#dispatches from the crossroads

[treviso-nights]

by blood & thread - crow!rook/lucanis oneshot (rookanis)

word count: 4.7k rating: M (tw: blood, gore) summary: lucanis stitches up crow!rook after a near-fatal battle. there's blood, tension, and a confession slipped out like an apology. somehow, it ends soft. (suuuper angsty. takes place directly after 'blood of arlathan')

:)

The sound of the Venatori’s dagger slicing through flesh was a whisper amidst the cacophony of their fleeing.

A child. They’d had to hold the eluvian open because an elven child, no more than ten, had fallen behind. It would’ve been all right if they’d made sure every defeated Venatori was actually dead, but in the haste of trying to usher several dozen Dalish elves through one of the forest’s magical mirrors, time had been scarce. No sooner did Rook escort the child through herself did a half-eviscerated Venatori soldier pick himself up and launch a throwing dagger into her belly. It hadn’t mattered though… only the rescued had mattered, along with how close they’d all come to being wiped out by Elgar’nan…

Rook’s grunt of pain went largely unnoticed—save for Lucanis and Bellara at her side—the former of which blanched in alarm.

“Go,” she forced out through gritted teeth, speaking to her companions and the child alike. “Get the Dalish somewhere safe! Find Neve and the others and take them all through the eluvians. Don’t stop until you can find someone to put them up for awhile.”

Bellara’s terrified expression belied her next thought. Her trembling hands were already glowing, preparing to cast magic as she took in the blade buried up to its plain, polished hilt. “Rook, no. Let me heal you now—”

The request was promptly interrupted by Crossroad guardians, their metallic bodies shimmering with fury as the large group of refugees darted down a walkway. Rook, Lucanis, and Bellaris took to dispatching them at once while the rescued Dalish elves looked on in dismay. Where Rook fought, blood splatter slicked the ground, viscous and bizarrely saturated in the gray of the Fade’s atmosphere.

“Bellara,” Rook nearly growled, jamming her shortsword into the spirit’s neck. Her next inhale was a gasp. “Get. Them. Out. Of. Here.”

Protest was written all over Bellara’s face, but she nodded, squaring her shoulders. “Lucanis, get Rook back to the Lighthouse. The Vi’Revas is about a mile away—it’s faster if you run.” Loose, damp strands of dark hair were plastered to her neck. “Please tell me you can still run, or I’m going to have to—”

“She can run,” Lucanis replied. After sheathing both daggers, he closed in, slinging one of Rook’s arms across his shoulder.

“GO!” Rook urged again. When she and the other elves were far enough away, a groan unwillingly left her as Lucanis held her body to him, supporting Rook’s weight.

“If the blade severed an artery, you won’t even have minutes,” he murmured, hobbling them down the main walkway. “I don’t think it did, though.” Glancing down to make sure, Lucanis quickly gauged the severity of the wound. “Based on the angle of the entry wound, we should have enough time to get you back and put some stitches in you before Bellara or Emmrich gets back.”

“Great,” Rook hissed. “I’m so looking forward to the tremendous lack of pain relief.”

The path beneath their feet slowly began warping, shifting from cobblestone to grass. A signal that they were already one-third of the way back, though the two Antaam soldiers barring the corner they had just turned around clearly begged to differ. 

“For fuck’s sake!” Rook cursed, lunging out from beneath Lucanis. Swearing, he barreled forward, and his expression was a thunderstorm, all harsh lines and unforgiving fronts. With the two fanning out in opposite directions, dividing the Antaam was easy. Lucanis was deadly, whirling with rage rather than precision, each dark eye narrowed in on his target. 

Rook, meanwhile, took to her knees, biting back a cry of pain at the impact. She swiftly delivered several slashes to the Antaam’s gut, fresh gore splattering the side of her neck. He toppled forwards, forcing Rook to clumsily scramble away on an even bloodier ground. The red was everywhere—on her clothes, her hands, in her hair. She wasn’t able to stay horrified for long though, as Lucanis was crouched beside her in an instant, breathing laborious.

“On your feet,” he urged. 

The command was impossible. She felt so incredibly heavy.

“Please,” Lucanis begged. His umber-brown eyes were wide with anxiety. “I need to get you away from here.”

Like Bellara, Rook wanted to protest, but the palpable fear radiating off his body just served to close her mouth instead.

“With me,” he said. “One, two, three.”

They didn’t get far off the ground at all. Rook was too weak, too limp to hold herself upright. And as Lucanis pulled, she was unable to swallow the scream that tore through her throat. Stiffening immediately, he lowered them back to the ground.

“I don’t mean to scare you,” Rook sputtered slowly, “and I’m only telling you this for triaging purposes, but I’m starting to feel cold.”

She watched the anathema land, settling deep, as she knew it would against an experienced assassin.

Panic entered his gaze one moment before it was forcefully banished. “Consider me scared,” Lucanis said. He grumbled deep in his chest, paralyzed by the instinct to flee. Each breath was uneven, as though he was the one who couldn’t get enough air, though his expression was carefully smoothed of any terror. A mask.

“Save… HER.”

Purple light exploded from the First Talon, drenching both their foreseeable environment and them in it. As the air around them pulsed, warping their surroundings, magical aura began to gather around Lucanis as his two-toned voice sounded off again.

“SAVE. her. NOW,” Spite demanded.

Spite’s possession retracted enough for Lucanis to peer down at Rook’s face, at its pale and sickly hue, the blood rushing out of her lovely tawny skin. “Rook?” Lucanis asked, shaking her gently. 

When she didn’t respond, Lucanis shook her again, placing a gloved hand upon her cheek. “Tria?” 

“Here,” she eventually sighed, voice a sluggish whisper. Her eyelashes, however, did not flutter with any discernible movement.

Lucanis swore. “No, no, no,” he chanted. “Please, Rook, just hold on. I’m getting us home.”

“NOW!” Spite bellowed.

At once, wings erupted from Lucanis’s shoulder blades, feathered black and shot through with violet. Scooping her into his arms, and at the behest of Spite’s insistent shouting, they raced through the sky, with swirling clouds of gray, emerald, and beige roiling above them.

“I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before,” Lucanis muttered to himself. “Mierda.”

Rook stirred just as Spite’s unsteady cadence rang out once again. “I DO,” he snarled. “Love. Makes Lucanis. blind and. STUPID.”

“I heard that,” Rook chuckled.

Perhaps it was the internal bleeding, but the unabashed relief on his face when Lucanis gazed down at her helped to warm some of the chill away. “I don’t care what you hear as long as you stay awake,” he replied softly. “You are not dying. Not here, not like this.”

Hopefully not. The dagger in her gut, however, seemed to have other plans, though Rook was doing her absolute best to regulate her breathing and keep her eyelids from shutting closed again. After a particularly lucid moment, she zeroed in on a long, thin cut across Lucanis’s jaw. And although the cut itself wasn’t that deep, it would still scar. She made a little noise of protest at the thought, pressing a trembling, weak fingertip to the corner beside it.

“You’re hurt,” she scolded. “You better have Bellara heal that when she can.”

Lucanis scoffed… loudly. His subsequent glare seemed to be a scathing reproach to the reprimand, but after swallowing whatever it was he obviously wanted to say, he sighed, exhaling roughly.

“No. I think we should have matching mortal wounds to remember this pleasant evening out, don’t you?”

“... Hilarious.” Rook rolled her eyes at the jab, though the gesture was dangerously unhelpful in her attempt to keep her eyes open. Her next blink was lethargic, and she swore under her breath.

“ROOK. stay AWAKE AND. ALIVE,” Spite pressed. “Or Lucanis will be. SAD.”

As the wind tore through her braid, Rook found herself scanning the Crow, the hard lines of his cheekbones, his temples, the little twist his mouth did before glancing down, laying himself bare.

Despite the tautness in his arms and chest, Lucanis’s visage was a portal of stained-glass glimmering in the morning sun. Soft. Sacred. Accepting. His voice, and the musical lilt of his accent, was ever the same.

“He would, indeed.”

xxxxx 

No sooner had Lucanis laid Rook down in the Infirmary Room was he darting towards the nearest cabinet.

“Drink this,” he ordered, handing her a potion. “It should help staunch blood flow before I begin stitching.”

Rook did as he asked, weakly tossing the empty vial away. The blade’s guard, a two-pronged design that stuck out of her like some sort of cadaverous joke, was coated in crimson blood which had long since cooled. The sight was nauseating, and Rook’s head threatened to swim even as the health potion steadied her pulse. 

Before she could vomit, however, another vial was shoved into her hand. “A regenerative potion, for the pain.”

She downed that one even quicker.

“And this,” he added, tossing yet another vial her way as he flitted about the room. “Anti-venom. Those amateurs wouldn’t know a good poison if someone slit their throat with it, but still. Better to take precautions.”

The anti-venom went down less smoothly, tasting bitter and acrid.

“Agh,” Rook spat. She inhaled slowly, pressing a red hand to the dagger’s handle. 

“No,” Lucanis said. “Not yet.”

Dropping to his knees beside the cot, Lucanis unsheathed one of his own daggers, and with several quick and sure slashes, began to cut Rook out of her leathers. He carved with the utmost precision, befitting of a First Talon, and kept one hand against her collarbone, steadying her while the armor was forcibly peeled away. 

The shock of air upon her sweaty, blood-soaked body sent goosebumps rippling down her chest and stomach. Rook was not aware of the little sound she made in her throat, and so when Lucanis froze, gaze flashing to hers, she quirked an eyebrow at him. “What?”

“Did I hurt you?” The question was filled with worry.

Under normal circumstances, Rook would’ve waved it off, deflecting the attention like a well-timed parry. 

This was not a normal circumstance, however. And she had sustained a shit-ton of blood loss. 

Rook rolled her eyes, fixing a stare on the ceiling. “This is not how I imagined you seeing me in my smallclothes for the first time.”

“... Oh,” Lucanis replied, brows crinkling with thought. He continued to cut away the leather, politely averting his gaze from the sweat-stained breast-band. “But I’ve already seen you in your smallclothes before. Plenty of times. In fact, just this morning, in Arlathan. After all, we do travel together, you know. We’ve all seen each other like that.”

When he was finished, Lucanis stowed the dagger beside him and gently shoved what remained of the leather armor away from her belly. The throwing blade–completely exposed now–glinted even more ominously in the lowlight of the Infirmary Room.

“Yes,” Rook said airily. “But you’ve never been the one to take the clothes off of me. Until now, I suppose.”

Lucanis unexpectedly squeezed his eyes shut, drawing her attention back to him. “Rook,” and his voice was a low growl. “I am trying to save your life, and this… that mental image–it is not helping right now.” 

A pleased grin pulled at Rook’s mouth. Why was she grinning? Shit. This was definitely because of the blood loss. “As long as it gets the job done,” she chuckled, warm and fuzzy.

Wait. That didn’t sound right. Warm? Fuzzy? Hm. Rook was either about to die, or… 

“...Did someone put gingerwort truffle into that health potion?”

Lucanis, not making eye contact, nodded. “Davrin suggested it, as the truffles help to enhance base magical properties.” A pause. “Clearly, whoever mixed these together used too much of it.”

“... Ah.”

Lucanis, leaning over to the gathered supplies, retrieved another regenerative health potion. “Here. We have to stop the bleeding before I can stitch the wound. This will help your body to produce blood more quickly.”

Well, that certainly did not sound pleasant. She drank, and then sighed at the trouble of it all, running a trembling hand across her face. “Just tell me when you want me to take this blighted thing out of me.”

A moment later, Lucanis shifted, preparing the gauze, needle, and thread at his side. “Would you like to be the one to do it? Or do you want m—”

With a savage yank, Rook pulled the dagger out of her body.

“WAIT! MIERDA, Rook—”

Horrified, Lucanis expertly proceeded to slap gauze over the newly gushing wound as Rook shouted, “—FUCKING Venatori and their whore mothers!”

Eyes round as saucers, Lucanis gaped down at blood soaking into the cotton. “What did their mothers ever do to you?” 

Rook groaned as he pressed down. Maker, that had sobered her the fuck up.

“You’re right,” she said, freshly enraged. “I should leave their mothers out of this. What I should do is go back there and have Emmrich raise their spineless, useless corpses from abject DEATH so I can level them properly this time.”

For a moment, neither of them said anything else, and Rook allowed herself to breathe. “All right. I think I’m ready to be stitched now.”

Still kneeling over her, Lucanis attempted to smile, though it was really more of a grimace. “Good, because if I keep feeding you health potions and you overdose on gingerwort truffles, Spite would be very, very angry with me.”

Only a foot remained between them, and even half-conscious, she couldn’t help but take the opportunity to luxuriate in the feel of him so close—openly gazing at the flush in his lips, in the churning, nameless emotion simmering behind his deep, amber eyes.

Another moment passed, and Rook looked away. “I’m never actually ready, so, do it anyway.”

Wordlessly, Lucanis shifted, grabbing the needle and thread into his hands. “As you well know, being an Antivan Crow has necessitated that I become good at this,” he said. “It shouldn’t take long.”

Steeling herself, Rook huffed out a sharp breath and swallowed. 

When there was an uncharacteristically long hesitation, she worriedly glanced at Lucanis, and then down at the hand which still pressed gauze to the wound. “What is it?”

Lucanis grimaced. “I’m sorry for this, Rook.” He offered her a piece of twisted cloth. “Bite down. I know this is not your first time being stitched, but it still helps.”

She took it, muttering, “Don’t tell Viago if I scream,” before clamping her teeth around the cotton. 

Perhaps it was the anxiety cracking across her face that compelled him, but Lucanis slowly reached up, pushing back a few loose curls, also blood-stained, from her eyes. The touch itself was so gentle that it did help to calm her, if only minutely. Rook could see it–he did not want to hurt her. But until Bellara or Emmrich returned, there was no other way.

The entire room seemed to hold its breath, and then, he began stitching.

The noise she uttered wasn’t exactly a scream, but it was close. Very close. With every stitch, Lucanis seemed to gain focus, his warm, strong fingers a strange sort of comfort, even as the sensation of a needle passing through her flesh coated her entire body in cold sweat. It was impossible not to tense her muscles–she knew she should try to relax them, but she was so incredibly tired and there was hardly anything more in her world than the pain. 

Still, when Spite’s wings materialized, bursting into existence and splaying wide, there were suddenly tears in her eyes, and for reasons she couldn’t quite discern.

“Spite’s worried about you,” she heard Lucanis murmur, though his eyes never wavered from his task. “I can feel it.”

Rook choked back a sob, completely unwilling to acknowledge the hot liquid seeping down each temple. Removing the cloth bit an inch from her lips, Rook clenched her jaw against the agony. “I’m all right, Spite,” she whispered before promptly returning the bit to her mouth.

And as if Spite had heard this and yearned to reply, no violet light appeared anywhere in Lucanis’s face, though the raven-feathered wings at his back flexed and beat once in an answer.

The fresh blood–her blood–on his fingers was spellbinding in the room’s dim lighting. Another draw of the needle elicited a groan from Rook, and Lucanis allowed himself a singular glance at her, alarm further tightening his expression. 

“Breathe, Rook,” he urged, his honey-voice a soothing balm. “I need you to keep breathing for me.”

Rook’s next inhale stuttered, fractured by pain, though she heeded Lucanis and forced the next breath to be a little smoother than the one before—and the next, even more smooth, until the only thing she allowed herself to focus on was the feel of his hands on her skin, not the needle carving its way through her. 

She only allowed herself to see Lucanis, concentrated and capable, dedicated to the task of saving her life rather than the crimson red blood which had long since crusted on them both—the graceful line of each brow, the bridge of his nose, the widow’s peak which showed so prominently everytime he pulled his hair back for battle.

No doubt due to her Crow training, the pain, though a raging, roaring inferno, was at last shoved to the back of Rook’s awareness, until her jaw ached from biting down and Lucanis’s gore-soaked hands finally tied off the strings. 

Using another cloth, Lucanis wiped the red from his fingers, and then suddenly his hands were on her, calloused and stained and gently cradling her cheeks. “It’s done, my love,” he soothed. “It’s done.”

It’s done. Several more tears slipped from her eyes, trickling onto Lucanis’s skin as she removed the bit from her mouth. Rearing up on his knees, Lucanis suddenly peered into Rook’s face, fully, intently, before the mask he wore finally crumbled away, leaving nothing else there in his expression but reprieve.

And fear. A little fear, just behind the eyes.

“How do you feel?” 

“Tired.” Her entire body felt like sludge, though she no longer felt the threat of unconsciousness lingering behind that fatigue. “So tired. But… better, somehow.”

Lucanis nodded, searching each eye like he could see into her body, her blood, to make sure that she was the right kind of tired. Rook was about to say something else, but then Lucanis exhaled, short and sharp, before pressing their mouths together. 

Their first kiss.

Neither of them noticed that Rook’s hand was filthy when she slid her fingertips into the loose hair near his neck, nor were they bothered by the general ambiance of blood and gore, old and new, quietly settling around them. There was only the overwhelming sense of release and the knowledge that they were alive—that they were both alive…

When he pulled away, she could feel Lucanis shaking. “Are you okay?” she asked him, scanning him for any unaddressed cuts or injuries.

“Forgive me,” he said, sheepish. “I am not accustomed to… feeling like this, after a job.”

Despite the ache burrowing deep beneath her ribs, Rook managed to smile. “Are you finally feeling how the rest of us do when a contract goes awry?”

Lucanis’s stare turned hard. “You were dying in my arms, Rook. I would hardly call that ‘a contract going awry.’” 

“Right…” she sighed. “Not my finest moment. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s just… I get it now. I understand.”

Rook frowned. “Understand what?”

“What happens if we lose.” His thumb stroked over one cheek, still wet with her tears. “All this time, I’ve been so afraid that Spite… that I would hurt you. But then we barely escaped Weisshaupt, and after that, I watched Illario try to harm you, because of what he knew you meant to me—”

Lucanis’s voice was tender as he continued. “Today, I almost lost you again.” He leaned forward, pressing another feather-light kiss to her lips. “And now that I realize what’s at stake, it changes everything, Rook.”

Holding each other’s gaze, Rook uncharacteristically flushed as Lucanis smiled her most favorite smile—the heavy-lidded, easy smile that spoke of utter and complete contentment. The one he gave before their almost-kiss, in his room, when everything had seemed so much harder.

“I’ll do whatever I have to in order to keep you safe, Rook.” And his voice was a promise, the resolve in his eyes a steely, living thing. “This is not going to happen to you again. I swear it.”

Fresh tears tracked down her face, but there was joy in each and every one of them. She returned the smile, leaning into his touch.

“Sleep,” Lucanis whispered, gazing deep into her icy-green eyes. “You should be okay until the others get back.”

“Don’t go,” Rook pleaded, eyelashes fluttering with exhaustion. “Stay.”

“Always. Who else is going to make sure you keep breathing?”

That made her snort. “Thank you… Lucanis. For saving me.”

She was already halfway under, though the distinct sensation of his mouth against her forehead was still noticeable, as were his next words.

“You’re the one who did the saving, Rook.”

xxxxx 

An hour or so later, Bellara hurried into the Infirmary Room. “I’m so sorry we took so long. We had to hop through a few mirrors before we found any suitable hide-aways for the Dalish. How is she?”

“Shh, she’s been out for some time now.” Lucanis finally rose, stretching out the knots accumulated from sitting in one place for so long. He hadn’t been able to bear the thought of moving one inch away from where Rook slept on her cot, and so the evidence of their bloody afternoon—along with the dried blood upon his own hair, skin, and armor—remained a glaring precursor of the day’s events.

Bellara gasped, but wasted no time in approaching Rook’s sleeping form. She took in the cut-way armor, the supplies beside the mattress, and the thin blanket Lucanis had presumably used to cover Rook while she rested.

“Bad,” Lucanis admitted, grimacing. “It was a close call. I had to stitch the wound myself.” A flash of something soft, like regret, passed over his face. 

“She was awake for it.”

Bellara paled, slowly peeling back the blanket. “Creators…”

“I know.”

Splaying her hands over Rook’s belly, green, soothing light illuminated the room, eliciting a long, steady exhale from Lucanis while he watched. 

“Wait.” Rook’s voice was a hoarse whisper.

The green healing spell guttered out, Bellara flinching away from her in surprise. “Rook!” she exclaimed. “What’s wrong? Was I hurting you?”

Rook’s lilac, gore-stained braid wriggled as she shook her head. “Are you able to heal it enough so that it leaves a scar?”

The subsequent tilt to Bellara’s head communicated the mage’s bewilderment. “I’m… sorry?”

From behind, Lucanis stepped forward, a similar puzzlement written across his features. “Rook?”

Rook did not repeat herself but merely awaited, patient. If one were to look closely, however, a mischievous glint peeked out behind her icy-green, silvery bright eyes. 

Bellara was the first to break. “Sure,” she said slowly, deliberating. “But you’re still not going to tell me why?” And it was the little pout on her face was enough to force a Rook’s hand. Rook smiled, a sleepy gesture, and then very deliberately, flicked her gaze behind Bellara’s shoulder, where Lucanis hovered, brows furrowed in thought.

When she finally understood, Bellara’s mouth popped open. “Ohhh.” She turned just enough to join Rook in scrutinizing the First Talon, a feline grin plastered on her face. 

“Malidta sea,” he grumbled, gaze alternating between the two women. “What are you…?”  

Bellara’s subsequent snicker was what eventually gave it away.

Lucanis proceeded to go slack-jawed. “Oh.” But he quickly composed himself, a quirk of the mouth turning up in fondness. “I see. How… sentimental of you, Rook.”

“... I am clearly in the middle of something,” Bellara said, and she didn’t at all seem unhappy about it. “So let me do what I came here to do and get out of your… very unwashed hair. No offense.”

Laying still, the Infirmary Room was again suffused with emerald healing magic, its color and hum so much more vivid in the Fade. As the layers of tissue in her belly mended, Rook’s exhale of relief joined the spell’s song, the sound seeming to draw some of the lingering tension from Lucanis’s shoulders.

A neat, pink line remained in contrast with the brown canvas of Rook’s belly, and Bellara pulled back, satisfaction written on her face. “Is that okay?”

Rook, peering down, nodded gratefully. “Thanks, Bel. And thank you for overseeing the Dalish’s retreat. I know it was… risky.”

At this, Bellara’s large eyes narrowed. “If you ever do that to me again, Rook, I will never, ever, cook you that curry you like so much.”

“Hey!”

Lucanis’s voice was a growl in the back of the room. “Ditto.”

Rook’s tangible shock was only present a moment before Bellara threw herself upon her—albeit gently, with the mage’s arms coming to encircle Rook’s shoulders.

“I was really scared, Rook,” she confessed, the words full of a lingering anxiety. “I’m so glad you’re all right now.” 

Bellara’s cheek was warm where it pressed against hers. Reaching up, Rook embraced Bellara back, holding her for a length of time that was surprising, even for Rook. “... Me too.”

“Okay, then.” Bellara righted herself, clearing her throat on the way up. “Lucanis?” Pivoting, she took in the thin cut across his jaw. “Do you need that healed too? I have enough mana—”

“I’m good. I don’t mind another scar or two.” Lucanis smiled warmly, and this time, Bellara did not miss the quiet exchange of glances between the two lovers. 

“Antivan crows are so bizarre,” she mumbled out loud. “But…” and she sighed, deeply, forlornly. “So romantic.”

Lucanis snorted and began unbuckling his dirty, torn leathers. “Well said. Now, I don’t know about Rook, but I definitely need a nap after all of that.”

Hesitation entered her face. Bellara paused, glancing between Rook and Lucanis and asked, “Do you want me to ask Harding or Taash to watch the Vi’Revas for you?”

“No, that’s okay.” He proceeded to quietly drag another cot across the room while Bellara watched, confusion somehow present in every one of her blinks. 

“I have a feeling Spite isn’t going to hound my sleep anymore,” he elaborated, pushing the new cot directly against Rook’s. Rook’s expression brightened immediately.

“Oh! That’s good then!” Bellara tentatively agreed. A pause. “Er… why is that, exactly?”

Lucanis’s boots thumped on the ground. “Spite is… approving,” he said, settling himself on the cot.

Rook kept silent when Bellara glanced at her in question, another one of those mischievous smiles twisting her features. “... Of?”

Lucanis huffed. He ceased his undress and gestured vaguely at Rook, looking increasingly more comfortable with this line of questioning. “You know what?” he said, suddenly avoiding eye contact. “Forget it.”

Bellara frowned, chewing on the inside of one cheek before—there! The utter adoration in his eyes as he scooched in close beside Rook’s lithe body.

Her eyes nearly burst out of their sockets at the realization.

Lucanis immediately held up a hand. “Bellara—”

“Ohh, my gosh!” she gasped, jumping up and down on her toes. “It’s official? This is so exciting!” Bellara turned back to face Rook. “This is exciting, right?”

He wanted to scowl, that much was clear. Yet, instead, Lucanis found himself allowing the tiniest smile to appear… perhaps because he was tired, or maybe it was that Rook was still alive, and Bellara—along with Spite, after all—was happy for them. 

Lucanis sighed. Tenderly placing one hand atop Rook’s, he couldn’t tear his gaze away from her, the little crinkles at the sides of his eyes deepening with his smile.

“I suppose it is,” he admitted before laying flat, where he would undoubtedly drift off into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.

[kaylovestwd]

Daryl Dixon x Reader x Rick Grimes

Part 2: Crossroads and Confessions

The Georgia sun beat down with relentless intensity, baking the earth and shimmering off the cracked asphalt of the abandoned highway. We were on the move again, a nomadic band of survivors searching for a sanctuary that always seemed just out of reach. Each day blurred into the next, a monotonous cycle of scavenging, clearing walkers, and setting up camp. But amidst the grim reality of our existence, a different kind of tension simmered, a silent, unspoken undercurrent that made the air crackle with a strange energy. It revolved around me, and the two men who held my heart captive in different ways: Daryl Dixon and Rick Grimes.

Daryl. Just the thought of him sent a shiver down my spine. He was a force of nature, a gruff exterior shielding a heart of gold. His eyes, usually narrowed in suspicion, softened when he looked at me, reflecting a vulnerability he rarely showed to anyone else. He was my protector, my confidante, the man who taught me how to survive in this brutal world. He showed me how to track, how to shoot, how to trust my instincts. But most importantly, he showed me that even in the darkest of times, love could still bloom in the most unexpected places.

Rick, on the other hand, was the leader. He carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, making impossible decisions with unwavering resolve. He was the moral compass of our group, the one who strived to maintain humanity in a world that had lost its way. He was strong, dependable, and fiercely protective of those he cared about. And he cared about me. I saw it in the way he always made sure I was safe, in the way he listened intently when I spoke, in the rare, fleeting smiles that lit up his face when our eyes met.

The pull between them, and my own internal conflict, was becoming unbearable. It was a tightrope walk, balancing my feelings for both men while trying to maintain the fragile peace of our group. I knew I couldn't keep it up forever. A decision had to be made, but the thought of choosing one over the other tore me apart.

One sweltering afternoon, as we were clearing out a dilapidated gas station, Daryl and I found ourselves separated from the others. We were inside the convenience store, methodically searching for supplies when a small horde of walkers shuffled in through the broken windows. Daryl, ever vigilant, immediately stepped in front of me, his crossbow raised.

"Stay behind me," he growled, his voice low and dangerous.

The walkers groaned and clawed, their rotting flesh a grotesque reminder of the world we now inhabited. Daryl dispatched them with ruthless efficiency, each bolt finding its mark with deadly accuracy. But one walker, hidden behind a shelf, lunged at me. Before I could react, Daryl spun around, shoving me out of the way and taking the brunt of the attack.

I gasped, my heart leaping into my throat. The walker’s teeth grazed his arm, tearing through his leather jacket and drawing blood. I grabbed a nearby crowbar and smashed it against the walker’s skull, silencing its moans forever.

"Daryl!" I cried, kneeling beside him. "Are you okay?"

He winced, clutching his arm. "Just a scratch," he mumbled, but I could see the pain in his eyes.

We quickly bandaged the wound with a strip of cloth torn from my shirt. As I tended to him, my hands trembled. The fear of losing him, even for a moment, was a stark reminder of how deeply I cared.

"Thank you," he said, his voice rough. "For having my back."

"Always," I replied, meeting his gaze.

In that moment, surrounded by the ruins of our former lives, something shifted between us. The unspoken feelings, the simmering tension, finally reached a boiling point.

"I..." Daryl began, then hesitated, his eyes searching mine. "I care about you, (Y/N). More than I ever thought possible."

My breath caught in my throat. I had longed to hear those words for so long, but now that they were finally spoken, I didn't know what to say.

Before I could respond, Rick's voice boomed from outside. "Daryl! (Y/N)! You alright in there?"

Daryl and I exchanged a look, a silent understanding passing between us. The moment was gone, interrupted by the reality of our situation.

Later that evening, as we sat around the campfire, the shadows danced around us, concealing and revealing the emotions etched on our faces. Rick sat beside me, his arm brushing against mine. He was telling a story about Carl, a memory from before the world fell apart. His voice was filled with a quiet sadness, a longing for a time that was lost forever.

"He misses his mom," Rick said, his voice barely a whisper. "He needs a mother figure in his life."

He looked at me, his eyes filled with a raw vulnerability that made my heart ache. I knew what he was asking, without him having to say the words. He wanted me to be a part of his family, to help him raise Carl, to fill the void left by Lori's death.

"Rick," I said softly, "I... I don't know what to say."

He took my hand, his grip firm and reassuring. "Just... think about it," he said. "That's all I ask."

The night deepened, the stars twinkling like distant beacons in the vast expanse of the sky. I lay awake in my sleeping bag, staring up at the heavens, my mind reeling. Daryl's confession, Rick's unspoken plea – they swirled around me, creating a vortex of confusion and heartache.

I loved them both, in different ways, for different reasons. Daryl was the wild, untamed spirit, the one who awakened a primal passion within me. Rick was the steady anchor, the one who offered stability and a sense of family.

How could I possibly choose?

The answer, I knew, lay within myself. I had to find the courage to face my own desires, to listen to my heart, and to make a decision that would not only shape my own future but also the future of those I loved.

As the first rays of dawn painted the sky, I knew that the time for reckoning was near. The crossroads were upon us, and the path I chose would determine the course of our lives forever. The next step would be the hardest, and the most important, I had ever taken. And I knew, deep in my soul, that whatever I chose, someone would be hurt. But staying silent, staying undecided, was hurting everyone already. It was time to be brave.

[letmedixonyou]

angel of small death

Daryl Dixon x fem reader

+18

summary: you and Daryl were together, lived in the prison with Rick and others, one day you got separated from the group after the Governor’s attack on the prison, you stay in an abandoned church you found miles away

warnings: unprotected sex, oral sex (both), swearing

A/N: for anyone who doesn’t know what angel of small death means: clicky here. Enjoy the story! 😉

„This way!” You heard Daryl yelling at you, and you didn’t think twice. Your feet took you towards him. In the chaos of it all, you felt dizzy and on edge. You kept thinking about Hershel’s death, but most of all you were thinking about Beth and Maggie, and how much pain they were going through. „Come on, Y/N!” You hear Daryl again, and you feel his hand taking yours, pulling you away from the prison and into the woods.

You both run and run, until you stop at a crossroads. Daryl looks both ways, panting heavily from the run and then chooses left. You walk behind him, his hand still gripping yours firmly. You walk for miles on end until evening hits. Both exhausted and jumping at any sound around you. You suddenly see a very high tower, with a cross on top. "Daryl," you say and pull him towards you, pointing up. "We could spend the night?"

"Good spot," Daryl nods. It was clear he was tired, as his movements were getting sluggish and his voice didn't sound firm and loud like it usually does. You both make your way towards the tower, discovering a medium sized church, with white walls and high ceiling windows. You could see through the windows there was some movement inside.

You inch towards the church, scanning your surroundings, Daryl’s bow always at the ready, and your machete out. You can practically hear the snarling of the walkers inside the church, so you dip under the window. Daryl gives you a nod and peaks up in the church, assessing the situation. He mouths to you the number 10 and you breathe out, knowing that you're more than able to take on ten walkers. You walk to the entrance and open the doors, letting the walkers out, and you swiftly dispatch all of them.

You decide to get inside the church and check it out. It was dark and almost felt eerie. The high windows were letting a soft glow of the moon inside. The pews were moved around, probably by the wandering walkers, creating a chaotic atmosphere. At the end of the long aisle was a cross with two golden angels at each side. Huh. You weren't much of a believer, but you could appreciate the beauty of the craftsmanship.

You step closer towards it, looking at the angels and their faces. They looked like they were in pain, anguish almost. They were looking at the cross, ever so slightly, clutching on their hearts. You could see the detail on their faces, the crinkle of their eyes, the scrunch on their nose, even the teeth inside of their open mouths. It was breathtakingly beautiful.

"You alright?" you hear the gruff voice of Daryl behind you. You knew he wasn't very into the artsy stuff but that didn't stop you from sharing your thoughts. He admitted once that he liked seeing you so passionate about things. "I'm just appreciating the art" you say to him and turn around just to see him standing by one of the benches, leaning his back against it, observing you with a gentle smile.

"I could say the same thing," he says, his eyes scan your entire body before he looks you in the eye.

"Very smooth, Dixon," you chuckle, and it echoes throughout the church. You step closer to him and wrap his hands around his neck. His hands immediately land on your waist, rubbing it gently with his thumbs. "You think we're safe here?"

"For now," he says, nodding gently. He looked at your face, seeing your concern, and he squeezed your sides. "I won't let anything happen to you. I promise".

"I know," you say quietly and you peck his lips. You look around the church, looking for a good place to lay down and rest. Your eyes fall on the carpeted platform where the altar was situated. You smile. "That looks semi-comfortable," you nod towards the place and Daryl follows your gaze.

"So it does," he says. You both walk over to the altar and sit behind it, so if by any chance someone decided to break through the stack of the benches at the doors, you'd be out of sight, having an upper hand in defending yourselves.

Daryl leans on the altar, sighing deeply and closing his eyes for a moment, and you situate your head on his lap, using his thigs as pillows. "Comfortable?" he asks to which you nod gently. His hand reach to your hair, gently stroking your head. This was a side of Daryl that only you have ever seen and it only shows when he's with you. It's gentle and soft, so caring. You loved it so much that you could make him feel safe enough to let go of his gruff demeanour.

You rest for awhile, in complete silence, both of you tired from the day's events. Your mind drifts to Hershel's death, to Beth and Maggie, to Rick, and you hoped that they're okay and that they've survived. The group have lost so many people already, and for some reason, every single time it felt as cruel and as painful as it did the first time.

You look up at Daryl, and you see he's already staring at you. A smile form on your lips. You've got an idea... His blue eyes roam all over your face, and his hand stills on your hair. "What?" he asks.

"Nothing... I just..." you say, trying to form a sentence. You pull yourself up to sitting position and look at him. Without thinking about it too much, you put your hand on his crotch, squeezing it gently. "I could use a distraction..."

"Distraction, huh?"

"That's right," you say, fumbling with his belt buckle. His breath hitches when you yank on it, the belt clinks, echoing slightly in the church hollowness. You unzip his trousers, your moves slow and deliberate. Your hand dips inside and you stroke his cock through his underwear. He groans out loud, his head tilts backwards. You could feel him growing under your touch and it made you smirk. You loved the effect you had on him. You lean closer, kissing his neck and pull his cock out of his boxers, letting it spring free.

A moan escaped his mouth when your hand wrapped around him. Fuck yes, you thought to yourself. The sound of his moans made you so wet and so needy. You lower your mouth down, deciding that his dick needs a little bit more attention. You lips wrap around his tip as he sucked the air in sharply. "Fuck," he curses under his breath, which only spurred you even more.

You push your head down, until pretty much all of him is in your mouth and you murmur slightly which makes him grab onto your hair and growl. You began to bop your head up and down, him guiding you with his hand in your hair. The gasps and moans of his made your panties wet and your body hot with need.

"Shit... Y/N," he gasped and you knew he was enjoying it as much as you were. You pull away from him and then you decide to straddle him. He puts his hands on your thighs, his breathing heavy.

"Mhm," you murmur in approval of the sight before you, leaning towards his lips. You can feel his hands moving up and under your shirt, pulling it up to caress your sides, which made you shiver. You kiss him, gently at first but then you add some passion to it. He squeezes your sides, his fingers digging into your skin, and he grunts into the kiss. You move your hands to grip the back of his neck, your hips grind on top of him, causing both of you to breathe out sharply.

You could feel his dick underneath you, knowing he is as horny as you were and it made you want him even more. You grind even harder, a soft moan escape your lips. His hands pull your top off, chucking it somewhere to the side, leaving you with your bralette on. His eyes roam over your chest, hungrily, before one of his hand pulls you closer by the small of your back and the other gently brushes over your breast. The action makes you gasp quietly.

You clash your lips with his again, pulling on his hair gently, and he grunts, pulling you even closer, so your bodies are tightly together. He begins to kiss down your jawline and your neck, leaving sloppy kisses all over it.

Your breath hitches as his lips trail down your throat, sending shivers through your body. His stubble grazes your sensitive skin, the slight roughness a delicious contrast to his soft mouth. You tilt your head back, giving him better access as he nips and sucks at your pulse point. A quiet moan escapes your lips, and you feel him smile against your neck in response.

His hands roam down your sides, fingers digging in slightly as he makes his way all the way down, grazing his fingers at the waistband of your jeans. The heat between your bodies is intoxicating. You run your fingers through his hair, tugging gently when he hits a particularly sensitive spot. He groans low in his throat, the vibrations tingling against your skin.

Your hands move to the hem of Daryl's shirt, tugging it upwards. He breaks away just long enough for you to pull it over his head before his lips are on yours again, hungry and insistent. Your fingers trace the hard planes of his chest and stomach, feeling the muscles twitch under your touch.

Daryl's hands fumble with the clasp of your bralette, finally managing to unhook it. He pulls the garment away, tossing it aside carelessly. His rough palms cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples. You arch into his touch, gasping at the sensation.

"Daryl," you breathe, grinding your hips down against his cock. He groans, bucking up to meet you.

In one swift movement, he flips you onto your back on the carpeted platform. His body covers yours as he kisses you deeply, his tongue tangling with yours. Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer as his hands explore your body. Every touch ignites sparks under your skin. Daryl's lips trail down your neck and chest, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. He takes a nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the sensitive bud. You arch your back, a breathy moan escaping you. His other hand kneads your other breast as he lavishes attention on you.

Your fingers fumble with his belt buckle, desperate to feel more of him. He helps you, quickly shimmying out of his pants and boxers. You take a moment to admire his naked form in the soft moonlight filtering through the windows.

Daryl's hands move to your waistband, looking up at you for permission. You nod eagerly and lift your hips to help. He swiftly removes your pants and underwear, leaving you both completely bare. His eyes roam hungrily over your body as he settles between your thighs. You shiver, partly from the cool air on your exposed skin and partly from anticipation.

He lowers his face in between your thighs, gripping them to keep you in place before his tongue darts out to taste you. He swirls it around your clit, making you moan loudly. He presses his entire tongue to your wet slit, before he starts lapping at it, like he was dying of thirst and your juices were the only thing that could help him. The action makes you arch your back, and run your fingers through his hair. The sounds you were making were a cross of a moan and a whimper. It felt incredible. Just when you thought it couldn't get better, he decides to drive one of his fingers inside of you, making you cry out of pleasure, his tongue playing with your clit. "That's it, let me hear you, baby," he says.

He keeps going for another minute or two, but to you it felt like an eternity. He slowly pulls the finger out and he brings himself up, his body hovering above you.

He captures your lips in a searing kiss as his hand trails down your body. His fingers find your clit, stroking gently. You gasp into his mouth, hips jerking at the sensation. He swallows your moans as he works you skilfully, building the tension coiling in your core.

"Daryl, please," you whimper, desperate for more.

He positions himself at your entrance, looking into your eyes as he slowly pushes in. You both groan at the feeling of him filling you completely. He stills for a moment, letting you adjust, before starting to move. His thrusts are deep and deliberate, each one sending waves of pleasure through your body. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him even deeper. Your fingers dig into his back as you move together, finding a rhythm.

Daryl buries his face in your neck, his breath hot against your skin. You turn your head to capture his lips, kissing him deeply as he continues to drive into you. The church is filled with the sound of your quiet moans and gasps, echoing softly in the cavernous space. You can feel the tension building, that familiar coiling sensation in your lower abdomen growing stronger with each thrust. Daryl must sense it too, because he picks up the pace, his movements becoming more urgent.

"Y/N," he grunts, his voice low and gravelly. "I'm close."

"Me too," you pant. "Don't stop."

He slips a hand between your bodies, his fingers finding your sensitive clit again. He rubs tight circles as he continues thrusting, sending sparks of pleasure through you. The dual sensations quickly push you to cum.

"Daryl!" you cry out as your orgasm washes over you. Your body tenses, inner walls clenching around him as waves of ecstasy crash through you.

The feeling of you pulsing around him sends Daryl tumbling after you. He buries himself deep with a final thrust, groaning your name and a string of curses, as he finds himself spilling inside of you. You cling to each other, bodies trembling in the aftermath.

"Fuck, you're literally an angel of small death," he whispers, which makes you chuckle, as you literally had sex right under the two golden angel statues.

For a few moments, you simply lie there, catching your breath. Daryl presses soft kisses to your neck and shoulder as you come down from your high. Eventually, he carefully pulls out and rolls to the side, gathering you against his chest.

You snuggle into Daryl's warmth, resting your head on his chest as your breathing slowly returns to normal. His fingers trace lazy patterns on your back, sending pleasant tingles through your body. For a moment, you can almost forget the chaos of the world outside.

"You okay?" Daryl murmurs, his voice a low rumble in his chest.

"Mmm," you hum contentedly. "More than okay."

You tilt your head up to look at him, finding his blue eyes gazing at you softly in the moonlight. There's a tenderness there that makes your heart swell. You reach up to brush a strand of hair from his face, letting your hand linger on his cheek.

"Thank you," you whisper.

His brow furrows slightly. "For what?"

"For being here. For keeping me safe. For… Always making me feel wanted”

“You don’t have to thank me for that,” he shakes his head. "I will always make you feel like that. That's a promise. You're it for me. You know I love you, right?"

You nod gently. "I love you too, Daryl"

[vosh-rakh]

Daevos hated it here, this far up the Orange Road. This close to Bruma you started to see snow on the ground year-round. Daevos was from Cheydinhal, blissfully temperate, a proper place where it snowed only in winter. He shivered in his cult-appointed red robes (although these lacked the Dawn’s insignias, for incognito purposes). At least he was on a sacred mission for Lord Camoran, he thought — to find and destroy the final Septim.

Daevos and his cult-appointed partner, Talieron, a rather obnoxious Cyrod from Anvil who at least hated this weather as much as he did, were tracking north. They’d personally discovered the Mythic Dawn’s failure at Kvatch to dispatch the bastard Septim — damn Daedra couldn’t keep up their end of the bargain — and were chasing up the province to seek him out. So far, no luck; just a few random travelers, merchant caravans, pilgrims, and Imperial Soldiers — these latter they gave wide berth, despite their hidden natures. None of the others reported seeing anything unusual from the other direction, except the occasional report of an odd red glow in the distance seen from the road. At least the Daedra were making the most of the situation.

It was near dusk when they came upon a strange trio. Two armed guards accompanied a third unarmed in exquisite finery, their head draped with a thick hood. Daevos greeted them: “Hail, travelers. What news?”

The three stopped. One of the guards turned his head. By flesh and eye he was another Dunmer, like Daevos, but by ear he was a man. Strange. “Can’t say I’ve heard much, stranger,” said the guard. “Wolves about, and Daedra, if you heed the stories. Watch yourselves.”

A normal enough response, thought Daevos. He pushed further. “Are you a noble entourage, by chance?” He nodded at the third, by her dress a woman, but by shoulder a man. Perhaps a woman by choice, rather than by birth, Daevos thought. Or perhaps truly a man in disguise. 

“Aye,” said the strangely-eared Dunmer. “Lady Kalthav of Skingrad. But if you’ve a liking for wealth, I’d advise adventuring instead, lad. Many abandoned ruins to be found along these roads.”

Daevos had never heard of any noble Kalthav family, but then again, he wasn’t familiar with Colovia much. He glanced at Talieron. He shrugged. “No,” said Daevos. “We’ve no interest in your Lady. We’re just lost, you see. Which way to Chorrol?”

“Not this way,” said the other guard, not turning his head. “Follow the road south where you came, and mind the crossroad signs. You’ll find it.”

“Thank you, kind sir,” said Daevos. “We’ll be on our way, then.” 

Once Daevos and Talieron were out of earshot, Talieron said, “They were very suspicious. Why didn’t we accost them further?”

“Because we’re not idiots, Tal,” said Daevos. “Let’s pass into the woods once they can’t see us and follow them in secret.”

“Aye,” said Talieron. 

Daevos was very curious about this “Lady Kalthav.” Perhaps not their mark. But perhaps an interesting target regardless. They would follow her north to her destination, wherever it lay.

[strangesthirdeye]

CHAPTER 8: Crossroads of Intellect and Outlawry

The Cipher Between us

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

3 weeks have passed, The heavy London rain tapped rhythmically against the tall windows of 221B Baker Street, casting gray shadows across the cluttered sitting room. A low fire crackled in the hearth, adding a faint warmth to the otherwise damp atmosphere.

Sherlock Holmes stood near his desk, fingers stained with ink, violin discarded on the sofa beside a half-finished monograph about dust patterns. His latest case - a forgery ring in Kensington - lay unfinished. Something had tugged at his thoughts all morning, like a violin string pulled too tight.

That's when the mail arrived.

"From America, Mr. Holmes," Mrs. Hudson said as she handed him a single, rain-dampened envelope with care. "Looks like your sister's handwriting."

He turned at the mention of her sister. Within seconds, he crossed the room and plucked the envelope from Mrs Hudson's hand. Rain-speckled. British and American postmarks. His name, elegantly handwritten - but with a sharper pressure than usual.

Y/n.

He slit it open with the small blade always kept in his dressing gown pocket. As the paper unfolded, the scent of ashes clung faintly to the parchment, as though the fire Y/n mentioned had reached even across the ocean.

And then he read

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Dearest Sherlock...

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

His eyes moved swiftly over the words. But his expression shifted slowly.

Sherrinford's death.

The lie of a noble end.

The "accident" that burned her flat.

And this stranger - Arthur - who made the one remark that finally pulled the veil away.

Sherlock's lips parted only slightly. His sharp eyes narrowed not with anger, but with calculation. And concern.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

There's a network here, Sherlock.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

That sentence alone made his fingers tighten on the paper.

A network. This reminds him of Moriarty all over again but no. Moriarty is dead along with his network. Surely this is not his work. This is the work of people inside.

Not a crime of passion. Not random. This was a system. Structured. Hidden. Likely military or government-adjacent. And Sherrinford, ever righteous, may have stood in its path.

Sherlock turned and walked towards his desk, reading the letter again as he moved. He did not sit. He stood over his files - Sherrinford's last dispatches, old contacts in the War Office, scattered bits from military correspondence - and started pulling things at once.

He paused only when he reached the line.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Arthur, a man I trust deeply here...

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Sherlock muttered, "Arthur," under his breath. "No surname. No title. Not her style to be careless—so either she's protecting him... or he's truly unknown to me."

A common name. But enough to spark his curiosity.

He didn't waste time questioning Y/n's judgment of character. If she trusted someone deeply, he knew she'd tested that trust. Still, the fact that someone else was helping her peel back the layers unsettled him in a way he wasn't prepared to admit.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

I'd be a fool not to admit I need you, brother.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The line landed like a weight against his ribs. Not dramatic. Not emotional. But honest.

Sherlock folded the letter slowly, pressing the crease with a thumb. Then he sat down, hands steepled in front of his lips.

"Someone feared what Sherrinford uncovered," he whispered. "And now... they fear her."

He glanced at the window, fog beginning to gather across the glass.

"She's closer than she realizes."

He reached for his pen. The sound of a gentle knock came just as Sherlock was sealing the envelope of his reply to Y/n.

He glanced at the door, not needing to ask.

It opened a moment later, and in stepped John Watson - coat slightly damp from the drizzle, a small smile on his face, and bundled up in his arms, a chubby-cheeked little girl with wild curls and sleepy eyes.

"Hope I'm not interrupting anything... dramatic," John said with a raised eyebrow.

"You're always interrupting something," Sherlock muttered without real bite. "But I suppose it can wait."

John smirked, stepping in and setting Rosie gently on the armchair across from Sherlock's desk. She babbled something incoherent and immediately reached for the cushion beside her. Sherlock handed her a wooden rattle - an item he once insisted was "purely decorative" - ​​with robotic precision.

"She missed you," John said, settling into a seat and watching his daughter. "God knows why."

"Children like routine. I am, apparently, a fixture."

John grinned, then glanced at the desk - specifically at the letter Sherlock had folded only moments before.

"From her?" he asked, tone suddenly more cautious.

Sherlock didn't pretend to misunderstand.

"Yes."

John leaned back, eyes sharpening a bit. "How bad?"

Sherlock looked at him. "Bad enough that she no longer thinks like someone mourning a brother, but someone pursuing a murder."

There was a pause between them - Rosie babbled again, swinging the rattle.

"Murder?" John repeated quietly. "You believe her?"

"I don't need to believe her," Sherlock replied. "I only need to follow the trail she's already halfway down."

John frowned, gaze thoughtful now. "And the letter... what does it say?"

"She suspects Sherrinford's death wasn't just a casualty of war or a rogue attack," Sherlock said flatly. "She mentioned a man - Arthur - who made her see that the fire wasn't about her. It was about destroying what she'd found."

"Arthur?" John asked, brow furrowing. "A military man?"

"She doesn't say. Which is unlike her. Either she's protecting him... or she knows I'd find him in five minutes and start making inquiries."

John let out a low breath. "So someone's trying to shut her down."

Sherlock's gaze drifted towards the fireplace. "They're trying to erase Sherrinford. Not memorialize him. That much is certain. Which means he found something. And they're terrified she'll find it too."

John leaned forward, voice lower now. "And she's alone over there?"

Sherlock was quiet for a moment.

"No," he said. "She has Arthur. Whoever he is."

John studied him for a moment. "You don't like that."

Sherlock said nothing.

"Is he a problem?" John asked.

Sherlock finally looked at him again. "He's only a problem if he's not who he says he is. But she trusts him. And that matters."

Rosie let out a loud yawn and dropped her rattle. Both men turned for a moment, watching as she reached for her father's hand with tiny fingers. John smiled faintly and tucked her close to his side.

"She's strong," John said, eyes still on Rosie but voice clearly meant for Y/n. "But don't let her carry this alone."

"I don't intend to," Sherlock replied, already standing and retrieving his coat. "This letter needs to reach her before anyone else intercepts it."

John raised an eyebrow. "You're posting it personally?"

"I'll watch it go into the hands of the courier myself. Then I'll start pulling military records."

"And this Arthur?"

Sherlock gave a small smile - dry, calculating.

"We'll see."

"so you are going to reply her letter now?" John questioned.

"soon. I need to find more information at the War Office first and gather some things that I can help her with before replying to her letter. She needs me, John" Sherlock sighed.

John nodded in understanding.

"whatever she discovers now, she better be quick before those people after her get it first"

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The War Office archives weren't open to the public, but then again, Sherlock Holmes was never just the public.

He stood alone in a dimly lit backroom in Whitehall, surrounded by shelves of military reports, promotion logs, and field correspondence. The room smelled of dust and misuse, of secrets kept politely buried. Exactly the kind of place where truth had to be peeled from layers of polite bureaucracy.

Holmes held a thin file folder in his hands, gloved fingers turning the fragile pages without hesitation.

He murmured under his breath, "Sherrinford, Sherrinford... Fort Wallace..."

He had already searched troop assignments, command logs, and disciplinary actions involving the regiment Sherrinford was stationed with. But it wasn't until he found an internal memo misfiled under transport logistics that he stilled.

A name.

...final escort detail on ammunition delivery assigned to Captain Holmes under the supervision of Colonel Beckett Granger.

Holmes's brow furrowed.

Colonel Beckett Granger. The name wasn't unfamiliar. But not in the way that meant fame. More the kind of name one saw just enough - tucked into footnotes, always attached to assignments with gaps in clarity. Promotions without commendations. Transfers after incidents.

Too clean.

Too quiet.

Sherlock traced his gloved finger down the margin of the memo.

There - a correction scribbled faintly in pencil.

Change in rota guard. Escort reassigned 24 hours prior.

The date matched the day before Sherrinford's death.

Holmes's eyes sharpened. "Someone moved him off his usual duty. Not a random attack - a setup."

And Granger was overseeing it.

He checked another report - an unsigned complaint filed weeks earlier by an anonymous officer. Language vague. Mention of "irregular dealings," "suspected inventory manipulation," and "off-record movements of arms." Filed at Fort Wallace. Discarded without follow-up.

Sherlock whispered to himself, "He was close. Sherrinford found something. Granger knew. And the transfer - wasn't a reassignment. It was an execution route."

He set the folder aside, pulled out a notebook, and began scribbling in tight, neat shorthand. Dates. Movements. Names. Then underlined Granger twice.

Network. Protection. Intimidation. Arson. One step too far.

He stopped.

Then he opened the drawer where he had placed Y/n's reply - sealed but not yet posted. He broke the seal with no regret, replaced the closing paragraph with one more accurate... more urgent.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

You're not chasing shadows, Y/n.

You were meant to inherit silence.

But you inherited their footsteps instead.

Be careful. Trust no one in uniform unless you know their heart. And this Arthur you mentioned - if he proves true, do not let go of that anchor.

I'll be digging further from here. But I fear the next move won't be yours. Stay sharp. They already missed once. They won't again.

— S.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The water was thick with tension. Arthur had saddled his horse early, his brows furrowed with the familiar heaviness of unease. He approached Dutch, who was standing by the map crate, idly chewing on a matchstick as he went over notes Y/n had previously scribbled - routes, watch rotations, timing.

Dutch didn't look up when Arthur arrived.

Arthur tucked his thumbs in his gun belt. "Gonna go get that oil wagon. Figured the sooner we have it, the better for tonight."

Dutch raised an eyebrow, finally lifting his gaze. "You goin' alone?"

"Can handle it. Ain't my first wagon." Arthur replied, waving his hand in dismissal.

Dutch hummed. Something unreadable passed through his expression. He glanced across the camp - where Y/n sat with Jack, sketching something in the dirt with a stick. He turned back to Arthur, a slow, almost amused smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Bring Y/n with you."

Arthur's face tightened immediately. "what?"

Dutch leaned back - eyes looking right into Arthur's eyes. "She's part of this gang, Arthur. She helped plan it. Might as well see her plan put into action."

Arthur glared at him. "This ain't some field lesson, Dutch. That wagon's guarded, probably heavily. You want her gettin' shot?" he snapped.

Dutch shrugged. "She wants to stay, doesn't she? Might as well do what she wants to stay for"

Arthur stepped forward, voice lowering and sharpening. "She doesn't need to be out there. She's not like us. You're draggin' her into something she's not ready for."

Dutch's eyes gleamed in determination. "She's smarter than half this camp put together. Hell, she's sharper than Bill. And I don't see you complainin' when he tags along."

Arthur's mouth pressed into a thin line. "Bill knows what he's walkin' into. Y/n doesn't."

Dutch leaned slightly, eyes still looking at Arthur. "Then maybe she ought to learn."

Arthur stared at him in disbelief. he can't let you go with him. What he did was not for you. The eyes that will see the real outlaw life. It's too risky and Dutch insisted it.

Dutch smirked before his eyes searched for you. And when he found you, he called you.

"Miss Holmes, come here for a second"

You looked at Dutch before looking at Jack and your excuses. You stood up and walked towards where Dutch was. Your eyes looked at Arthur who seemed to avoid looking at you. You narrowed your eyes. He seemed ashamed and furious with Dutch.

You approached them carefully, sensing the tense rising situation. You stopped a few steps away, eyes flicking between both men.

"everything's okay?" you asked them

Dutch turned towards you with a sudden shift of tone - light, even friendly. "Arthur's about to head off and steal the oil wagon. I told him you ought to go with him, see the fruits of all that brilliant thinking you've been doing."

Arthur turned his head sharply towards you. "You don't gotta go. This isn't your kind of job."

A beat of silence. Yeah, you already know this is going to happen, the moment Dutch meets you discussing about going on with what they are doing. Your eyes darted towards Arthur then to Dutch.

Then softly - uncertainly, yet trying to sound steady. "when do we leave?"

Arthur blinked while Dutch grinned proudly.

"Well, that settles it, doesn't it?" he said triumphantly.

Arthur looked at you - really looked at you. Not with anger. Not even frustration. Just... disappointment. A quiet, heavy kind of pain that settled in his eyes and made his shoulders sag. He looked away.

"we leave in ten" he muttered lowly. He turned, walking off towards the horses.

You hesitated - uncertain whether you'd done something wrong.

Dutch, meanwhile, stood with hands on his hips, watching Arthur go with a victorious gleam in his eyes.

"Finally" he said to himself.

You didn't hear it.

Arthur did.

And it only made his fists clench tighter.

The sound of hoofbeats filled the air as you rode behind Arthur, the sun hanging low over the horizon. The trail was dry, dust kicking up with each step of your horses. Arthur rode ahead, eyes straight, jaw locked. He hadn't said much since you both left camp.

You shifted slightly in your saddle, your own horse quiet for once - maybe sensing the uneasiness between them. The silence between you and Arthur wasn't sharp or angry. It was worse: hollow.

Finally, you pushed gently, your voice tentative.

"Arthur"

No response.

You swallow your saliva slowly and try again. "I didn't mean to go behind your back. I just... I didn't want to cause trouble."

Arthur didn't turn, didn't slow down. He just muttered low. "You didn't cause trouble. Dutch did."

That wasn't exactly comforting.

You rode a little closer, your brows drawn in concern. "You think I made a mistake."

He sighed through his nose. "I think Dutch made you feel like you had to prove yourself. And I hate that."

You blinked. That... wasn't the answer you expected.

Arthur glanced at you, finally. "You don't owe him nothin', Y/n. Not me, not Dutch, not this gang. But you stepped into it anyway. And now he's gonna use you the same way he uses the rest of us."

"I can take care of myself." Your voice dropped, soft but steady.

Arthur gave a short, humorless laugh. "You keep sayin' that. But takin' care of yourself means knowin' when somethin' ain't worth it."

You fell silent again, eyes on the horizon.

You both rode for a long while without another word, only the sounds of hooves, rustling brush, and distant crows filling the space.

Finally, the oil wagon came into view - parked near a hill by a couple of guards. The glow of lanterns flickered nearby. Arthur pulled his horse to a stop behind the trees, dismounted, and crouched low behind some brush. You do the same, slowly moved closer to Arthur.

"There it is. Two guards. Maybe three if one's watchin' from the other side." he said quietly.

You crouched beside him, stealing a glance at his profile. He looked tense, tired. Hurt in a way you didn't expect.

You whispered. "After this... we talk?"

Arthur didn't look at you.

"After this, we get back. We'll see what happens after that."

You nodded slowly. Not the answer you wanted - but not a rejection either.

Arthur finally turned his eyes to yours, just briefly, and nodded once - an unspoken truce. Not forgiveness. Not yet. But a start.

Then he looked forward, pulling his revolver free.

You narrowed your eyes. The distance is not far and not close but you can clearly see there are 2 guards on duty with rifles in their hands. You moved closer. Two guards leaned lazily against the wagon's wheels, rifles within reach but their posture loose. A lantern hung on the side of the wagon, casting long shadows. A third man stood a few feet away, smoking.

Arthur was counting bullets in his head when he noticed Y/n staring intently, not at the guards - but at their boots. Then at the ground. Then at a small ridge to their left.

"right, you see anything?"

"give me a moment" you muttered. You shifted slightly, peering through the brush again, eyes sharp and calculating.

Arthur watched you, surprised at how your expression turned from wide-eyed tension to a composed, focused intensity.

"The guard smoking - see how often he glances west?" you whispered.

Arthur nodded, slowly. "Every few seconds."

"He's expecting someone. Or he's been told to watch that direction. Maybe a patrol comes from there." you pointed out

Arthur let out a short breath. "Shit. So we ain't got long."

Your eyes flicked towards the wagon. "The man closest to the front wheel - his boots are muddy. Just him. The others are clean. He's been moving. Probably went to relieve himself, means he's lighter on water now. Less distracted."

Arthur raised a brow, impressed despite himself. "So... what do you suggest, Miss Holmes?"

You swallowed, nodding towards the slight ridge to your left. "There's loose shale on that slope. If someone steps on it, it'll crunch loudly. Use it."

Arthur followed your gaze, understanding dawning. He smirked slightly.

"You're a damn bloodhound." he grinned.

"I prefer hawk. But I'll take bloodhound." you smirked.

Arthur pulled his bandana up, already moving. "Alright. I'll draw their attention from the left, hit the slope, make 'em look that way. When they go to investigate - get to the wagon. Take the reins. Be ready."

Y/n's brows lifted. "You want me to drive?"

"Unless you wanna shoot. You pick."

She gritted her teeth - then nodded. "Drive. Got it."

Moments later, Arthur crept off into the shadows of the rocks. You shifted your position, knees shaking just slightly, but your grip steady. your eyes stayed locked on the guards.

Then, it happened fast.

A sharp crunch of gravel. One of the guards jerked his head up, peering towards the slope.

"what's that sound?" the guard said.

"Someone up there?" second guard added

The third tossed his cigarette and started forward, gun ready.

"now" you whispered to yourself.

You slipped from the brush, low and fast. Your boots hit the dirt soundlessly. In seconds, you were by the wagon. Your hands trembled slightly as you gripped the reins, quietly climbing up into the seat. You glanced around - then saw Arthur break from the shadows, pistol raised.

BANG.

One shot hit the dirt near a guard's foot. The camp exploded into chaos. The guards shouted, raising rifles -

"Drive, Y/n! GO!" Arthur yelled.

You whipped the reins and kicked the brake loose. The horses leaned sharply and bolted forward, wheels rumbling hard across the dry ground.

Arthur dashed alongside, leapt, grabbed the side rail - You reached down and yanked him up beside you.

"That worked!" you said breathless.

Arthur grunted as he landed beside you. "Not bad for your first job, Holmes!"

Bullets whizzed behind you both, but the wagon tore away into the falling dusk, kicking up dust and laughter and adrenaline.

And this time, your deduction didn't just reveal a clue - it got you out alive.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

It was late afternoon when you both returned to camp. The oil wagon safely where it should be placed. You were off in the distance, talking quietly with Hosea and sipping water from a tin cup, your hands still shaking slightly even though you tried to hide it.

Arthur stood a few feet away, leaning on the hitching post, his hat low and his jaw tight. He hadn't said much since they returned - only gave Dutch a brief nod and made sure the horses didn't collapse.

John Marston strolled over, hands tucked into his belt, a crooked grin on his face.

"Y'know, I expected you to come back with a busted wheel and an apology, not a damn intact wagon."

Arthur didn't look at him. Instead, he fished out his cigarettes and lit them and took a puff.

"disappointed?" he blew his cigarette smoke.

John chuckled. "Hell no. Just surprised. I saw Dutch puffin' out his chest like he just won a war." He leaned against the post next to Arthur. "He's really proud of himself."

Arthur grunted. "Ain't hard to feel proud when someone else does the work."

John followed Arthur's gaze to where Y/n stood, Hosea nodding gently at something she said.

"Is she okay?"

"She did fine. Real fine." Arthur replied - taking a puff on his cigarette.

There was silence for a beat. Then John tilted his head.

"So... Dutch really made you bring her, huh?"

Arthur sighed heavily, rubbing his face with his hand. "Yeah. Knew he'd push it eventually. But I didn't think he'd pull that smug act so damn quick. And when she said 'when we leave..." he trailed off, jaw tightening. "Felt like I lost."

"Lost what?" John frowned.

Arthur hesitated. "Something I'm not even sure I had."

John nodded slowly. He wasn't always the sharpest, but he could read between the lines when he wanted to.

"You care about her."

Arthur glanced at him, not denying it. "She ain't like us, John. She's sharp, thoughtful. Ain't hardened. Not yet. Dutch wants to use that, twist it to fit whatever plan he's dreaming up."

"And you don't?" John blurted.

"I just want her to be safe. She doesn't owe us nothin'. She didn't sign up for this." Arthur replied - taking a last breath on his cigarette before throwing it away.

John gave a quiet snort. "Neither did I, really."

Arthur finally chuckled, just once, and it sounded tired. "Fair."

They stood in silence again. Then John shoved away from the post.

"Well. Just don't let Dutch walk all over her. Or you." he said for the last time.

Arthur watched him walk off before glancing back at Y/n. She was looking over at him now, a quiet look in her eyes. Not proud. Not victory. Something softer. Tired, but grateful.

Arthur exhaled and tipped his hat at her.

She smiled - just faintly.

The embers of the evening fire flickered between them. Hosea leaned forward, his coat draped over his lap, eyes gentle and perceptive. You sipped tea from your tin cup, trying to hide the slight tremble in your fingers, but Hosea noticed. Of course he did.

"are you alright?" Hosea asked gently.

You glanced at him. "yes, I'm fine" you nodded.

Hosea hummed. "you did well today"

You smiled faintly. "so i've been told"

Hosea chuckled. "Well, it's true. Calm under pressure. Smart with your timing. Dutch might be insufferable right now, but even I can't deny it - he was right about your potential."

You sipped your tea before setting the cup down on the ground beside you, drawing in a breath that was steadier than you felt.

"I thought it would feel... different. Like it'd be some kind of rush, maybe guilt. But I just feel cold. Not scared. Not proud. Just... cold." you clenched and uncleched your fist.

Hosea nodded slowly, leaning forward slightly. "That coldness? That's your mind trying to protect you. You're not numb, Y/n. You're just shocked. First job is always the strangest. It doesn't fit right in the soul."

You looked into the fire for a moment, lips pressed thin. "I didn't hurt anyone. But I know that doesn't mean I didn't take part in something cruel. Even I just deduced what Arthur had to do but then again... It felt wrong"

Hosea shook his head. "You're not wrong. But you didn't enjoy it. That's the part that matters."

A pause passed between you. The wind rustled softly through the trees.

"Dutch said I need to earn my keep. That being here means I help them. But I didn't come here to be an outlaw, Hosea. I came to find out the truth. That's all." you muttered softly.

Hosea studied your face carefully, nodding. "And that's still your path. But being part of this camp... it's messy. Sometimes the line between surviving and becoming someone you don't recognize blurs quicker than you think."

"I just don't want to lose who I am." you look at your wipes.

"Then keep doing what you did today. Question it. Feel it. Talk about it. Because the moment you stop doing that? That's when you've lost something you don't get back." he reolied softly, almost fatherly.

You glanced at him and stared at him for a moment before averted your attention to where Arthur stood talking to John. Arthur glanced at you. You darted your attention back to Hosea.

"Arthur tried to talk Dutch through this. He believed I shouldn't go with him which was true but..." you played with your fingers. "I remembered what Dutch said before. The folks are gonna question how long I'll stay without doing anything he wants."

Hosea sighed. "Dutch always uses weakness as a weapon. I know about it because Arthur came to me first. Said it was wrong. That you weren't ready."

"he's not wrong" you replied.

"and yet you succeed and come back without a scratch" Hosea noted.

You are speechless. Eyes did not look at Hosea.

Hosea sighed. "Sometimes, we don't get to choose the moment we're tested. Only how we come through it."

You gave him a weak smile, eyes glossy but steady. You leaned forward and patted his arm.

"Thank you, Hosea. For treating me like I matter beyond my skills." you said, hand patting his arm gently.

Hosea smiles genuinely. "You're not just a mind to be used, Y/n. You're a soul worth protecting. Some of us still remember that."

You both sat in companionable silence for a moment, both glancing towards Arthur. His hat was low, his arms folded as John gave him a look that clearly meant

"you care about her."

"Poor boy's finally figured it out." Hosea muttered to himself lowly.

You glanced at Hosea thoughtfully. "figure what out?"

"Oh, nothing. Just a thought." Hosea smiled slyly.

The night was cool, and the trees surrounding the camp swayed with a gentle breeze. Most lanterns had been put out, the others barely flickering in the dark. But one small flame still glowed by the edge of the tents - You. You sat on a log near the dying fire, staring into the embers, as if trying to read them like pages in a book.

Arthur stood a few steps back, watching you quietly for a moment. He adjusted the strap of his satchel, boots crunching lightly over dirt and leaves.

"Can't sleep?"

You glanced at him and sighed. "It's hard to sleep with noisy thoughts"

"figure" he nodded.

You narrowed your eyes at him. "Are you going to rob the train?"

Arthur nodded, he scratched the back of his neck. "yeah, Headin' out with John and the others. Won't be long"

You nodded faintly, staring into the fire. "I figured as much."

You both fell silent for a moment. Letting the sound of the firewood crackling be heard. Arthur stepped closer and sat down beside you. For a while, he said nothing. Neither of you did. The fire crackled, a coyote howled far off in the night. Then, finally-

Arthur cleared his throat. "listen, about early, this evening to specific.. Dutch shouldn't have dragged you into this. I tried to reason with him but he didn't want to listen. I'm sorry if you feel like you were forced into this"

You shook your head. glanced sideways at him, brows furrowed. "I agreed to it, Arthur. I wasn't forced"

Arthur stepped closer. "You agreed because you thought it was the only way to help... or to stay useful. Dutch plays people like that. Especially the ones with good hearts." he shook his head and sighed heavily as if he was the one holding this burden.

Your lips parted slightly in surprise, but you didn't interrupt. You watched him, quietly, intently.

"I've known Dutch most of my life. He talks about freedom and loyalty and big ideas - but lately, it feels like he's just lookin' for ways to win, no matter the cost. I don't doubt him but... He seemed to go to fast lately." Arthur spoke lolly.

You stared at him." you're worried"

Arthur nodded faintly. "Yeah. 'Cause I've seen too many people follow Dutch off cliffs, thinkin' they're chasing the sunset."

You lowered your gaze, your expression thoughtful. Then you spoke, voice soft but certain. "I don't plan on following anyone blindly. I never have."

Arthur looked at you, and there was that flicker again - something between admiration and fear.

He nodded with understanding "Good. Just... don't let him use you. You're smart, Y/n. Smarter than most of us. Dutch sees that, and he'll twist it into something that fits his plans."

You stared at him for a moment. Digesting what he said inside you. "And what do you see in me, Arthur?" you muttered.

Arthur's breath caught just slightly. He looked away, jaw tensing. "Someone who deserves better than this life. Someone who doesn't need to prove herself to anybody."

You were quiet for a moment, then reached out - just gently, placing your hand over his resting on his knee.

"Come back safe. We'll talk more when you do." you muttered softly, hand patting his knee gently.

Arthur breath hitched at the contact but he was good at covering it. Instead, he dared himself to put his own hand on top of yours and stroke your hand gently.

"You got my word." he muttered sincerely before he stood slowly, gave you one last glance, then disappeared into the night to mount his horse and ride.

You sat still by the fire, your hand curled where he had been, eyes not on the embers now - but on the shadows he'd left behind.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The night was thick with tension, the kind that coiled in your gut and stayed there. Arthur rode in near silence, flanked by John, Charles and Sean, their horses kicking up dust beneath the stars. The oil wagon - secured earlier that day - sat loaded near the tracks, right where it needed to be.

But Arthur's mind wasn't on the job.

It was back at camp. By the fire. On her face. her touch.

Y/n.

He could still hear her voice - measured but concerned - telling him to come back safely. Could still feel the weight of her hand resting gently on his. He gritted his teeth, trying to shake it off. But something about tonight didn't sit right.

Sean having noticed Arthur's quietness looked at him slyly. "Ye goin' quiet on us, Morgan? Ne'er thought I'd see the day."

Arthur glared at the red head leprechaun. "just focus" he said flatly.

Sean raised his hand as if surrendered. "nu uh, I'm just stating the obvious"

Arthur grumbled. "Are we ready?" he looked at John who had climbed onto the wagon.

John nodded. "Yeah, train's due through tonight."

Arthur nodded. "Alright then, it's on. Charles?" he looked at Charles who was securing what should be secured for the last time.

Charles nodded with certainty. "I'm ready."

Arthur nodded in approval. "Gentlemen. Let's go earn some money." he got on the wagon and took the reins and flicked the horse's rope to make the horse move.

Charles held the side wagon tightly. "Hey... all the horses untethered?"

John looked back, he saw their horse following behind. Hands holding the side wagon tightly. "think so"

Charles nodded. "Good, they should follow on behind us."

"You find a good spot, Wolf Man?" Arthur asked.

"Yeah, follow the trail south west, there's a spot that's... remote, but should still give 'em enough time to spot the oil wagon." John replied, half loud.

"They see this blocking the tracks, they'll stop soon enough." Arthur added, with certainty

"Apparently, it picks up a new team of guards at the state line, so there shouldn't be much in the way of guns to deal with" John added in fact.

"I still can't believe that you and Miss Holmes got this oil wagon without a scratch on it" Charles suddenly opened his mouth.

Arthur hummed. "yeah, well, thanks to her with her skills"

"Wit'out her, this wagon might lose a tire or break down the moment we take 'er out fer a spin." Sean jokes.

Arthur grumbled. "Well, it didn't happen"

Sean chuckled, slapping his knee. "Aye, not sayin' it did! Just sayin' - if it did, I'd have blamed you, Morgan."

John smirked, adjusting his grip. "Think that's his default reaction, regardless of what happens."

Arthur shot them both a dry look. "You two got a death wish or somethin'?"

Charles only shook his head, although there was the hint of a grin at the corner of his mouth. "She really figured out how to time the guards, huh?"

Arthur exhaled, trying not to show how much that small praise affected him. He pulled at his gloves, eyes distant for a second before muttering. "she mentioned that the guards relive themselves and loose shale on the slope. If someone steps on it, it'll crunch loudly. And she was right." Arthur recalls what Y/n said.

John raised an eyebrow. "You listened to her?"

Arthur nodded, voice low but even. "She made sense."

There was a pause. For a brief second, the camp went quiet aside from the crackling fire and the soft creak of the wagon.

Sean whistled. "Well, now I'm really curious about what else Miss Holmes can do."

Arthur shot him a warning glance. "Don't start."

Sean, unbothered as ever, grinned. "Oh relax. I meant like... robbin' strategies. Calm yerself."

Charles leaned forward a bit. "She's not like the others. Quiet. Observant. Watches people. I think she notices more than she lets on."

"Yeah. I noticed." Arthur replied gruffly.

John tilted his head, watching Arthur a bit too closely. "Are you alright, Arthur?"

"I'm fine." Arthur replied, defensively.

Charles smiled faintly. "Just don't pretend you don't care, that's all."

Sean chuckled. "See, this is what I mean. I disappear for a couple of weeks and you cut me out of all the action."

"Just the action that requires a brain." John replied sarcastically.

Sean laughed "Oh, you're a funny feller, John Marston. From what folk say, you had your feet up the whole time playing sick, and fondling that new scar like you're gonna buy it breakfast in the morning."

John's tone started to lower. "Bear left here, towards Rhodes. You don't know what you're talking about."

"Stay close on this, wouldn't want you getting scratched by a squirrel or something, that could put you outta commission for the rest of the year." Sean said again.

"Why do you have to speak so much? It's... incessant." Charles said annoyed.

"'Cause I've still got some blood in my veins! You old bastards have forgotten how to live." Sean retorted.

John grumbled. "I blame you two for rescuing him." he muttered to Charles and Arthur.

"Far too much trouble for what we got out of it." Arthur snickered.

Sean laughed. "Yeah, it takes a whole army of bounty hunters to bring in Sean Macguire. And look at me now, in the gunner's seat Back in business, boys! You know my da always used to say-"

"Not the da, please!"

"No, no..."

"Not this again."

"Fine! Damn, you three... Sulky, Angry, Scar Face. A right barrel of laughs. So we block the tracks with the wagon then jump 'em? That's the plan?" Sean said.

"Pretty much. Charles, you deal with the engineer." Arthur responded.

"Here's good. Stop the wagon over the tracks. Remember, these are innocent folks. We handle this right, nobody needs to die here." John warned.

Soon they stopped on the railway track. The four men got off the wagon.

"Mr. Marston. Mr. Smith... Mr. Macguire... get over there. When she slows... board her." Arthur pointed towards a thicket next to the track. He then looked at the track in front of him.

Sean looked at Arthur. "And you?"

"I'm gonna make sure she slows down." Arthur said lowly.

"It's do or die, with you..." Sean put on his bandana over his face.

Arthur could feel the vibration on the track under his feet, indicating that the train had arrived and was getting closer. He looked at the boys.

"Get moving... here she comes..." he climbed on top of the oil wagon - wearing a bandana, he cocked his rifle.

The train approaches.

It's show time.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The fire burns low, casting soft orange light over the camp. Most of the gang is asleep. The sounds of the night are gentle - crickets, a distant coyote, the whisper of wind through the trees.

You sit on an overturned crate near the fire, a blanket around your shoulders. You stare into the flames, thoughtful, distant.

Dhani approaches, two cups of tea in hand. She hands one to you and quietly sits beside you.

"I see you can't sleep either" she murmured as she sipped her tea.

You sighed weakly. "just thinking"

"about them?"

You nodded. "The train should've passed by now. I keep hoping I'll hear the horses first. Arthur's horse has a loud gait."

Dhani smiled faintly. "Only you'd try to deduce someone's arrival by how their horse walks."

You smiled faintly. "I can't help it. It's how I stay sane." your voice heavy.

You both sipped in silence for a moment.

"Your brother... do you think his death really happened the way they said?" Dhani suddenly opened the story.

"no" you muttered quietly. "The officers who came to our Mansion... They said he died protecting a pregnant woman during a train ambush. Noble. Heroic. But too perfect. That kind of death... it's written to soothe the living."

"you think that's how he died?" Dhani replied.

"something sounds like there's a darker reality behind his death. I've been thinking that he didn't die heroically but... murdered" you concluded.

Dhani stayed quiet. She gestured for you to continue.

"The clue that I had was destroyed in the fire in my flat. Arthur said something that clicked with my thoughts, stating that whoever was after me had something to do with my brother and they weren't just after me but after what I did too. They deliberately burned my flat just to destroy the investigation and evidence I had so that the truth wouldn't be revealed" you leaned forward - eyebrows arched in focus. "That's why I wrote to Sherlock. " you sighed heavily.

Dhani raised an eyebrow. "your brother?"

"my third brother. He and I are pretty close considering we both worked together to solve cases in London. But if anyone can help me see the missing pieces... it's him." You brushed your cup with your thumb.

"did he reply yet?" Dhani asked.

You shook your head. "not yet... it might take a few weeks to get here judging by how much information he gathered plus how far London is from here across the sea"

Dhani patted your hand. She smiled reassuringly. "he'll write back"

You nodded. "I hope so. I'm tired of trying to outthink ghosts."

Then there was silence. You sighed heavily.

"Do you think Arthur's angry with me?"

Dhani turns her head slightly, surprised. She shook her head. "No. Not angry. Maybe frustrated. Maybe scared."

"Because I agreed to help Dutch?" you responded.

"Because you're not just anyone to him. That much is clear."

You look down, brushing your thumb over the rim of your cup.

"I didn't mean to cause problems." you murmured.

"You didn't. Dutch did. He's got a habit of wrapping smart people around his plans. And Arthur... he hates it when he can't protect someone." Dhani sipped her tea.

You don't respond. You just stare into the fire again, quiet, thoughtful.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

The fire outside is just embers now. Inside the tent, You lies curled in a blanket on the ground beside Dhani's cot. You wide awake, your eyes fixed on the canvas above.

You try to sleep but your mind is too loud to think about what's coming. This is just stealing a wagon, let alone the level where you have to use violence and you're afraid it's going to go further.

[thedinanshiral]

Those across the sea

Forgotten and Forbidden ones, the exiled waiting for their time to rise once the Evanuris eventually fall.

The artifact that Bellara recovers is an Archive spirit set in a crystal, the Nadas Dirthalen, "the inevitability of knowledge". It's set to know everything the maker of the artifact knows. When finally Bellara fixes it and they manage to get it to respond their queries we learn this one was made by Anaris. A Forgotten one known from a story where they and Andruil fight each other over Fen'Harel. From the Archive spirit words and some other codices Bellara translates it seems Anaris was a considerably arrogant elvhen noble who was also in rebellion against Elgar'nan but not on Solas' side, and had a very poor opinion of him; Anaris speaks of the Evanuris thus: "a group of cowards. Hiding behind their more 'powerful' magic and 'superior' numbers". And of Solas, he thinks he's "an ideologue and a fool who sill soon pay the price" but still as the spirit tells us "when Anaris dispatches the Evanuris, he will spare a thought for Fen'Harel".

The name Anaris appears very little, in that dalish tale, in the elvhen word "Bellanaris" meaning "eternity" and in Fen'Harel's secret meeting wich has no official translation, that it goes "Ar-melana dirthavaren. Revas vir-anaris". I can offer an attempted translation as "I promise now/My promise. Freedom through the years". If Bellanaris means eternity and elvhen is actually a cypher anaris might come from anni, anno, years. Bellanaris/eternity is an abundance of years, or no end to years. The bell part must be that bit while anaris might be just the years. Yet it says vir-anaris, no -an suffix indicating a place, as the Vir is often used to mean the path of/to. Solas became Fen'Harel with the rebellion so if this is his secret greeting it could be a promise to all who joined him that through their efforts they'd achieve freedom in time and hopefully one that'd last. He's always been sensible enough not to speak in absolutes, he wouldn't promise eternal freedom without knowing for sure he could sustain it, so promising freedom in time, like eventually, if one joined his rebellion, makes sense. (I do my elvhen translations with the wiki, autism and vibes, sorry)

I find it very curious that when we first meet Anaris in Veilguard he mentions that "the sixth and seventh" got out, which allowed him to escape as well. The ones who escaped are Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain, the first and last of the Evanuris ranks respectively, why is Anaris refrerring to them as sixth and seventh? Adding this to how his Nadas Dirthalen is referred by Bellara as "the eighth" archive spirit makes it weirder because all Evanuris were supposed to have their own Archive, so would that make Anaris like a low rank Evanuris himself? One that didn't make it into the top 7? Oh but wait, the Evanuris were 8, if we count Mythal, so why is Anaris's Archive the 8th? It'd seem the Veil Jumpers are not considering Mythal as an Evanuris or presuming one of them didn't have an Archive to begin with. It just seems weird and implies the ranks may have been less rigid than originally thought. Anaris is also called "noblest of nobles" and granted that may be his ego at work but maybe the Evanuris weren't just the elvhen self-proclaimed gods but their nobility, the highest class, of which a select few were at the very top and made it into history known as "The Creators".

Now, the post-credits scene is short but telling. It's unlocked by finding three codices about mysterious circles, found in the chamber where we fight The Formless One necro dragon, in an isle with a puzzle in Arlathan Forest and in the Crossroads after defeating the revenant Betrayal of Felassan. Each time a codex is found a disembodied creepy voice makes a comment that tries without success to reassure Rook there's no reason to alarm.

It's the Executors, those across the sea. Throughout the game they've had a silent presence in various codices and mentions, and it's revealed they were around even in Evanuris' time. They were a problem even back then. In the scene, that voice speaks in plural, "we", and mentions the storm has been quelled, the sun has been dimmed and the wolf has been defanged, while showing pictures of Ghilan'nain, Elgar'nan and the Dread Wolf, respectively. Then the voice claims they've "balanced, guided, whispered"..as the images show two or more figures appearing over images of the Magisters Sidereal ritual, Loghain at Ostagar surrendering King Cailan, Bartrand with the red lyrium idol in his hand..Corypheus, Mythal, the Breach..basically declaring they have shaped every major event in thedosian history for a long, long time. The figures are cloaked in white and grey, hooded, wearing grey masks with what seem to be mutiple holes placed at random -as in, not pretending to be eyes-, and the pauldrons very much look like the ones in ancient elvhenan armor. So who could be wearing armor with ancient elvhen design elements, been around since the Evanuris time being at war with them, working from afar to shape history, and now feeling free to do their thing as the Evanuris are no more? Is it the Forgotten ones? Or more Forbidden ones? The latter are said to be just four -Gaxkang, Xebenkeck, Imshael and the Formless One. And the Forgotten ones are said to be like the Evanuris, their counterparts in a way, and are supposedly trapped in the Abyss. But the thing is throughout all of the games not once does Solas mention them. The only Forgotten one we found so far is Anaris, and he was not far behind in horrors from the Evanuris either. Other Forgotten ones names are Daern'thal and Geldauran. Considering Solas doesn't mention them being locked up, and his focus lies solely on his fellow Evanuris, i'm considering the possibility that, as is custom now, history was passed down with errors. Solas didn't lock up the Forgotten ones in the Abyss, but the Forgotten ones, much like the Forbidden four, must have been exiled, or exiled themselves -like Geldauran- in wait for the day when the Evanuris fell under their own crushing weight. Maybe the story mentioning the Evanuris counterparts being locked in the Abyss was a form of passing down the fact they were blighted, because the Blight allegedly came from the Abyss. The maligned aspects of the benevolent Creators may have been in fact the Creators themselves, once corrupted by the Blight. Veilguard confirms their prison, Arlathan, the Golden City, has been Black with the Blight all along. That ever since the sundering of the Titans the Blight resided there with the Evanuris and reached Thedas only after the Magisters Sidereal broke into Solas' prison. The Evanuris were therefore imprisoned with their big bad blight. And that's maybe why Solas never spares a word for the Forgotten ones because he hasn't forgotten them, they're the Evanuris themselves, in their most terrible, sadistic, blighted aspect, the last they ever had, the reason they had to be locked away. Solas didn't trap anyone in the Abyss, the Evanuris had brought the abyss back to Elvhenan to exploit it, to use its power, the power of the Blight. The Evanuris and the Forgotten ones therefore may very well be the same thing. The powerful weapon with which Fen'Harel lured both groups may have been the lyrium dagger, and other "frogotten ones" like Geldauran and Daern'thal may have been much like Anaris, Evanuris wannabes, the competition that wasn't up to their level, so they went away.

Anaris' ego tho is freaking terrible, he must have been a spirit of sheer arrogance.

Anyway, now that the Evanuris are gone, and the Dread Wolf is locked away too, these unknown group feels free to act. All the "guidance" they've been doing from the shadows reminds me of Mythal's nudging of history. The first contact we had with them was in Inquisition, when they started leaving the triangles and lines symbols at Inquisition outposts, and when they took everyone stationed there, seemingly without resistance, telling the Inquisitor that all those people joined them willingly, for a higher purpose. We know now that mindcontrol was an ancient elvhen favourite. That enslaving or subjugating others was their bread and butter, with vallaslin, with binding masks like the one Anaris used of Cyrian. Maybe the reason there was no resistance at that outpost is because they were mindcontrolled to just get up and leave. And even then the "executors" spoke of an oncoming storm we had to get ready for. Back then everyone imagined it was Corypheus, the Breach, and all that. But now we can safely say the "storm" was Ghilan'nain, as that's how they refer to her in this scene.

As for the "wolf defanged" there's a curious choice of words. Solas as a wolf didn't lose his fangs, he's simply locked away, they could have said "the wolf, imprisoned", "the wolf, caged", even "the wolf, tamed" as he's with Lavellan who's the only with power enough to change his mind. But they said "the wolf, defanged". When fixing the Vi'Revas at the Lighthouse the Caretaker notices Rook has "the wolf's fang", meaning the lyrium dagger. I doubt that's the dagger's name, Solas wouldn't call it that as he didn't choose the Wolf name, it was imposed on him by evanuris propaganda and his rebels and he embraced it because it was useful -at the insistence of Felassan tho-. So the executors saying the wolf is defanged may not mean he's defeated or harmless now, it might just mean he no longer has the dagger, and therefore poses no real threat, as without it he can't cut open the Veil and get out.

I once proposed "those across the sea" could be Evanuris Loyalists that escaped to the East, beyond the Amaranthine. Now i have to rephrase it and say maybe "those across the sea" where the Evanuris competition, rivals that coveted their position and power. I think it's from my Blight post where i point out the pattern of the Blights moving east, like i initially thought maybe the Archdemons where aiming towards a last bastion of their masters or being drawn there for some reason but what if the motive was not to join allies but to strike enemies? The true forgotten ones who abandoned physical form during the Evanuris war with the Titans, the ones who like Geldauran exiled themselves in waiting for a moment where the Evanuris were no more so they could rise instead

Their pride will consume them, and I, forgotten, will claim power of my own, apart from them until i strike in mastery -Geldauran's Claim).

The spirits design in Inquisition was generally that of an ethereal translucid skeletal apparition just floating around. In Veilguard, demons are portrayed as glowing, floating nervous systems wearing a cloak . Solas himself in his spirit form is portrayed as a flying nervous system, extending into a couple of wings, a long tail, with 6 eyes where a head should be. So if the Forgotten ones are those who -much like the Forbidden ones which may have been the same thing- abandoned their physical forms to return to a spirit form, abandoned the people, the Evanuris and their awful war and exiled themselves far away from it all, it'd make sense that they are now portrayed as fully cloaked figures wearing masks, not letting an inch of skin show. The Executor that shows in Tevinter Nights is fully covered as well. Maybe this is because they don't have a body, they're those same nervous systems that just wear a cloak to have a bit more presence. Like the Caretaker or Vorgoth do. Also, it's clear in Veilguard that triangles, golden ones specifically, are a staple of Elvhen design, they're everywhere. The Executors' symbol in this scene is a downwards black triangle crossed over by two white lines that open a bit in the middle, as if outlining an eye. I really think now it's most likely they are indeed the Evanuris competition -i don't say opposition because that would be Solas' rebellion; this other group may have opposed the Evanuris but only because they coveted their position of power, they didn't want to depose the Evanuris but take their place instead.

[agentrouka-blog]

There is a speculation that Lady's death wake Bran up from his coma. What do you think about it?

I can understand anyone who subscribes to this theory, it's entirely respectable and it makes sense on its own.

I don't share it for two reasons:

The absurdity of the timeline.

The justification of life-for-life sacrifice.

Regarding the first point, we are given a specified timeframe between the Trident incident (Lady's death) and Tyrion's arrest at the Crossroads Inn. That's two sets of fortnights travelled on the Kingsroad in direct succession (First Ned, then Cat), four weeks. In those four weeks, Bran is supposed to have woken up, a raven dispatched to the Wall to inform Jon, Tyrion staying an additional day or two, Tyrion travelling all the way from the Wall to Winterfell, which took over three weeks one-way for on their way up, then trek down the kingsroad through the other half of the North, past the Neck and then the additional distance between the Neck and the Crossroads Inn. It's absurd to me. According to my own timeline calculations, Lady is killed around the time Tyrion arrives at Winterfell, giving him those four weeks to travel from Winterfell to the Crossroads. GRRM is no stranger to presenting chapters out of chronological order and I think it very much applies here. I don't judge anyone for disagreeing but that's how I read it.

Regarding the second point, it would give narrative justification to an absolute travesty of justice that shames every single adult involved. It would imply that Lady dying served a good cause. That Ned's failings here, the Cersei's cruelty, Robert's indifference, all of these things ultimately are good and necessary. I don't think that's probable, and I also think it's unnecessary. Bran had already magically survived with the help of the living direwolves and waking up is sufficiently explained by his inner decision to live:

He looked deep into the heart of winter, and then he cried out, afraid, and the heat of his tears burned on his cheeks. Now you know, the crow whispered as it sat on his shoulder. Now you know why you must live. “Why?” Bran said, not understanding, falling, falling. Because winter is coming. Bran looked at the crow on his shoulder, and the crow looked back. It had three eyes, and the third eye was full of a terrible knowledge. Bran looked down. There was nothing below him now but snow and cold and death, a frozen wasteland where jagged blue-white spires of ice waited to embrace him. They flew up at him like spears. He saw the bones of a thousand other dreamers impaled upon their points. He was desperately afraid. “Can a man still be brave if he’s afraid?” he heard his own voice saying, small and far away. And his father’s voice replied to him. “That is the only time a man can be brave.” Now, Bran, the crow urged. Choose. Fly or die. Death reached for him, screaming. Bran spread his arms and flew. Wings unseen drank the wind and filled and pulled him upward. The terrible needles of ice receded below him. The sky opened up above. Bran soared. It was better than climbing. It was better than anything. The world grew small beneath him. “I’m flying!” he cried out in delight. I’ve noticed, said the three-eyed crow. It took to the air, flapping its wings in his face, slowing him, blinding him. He faltered in the air as its pinions beat against his cheeks. Its beak stabbed at him fiercely, and Bran felt a sudden blinding pain in the middle of his forehead, between his eyes. “What are you doing?” he shrieked. The crow opened its beak and cawed at him, a shrill scream of fear, and the grey mists shuddered and swirled around him and ripped away like a veil, and he saw that the crow was really a woman, a serving woman with long black hair, and he knew her from somewhere, from Winterfell, yes, that was it, he remembered her now, and then he realized that he was in Winterfell, in a bed high in some chilly tower room, and the blackhaired woman dropped a basin of water to shatter on the floor and ran down the steps, shouting, “He’s awake, he’s awake, he’s awake.”

Bran wakes up because he chooses to wake up, even knowing - if subconsciously - that it means serving a specific, scary purpose.

[american-feywild-concepts]

It's become too dangerous with cars to meet people at literal crossroads. The old demon loses most of his potential clientele from miraculous semi trucks and speedsters before they can shake hands. So the devil had to get clever.

At a four way intersection somewhere out west, where the farm houses have long disappeared, where the neglected potholes have made the highway half gravel again, where the cell towers don't reach, where the radio only can only pick up static if you are lucky, and where even nowhere seems a long way off, you can find a lone Buc-ee's, open for business.

It's stocked with anything one might need, open 24 hours a day, with a cashier at the counter always cheerful to see you. But be warned to those truly desperate for help, especially those who find themselves there as the last few rays of light fade away, for this is not your saving grace.

In the spirit of true American capitalism, the devil is a man who knows to pounce on an opportunity to profit, and you will find your much needed services you came for are.... far, far more expensive than earlier that day.

In situations like these, it pays to keep two dollars in quarters on you at all times out west. It doesn't matter how long it takes the dispatch to get there, or how expensive the fix by others, or even if you end up having to hand yourself over to the law to get out of this, at least the payphone outside sticks to coins and will never charge in mortal souls.

[ao3feed-piltovers-finest]

Between Light and You

by MRVLGEAK

Long after the fall of the Empire and the fading of the Skywalker legacy, the galaxy lies quiet-but not at peace. The Jedi Order, reborn and scattered, stands at a fragile crossroads. Whispers of a disturbance in the Force-something ancient, something alive-begin to surface in the ruins of a forgotten temple. Jedi Sentinel Caitlyn Kiramman is dispatched to investigate. Disciplined, loyal, and by the book, she expects another ghost chase. What she finds instead is a vision: a fierce woman with a glowing orange saber and eyes that feel like home. A presence the Force seems desperate to reunite her with. A soulmate she's never met. Elsewhere in the Outer Rim, Vi-once trained in the Jedi ways, now long estranged from them-feels the echo too. A spark. A memory. A pull she's tried to bury. But the past is stirring, and something deep beneath the Force is awakening. Together with a tech-savvy Padawan named Ekko and a wild and a unpredictable Force-sensitive named Powder, they must uncover the truth behind the resurgence of a lost Force philosophy-one that threatens to unravel the Order as they know it. Some connections are written in the stars. Others are etched into the Force itself.

Words: 2495, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

Fandoms: Arcane: League of Legends (Cartoon 2021)

Rating: Not Rated

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: F/F

Relationships: Caitlyn & Vi (League of Legends), Caitlyn/Vi (League of Legends)

Additional Tags: Star Wars AU, Caitlyn and Vi are in Love (League of Legends), Caitlyn is a Jedi, Protective Vi (League of Legends), Vi Needs Therapy (League of Legends), Soft Caitlyn (League of Legends)

Read onA03. from AO3 works tagged ‘Caitlyn/Vi (League of Legends)’

[dpmstudios]

Here's is my iteration of Godzilla .

Design notes:

My Godzilla design has a mix of Ultima and heisei one traits going on overall with the plates of the legendary version. I want Godzilla to look like he came from japanese mythology so I gave him oni like fangs. I gave him a tailfin to help him swim better. And I gave him tough crocodilian skin to basically make him bullet proof. Also I wanted Godilla to stay true to his toho counterpart.

Alias: gojira, gigantis, the G-man, the big G , the monster of Odo island.

Size: 50 meters

Species: heavily mutated honengyo (gogirosaurus japonica)

Classification: tyrannosauridae

Backstory:

During the closing days of World War II in 1945, a large theropod dinosaur known as the honengyo came ashore on Odo Island at night and entered a Japanese military airbase, attacking the military repairmen stationed there when one of their members shined a spotlight on him. Kamikaze pilot Koichi Shikishima entered his Zero on the airfield to try and attack the creature with its 20mm guns, but froze up as the dinosaur stood in front of him. Shikishima gave the dinosaur the "Godzilla" (after a sea monster from odo island's folklore).The panicked military repairmen nearby opened fire on the dinosaur, enraging him and causing him to brutally dispatch them all with his jaws, legs, and tail. By morning, the only survivors were Shikishima and the lead mechanic, Sosaku Tachibana, who blamed Shikishima for failing to act and costing the others their lives. The incident was covered up by the Japanese government, with the official story being that the men on the island were wiped out by American forces. Shikishima would be haunted by his experience with the dinosaur, having nightmares of his attack on Odo Island years after the war ended.

Bio:

In July 1946, the honengyo was caught in the American military's Operation Crossroads nuclear weapons tests at Bikini Atoll, irradiating and mutating it. Now substantially larger and even more enraged, the now mutated dinosaur began destroying American vessels in his path as he approached the Japanese archipelago. Due to ongoing tensions with the Soviet Union, the American military refused to take action against the beast in the Pacific and warned the Japanese to begin preparing for the worst. In 1947, the minesweeper Shinseimaru was sent to the Ogasawara Islands with orders to stall the beast until the Japanese cruiser Takao could arrive and attack him. Shikishima, now a crew member on the Shinseimaru, saw a destroyed ship and deep-sea fish floating to the surface and immediately recognized that the culprit was the creature he saw on Odo Island. The monster soon burst out of the water and sank the Shinseimaru's sister ship, the Kaishinmaru. He then gave chase to the Shinseimaru, which dropped mines and detonated them in an attempt to stop him. One mine was dropped into the monster's mouth, with Shikishima using the ship's guns to detonate it. The blast destroyed a large part of monsters's cheek, which instantaneously regenerated before the crew's eyes. As Godzilla rose from the water, the Takao arrived and began firing at him. Godzilla turned his rage to the cruiser and pulled himself onto it, tearing it apart viciously with his claws. The ship's guns unloaded on the monster again, causing him to fall backward into the sea. However, the creature swam underneath the Takao and obliterated it in an instant with an explosive heat ray. The monster then surfaced amid the ashes and smoke and emitted a terrifying roar.

With Godzilla continuing to approach Japan and no viable countermeasures available to stop him, the Japanese government declined to reveal his existence to the public out of fear of inciting a panic. Eventually, Godzilla effortlessly passed through a mine blockade and entered Tokyo Bay before coming ashore in Ginza. He tore through the district in a frenzied rage, eventually grabbing a train in his mouth. Noriko Oishi, Shikishima's girlfriend, narrowly escaped the train before Godzilla dropped it into the water below. Shikishima arrived to rescue her as Godzilla approached, just before a group of tanks fired on him. Godzilla paused as his dorsal fins began to protrude from his back and emit a blue glow one-by-one. In a split second, his dorsal plates retracted and he thrust his head forward, firing a blue atomic heat ray from his mouth that struck the tanks and produced a nuclear explosion that flattened most of the surrounding area. Noriko was swept away in the shockwave after pushing Shikishima to safety, leaving him screaming in grief amidst the ruins of Ginza. The monster then returned to the sea, leaving an estimated 30,000 civilians killed or injured and 20,000 houses and other buildings destroyed.

The attack on ginza:

Kenji Noda, a former naval weapons designer and current crewmate of Shikishima aboard the Shinseimaru, drafted a plan to destroy Godzilla with a team of civilians and former naval personnel given the government's inability and unwillingness to respond directly. He proposed luring Godzilla above the deepest part of Sagami Bay and tying canisters of Freon gas to him which, when ruptured, would lower the water's buoyancy and forcibly sink Godzilla to a depth of 1,500 meters, crushing him with the sudden pressure change. Should that fail, balloons would be inflated under him to rapidly bring him to the surface and destroy him via explosive decompression. Skeptical that the plan would succeed, Shikishima believed that Godzilla was vulnerable from the inside and could be destroyed if a plane laden with explosives was flown into his mouth. He recruited the reluctant Tachibana to modify a prototype Shinden fighter for his plan.

The end of the monster? :

With Godzilla approaching Tokyo once more, Noda's plan began. Shikishima flew his fighter perilously close to Godzilla, evading his jaws and then his tail while peppering him with machine gun fire. Godzilla turned around to chase him, with the Shinden luring him all the way to the trap point in Sagami Bay. Noda tricked Godzilla into firing his atomic breath at a pair of unmanned vessels, leaving him unable to use it again while he regenerated from his self-inflicted wounds. Ships encircled Godzilla and tied a cable attached to Freon canisters around him. As Godzilla prepared to fire his heat ray again, the canisters were ruptured, and he was forcibly pulled underwater. Upon surpassing the target depth, Godzilla immediately froze in place and stopped charging his ray. The attempt to kill Godzilla via compression having failed, Noda had the balloons inflated under him, rapidly drawing the monster to the surface. When Godzilla tore through the balloons, the plan seemed hopeless until a fleet of tugboats arrived to help the ships pull him the rest of the way. Upon surfacing, Godzilla's flesh began to freeze and rupture, but he did not sustain enough damage for the plan to succeed. Noda and the others accepted their inevitable demise as Godzilla coursed with power and prepared to unleash his atomic breath. However, Shikishima flew his plane into Godzilla's mouth, ejecting just before it crashed and exploded. After the smoke cleared, the top of Godzilla's head had been destroyed, after which the accumulated atomic energy overloaded and destroyed the rest of his body. With the operation an apparent success, the people of Japan celebrated and breathed a sigh of relief. In the aftermath of the battle, Shikishima and his adopted daughter Akiko were reunited with Noriko at a hospital, having survived Godzilla's attack. However, she was left with an unknown form of radiation sickness, causing a vein-like pattern resembling Godzilla's dorsal fins to appear on her neck. Meanwhile, a surviving fragment of Godzilla's flesh left by Shikishima's attack began to regenerate as it sank into the depths.

Abilities: atomic breath , powerfull bite, dorsal fin beams, amphibious, extreme regeneration, durability.

[hadrians-wall95]

Today, something a little different! Because Votann aren't. Good. In 10e, and Games Workshop are kinda lame anyway. A game of One Page Rules! The Reach Industrial Conglomerate (RIC) has deployed the Hekaton Fortress Noble-6 to extract resources that happen to be in the middle of a City on Harvest World Marwick. The Sanguine Knights dispatch a Calvary Detachment to Shoo them off:

The Sanguine Melta ATVs are the most immediate threat to Noble-6, thus it trundles forward, immediately destroying one.

The other one gets a chance to respond, and takes off 3 of Noble-6's *18* hit points. I love One Page Rules. The Lone Champion, the Hammer Chief, goes to claim the objective. He will sit. there all game. With his 4 inch move. But he did his job. The Khal of the RIC and his Veteran 10-man squad drop out the right door of the fortress, to set up against a bike advacne.

The right Flank has more issues. The Techmarine can heal basically anything in my opponents list, and the Baal Predator puts out. So many shots. The RIC bikes duck behind the bridge, waiting for the right moment to take the crossroads objective. (One page Rules has no victory points. It's battlefront rules. You own it until an opponent steps on it. If you both have minis within the outer hazard circle, it's contested. Shaken units can't hold objectives. This is going to become. *Very* important)

This quickly turns into a battle of the bridge. Whoever holds it will end up taking this battle.

Both tanks trundle onto the bridge. It groans in protest. The Death Company Bikers are shot down by the Magma Guns on the RIC. (Splasers, Baby!). The Baals Machine Guns Whirr, it's Hunter-Killer Missle Sings .. and yet it all plinks off Noble-6's Hull (I would not roll below a 5. That thing could've easily taken down the Hekaton. And each of his characters has fusion pistols. There's no *strength* in One Page Rules. Just a roll to hit a roll to defend. He was throwing a lot of AP 1 and 2, which work like tenth.).

Finally, the battle for the crossroads begins. The bikers move in, and are able to fight the RIC off point with Morale Checks and Charges. The Rich had left too little, and the biker squad in full (the machine gun bikes are separate activations). Was too late to respond. Although they, too, would quickly break (a 4+ is brutal for this. Morale fucking matters in this game). It's looking like an RIC Loss..

Untill the last moment. The other Trike was able to capture the now unattended objective 4. A tank charge from the Baal Predator Induces a failed moral check on the Hekaton, meaning that this day ends in a draw. As the sun sets and artillery roars, both sides are ordered to fall back... This isnt over though....

(overall I had a lot of fun, my opponent seemed to as well. This was a learning game, so I'm sure we both made mistakes rules wise (even with a single sheet) and tactical. Today, we told a tale of combined arms versus bikes. I think next time it may be more Iron Vs Iron....)

[sonicasura]

I like too imagine when Yasha comes over too see Durga and chat with his sister the Rayquaza Wood Carving immediately catches his eye.

Yasha: Hmmm…Sister what is this?

Yasha gently picks up the wood craving of the Legendary Sky-High Dragon Rayquaza.

Durga gently smiles and tells Yasha

Durga: That is a carving that was given too me as a gift. It is apparently a Legendary Dragon that lives in the skies and has watched over the people for ages with both wisdom and power. The person that gave it too me said that the Dragon is called Rayquaza and are revered by a certain Village, though what Village it is, I am unsure of.

What Durga said was very much true just lacking a few key details that she happened too leave out and a little lie about not knowing what ahem " Village" it was

Yasha: Really?! Well I must say the craftsman ship is remarkable and dragon gives off an aura of wisdom and power just from the craving alone.

Yes, the craving did give off the wisdom and power that this Dragon, Rayquaza is said too wield.

A mighty Dragon that roams the skies…heh Yasha knew that no such Dragon existed. After all the Eight Generals constantly patrol the skies with their fleets it would be impossible for one of them too have not crossed paths with the Dragon already.

Yasha gently turned the craving around in his hands looking it over

So Why…..

Did The Dragon feel so real?

He is definitely a bit curious about who gave it to his sister. The encounter with Trainer still feels fresh in his mind. Especially since he found a box of pastries waiting for him at his residence. (Trainer asked Durga about it because they felt bad about the previous encounter.)

Imagine not even a few weeks later, Yasha sees that very dragon flying through the sky. When you consider places like Ultra Space Wilds, the possibility of an Ultra Wormhole leading to Gaea is possible. Kinda like an unconventional crossroad station between worlds.

Would he follow the dragon? Absolutely. Rayquaza notices Yasha but merely observes the demigod. A cautious civility to put it simply. Rayquaza went through this particular Ultra Wormhole upon feeling Trainer's presence on the other side.

It might've ended in a surprise visit if Yasha didn't appear. Thus Rayquaza would settle for a peaceful flight with this peculiar stranger. Any Gohma that dare interrupt didn't last long as a simple Hyper Beam or Extreme Speed is enough to dispatch them.

The shared flight would end with Rayquaza disappearing through the Ultra Wormhole they came from. Yasha doesn't pursue as it was obviously closing and there is no need to. Although now he really can't help but think about the wooden carving.

Could the Eight Generals miss such a creature's existence because of these peculiar portals?

[carpetcrafts-blog]

Why Dubai-Based Carpet Suppliers Are the Top Choice for Global Hotel Projects!

In the world of hospitality, first impressions matter. Whether it's a five-star hotel in Paris or a luxury resort in the Maldives, guests expect elegance, comfort, and a sense of exclusivity the moment they step inside. Carpeting is one frequently disregarded component that significantly contributes to this perception. More specifically, Hospitality Carpets.

Today, Dubai has emerged as a Global Hub For Quality Carpet Solutions, attracting top hoteliers, designers, and developers from across the globe. What makes the city’s carpet vendors the go-to choice for high-end hospitality projects? Let’s explore.

Deep Understanding of the Hospitality Environment

Suppliers in Dubai are not just vendors; they are specialists who understand the specific demands of the hotel and resort industry. Whether it’s a chic boutique hotel, a sprawling beachfront resort, or a high-traffic business hotel, each space requires a different approach to flooring.

These experts offer floor coverings that are:

Engineered for durability in high-footfall areas

Designed to complement diverse architectural themes

Easy to clean and maintain over time

With this tailored approach, it’s no wonder designers worldwide rely on Dubai-Based Partners for their most critical hospitality flooring needs.

Bespoke Design Options for Unique Hotel Spaces

Every hotel brand tells a story, and custom carpets help bring that narrative to life. One of the biggest advantages of working with flooring experts from Dubai is the ability to fully personalize designs.

You can request:

Specific patterns or motifs

Color palettes that align with your branding

Logo integration

Different textures and materials based on the room type

This level of customization gives hoteliers creative freedom while ensuring brand consistency throughout the property. When you buy Carpets For Hotels from Dubai, you’re not just buying a product — you’re investing in long-lasting quality and peace of mind.

Global-Standard Quality and Compliance

From health and safety regulations to fire resistance and acoustic control, hospitality flooring must meet strict standards. Carpets sourced through trusted UAE-based companies are crafted to meet international certifications and technical benchmarks.

Features often include:

Fire-retardant finishes

Anti-bacterial treatments

Noise-dampening properties

Sustainability certifications like LEED compliance

These factors not only improve guest comfort but also help properties maintain legal and environmental compliance—crucial for international operations.

Innovative Manufacturing and Material Choices

Dubai suppliers collaborate with advanced production units located in the UAE, India, Turkey, and beyond. These facilities employ the latest in manufacturing technology—from precision hand-tufting to computerized weaving—enabling large-scale production with artistic precision.

Materials range from Natural Wool And Jute to Recycled Fibers And Nylon Blends, depending on the aesthetic and budget of the client. This ensures you get high-performing flooring that’s tailored to your project’s scope and style.

Reliable Logistics and Project Support

One of the key reasons international hotel groups prefer sourcing from Dubai is the city's unmatched logistics capabilities. Strategically positioned at the crossroads of East and West, Dubai offers seamless global shipping options.

Whether you're outfitting a new development in Europe or renovating a resort in Southeast Asia, vendors based in the region ensure:

Timely dispatch and delivery

Secure, damage-free packaging

Installation support, when required

This level of service ensures smooth project execution, even on tight timelines.

Access to Global Trends and Creative Expertise

Dubai is a melting pot of cultures and styles, and this diversity is reflected in the creative expertise of its suppliers. They stay ahead of international trends and often work in collaboration with renowned interior designers and architects.

Whether you're looking for something traditional, avant-garde, or inspired by regional heritage, these vendors can guide you toward a flooring solution that enhances both the visual impact and functional performance of your space.

Sustainable and Eco-Friendly Flooring Options

Sustainability has become a core focus for many modern hotel brands. Dubai-based flooring suppliers are actively responding to this demand by offering ECO-Conscious Alternatives without compromising on luxury or performance.

Options now include:

Carpets made from recycled ocean plastics

Low-emission dyes and adhesives

Natural fiber blends

Carbon-neutral production processes

These innovations support green building standards while appealing to environmentally aware guests.

Cost-Effective Without Compromising Luxury

Despite offering top-tier designs and materials, many flooring companies in Dubai manage to remain competitively priced. The region’s favorable trade policies, tax benefits, and access to efficient production hubs allow them to offer Exceptional Value For Money.

This makes it possible for hotels to Achieve Luxury Aesthetics And Durability at a fraction of what they might spend sourcing similar products from Europe or North America.

Final Thoughts

From custom craftsmanship to reliable global delivery, the reasons are clear: Carpet Dealers in Dubai have earned their place at the top of the hospitality sourcing list. Their deep industry knowledge, attention to detail, and commitment to quality make them a preferred choice for some of the world’s most prestigious hotel brands.

If you're looking to transform your hotel interior with flooring that reflects both luxury and resilience, exploring options from UAE-Based Carpet Suppliers is a smart and stylish move.

#HospitalityCarpets, #CarpetsForHotels, #CarpetDealersinDubai,

[paramounttowingrecoveryllc]

Bus Broken Down Near Parkin or Proctor? Paramount Towing Responds Fast

Early morning school route. Packed charter headed west. Transit shuttle barely halfway through its loop. Then—boom. Grinding, smoke, warning lights. Suddenly you’re stuck outside Parkin AR or just beyond Proctor, with no traffic slowdowns in sight and twenty heads turning your way wondering what comes next. In that moment, you don’t need a maybe. You need muscle. You need speed. You need Paramount Towing & Recovery. Our crew owns the backroads and highways of Arkansas with precision-focused bus towing and expert truck towing that doesn’t just show up—it shows up prepared.

Whether you're a driver of a city unit or behind the wheel of a private transport, when breakdowns hit in tight stretches like Lehi AR or hilly pulls around Jennette, there’s no time for guesswork. We’ve been doing heavy duty towing long enough to know the difference between slow help and the kind that saves schedules. Our operators respond fast because we already know where you are. This isn’t just GPS—it’s local grit. Our dispatchers memorize the rural dips and shoulders around Proctor, our techs already mapped safe load angles near Parkin, and our equipment rolls heavy but handles like silk.

If a bus locks up with brake failure at a narrow crossroads near Crawfordsville, we come in calm, experienced, already building your recovery plan before we even turn off the ignition. Bus towing is different. These aren’t rigs you yank. These are machines filled with people, weight balanced uneven, risks high. We use rig stabilizers, low-angle lifts, and wheel cradles built specifically for delicate multi-passenger vehicles. It’s not just about getting you moved. It’s about getting you moved safely.

Now maybe it’s not a full engine failure. Maybe your issue’s less dramatic—starter won’t crank. Front axle won’t track right. Coolant puddle where it shouldn’t be. You might be able to limp a few more miles toward Marion, or maybe not. That’s when we bring in Truck Road Service. Our guys fix on scene when possible. Fluids. Filters. Sensors. We carry gear tailored for rapid field repairs.

Don’t waste another minute typing “Roadside Truck Repair Near Me” while hoping traffic magically disappears. We’ve got a fleet that eats this stuff for breakfast. From quick boost jobs in Earle to full semi towing rescue up through Lansing AR, our roster runs deep.

Even if your trailer failed instead of the engine, we’ve got solutions. Our Trailer Repair near Me service covers brakes, doors, lights, wiring, and load locks—all field ready.

Why Choose Us

We Know the Small Town RoadsIt’s one thing pulling a bus out of downtown traffic. It’s a whole other game navigating a disabled shuttle off a soft shoulder near Tyronza. Our crew doesn’t just run city calls. We live in these parts. We know the turnarounds, dead ends, and gravel dips like our own front yards.

Fast Doesn’t Mean RecklessOur speed comes from strategy—not shortcuts. Every bus towing job gets an evaluation before we load. We check for frame damage, pressure balance, passenger risk zones, and entry angles. That means safer hauls every single time.

Fix First—Tow If NeededWe don’t chase mileage. We chase uptime. If your bus problem looks fixable in a ditch near Midway Corner, our Mobile Semi Truck Repair Near Me tools come out fast. Batteries, hoses, lines, belts, sensors—on-site replacements save your day.

We’ve Got the Heavy Stuff TooLet’s say it ain’t a bus. Say it’s a tandem-axle semi jackknifed into a barn fence near Wilson AR. No problem. Our truck wrecker squad hauls overturned, mangled, or load-shifted rigs out of almost anything. It’s heavy duty towing with brains behind the brute force.

Night or Day—No GapsClock doesn’t matter. Whether it’s pitch black at 3:12 AM in Benjestown TN or steaming hot at noon in Hope AR, our team rolls without pause. Tow trucks don’t rest. Neither do we.

We’re In It With YouWe don’t talk like dispatchers—we talk like drivers. Our team includes folks who’ve driven long haul, who’ve been stranded, who know what it’s like to see hazard lights behind your cab. We don’t just understand—we relate.

FAQs

What if my bus shuts down near Marked Tree AR and I need towing fast?Our crew is already nearby. Bus towing calls from Marked Tree get priority handling. We’ll bring proper support straps, wheel lifts, and frame stabilizers to secure your unit for transport—no damage, no delays.

Can I request truck towing if I’m stuck near Earle AR with a delivery vehicle?Yes. Our truck towing services handle everything from straight trucks to sleeper cabs. We tow cargo, reefer, box trucks—you name it. If it’s stranded in Earle, we’re moving.

Is there a Truck Mechanic Nearby in Benton AR if I lose power steering?Sure is. Our mobile team can inspect power steering systems, pumps, and fluid levels. If we can’t fix it roadside, you’ll be in good hands with our Truck Road Service Nearby team guiding the tow.

Where do I find large truck repair near me if I break down in Cabot AR?Paramount covers Large Truck Repair Near Me from Cabot all the way back to Marion. We dispatch welders, diagnostics techs, and mechanical wrenches to your location so you’re never out of options.

Do you offer Semi Road Service Near Me in the outskirts of Sherwood AR?Yes. We respond to Semi Road Service Near Me calls with onboard repair kits. Whether it's emissions failure, turbo lag, or transmission hiccups—we bring the solution direct.

Can I trust your Roadside Truck Repair Near Me service around Parkin AR for electrical faults?Absolutely. Shorts, blown fuses, bad alternators—we carry electrical tools and parts. You’ll be powered up again before the next rig passes by.

Next time your bus goes down or your trailer loses a light near Proctor, call the name drivers already trust.

Contact Details:Paramount Towing & Recovery – 24-Hour Semi-Truck Towing 📍 57 Bob Taylor Dr, Marion, AR 72364, United States 📞 +1 (870) 635-2532

[smartpartsexprts]

Your Global Hyundai Parts Exporter From India – Smart Parts Exports 

Keeping a Hyundai running smoothly takes more than good driving habits and regular servicing; it takes parts you can truly rely on. From brake pads that bite precisely to filters that keep engines breathing freely, every component matters. That is why workshops, fleet owners, and car enthusiasts across five continents partner with Smart Parts Exports, the premier Hyundai parts exporter committed to shipping authentic components world-wide. In this in-depth guide—around 800 words—you’ll discover why choosing us as your Hyundai genuine parts exporter and Hyundai OEM parts exporter is the smartest decision for long-term vehicle health and business success.

1. The Hyundai Legacy and the Importance of Authenticity

Hyundai started in 1967 with a single model; today it produces millions of cars revered for durability, value, and ever-improving tech. Every nut, bolt, gasket, and electronic sensor in those vehicles is engineered to microscopic tolerances. Substituting copies or “will-fit” alternatives may save a few dollars up front, but the hidden costs—reduced efficiency, warranty disputes, breakdowns, safety risks—can be brutal.

Partnering with a verified Hyundai genuine parts exporter restores confidence. You receive the same components installed at the factory, complete with QR-coded labels, tamper-proof packaging, and OEM documentation. When a customer’s Creta, Tucson, or Elantra rolls out of your workshop, you know it drives away with the precise reliability Hyundai intended.

2. Why Smart Parts Exports Leads the Industry

2.1 Expertise Deeply Rooted in India’s Automotive Hub

India is more than an emerging auto market; it is also a strategic sourcing powerhouse. Situated in Delhi-NCR—a logistics crossroads—Smart Parts Exports maintains direct channels with Hyundai’s authorized distributors as well as Tier-1 manufacturers. This geographic advantage helps us fulfill urgent orders faster than any competing Hyundai parts exporter.

2.2 One-Stop Shop for Every Hyundai Platform

From compact hatchbacks like the i10 to luxury SUVs like the Palisade, our catalog covers:

Engine internals (pistons, crankshafts, oil pumps)

Transmission assemblies and clutch kits

Steering & suspension arms, struts, and bushings

Brake pads, discs, calipers, ABS sensors

Body and lighting panels, bumpers, mirrors

HVAC compressors, condensers, and cabin filters

Electronic modules, wiring harnesses, ECUs

Whether you need a single alternator or a pallet of timing-belt kits, the same commitment drives each shipment from our warehouse to your door. That reliability is why mechanics consistently tag us the preferred Hyundai OEM parts exporter.

3. Logistics Engineered for Speed and Savings

3.1 Global Reach, Local Ease

We currently supply parts to 85+ countries in the Middle East, Africa, Eastern Europe, Central Asia, and Latin America. Our multilingual export team prepares pro-forma invoices, certificate-of-origin documents, and HS-code classifications that sail through customs. Because we are a Hyundai parts exporter from India, freight routes via Mumbai, Mundra, and Chennai ports give us flexible pricing on both FCL and LCL containers. For urgent, light-weight components, we dispatch consolidated air freight every Tuesday and Friday.

3.2 Quality Control at Every Mile Marker

Before packing, each item is visually inspected, cross-checked against Hyundai’s electronic parts catalog, and scanned into our ERP system. Boxes are sealed with moisture-proof tape and desiccant sachets. GPS-enabled tracking then follows the cargo until your warehouse signs the POD (Proof of Delivery). In short, our customers enjoy the visibility once reserved for multinational automakers—without paying a premium.

4. Competitive Pricing Without Compromising Authenticity

Counterfeiters tempt buyers with low prices. We compete differently: bulk purchasing, optimized warehousing, and lean staffing let us quote authentic parts at costs that rival grey-market sellers. You get OEM quality, transparent invoices, and full Hyundai warranty coverage—an unbeatable trio that only a seasoned Hyundai genuine parts exporter can provide.

5. How to Order in Three Straightforward Steps

Request a Quote Email, WhatsApp, or submit part numbers through our website. Our parts specialists double-check compatibility and reply with price, lead-time, and shipping mode within 24 hours.

Confirm and Pay Securely We accept major international payment gateways, LC at sight, and swift TT transfers. Each transaction is protected by SSL encryption.

Receive and Review Upon arrival, open the tamper-proof boxes, scan the hologram labels, and verify them on Hyundai’s global authentication portal. Enjoy peace of mind knowing you bought from a trusted Hyundai OEM parts exporter.

6. Frequently Asked Questions

Q: Do you handle small mixed orders for independent workshops? Yes. We ship cartons as small as 10 kg via air freight, perfect for garages needing fast turnaround.

Q: Can you supply discontinued parts for older models? Often, yes. Our sourcing team leverages relationships with legacy vendors and global surplus networks to locate hard-to-find components.

Q: How do I become a regional distributor? Send us your company profile. We evaluate volume potential, storage capacity, and service commitments, then propose tiered pricing and marketing support.

7. Success Stories from the Field

Dubai Fleet Operator: Switched to us as their primary Hyundai parts exporter in 2023. Downtime on their 120-vehicle Accent taxi fleet dropped 28 percent within six months because parts arrived on schedule and fit perfectly the first time.

Nairobi Retailer: Previously battled counterfeits tarnishing their reputation. After onboarding Smart Parts Exports as a Hyundai genuine parts exporter, warranty claims fell to near-zero and monthly revenue rose 18 percent.

Lima Parts Wholesaler: Needed bulk shipments of suspension kits but feared high freight costs. Our consolidated containers cut shipping expense by 22 percent while preserving OEM authenticity—proof we’re the cost-effective Hyundai parts exporter from India.

8. Conclusion: Drive Forward with Confidence

A Hyundai is engineered for years of trouble-free service, but only if it is maintained with the parts it deserves. Smart Parts Exports, your go-to Hyundai parts exporter, delivers that promise daily. As a certified Hyundai genuine parts exporter and dedicated Hyundai OEM parts exporter, we combine India’s manufacturing strength with rigorous global logistics to keep your workshop shelves stocked, your customers happy, and your reputation soaring.

Ready to elevate your supply chain? Contact Smart Parts Exports today—the trusted Hyundai Parts Exporter From India—and experience genuine excellence, part after part, mile after mile.

[ao3feed-arcane]

Between Light and You

by MRVLGEAK Long after the fall of the Empire and the fading of the Skywalker legacy, the galaxy lies quiet-but not at peace. The Jedi Order, reborn and scattered, stands at a fragile crossroads. Whispers of a disturbance in the Force-something ancient, something alive-begin to surface in the ruins of a forgotten temple. Jedi Sentinel Caitlyn Kiramman is dispatched to investigate. Disciplined, loyal, and by the book, she expects another ghost chase. What she finds instead is a vision: a fierce woman with a glowing orange saber and eyes that feel like home. A presence the Force seems desperate to reunite her with. A soulmate she's never met. Elsewhere in the Outer Rim, Vi-once trained in the Jedi ways, now long estranged from them-feels the echo too. A spark. A memory. A pull she's tried to bury. But the past is stirring, and something deep beneath the Force is awakening. Together with a tech-savvy Padawan named Ekko and a wild and a unpredictable Force-sensitive named Powder, they must uncover the truth behind the resurgence of a lost Force philosophy-one that threatens to unravel the Order as they know it. Some connections are written in the stars. Others are etched into the Force itself. Words: 2495, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English Fandoms: Arcane: League of Legends (Cartoon 2021) Rating: Not Rated Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Categories: F/F Relationships: Caitlyn & Vi (League of Legends), Caitlyn/Vi (League of Legends) Additional Tags: Star Wars AU, Caitlyn and Vi are in Love (League of Legends), Caitlyn is a Jedi, Protective Vi (League of Legends), Vi Needs Therapy (League of Legends), Soft Caitlyn (League of Legends) read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/2EZTvCW