts of black cloth and hood made of a slightly different material.

A cloak of dark leather and gold trim that seems to occasionally shimmer with small sparks of blue energy across the shadowed lining.

An ugly patchwork cloak that has dozens of little pockets sewn into the inside for carrying spell components or trinkets. When first found the various pockets contain one Worthless Trinket, a Random Sealed Glass Vial and a Random Trinket.

A silk cloak that roils with the colors of storm clouds, constantly shifting in shade and hue.

A long cloak made of rat fur, secured around the neck with a rat skull clasp. It's quite warm but also disgusting. It seems to wriggle and writhe of its own accord, and no matter how often it is washed, it reeks of... well... rat.

Cloak of Skin: A cloak made of made of treated human skin. When worn by a creature the cloak transmutes itself over the course of a few hours into looking as it was made out of the bearer’s skin.

A tattered Randomly Colored cloak that seems to constantly have parts of it blinking in and out of existence.

A long multicolored cloak made of crests and insignia’s cut from the cloaks, tabards and lance standards of dozens of dead knights and men-at-arms all sewn together like a quilt.

A cloak with a linen hood simply decorated with the colors of the forest and designed to cast a dramatic shadow upon the wearer’s face, obscuring identifiable features.

A gaudy short red matador’s cape with gilded edges and intricate stitching.

Whispersilk Cloak, Damaged: A mottled black cloak that constantly whispers incomprehensible gibberish when worn. Normally a cloak of this type muffles it's bearer's movement, however this one does not reduce the sound of the bearer's movement in the slightest, in fact the whispering is noticeably distracting. The cloak could probably be repair by a skilled artificer or mage with a knowledge of magical items.

A black, hooded cloak that looks mundane in every single way when the hood is down. When the hood is up observers can only see the bearer’s eyes which are surrounded by a black, star-filled void.

[autumnslance]

"In the five years following your sudden disappearance from the Carteneau Flats, your ever-faithful chocobo spent each waking moment galloping across the realm in search of [his] lost master. [His] myriad adventures are nothing less than fantastical and heartbreaking...but that is a story for another day." - Legacy Chocobo mount description.

((Animal love, loyalty, and those bonds woven by fate. So there’s some animal angst and injury, but also a happy ending. Crossposted below for those who prefer Tumblr:))

“I need you to stay here,” her person said, rubbing her beak and scratching the white feathers of her neck.

She kweh’d softly, not liking the request but because he had asked it, she would obey and listen for the whistle binding them together, when he needed her to come to his aid.

The not-a-moon hung low and burning in the sky. The land’s aether tasted funny, the smells of nature were all wrong. Any creature with sense hid as fiends roamed.

People had little sense, she’d found. Especially her person; in his armor, his axe pulled from his back, he would throw himself into the fray with a shout to fight anything that harmed others. Normally, she would be right there with him, beak and talon and wings alongside his weapon, helping him.

“That’s my Snowlight, my good girl,” he crooned, leaving a kiss on the end of her beak before turning to join his comrades.

She had been injured in their last fight, trying to keep him safe, and so she couldn’t join him in this one but he still said she was good and that was what mattered.

She kweh’d encouragement after him, satisfied he turned back to wave one more time, before joining all the other people leaving to fight.

—-

The not-a-moon broke apart and released Horror. There were flames and pain and ear-splitting roars.

The stables were on fire.

Snowlight was too injured to fight, but not too injured to herd the frightened silly-headed carriage chocobos out of the flames. Not too injured to find the coughing stablemaster, knock a fallen beam aside, and herd him out, too. She even found one of the barn kittens, confused and afraid, carefully picking it up in her beak like a chick.

Snowlight was a good girl. Her person helped others, and so would she.

The Horror was over the field where she knew her person was. It was malms away and he hadn’t called but her heart fluttered wildly and she ignored the grooms and handlers to dash through the burning woods.

He needed her, she couldn’t let him—

The world went white, then red, then white again, and finally black.

—-

The world’s aether tasted thin and strange, like weak juice left out too long.

She pulled herself out of the little hollow of debris and ash, casting a cure on instinct at the twinges in her wings and legs and neck, the injury on her side--the one that had kept her in the stable to begin with--throbbing again. The cure helped.

Snowlight blinked, trying to get a sense of where her person was, the location of the whistle attuning them to one another.

She couldn’t find it.

She shook out her feathers and limped on to where she thought maybe she had last felt it, in the direction he had left with his friends and all the other people, toward the setting sun--though it was currently obscured by angry clouds and more ashes.

Familiar places looked strange, though Snowlight couldn’t really put a talon on why or how. The forest was oddly silent, slow to wake from the disaster. The Elementals seemed especially distant.

She foraged for berries and greens, then slept. She was cautious of water she found but had to drink; the rain that fell later helped a great deal, though it was also heavy with dust and grief. She foraged more, and then slept more under a rocky outcropping.

The pass to the north felt wrong, cold winds blowing from the hills. So she kept heading west, through the less familiar hills, to get to the gloomy place.

Snowlight could always find the gloomy place, especially when the wind blew right. It felt like a scab on the world, the magic—and Something Else—waiting under the lake’s surface. It was an easy place to find, if weird.

It took a couple days for Snowlight to reach the gloomy place; slower than usual, but she was still recovering from her injuries and the paths through the woods were not easy to navigate. There weren’t as many fiends roaming around, at least, and the ones that were could be easily avoided.

The other creatures were waking and coming out of hiding again, too. She was a little less lonely, with the small birds singing.

The gloomy place was more of a mess than usual, a crystal spire piercing the air and giving off waves of suppressed magic. The corpse in the center of the lake continued to sleep but she gave the shore wide berth, both for its slumbering guardian and for the poison filming the water.

Snowlight continued west and a bit south, still not sensing her person, nor had he called for her on the whistle. She couldn’t teleport without the pull of the whistle. Her feet hurt but she kept picking her way through the ruins of machina parts.

She went to the camp for food, but it was empty, the aetheryte exploded in size and twisted in shape, the tents and supplies torn and burned. There were no people anymore.

Snowlight kweh’d sadly, rummaging through the wreckage for anything edible. She was rewarded with burnt gysahl greens, tasting faintly of staticky aether, but it was enough to raise her flagging spirits. After considering the twisty former aetheryte for a long moment, she decided one of the half-fallen tents at the edge of the old camp would be all right for sleeping in. There was still enough man-smell to keep wild creatures away.

—-

“Well ain’t you a beauty,” the big man with the rough voice said. “Fetch a good price at market.”

“To hell with the market,” the skinny man whined. “I’m starved and it’ll feed the whole bloody camp.”

“C’mere—” the scarred lady reached for Snowlight.

She beat her wings and shrieked. The trio swore and threw up their hands to protect their faces.

Snowlight was almost to the terrible place, full of twisted aether and death. The last place she knew her person had been. This trio had come upon her as the noon sun struggled to break through the thick clouds. They smelled of blood and offal and desperation, and she did not trust them.

The whiny man ducked close, so Snowlight leapt and kicked him, throwing him into the lady with a shout.

The big man managed to snag her neck, his arms squeezing. “C’mere you overgrown chicken I’ll—”

Snowlight shoved back and up; she couldn’t fly far with the aether currents so warped, but it was enough to startle him, and now he clung to not fall even the few fulms she had lifted him. She bucked until he slipped off and then she flew away as fast and as far as she could.

There was a whistling noise and a sharp pain in her flank but she swerved and pushed faster, hearing the hissing whistle of more arrows. She fought against the weird currents and her own weary wings, risking crossing a high bank that abruptly dropped into a narrow ravine, almost like a frozen wave of earth instead of water.

On the other side she landed heavily and ran, feeling warm liquid trickle down her leg, the arrow still lodged but loose enough to shift and pinch with every motion. Even so, she pressed on.

She was close.

Spots crossed her vision. She no longer heard the mean people; only the wind. Panting, she stopped finally, swaying on her trembling legs.

Where was he?

She spent a bit of strength to cast a cure, the arrow forced out as the flesh healed. She had to rest, but the mean people might still chase her. And she had to be close to where he was. Surely it was simply the damage caused by the Horror that was obscuring the connection, his call.

He had to have tried to call her. He couldn’t go this long on his own.

There were more people dotting the ruined plain, but they were easy to avoid now that she knew she had to be sneaky. She picked her way through smoldering magitek and torn earth and twisted structures that felt Wrong and smelled Strange. There were bodies, but none of them the one she looked for, thankfully.

A whiff of his scent caught in her beak and she kweh’d happily, seeking more. Still he did not respond, it was merely the scent of his previous presence. Perhaps he was among the people.

She drew as close as she dared to the tents. To the warm, gentle pulse of the Seedseer.

His scent was not among the camp.

Snowlight pondered this as she tried to retrace her steps to where she had caught that whiff. The field was scorched, the ground rippled from the blasts of competing magic. The aftertaste of the old mage lingered on her tongue, though it had a more bitter endnote than she recalled. Snowlight kweh’d again, digging for the scents of her person and his companions, catching hints and traces, but not finding them. Not finding him.

A voice called. She looked up and saw a yellow-clad man pointing in her direction. She turned and jogged away before the Adders could come close. While they would likely be more friendly than the bandits earlier, she had not the time for them.

She still had to find her person.

—-

Snowlight found hiding spots, keeping away from the Adders and adventurers still lingering. The taste of healing magic hung over the camp, competing with the blood and pain.

The camp was the best place to find food, though; this terrible place had none naturally anymore, blasted away or warped beyond recognition.

Snowlight was a good sneak; her person had often said so, when she played the hide and seek game with him. She would hide something he used and he had to find it. It was always great fun. She had also used it to swipe food before, risking a scolding but it was her person’s own fault for trying to deny her treats when she needed them.

Her sneakiness came in handy as she maneuvered herself into the Adders’ flock and helped herself to some of the feed provided. The destriers were too tired themselves to snap or fuss and besides, she could easily fight any of them into submission and they knew it; she was an adventuring bird, after all.

She was careful to keep the others between her and the soldiers, to not let them notice or catch her. It was tricky, given her bright white plumage compared to most army chocobos. But Snowlight was a good sneak, and managed to avoid getting caught. She had things to do, after all, and had to be ready if her person called.

She still couldn’t sense him. She still had not heard his whistle.

Snowlight slipped out of the flock, leaping the makeshift fencing while the handlers were busy. Then she returned to searching the broken plain.

The Adders were getting ready to break camp; there were few bodies left amid the wreckage of the battlefield, few new wounded found. They had worked tirelessly for over a sennight, the Seedseer and the conjurers sparks of the natural world amidst the carnage.

Snowlight returned again to the place where she had scented her person and his friends. She circled around it once more, a periphery she had scratched into the ashes as she tried to figure out where they had gone. How they had gone.

“They aren’t here,” a gentle voice said.

Snowlight warked and jumped, whirling to face the weary Seedseer as she leaned on her staff. Even exhausted, power thrummed through the padjal’s frame, a barely held summer storm. She smiled at Snowlight.

“I think I recognize you,” the Seedseer said. “Yes...I can’t quite recall…” She frowned. “I don’t remember their faces. Their names. But I know you were with them, once.”

Snowlight listened, keeping still. It was only polite in the padjal’s presence. As the Seedseer paused, though, Snowlight asked a tentative “Kweh?”

The Seedseer shook her head. “I don’t know where they have gone. One moment, they were there. I know I must have seen them. But all I remember are their silhouettes in the light. And then…” she trailed off, a perplexed look on her face. “I only know they’re gone. I’m sorry.”

Snowlight chirred in frustration, ruffling her wings. She didn’t understand, and usually the padjali were easier to comprehend than other people. What the Seedseer said made no sense.

“I know, it’s difficult,” the Seedseer said, voice cracking in grief and weariness as she reached out a hand. “But come; we can take care of you, and—’’

Snowlight was a good girl. Usually. The Seedseer was to be respected. Usually.

Snowlight shrieked and reared, flapping her wings as she backpedaled from the startled padjal.

“Wait—” the Seedseer called as Snowlight whirled and dashed, avoiding the soldiers who followed the padjal, who tried to catch Snowlight on their mistress’ command.

A soldier stood in her way. Snowlight warked a single warning before barrelling over and past him, ignoring the shouts.

They were hard to hear through the rushing, pounding feeling in her head, the ache in her heart that already felt like it had run for malms.

She ran up a tilted piece of machinery, a giant wall that had fallen from the not-a-moon and flapping her wings took off, flying toward the boggy saltmarsh to the north.

Her person wasn’t there, but neither were the soldiers, or the Seedseer and her painful words.

Snowlight would rest. She would eat. She would recover. Then she would keep looking for wherever her person had gotten to.

She had to. Snowlight was a good girl.

—-

Snowlight was so tired.

Her plumage was not as bright as it had once been; she had not had a proper grooming in a long time, and injuries and life in the wild had left her more ragged than she had ever been. Her person had often called her the prettiest chocobo in Eorzea, though she looked nothing like that now.

He still had not called. She still could not sense him. She still searched, though; the Seedseer was wrong, and he was just lost. He had lost the whistle in that Horror. He was waiting for Snowlight to find him.

Sometimes, curled up under a tree or in an abandoned building or an old cave, she would sleep and dream of the days they had rode together. Of their adventures, their games, his laughter, his scritches. His warmth as he leaned back against her side while the campfire crackled, his voice as he talked about so many things. She almost never understood, but he had such a nice voice. She missed hearing it.

The dreams were happy, but waking from them was sad. Snowlight stood, ruffled her feathers, and kept looking.

She had sought him out in the ruined reaches of the western marsh and the terrible place, through the gloomy place and its unsettling waiting feeling. Through the Wood, the Elementals barely whispering anymore, rarely waking from their slumber. She crossed the scrublands and burning sands, even risking the golden plains and the lizardmen who rode across them. She picked her way among the rocky mountains, and into the frozen land in the north, the wind and ice aether unrelenting even in the height of summer.

Snowlight was not yet certain how she could cross the strait to the island; it was just about the only place in the realm she had not looked over the last five summers and winters. The Seedseer’s words echoed in her memory again but Snowlight shook them away.

Her person was somewhere. She just had to find him.

She was back in the Wood. She would have to head west past the gloomy place and the salt marsh. If she didn’t want to be caught, anyway; she would have to find a way across the sea that did not involve people.

Sometimes she found people in trouble; beset by fiends or bandits, lost children crying alone, hurt people needing a cure. Snowlight had once been a good girl, and her person had helped people. So she scared off the fiends, fought the bandits, cast a cure on hurts, and guided the lost to safety. She sometimes, warily, took food and rest from those she helped. But then they would try to keep her—or worse, turn out to be mean themselves, and so she left as quickly as possible. Some wanted her for her plumage, some for riding or working, some for food. She wanted nothing to do with them as they were not her person.

So simply best to avoid people now.

Snowlight was tired, and so missed the snare that entangled her feet, triggering a second that caught her wings.

She flailed and shrieked. There was a prickle on her neck and she felt very woozy. It was getting dark again, but that couldn’t be right as the sun had just come up.

“Finally got ‘er,” a man’s voice said from...above her? When had she fallen to the ground? She warked and tried to struggle as careful hands gripped her. “She’s a tough ol’ bird for sure, but once she’s broken in…”

The world went black, and Snowlight dreamed of running across an open windy plain, her person laughing and whooping on her back.

—-

“Gods take you, you miserable bitch!” the stablehand yelled, clutching his bitten hand.

Snowlight just chirred a warning low in her chest, her feathers ruffled up as she glowered at him, beak clacking another warning.

No one here called her a good girl. Snowlight did not feel like being good, when they kept her hobbled and more often than not in the stable. The most experienced hands would put a lead on her halter and let her run alongside them for too brief a time in too small a pen each day. Most of them were kind, and she usually felt bad after snapping at them with her beak, or scratching them with her talons.

But none of them would let her go to find her person, and her person had not come for her here, so she didn’t want to stay.

A quiet presence stepped up behind the stablehand. He turned to the slim young woman. “Nevermind this one; she mighta been some adventurer’s bird once, but she’s gone wild. Don’t like anybody, this ‘bo.”

The woman simply took the lead and approached the stall.

Snowlight turned her eyes to the woman, and her rumbling ceased. There was something oddly familiar here, but Snowlight wasn’t sure what. Tall for the kind of person she was, midnight hair, and…

Snowlight tossed her head and kweh’d, confused but excited. She had caught a scent, a scent she had only ever smelled on her person before! This woman had the same underlying tone; a warm spice that left Snowlight trembling. She barely noticed when the woman snapped the lead onto her halter.

“Good girl,” the woman said quietly, pitched in a way only Snowlight could hear—just like her person used to do, and though this woman’s voice was higher and gentler, there was something in the way the words were shaped, something in the timbre of her voice, that felt right and familiar.

It had been so long since someone had called Snowlight a good girl.

The stablehand was boggled as the woman opened the stall and led a quiet, nearly docile Snowlight out and to the exercise pen. Snowlight paid him no mind; she was trying to figure this out.

The woman led Snowlight to the pen and let her jog on the long lead. She didn’t get fussy or scared when Snowlight stretched and beat her wings. It would be easy to escape any other handler who allowed that.

But Snowlight knew the woman was an adventurer, and adventurers were strong and tricksy. And there was a quiet strength and unrealized power in this woman.

She felt like Snowlight’s person did.

The woman offered her some gysahl greens and scratched her neck just the way her person used to, finding exactly the Right Spot. Snowlight sighed.

She was so tired.

“Been awhile since you trusted someone,” the woman said. Her accent was definitely the same as Snowlight’s person, and the same tone if higher. Her scent was the same too; not just soaps and the smells people put on themselves, but deeper, in blood and bone. When Snowlight peered at the woman, here in the daylight, there were ways she moved, the way she smiled, the color of her eyes, that were the same as his.

The woman let Snowlight run a little longer, putting her through paces using the same foreign words her person used to, the ones meaning “slow down” or “speed up” or “stop” and “go.” She gave Snowlight more greens and pets and then led her back to the stable.

The other handlers were confused, whispering, uncertain. One came close and Snowlight snapped at him out of habit. “Shh,” the woman said. She didn’t scold or jerk the halter, just laid her hand on Snowlight’s neck. “We need to brush you down.”

Snowlight did feel itchy after exercise. Still, she didn’t want the others muddling things up, not when she was trying to figure out this woman and why she felt as right and familiar as Snowlight’s person had.

The woman took her time, giving Snowlight a thorough bath and brushing. She did not let the woman trim her talons though, or check in her beak; not yet. There were limits.

Snowlight’s stall was clean and there was fresh feed and cool water. The handler she had bitten earlier shook his head, hand now bandaged. “Dunno what you did, but thank you. Poor old girl was running wild for years, near as we can tell. One of many who lost their riders in the Calamity, is my guess. She’s had it rough and won’t let folks near—until you.”

The woman shrugged and smiled.

“Well thank you. You’re welcome to return and help anytime.” He was only partly joking.

The woman simply nodded, retrieving her bow and quiver from the hooks where she had left them, before she turned to go.

Snowlight lifted her head from the feed bin to kweh a goodbye to the woman. The woman turned and smiled, waving to Snowlight.

When Snowlight fell asleep that night, she dreamed of her person, as usual. But the woman was also there, her laugh joining his.

A couple days later, Snowlight was kicking a ball toy in her stall, bored until it was time for the handlers to come take her to exercises again. She stopped kicking the ball and perked up at hearing a certain step, catching a certain scent. She kweh’d toward the quiet presence entering the stable.

“Hello,” the woman said to Snowlight. “Did you want to train again?”

Snowlight kweh’d and ruffled her feathers happily. She liked this quiet woman who reminded her of her person. She thought perhaps they were from the same clutch. After all, Showlight could tell when two chocobos were related, and while people were different they had their own families too.

The woman hung up her weapons and picked up the lead rope. Snowlight allowed the woman to guide her out into the exercise pens and they played for well over a bell. Then the woman bathed and brushed Snowlight again, before bringing her back to the stall, freshly cleaned by the other handlers.

The woman stroked Snowlight’s beak. “Good girl,” she said.

Snowlight preened.

The stablemaster was nearby and shook his head. “No one’s been able to get near that bird for moons. You come along and she’s docile as anything.”

The woman shrugged. “I didn’t do anything special; just treated her nice.”

“All any of us tried,” the stable master sighed. He peered at Snowlight. “She ain’t changed her attitude to the rest of us, neither.”

“I should be back in a few days,” the woman said. “I can help again then.”

“We appreciate it,” he said. “Maybe she’ll calm down with repeat visits from someone she trusts.”

The woman nodded, and gave Snowlight one last scritch before heading out once more. She turned and waved again when Snowlight called to her. That was nice.

—-

It had been nearly a moon since the woman’s last visit.

Snowlight had gotten used to the woman coming by every few days, looking and smelling and sounding so much like her person had; it was like having a part of him back as they trained and played and cleaned up together.

But now, after those handful of visits, the woman had not returned, just like her person had not, and Snowlight was so tired.

She no longer snapped and scratched at the handlers, but now they could not coax her to eat more than the bare minimum, or play, or train.

They were good people, really; they just weren’t hers, and she wasn’t theirs. The people Snowlight wanted simply hadn’t come back.

Snowlight dozed in her stall, ignoring the sunny day and the other chocobos and handlers. Then a certain sound caught her attention, a familiar step. She blinked awake, catching a familiar scent, and kweh’d.

The woman rounded the corner and smiled as Snowlight bounced and trilled excitedly. The stable master followed, smiling too.

“Can’t say you don’t deserve it, though you sure this is the bird you want?”

The woman nodded, a giddiness to her usual calm presence that made Snowlight even more excited, too, though she did not know why. “I think she and I get along just fine,” the woman said to the stable master, turning finally to Snowlight. She scritched Snowlight’s neck. “I even have a name picked out. My brother and I used to come up with them as children, when dreaming of having our own chocobos.”

“Well much luck to you both,” he said, holding out his hand.

Snowlight trembled with excitement when she saw what he held; a whistle, just like the one her person used to have. The whistle that had tied them together, made her always able to find him--until she couldn’t.

The woman took the whistle, then looked back up at Snowlight. “Do you want to be my chocobo?” She asked, almost sounding nervous.

Snowlight thought about it. She had a person--once upon a time. He was gone now, but this woman was so much like him, possibly from the same clutch...So maybe it was all right. Maybe this person wouldn’t leave Snowlight behind--and if she did, Snowlight would do her best to find her.

After all, Snowlight was a good girl.

“Kweh-Kweh!” Snowlight agreed, bouncing excitedly. She would be an adventuring bird with a person of her own again!

The woman grinned, and after a few moments, the spell was complete and the aetheric bond formed.

Snowlight’s new person led her out of the stable, accepting the fine reins and saddle the stable master offered. “After all you’ve done for Gridania, not to mention taking on Ifrit himself, it’s the very least we can do,” he insisted. “And I’m just happy to see this girl get a fresh start and a good home.” He patted Snowlight’s shoulder. “What are you gonna name her? For our own records.”

Her person smiled. “For a white bird my brother and I could never decide between our favorites, so we combined them,” she answered. “I’m going to call her Snowlight.”

“A fine name,” the stable master said.

“Kweh-Kweh-Kweh!” Snowlight cheered, the last shadow of doubt faded; her new person even knew her name! This was the best day since…

Well, since her first person had chosen and named her.

Her person swung onto the saddle, thanking the stable master again. Then she leaned forward. “All right, girl; let’s go!”

Snowlight dashed out of Bentbranch, her person laughing on her back, to begin their adventures together.

[showrunnerihardlyknowher]

You know how we have pet costumes? Give Jacob one, make him a cute space cowboy😈😈😈

WE'RE BACK BABY

Please enjoy this little ficlet (that was actually my 3rd attempt to write a fluffy ficlet for this universe because all the other ones kept becoming future chapters lmao)

--

“This is humiliating. I look like sheriff Woody or something.”

“Aw, I was thinking more like John Wayne Gacy, you know?”

“The...the clown serial killer…?”

Angie pursed her lips. “Wait, who was the cowboy guy in all the old movies? Like, before Clint Eastwood and whatever.”

“That’s John Wayne. Not John Wayne Gacy,” Jacob tugged at the sleeves of his costume and readjusted his cowhide vest. “And I don’t feel anywhere near as cool as him right now.”

She rolled her eyes and crinkled her nose. “That’s because you’re not cool. You’re a grown man playing dress up with a kindergartener.”

“So are you.”

Angie straightened her Native American headpiece and threw one of her braided pigtails behind her. “Yeah, but I know it’s stupid, so therefore I’m doing it ironically which makes me cool.”

Jacob sighed heavily but didn’t argue further, instead tugging his cowboy hat down further to shield his face that burned with embarrassment. Being forced into having playdates with his captor’s coworker was nothing new. He had spent plenty of time being Mibao’s sole playmate aboard the ship, doing the best he could to keep the six year girl entertained and not too psychologically damaged. Being the youngest in a sibling group of only boys, he was a bit rusty when it came to knowing anything about kids. Thankfully, Mibao was more than happy to take him by the hand and show up all the “fun” things she used to either do back home or what she would now do with her “kitty”.

Today’s game of choice was dress up. Every day felt like dress up when it came to the girl’s ever expanding wardrobe; she was always dressed in an obnoxiously puffy and sparkling princess dress fashioned with ribbons and bows galore and always with a matching crown. Fine, no big deal, he could slap a tiara on his head and call it a day, he’d worn worse at the few fraternity parties he attended during college. Nope, not good enough. Mibao had a very specific game she wanted to play which involved him wearing a cowboy costume of all things. A very realistic and detailed cowboy costume, assless chaps and spurs and all. Again, he could...handle it for the most part. The only thing that really bothered him about it was all the coos and giggles he received from both his and Mibao’s captors when he finally came out in his new outfit.

And he knew for a fact they took many, many pictures of him.

It didn’t end there, Mibao still had more requests. Angie needed to join in as well and she was required to be an “indian princess” to partake. Naturally, she was more than happy to agree if it meant getting a break from the absolute nightmare of a captor she had been saddled with. So, now Jacob had to deal with the fact that she would have to watch him play pretend in this ridiculous getup. He could never catch a break with her, it seemed, she always had to catch him when he was in the middle of doing something cringe worthy. She didn’t even look half as uncomfortable as him and she was literally wearing half as much clothing.

Or maybe that was exactly why she was so comfortable as she sauntered up to him, making a finger pistol to tip his hat away from his face. “Cheer up, partner,” she teased. “I think it makes you look cute.”

“I think it makes me look like Owen Wilson from the museum movie,” Jacob replied, hoping the shadow of the brim hid his reddening cheeks.

“Oh my God, you are a tiny little twink cowboy, huh?”

“I’d rather be the gladiator guy.”

“You wish you could pull off being the gladiator guy.”

A rebuttal was on the tip of his tongue when Mibao made her appearance from behind the monitor where she had been changing. This time instead of her usual princess attire, she was dressed...pretty much the same, only this time she had a tiny pair or iridescent fairy wings attached to the back. What a fairy had to do with cowboys and indians, he hadn’t the faintest idea. She stopped when she saw the two of them and stuck out her tongue in childish disgust.

“Eww, stop kissing!” She scolded. “You can kiss the princess later, Jake, it’s time to play!”

Jacob had never been more grateful in his life that the creatures idly watching them couldn’t understand English because he just might have died if they heard. He could feel the heat radiating from his nape to his cheeks, putting his hands up in defense like it could keep Angie away from him.

“Wh-no! We weren’t, we weren’t kissing, Reagan, w-we-!”

Angie only cackled, her amusement stemming more from Jacob’s panicked response than the actual accusation of giving him a kiss. “Yeah, cowboy, you can kiss me later.” She winked and nudged him with her elbow as she walked past to where Mibao was waiting.

He groaned, tugging the hat down as far as it would go even if that meant obscuring his vision somewhat. That was totally fine, he didn’t want to look at anyone right now and he did not want to be perceived either. The child was leading them back over to her designated play area scattered with art supplies and stuffed toys for where they’ll play their game of make believe. Angie was already sitting on her knees by the time he shuffled over and beckoned him with a sly smile to come take a seat on the ground next to her. Jacob obliged, but refused to give her the satisfaction of seeing his beet red face.

As soon as they were settled, Mibao immediately launched into the exposition of the scene they would be putting on, including their roles and superpowers (that only she had because she was a magical fairy queen). Jacob was only half listening; the kid usually forgot half of her own rules in the middle of playing anyways because she wanted to change the story and it wasn’t that hard to follow her game of make believe. Instead, he kept side-eying Angie, who was side-eying him back, and every time they made eye contact she would smile and bump his shoulder with hers.

This was going to be a long playdate.

--

The lab door slid open as Talan walked in, peeling off his bloodied gloves to dispose of them in Ylva’s waste bin. “I need my human back.”

“Aw, why? They’re all having a ball together!” Ylva frowned, gesturing to the miniature trio on her desk. Well, the smallest one and Talan’s pet seemed like they were having a good time, namely at the expense of the other human in a hat. They all seemed to stop at the interruption, his human fixing him with a sneer that he was tempted to match.

“What the fuck is it wearing?” He asked, ignoring all the little protests he got when he grabbed it and plucked the stupid looking feather thing of its head. “I thought you said it’s not nice to torment the humans.”

Edix scoffed at him, though his annoyance was more from Talan being in his general vicinity than anything. “It’s not torment. They were having fun.”

Talan did not look convinced in the slightest, his eyes sweeping over the pup who was pouting at him for taking away its playmate and the other who froze any time he breathed in its direction. Like owner, like pet, he assumed as it seemed to unconsciously inch closer to where Edix’s hand was resting for a better sense of security. Pathetic. At least his pet had a bit more self respect and wasn’t afraid to try and stab him in the hand with his own tools. Of course, it got a sharp flick to the stomach to knock it off, but he could appreciate the gumption.

Talan rolled his eyes. “Yeah, looks like a real party. So sad to have missed it.”

“Like you’ve ever been to a party to know what it looks like.”

“Says the one that only hangs out with plants.”

“Okay,” Ylva interjected, rising from her chair and scooping up her adorable little human. “You’re right, we should probably wrap this up, Mibao’s going to need a nap soon and she likes to fight her naps when she’s excited.”

That was all the excuse Talan needed to dip out without a formal goodbye, though it didn’t escape the corner of his eye how Edix’s human took a half step forward when he left, almost like it wanted to say something. Even if it did, he wouldn’t have cared. As quickly as he had intruded, Talan disappeared back down the main hall of the fauna department to return to his lab.

Edix stood up as well and tucked the data pad he had been keeping busy with under his arm to keep his hands free. He couldn’t help but smile at seeing how much closer his little pet was standing to him, even if it wasn’t by much, even though it was caused by Talan of all bastards. A win was a win in his book. The hand the human had been partly hiding behind curled easily around it to lift it up, immediately cradling it to his chest as usual. It squirmed for a moment but settled quick enough, a clear sign it was also ready to go back to the lab it was accustomed to. For a social species, the little one always seemed so drained after any playdate Ylva arranged for their pets. Fine by him, it usually meant his human was much more quiet and well behaved once it was back in the solitude of Edix’s company, making for an easier work day.

He used his finger to tilt back the wide brimmed hat it had been using to hide its sweet little face a majority of the playdate, earning him a surprised squeak. With the way its baby cheeks were turning an adorable shade of pink, Edix had a fairly good guess as to why it was trying to avoid everyone’s line of sight. Damn, he should have had Ylva take more pictures, this was way too cute for him. It reached up to quickly pull its shield back down and Edix let it with a laugh, cooing as he tugged at its little vest instead which only made it wriggle in distress. Overdramatic little thing.

“Can I keep this costume?” He asked as he followed behind Ylva who was preparing to put her own pup down for a nap. In reality, it meant she was going to have to play with it for at least another half an hour because, much like him, she was a sucker when it came to her human wanting to play. The difference being that Mibao wanted to do anything from coloring to singing to continuing its game of make believe while Edix’s pet always wanted to play chase.

Ylva smiled and shrugged. “Sure, I mean, it’s not like it’s going to fit the baby. It was printed for its measurements specifically, anyways.” Mibao was proving to be difficult in its refusal to relinquish the shiny wings Ylva had designed at its request, something that Ylva quickly made a game out of by setting her pup on the desk and letting it squeal and run while her hands chased after it. That would tire the kid out in no time. She looked back at his human and giggled. “I don’t think it likes it very much, though.”

Oh yeah, that was obvious from the get go, but it didn’t change the fact that it was way too precious for its own good in this type of outfit. Edix actually quite liked the contrast of the dark brown against its pale skin, even more given the fact that it matched the color of its doe eyes perfectly. It was much more appealing than that splotchy green jacket it was inexplicably attached to. He had a feeling it was going to try and strip out of this outfit as soon as it was back in Edix’s lab, provided he gave it its normal suit and jacket to change into. But...maybe he didn’t have to offer it its spare set of clothes right away. Maybe it would just have to hang around in its little boots and hat for a couple hours longer while he finished up his latest report that was just so important to get done. And maybe he would get constantly distracted by how cute it looked while it was definitely pouting at him for not taking off its costume that it took a little longer than usual to finish his work, which meant it spent even longer pouting under its hat.

Decisions, decisions.

Edix waved his hand dismissively. “It’ll learn to love it.”

“Oh, Eddie, don’t be mean to it,” Ylva laughed, not that seemed bothered by the idea of his pet keeping the outfit on for an extended period of time beyond the playdate. “But send pictures if you do.”

[ash-rigby]

Thaw (Forest Spirit) [F/F]

Featured Characters: Fat, black female human and a female forest spirit. Both are adults.

Description: On a cold, late-autumn day, Selene walks home from her job in town to her cottage on the outskirts. She is met by her mysterious lover Belva whom she lives with far away from prying, judgmental eyes. Once ensconced in their home, Belva uses her own unique methods to warm her dear human.

Contains: Tentacles, Cunnilingus, Mild Edgeplay.

Completion Date: February 1st, 2021

Word Count: 2737

-

Selene pulled her cloak tighter around her body to try and abate the cold as she walked the trail. It was late autumn, the crisper days on the cusp of winter which heralded the coming snow. The wind picked up the dry, crackling leaves and skittered them almost playfully around her ankles. But it also found its way through every weaker spot in her cloth barrier against it and began to set a chill over her dark brown skin.

The setting sun cast her shadow far before her. She looked ahead and wilted slightly at being unable to see her cottage from where she was. It was still quite far, usually not so unreasonable of a distance for someone as young and healthy as her. Unpleasant weather would dampen anyone’s spirits though.

Selene worked in town as an apprentice to the local cobbler but lived in the wooded outskirts. She had been offered housing closer to her job and she declined each time, but it wasn’t as though she didn’t have her reasons. The first of which was enough to sway people to stop their prying; she had a fondness for her home that once belonged to her dearly departed aunt who had raised her. The second, she feared, would not be as easily accepted and she was glad to keep it secret.

A smaller shadow passed overhead and Selene smiled as she turned her eyes skyward. An abnormally large raven circled above her with slow, ethereal grace. It flew low, so she could see a purple light glint briefly in its eyes. The town was far enough that no one would see; it was safe.

“I don’t think anyone else is out here in this cold,” Selene said.

In the next instant, the raven dipped back out of sight. There was a great sound like a flurry of a dozen birds taking flight. A tall presence moved in at Selene’s right and a massive black wing blocked the wind on her left.

“Indeed. Dreadful weather for the featherless,” Belva said. Her voice was unearthly but calming. Two feminine voices spoke as one at different registers, both with an echoing quality as if she were perpetually traversing a cave.

Selene looked up at the creature, her gaze traveling up the long, feathered neck to her head; a collection of several, overlapping raven’s wings obscuring the top half of a ghostly pale-skinned woman’s face. Belva was haloed by the orange glow of the retreating sun shining brightly behind them. Her facial wings shifted as a poised smile upturned her lips.

“It’s why I keep you around,” Selene teased. She stepped closer to Belva, receiving a dark grey, talon-like arm and hand around her shoulders. Deep contentment washed over her as she was tucked against the soft fabric of black and gold robes.

“I should hope that’s not the case,” Belva said fondly. “Or else I’ve plainly misinterpreted quite a lot.”

‘Quite a lot’ indeed; nearly a lifetime in fact. Selene recalled seeing Belva on occasion in her childhood. A similarly young forest spirit keeping her distance and peeking out curiously from bushes to observe the human playing in the garden. Selene never feared her but refrained from calling to her and possibly scaring her off for good. It made Selene feel at ease in a way, to have a spirit of sorts watching over her.

When she reached her teens, she started to find gifts that she rightfully assumed to be from her guardian. Small, shiny trinkets and crowns woven from flowers Selene had never seen before would appear on the doorstep overnight. It took some time, but with Aunt Ismena’s help, she learned how to make sweet rolls and other treats to leave for the spirit. The basket she left them out in the first time disappeared and returned a few mornings later along with Belva’s usual presents.

This simple, shy, wordless exchange went on for months until Belva finally found the courage to step out of the shadows and formally meet Selene. The two girls were fast to become close, wiling away many days together. They would picnic outside the home, venture for hours into the woods, and stay out to watch each star come twinkling into existence in the darkening sky. Selene came to know happiness like no other, finding Belva filling an empty space in her life she hadn’t previously noticed the existence of.

The spirit’s friendship got her through much, especially when the desolating day arrived that Ismena passed after growing suddenly ill during an arduous winter. The darling woman was all the family that she had left, and the loss sat heavily with her for a long while. Belva left her home in the vast, enchanted wild to take up a permanent residence with the grieving human.

As snow flew and blistering winds howled, Selene’s broken heart was tended by warm, all-encompassing wings and a loving voice. It slowly came back together, whole but still aching. Not with sorrow; with a yearning that reached out for Belva. She and the spirit embraced it. Now as lovers, they enjoyed their woodland solitude away from prying eyes that may look darkly upon a union between human and creature.

Selene was taken from her reverie by the sound of Belva idly humming to herself.

“Did anything interesting happen today?” she asked, and the soft melody ceased.

“Nothing earth-shattering,” Belva said. “Though that stray dog tried to dig up your bulbs again. I persuaded him away with my beak.”

Selene laughed. “Well, that shouldn’t be a problem for long. The ground will be frozen soon.”

“As will you in a few moments. Let’s hurry along; I’ve got a fire going back at home.”

Belva ushered Selene the rest of the way up the trail and to their sequestered cottage. It was a modest, but cozy dwelling; pale brick with a dusty green door. Wisteria vines grew across the home’s facade, bare due to the season and elegantly reaching their twisting, tendril fingers over the masonry. Belva opened the door, allowing Selene to enter first before ducking her head through the entryway.

Warmth enveloped Selene and she sighed in relief. She removed her cloak, placing it on a hook by the door. But as she moved to take off her boots, Belva’s hand stopped her.

“Allow me; go and sit,” the spirit said, gesturing to the armchair situated close to the fireplace.

Happy to be off her feet, Selene obliged. The flickering, golden light from the fire was inviting. One of the logs cracked and sent glowing embers floating up the chimney as she crossed the living room floor, the old boards creaking slightly under her. She sunk into the soft cushions of the chair and Belva wasn’t too far behind her.

The spirit knelt before her, holding out a clawed hand. Selene lifted her right leg and placed the heel of her foot in Belva’s palm. Each boot was gingerly removed, sliding down off her calf. Her socks were next, tossed to the side on top of her discarded footwear. Belva took a moment to rub a few tender circles with her thumb over Selene’s ankle.

The human’s leg twitched involuntarily and she made a half-heartedly annoyed whine—though the smile never left her face.

“Stop,” she drawled. “That tickles.”

Belva chuckled lowly, guiding Selene’s foot onto the floor. She shuffled forward between legs that spread to accommodate her. Kneeling hardly detracted her height; even from the floor, the top of her winged head cleared Selene’s. Her neck dipped down, her face inching closer as she leaned in.

“Apologies,” she whispered, her breath ghosting over Selene’s lips seconds before she met them with her own. The kiss started chastely, but they were drawn deeper into each other before long.

Selene’s hands went to the back of Belva’s neck, her fingers lightly digging into the thick feathers. Within moments, she felt hands moving under her shirt and working at her breast band. The long fabric wrap came loose and was stripped from her. Belva then moved to the button on her pants, an eagerness beginning to betray her slow approach. Selene smiled against her before pulling away.

“Taking off my clothes? A bit counterproductive to getting me warm,” she said.

“Are you that averse to alternative methods?” Belva asked.

“No.”

Selene assisted Belva in taking off her pants, lifting her hips off of the chair. Her undergarments were soon to follow and she was left reclining in just her loose-fitting white shirt. Clawed hands gently hooked behind her knees, spreading and raising her legs.

Belva’s head descended lower and she brought her lips to the soft, rounded flesh of her lover’s stomach. She traveled with her kisses over pale stretch marks and other blemishes that she would never allow Selene to even think of calling imperfections. Because there wasn’t a single part of her that Belva didn’t adore.

Her affections moved inward from where they had strayed to her lover’s thighs. Selene’s breathing picked up as the spirit’s mouth slowly drew closer to where she needed it. By then the anticipation of what was to come had stoked a spark of her desire into a flame. A whimper escaped her at the first touch of Belva’s tongue against her pussy.

The spirit broke away only for a second to smile and say, “Adorable.”

She delved back in, licking a steady stripe up over wet folds before circling Selene’s clit. The slick muscle worked the swelling, sensitive bud. Her motions stayed languid and meticulous, but it wasn’t long until she had Selene gasping and mewling. She dug in with her lips and tongue, practically burying her face into yielding flesh.

Heat rose over Selene’s body, sweat glistening in the light of the fire. Her legs trembled in Belva’s hold as pleasure seemed to pulse out from between them to all of her extremities. She tightly gripped the armrests, moaning and praising her lover.

It should have been embarrassing how easily and quickly the spirit could reduce Selene to such a state, but there was no helping it. Not when that clever tongue was lapping against her and Belva kept making those satisfied noises like a starving woman unabashedly enjoying a delicious meal. The vibrations of such low, near-groans sent shivers up her arching spine.

Selene cried out, feeling herself suddenly hanging by a quivering thread over the edge.

“B-Bel, I’m about to—ah—I’m—!”

Belva stopped. She retracted her tongue, dragging it over the bottom lip of her cheeky grin before letting it disappear into her mouth. “Not yet…not like that anyway.”

Selene’s pussy had been left throbbing, wet with more than Belva’s saliva. Her head dropped to the side as her chest heaved and her fingers uncurled from the upholstery. If she had not known what the spirit meant, she would have gotten quite snappish. But even with that, she couldn’t help but whine as the tight coil of her impending orgasm loosened itself instead of springing free.

She felt Belva’s hands smoothing down her legs. A padded thumb found its way to her clit, brushing over it and making her yelp with the shock of pleasure it sent through her. It happened again, over and over until she was moaning and shaking under the simple, repetitive touch. She was nearly cumming again when Belva moved on, massaging her way up her dear human’s sides.

“My, how you still tremble, love,” the spirit said in a slow, sweet yet still impish tone. “The cold must run deep.”

Selene caught her breath, biting her lip and smiling in excitement. “Maybe you need to go after it, then.”

“Perhaps I shall.”

Belva raised her head. A purple glow moved in a sort of slitting motion from left to right across the center of her neck. The black feathers there parted, opening into a fang-filled second mouth. A great maw housing countless, long tentacles that immediately slipped out over the deadly-looking teeth and reached for Selene.

Four of the appendages wrapped around her spread thighs. The rest moved forward, filling her entire lap with a hot, writhing mass. A more timid human might be awash with horror at the sight, but Selene found deep arousal in this eldritch side of her love. A sign of the dark, primal magic swirling beneath Belva’s elegant beauty. Limbs and teeth made to devour lesser creatures bringing themselves to her flesh but instead searching to satiate carnal desire. Always gentle; never a chance of bringing her harm when they very clearly could.

Selene groaned as she felt two of the tentacles, fully out of sight among the others, begin to tease her. One dug into her folds, stroking in alternating stripes and circles while the other rubbed at her clit. Another three snaked upwards, cresting the curve of her stomach and traveling under her shirt. They caressed her breasts and nipples before one continued further and popped out of her collar.

It ran gently up the side of Selene’s neck, making her shiver as it traced the shell of her ear and moved along her jaw. The tip graced her bottom lip, requesting entrance. She opened her mouth to it and lolled her tongue around it with a gratified moan. It probed shallowly, twisting and lightly thrusting as she licked and sucked at it.

While continuing to stroke her clit, Belva’s tentacles made to move deeper. At least four of them twisted around one another. The thickened, slippery limb pressed against Selene’s twitching hole, making her gasp as it teased around the rim. Seconds before she could beg for it, the tentacles pushed inside of her. They slowly claimed her passage, writhing its way through her walls.

Belva knew well how far she could go and paused there. She gave a contented sigh as her tentacles sat still inside her lover.

“Hmm, I believe you’ve tricked me,” she said in false musing. “I can’t seem to find where the cold is plaguing you at all.” Her voice dropped to a low, aroused register. “You’re warm inside…pulsing around my little friends.”

Selene was unable to give any sort of playful response, weak to Belva describing her body’s reactions back to her.

“Mmm…it’s hot,” she said, dazed and wanton. “I’m melting.”

“Then we’ve done what we set out to do…not that I would dare to stop now.”

The tentacles inside Selene slid back through her, pulling breathy moans from her lips. They plunged back in and began their rhythmic thrusting. It wasn’t a quick or violent motion, but the passes went intimately deep. The feeling of being so completely filled coupled with the relentless stroking against her throbbing clit was dizzying.

Her hips canted and shifted as much as her position would allow, shaking along with the rest of her body. “Belva…oh, Bel!”

The spirit took both of Selene’s hands in hers, lacing their fingers together. Selene welcomed that warm, tender tether as her mind threatened to float away. She held on, present for every thrust and brush of a tentacle within or against her. Her vision was a swirl of black, gold-lighted feathers surrounding a pale yet kindly face. Belva’s voice found her through the headiness of it all, telling her with a single word to find her release.

With her heart pounding in her ears, Selene obeyed and let go. She trembled wildly, moaning until she was breathless. Belva’s hands and tentacles paused and simply held her through it. She slumped bonelessly into the chair, her panting turning to light laughter as euphoria rushed to her head.

Belva exited her, slowly retracting all of her tentacles back into her second mouth and banishing it in another flash of purple light. She stayed on the floor, shifting so that she could lay her long neck and head over Selene’s torso. Saying nothing, she waited with endless patience for her lover to catch her breath.

Selene’s fingers went into Belva’s feathers, slowly petting through them. Though tired, she said, “I…should take care…of you now.”

Belva chuckled. “Later, love. I’m quite content here, I assure you.”

Deep relaxation visibly settled into her body. She started to hum, quiet and melodious. Selene’s calming heart warmed, thankful for such companionship in a home that would otherwise feel cold, sad, and empty. She stared into the fire and held her lifeblood close.

End

Masterlist

[adventuresofalgy]

As the tide was exceptionally low, a universe of intriguing rock pools - which, much like the universe overhead, was only sometimes visible, being at other times obscured by water - had been temporarily exposed to view, and Algy explored this wonderful micro-macrocosm with glee, stopping frequently to perch by the edge of a particularly interesting pool and gaze into the miniature world below.

Choosing a rock which he hoped was free of the spiky barnacles that prickled his tail feathers, Algy perched rather precariously on its edge and peered down on the forests and plains of an enchanting underwater country, which was populated by many tiny creatures intent on businesses of their own, largely unaware of his presence.

He reflected that the rock pool universe was not unlike the tumblrverse - a huge and diverse collection of little worlds linked by common elements and containing countless creatures who interacted with one another to a greater or lesser extent, each experiencing much the same conditions of life but in different ways. Some tumblr folk were like the tiny fish who darted about boldly with great energy, some were like the adventurous hermit crabs who moved around slowly exploring their world in detail, and others remained hidden within their shells like the limpets, whether from bashfulness or fear, concealing themselves from the crowd...

One of Algy’s friends had remarked very recently on the apparent reduction of communication between tumblr folk of late, and as he studied the rock pool Algy wondered to what extent this was the effect of the horrible Covid pandemic which had brought such misery, stress and grief into the lives of so many people...

Algy knew that even those who were not directly affected by illness or bereavement had suffered extended periods of loneliness, isolation and anxiety as a result of the endless restrictions and lockdowns, as well as fear of the potential effects of the illness on themselves or their families and friends. And he knew that humans who suffer these things very frequently begin to shut themselves up like the limpets, even at times when they are perhaps most in need of comforting contact with others. Indeed, he has seen some sad evidence of this on some of the blogs he follows...

So today Algy would like to extend the fluffy wing of friendship to you all 😀

Algy himself experienced some strange mental aberrations during his absence from tumblr, and he understands how these effects tend to reinforce isolation, but - to his joy - he has found that by re-establishing contact with all his wonderful tumblr friends around the world his inherent fluffiness has been restored. So Algy hopes very much that if you are also suffering in this way, you too will be able to benefit from renewing friendly interaction and communication with other members of the tumblrverse, and will share your own posts once again as well as enjoy, “like” and comment on the amazingly varied impressions and expressions which are shared by others...

And don’t forget that Algy’s birthday party next weekend, on Saturday 13th March, will provide a happy opportunity to participate, as Algy will be celebrating on his sideblog @lovefromalgy​ with a joyful and fun-filled day of posting submissions and reblogging creations by his friends - and by all who would like to participate😀 So if you have been feeling like a limpet, please do come out of your shell and join in. Everyone is welcome 🎉🎉🎉

Algy sends you all his fluffiest of hugs, and one of his favourite poems about friendship:

Like a quetzal plume, a fragrant flower, friendship sparkles: like heron plumes, it weaves itself into finery. Our song is a bird calling out like a jingle: how beautiful you make it sound! Here, among flowers that enclose us, among flowery boughs you are singing.

[Algy is quoting part of an ancient Aztec poem, which he believes to have been written by Nezahualcoyotl, King of Texcoco in the 15th century.]