#dragoon crest

[soul-sparx]

My full roster for Capcom vs. Sega, in a post of its own. as much as there are characters that hurt to not include, I'm still VERY happy with it

Characters' names under the cut

Base Roster

CAPCOM

Zero, Roll, Mega Man, Morrigan Aensland, Sir Arthur, Ryu, Leon S. Kennedy, Nina, Chun-Li, Monster Hunter, Strider Hiryu, Akuma, Captain Commando, Poison, Mike Haggar, Jin Saotome / BX-02 Blodia (Giant), Devilotte / Super-8 (Giant)

SEGA

Sonic the Hedgehog, Knuckles the Echidna, Shadow the Hedgehog, Akira Yuki, Centurion, Ichiban Kasuga, Jacky Bryant, Alis Landale, Goro Majima, Honey, Bayonetta, Blaze Fielding, Gilius Thunderhead, Tyris Flare, Opa-Opa, Dr. Eggman / Death Egg Robot (Giant), Kyle Fluge / Blue Dragon (Giant)

DLC Wave 1

CAPCOM

Juri Han, Dante, Jill Valentine, Gore Magala (Giant)

SEGA

NiGHTS, Billy Hatcher, Alex Kidd, Nyarlathotep (Giant)

DLC Wave 2

CAPCOM

Tron Bonne, Jon Talbain, Firebrand

SEGA

Aigis, Sketch Turner, Arle Nadja

DLC Wave 3

CAPCOM

Sakura Kasugano, Rouge, Kyosuke Kagami

SEGA

Beat, Rodin, Joe Musashi

[bantarleton]

Who Wants a Non-Hessian German Troops of the American Revolution Uniform Identification Flow Chart?

Now you too can roleplay as a harried British staff officer trying to identify which troops are encamped where, or a devious rebel spy collecting intelligence.

As folks may or may not know, only roughly 50% of the German state troops who served the British Crown during the American Revolution were “Hessians” from Hesse-Cassel. There were six other states that provided “subsidy troops.” Here’s how to tell them apart at a glance.

Are their uniforms predominantly dark blue? If yes, go to the paragraph numbered 4. If no, go to the para numbered 2.

2. Are their uniforms predominantly white? If no, go to the para numbered 3. If yes, those are troops from Anhalt-Zerbst. The only German state involved in the war to take its uniform and organisational cues from Austria rather than Prussia, the single Anhalt-Zerbst line regiment deployed to America wore white regimental coats faced with red. Their grenadiers wore bearskins rather than metal-faced caps (the only other German state to do this was Waldeck). One battalion also, according to one shocked British officer, had one of the most outrageous-looking uniforms of the war, including hussar hats, red and yellow waist sashes and red cloaks - these may have been “pandour” irregulars from the edges of the Austrian empire.

3. The coats are neither white nor blue, so they must be red. In this case, the troops are Hanoverian. While still mostly following Prussian style, because they shared a ruler with Britain, Hanoverian troops wore red. Five Hanoverian regiments assisted Britain with vital Mediterranean defence during the American Revolution, before going on to fight in India. They were the only redcoat Germans fighting for the Crown outside the British Army.

4. Your Germans are wearing blue coats. Are the buttons on the coat lapels arranged 1-2-1, and do the cuffs have a “Swedish” style slit to them? If no, go to the para numbered 5. If yes, they’re from Brunswick-Wolfenbüttel. Brunswick provided the most soldiers after Hesse-Cassel, and arguably the most rounded force, with four line regiments, one dragoon regiment, one grenadier battalion and one light infantry battalion. But whether jäger, musketeers or grenadiers, they almost all had coat buttons in groups of 1-2-1 and the slit-style cuffs. Fun fact; the Brunswick crest of a racing white horse on a red field was the same as neighbouring Hanover’s.

5. Your Germans are wearing blue, but don’t have buttons in 1-2-1 and Swedish cuffs. Do they have yellow facings, and cuffs with buttons placed both horizontally and vertically? If no, go to the para numbered 6. If yes, they are from Waldeck. This German state usually provided troops for the Dutch, but raised a new unit, the 3rd English-Waldeck Regiment, for service in America. They mostly fought against the Spanish in the Deep South, where they were decimated by disease. If the unusual position of the buttons on the cuff isn’t enough, look for the belt plate bearing “FF” for “Fuerst Friedrich,” the state’s ruler.

6. Do your blue Germans have red facings, cocked hats and unusual lace on their coats, shaped like a figure-of-eight? If no, go to the para numbered 7. If yes, they’re from Hesse-Hanau. This state was closely related (in the sense of its ruler, literally) to Hesse-Cassel, yet remained independent. While it provided a small amount of artillery, jägers and freikorps light infantry, its main contribution was a single line regiment, Erbprinz. Their distinctive features were scalloped lace on their cocked hats and the figure-of-eight “Brandenburg” style lace. There was also a Hesse-Cassel Regiment Erbprinz (even sharing the same colonel-in-chief), but they were fusiliers with caps rather than the Hesse-Hanau musketeers with their cocked hats. Check the mistake made by this artwork - these are Hesse-Hanau soldiers from the Infanterie Regiment Erbprinz, but they’re wearing Cassel fusilier caps. Bonus fact; Hanau and Cassel’s crest both features a rampant lion with red and white stripes, but there are subtle differences - they face opposite directions, the style of stripes are slightly different, and the Hanau lion lacks the Cassel one’s crown, but does wield a sword.

7. Do your blue-coated Germans have a black eagle on their flags and grenadier cap plates? If no, they’re probably from Hesse-Cassel. If yes, they’re from Ansbach-Bayreuth. This German state consisted of two provinces, Ansbach and Bayreuth (funny that). Besides jägers and some battalion guns, their main contribution was two infantry regiments, one from each of the two provinces. Their ruler’s crest was a black eagle, similar to the Prussian one.

Of course these posts don’t account for the uniforms of the jäger corps, or musicians, or any artillery, but it can serve as a rough guide. For the proper detail, you’ll have to buy my forthcoming book on the topic!

Also would be pretty cool if someone made an actual flow chart out of this, just saying!

[lilbittymonster]

Day 12: Quarry

Read on AO3

The herd of steinbock grazed peacefully in the meadow below, unaware of the young girl above. She had been tracking them for the better part of the morning, the sun sliding over the highlands as she followed their muddied footsteps ever higher. Now, she was hidden behind a rock fall several yalms above, and was watching the movements of the herd for any signs of weakness or slow-footed members.

There. An older buck, limping on a hind leg. Slowly, carefully, so as to make as little sound as she could, she nocked an arrow and took aim. The bowstring thrummed in her ear as she released, and the arrow struck her target, but not true enough. The steinbock reared and screamed in pain, and the rest of the herd followed suit. Cursing under her breath as they ran once again, the girl skittered down the hillside to follow after them.

There was a trail of bright red blood mixed into the churned mud. She blew a stray lock of hair from her face as she tried to calculate just how far the buck would be able to get before it bled out, assuming that no other predator got to it first, when overhead a large shadow blocked out the sun. It was there and gone again in an instant, resolving itself into the shape of a white dragon soaring above.

The thought of her quarry all but vanished in her excitement at seeing a dragon. They were nowhere near one of the sky cities, and she didn’t see a rider on its back, so it must be on its own hunting foray. She picked up her pace, eager to try and get at least one kill before the day was out and the dragon devoured the whole herd.

It disappeared over the horizon line as she ran. It was difficult to tell but it might have been going in the same direction as her target. There was no way the entire herd wasn’t visible from the air. Hoping against hope that there would be no charred mass of burned hide and meat waiting at the end of the trail, the girl pressed on with the sun beating down from its zenith.

She crested a ridge in the trail, and out in the middle of a spread of churned earth was the dragon. In its claws was a steinbock, and as she drew nearer she could see the arrow still stuck out at an awkward angle from its side. It was much smaller with its wings folded. There was no way to tell how old it was. She paused, unsure if perhaps she had strayed into the children of the First’s territory on accident in her haste.

“It is dangerous for one so young to be hunting alone, daughter of the land,” said the dragon. “Wherefore dost thou stray so far from thine elders?”

“Someone has to put food on the table,” the girl said. “Mother is sick and Father twisted his leg.” She looked to the dead steinbock still locked in ivory talons and back up to the dragon. “Have…..I hunted in the wrong part of the mountains by mistake?”

It shook its head. “Nay, young one, these lands are for all to partake of. Though I must ask; how didst thou intend to bring your prize to your people alone?”

“Er-I, uhh….” She hadn’t actually thought about that part until now.

The dragon chuckled, a low sound like distant thunder.

“Come. ‘Twould be no great burden to carry both thee and thy prey.”

The girls’ eyes widened as she processed the words and their implication.

“I get to ride on your back? Like a real dragoon?!”

The dragon nodded, crouching low to the ground as it gathered the legs of the steinbock in its claws.

The girl carefully scrambled up the scaly hide, careful not to step too hard on any joints, and settled best she could between the spines along its back. She was going to remember this day for the rest of her life.

[mealvaan]

Morsel

TW. Domestic abuse, alcoholism, body horror.

There were so few bells in the day, and Viscount Adrant de Zaciere occupied all of them.

Almost all of them. The Viscountess found nooks of time out of the sun to breathe in the company of a cursed journal and a worn-down quill. Visits to the Durendaire demesne and Jeweled Crozier were savoured too, though she longed for someone to speak to her bereft of courtesy and title, and conversations died like fruit flies under Adrant's purview.

Dinnertime was upon them. The lady of the house refused the retinue of manor staff she'd been assigned; she would not have what little work she was allowed to be taken away from her. Adrant insisted only on choosing the wine, which she would allow; it was a pretentious drink, and she cared little what label got her inebriated.

She beat the dough before her with the vigor of the Fury. The beef, she dug into relentlessly with her carver, as a dragoon would worm under dragon scale. She unapologetically tasted sauces with a two-finger dip just because no one was looking. How she'd longed to be a Dame, once upon a time. Bovine meat bore the only blood she ever got to spill.

The house staff were permitted to present the food she cooked. She didn't like dining with her husband alone.

"Beef wellington," Adrant said, breathlessly impressed. He held her in his gaze like a caged bird of paradise, marvelling at the new feathers she'd grown after that she'd shed. "You've outdone yourself, Imogen."

"It's not that difficult. We're just raised to be afraid of kitchen knives." Imogen indulged in the bite she was permitted at their dinner table. To her persistent irritation, Adrant merely found her scathing remarks amusing. His laughter, the tumbling currents of the deep sea.

"Hahaha. True, that. That's why I married you, my dear."

The table fell silent, save the wet sound of silver to meat. Imogen spent the rest of her evening sipping the Caelumtree Red 1540, as she begrudgingly recalled from Adrant's rambling.

He was an insistent sommelier, asking her all manner of questions. How does it feel? What does it remind you of? What kind of person do you think the wine best suits?

She spun fanciful, sardonic stories, for all the wine tasted the same to her. It's gravel-esque. Reminds me of a four-bell homily at the Cathedral. Best suits someone who hates their life.

In excruciating time, the meal was over.

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

Often the Viscountess rose before the sun. It was one of those secrets she indulged in, basking in the time before dawn while Adrant had left to gods know where. She hoped, often, that he would find a new wife wherever he went and leave her an honorable old maid. Or at least knock some poor woman up so she would have an excuse to leave with the Lafontaine name intact.

How fairytales die when midnight passes. How many moon-eyed little girls no longer dream of prince charming?

Her vanity was remarkably sparse for her station. There was a hairy brush on one side and a set of tissues on the other. Powders and glosses were luxuries she once enjoyed, but then she learned that as Viscountess, they weren't for her. So she stopped wearing them, allowing the star to witness the dark circles under her eyes and the creases where grimaces oft lay. She wanted people to wonder, to care.

Perhaps she still believed in prince charming after all.

As she examined the crests and troughs of her face, she noticed something catch the light.

It was on the tail of her sideburns, tucked away under a tuft. She lifted her index finger and brushed the hair aside. It was a shard of obsidian. Rough to the touch. Just off the curve of her cheekbone. At its hems, it emerged from her skin, as if it'd punctured through the layers and embedded itself through the tissue. She ran her finger over it incessantly, trying to discern what it was.

Something about it made her uneasy. Rather than visit a chirurgeon, she felt the need to cover it up.

"Please fetch me a set of powders from the Crozier," she asked of the courier from a crease within her door. Excited for the Viscountess' final foray into glamour, the maid was bubbly. "Right away, madame."

The compact was slid through a crack in the door. What did they think she was afraid of them seeing? Though her mind raced with anxious intrusions, her hands were quick to work. She contoured light where the shard cast a shadow, worked its bumps out into an even tone. Then she clipped her hair that it would fall over the blemish, just in case. As her hair was pinned up with an elegant clip, a gift from Adrant that she had once forgone, she struggled to see herself in the mirror.

Tonight was another challenge: dodo confit, for which she'd sourced the ingredients to great toil. She retrieved the fowl from its preserve and marvelled at the beautiful marination she'd managed, after half a dozen failed attempts. The jelly would make for good stock.

A steaming platter of elegant dodo legs arrived at the dinner table, complete with a side of ornate asparagus. Adrant revered her with his sonnets of praise. She merely ate because she could, savouring her own internal congratulations.

Stereotypically, the Viscount had paired her dodo confit with a pinot noir.

"Chardonnay would've been more interesting," she's quick to remark, looking over yet another red wine with disdain.

"We should indulge in the richness of this dish, not shy away from it. Give it a try, dearest."

Imogen drank the wine despite her protests; she needed something to wash the richness down, even if it was a tart beverage that did little to rinse her palate. To feel light rather than gaudy.

"You've done your hair differently this eve. What is the occasion?"

Imogen brushed her bangs in front of her ear for good measure. "I just felt like doing something different."

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

She awoke to her lungs on fire.

"Adrant—!" She startled in their bed. His name ran her voice ragged. Loathe she was to beg him for help, but O Gods! Smoke claimed her inside and out! Every breath seared with Nald'thal's flame! She scratched her throat with her nails, begging the Fury for it to stop.

"My love," he awoke quickly, as if he was never asleep. "My love, what's wrong?"

"It hurts! It hurts!" She gasped and writhed in the sheets, pulling the duvet off him entirely. "Call the maids!"

Adrant's neck craned over her, his eyes the twin moons. Tears in her eyes, she could barely carve out the features of his face. Just a line for a mouth and hair hanging over his lashes.

"How does it feel?"

"Wh... What?" she made out before coughing and spluttering. Smoke was emanating from her nostrils, burning away the hairs within. What a sickening stench that she couldn't escape. Was she going to die here, burnt from the stake within, witch that she was?

All the while, Adrant merely hovered over her, not moving for the door, not ringing their bedside bell.

"What does it remind you of?"

"A... Adrant!" She was choking on her own air now. He was a pale bouquet of roses in her teary, gaze. She was going to die.

"What kind of person..."

How quickly her consciousness faded without the astral air. The last she remembered was his hand, brushing away her hair, and then it all winked to black.

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

When she awoke then, it was like she had dreamed the whole thing.

The afternoon sun lanced through the window, her duvet peachy. She couldn't smell smoke or char, and she breathed clearer than she had in years.

Adrant wasn't in bed, but his briefcase remained at the foot of the bed. He hadn't left the estate. She heard, in the distance, the sound of a pot clanging to stove.

It was enough to send her running in her nightgown, a flurry of silk down the stairs and to the kitchen.

Adrant's shadow cast a deep groove along her counter. Along the marble lay several cutting boards of roughly chopped, vivid ingredients. Onion, popoto and spices. He was making some sort of Thavnairian curry, an easy dish if one knew the recipe. So little to wash. Though, cooking was an effort for Adrant.

"What are you doing?" she asked with such grave offense in the doorway. It was like she'd caught him in bed with another woman.

"After what happened this morning, I thought I'd give you a break, my sweet." His tone was airy and thin. No offense taken.

"But... I..." She had a carbonara planned, all the ingredients ordered fresh and to spec. She'd spent evenings preparing for the battle to come, whetting the cheese grater and pushing the pasta mold to its limits. How hard she'd trained and toiled...

"Go sit at the table," he chided, chipper. She relented. He was already making food and she didn't want to waste it.

The bell at the table felt agonising. She wanted to jump out of her itchy skin and do something, but no other chores suited her. Cleaning the house wasn't expressive; it was about maintaining the image Adrant had declared for the manse, keeping evidence of her existence out of his life. Nor was doing the laundry, a repetitive and banal act that never seemed to cease. As he indulged in her kitchen, she found herself territorial. That was her domain, and he'd crossed into it. The smoke emanating from him burning the pan, her pan — it bruised her lungs again.

The maids apologetically set the table around the Viscountess. In a large bowl atop steaming rice, she received a quaint, demure portion of hot massaman curry, paired with...

"Merlot?!" Imogen was aghast with offense. "Adrant, come off it! I want a white."

Adrant sat at the table and showed no change in his expression to Imogen's protests, as usual. "Merlot will enrich the body of the curry," he chided. "Think of it as a sauce."

"Like cranberry sauce? This isn't going to go together at all."

"We don't have any white in the cellar."

Her bottom lip jutted out. "Then we should get some."

"Sure." It mattered little to him how odd this was. "Tomorrow. For now, it's all we have."

Imogen considered water. The combination of the two would be sickening. She couldn't imagine a future where she didn't throw it all up. But wine was her only indulgence in this godsforsaken home. It was merlot or spending the rest of the evening sober, which she couldn't, wouldn't have.

Deep she drank of the grapesblood, and Adrant smile was warped in the body of her glass. Like he was smiling far too wide for his face, a monster's maw. When she put her glass down, it was merely a simper.

Adrant's cooking was passable. It was needed. It was just food. When he asked for her opinion on it, she made that apparent. It's fine. It will keep us alive. It fills the stomach.

That shut him up, for a mercy. The plates were shortly cleared (hers before his) and taken to the kitchen to wash. Adrant's tense jaw didn't move as he left to change into his nightwear upstairs. He did this when he was angry, so she tried to make him as angry as she could get away with.

The kitchen was a mess when she returned. She wanted it put back to how she remembered it, places where the implements made sense, cupboards that she could reach things in. She forbade the maids from helping her — "I need something to do today," she bristled, and they gave her a wide berth.

All the dishes to wash were to be stacked in the order they were to be washed; the smallest cutlery first, then the plates, then the massive pots and pans that Adrant had somehow amassed making a basic curry. She grumbled to herself as she started with the littlest of glass.

It was a clear vial which she'd presumed to be a spice container. On further inspection... She noticed dots of red liquid lining the membrane.

Imogen took the bottle away from the sink and held it up to the candlelight. The glow scorched it red, sending a shiver down her spine. It was not unlike the red of the cutting board she'd used to cut the bovine meat two suns ago.

It was so delicate, too. What could possibly be stored in here, if not a tiny amount of chili powder? It barely needed her thumb and forefinger to hold aloft.

Tentatively, she lifted the bottle to her lips.

It was immediately dizzying, the tinny, metallic smell that had pooled at the bottom. It assailed her nostrils as if rusting the hairs within them over, billowing iron into her throat like it was air. She coughed—

And the cough singed her hand.

She opened her eyes to a remnant of a plume from her very own lips. The glass dropped to the floor and shattered. It was a high pitched sound. Footsteps down the stairs followed as she stared at her prickling, red-hot skin.

"Imogen, my sweetheart?" Adrant was rounding the bannister. The blood was mercurial, seeping into the cracks of the kitchen tile. There was nothing coagulating within it, as if it were a smooth red.

"Imogen, how are you feeling?" Anticipation hammered in his voice. She couldn't find hers. There was fear that she would cough again, and she held her breath hostage in the back of her throat.

Eventually, the kitchen door swung open.

"What have you done, Adrant," she managed, voice hoarse. "What is this?" At her foot, he could see it, plain as day. The broken vial, the spilled contents.

Ever so gently, he shut the door behind them.

"Adrant," and then she was spluttering over the counter. Great fumes were squeezing out of her nose, her mouth, her ears, her eyes. O, Great Gods, kill her — O, Gods, end it all — !

"How does it feel?" He hunched over her, the pall that he was, running his hand along her back... no, her hair. He pushed her hair aside, running a finger along the nape of her neck.

There were bumps and ridges that became apparent when he pressed down on them, and only then. The feeling of hard chitin lining her spine, all the way up to her hairline. She gasped for life and for death.

Scales?

"What... What..." How her tongue smarted with every consonant, having been burned all along the top. "What have you d-done to me..."

"What does it remind you of? Dig deep, Imogen."

She didn't want to believe it, tears pricking in her eyes as she spoke the word aloud.

"M-m-monster—"

"Not a monster. A miracle." He traced circles along her spine that from anyone else would've been a calming gesture. Her father, perhaps. The highborn blood within her, so latent, yet dominating her every demesne at this moment. "Long did I await the miracle. What kind of person do you think you'll become? If a person, at all?"

"Stop it. St... Stop it. Take it ba— ack..." She hacked, trying to eject her lungs from her body.

"Breathe as normal, and you'll wield it better. You'll have the power."

She was clinging to the countertop now, trying to scrabble away from him. Towards the moonlight, where the curtains breathed fresh air. He accompanied her with the maddeningly slow clicks of his heels.

"Four in, four out."

In the small bells of the night, at the crest of the Pillar, there was a sickening scream — the cracking of bones — and then a silence permeated only by the occasional, gravelly sob.

But all knew better than to disturb the Viscount in the middle of the night. 'Twas an ill omen.

[kylorengarbagedump]

Playing Soldier: Chapter 10

Read on AO3. Part 9 here.

Summary: You're starting to think you're never getting back home.

Words: 6800

Warnings: Serious attempts at historical war nerdery

Characters: William Tavington x Reader

A/N: Co-written with @bastillia

Hi, quick note here - we are not following the timeline of the film, since it's completely fucky and doesn't really adhere to any of the major battles closely enough for our nerd-brains to enjoy. As such, please note that the Battle of Camden occurred on August 16th, 1780, not whatever time the movie made up in 1778.

HELLO, WELCOME BACK. Sorry for the delay! We've had an insanely busy two weeks with family visiting, work being insane, and just generally having way-too-much-shit going on. However, we plan to have a new chapter out next week (though the one after that might be... uh, LONG), so please keep in mind we're doing our best to keep to a schedule of every 1-2 weeks!

(I used to write shit that was like, 2k words per chapter. What happened to that??? lmao how did I even do that. I don't even know)

THANK YOU EVERYONE for your very kind words and thoughts for last chapter. We were SO excited to write it and honestly I have been thinking about it non-stop? Idk I just want his cock so bad.

ANYWAY CHAT SOON <3

William.

William.

He’d asked you to call him William.

It had been about forty-two hours (not that you were counting) since your thoroughly unwise, thoroughly unfinished tryst with the colonel of the Green Dragoons. You had spent that time trying to purge yourself of his scent, his touch, his taste. So far, your greatest measure of success had been in slapping your hand whenever it crawled to relieve the pressure between your legs.

You cupped your hands in the creek, splashed your face cold.

Your thoughts needed to be clearer than the damn creek. To even offer this desire a place in your mind would encourage it. And the memory of his name in your ear continued to invite it to stay.

Another palms-worth of water, another splash.

Even more infuriatingly, it had managed to wriggle its way into your thoughts. Most of the time, he passed through your mind as Tavington, or Colonel, or both of them together. But there were moments. Weak, inane moments, wherein the only representation of him bore the name William.

William, as if he were a man who had introduced himself with a bow, a man who might call on your father and ask permission to write, a man who’d done anything other than everything he had done.

William, a name so representative of nothing William Tavington was to you.

And yet, in the dark of night, your fingers itching to chase away lust, that name drifted like foam on the sea of your thoughts; a word whispered in your voice; a soft, reluctant plea; a fantasy of a fantasy—that not only was he your relief, but a man who deserved his name at all.

You groaned, thrust your face in the creek and screamed into the rocks. A voice called your name from beyond the surface, and you jerked back to sit on your heels. Panting, water dripping down your face, you turned to see Lottie.

“Is everything all right?” She studied your expression. “This is, what, the third time you’ve dunked your face in there today?”

You exhaled, waving her off dismissively. “Oh, yes, I’m fine,” you replied, wiping the remaining drops from your face. “Warm day, isn’t it?”

She nodded, gazing back toward camp, squinting in the sun. “I suppose we’d best try to enjoy it before autumn comes.” Her attention turned back to you. “Did you want to play cards before dinner? Best out of seven?”

“Seven?” You grinned, pushing yourself to your feet. “Omitting last night, are you? Fairly certain I recall a winning streak.”

“I don’t know at all what you mean,” she replied with a smile. “Come! I’ve grown weary of stitching circles and gossip.”

You looked to the sky. The sun was cresting away from high noon. Daylight was in waning supply, and this was the first time since the storm that Tavington had left camp—your first chance to venture off without fearing him heeling at your shadow. There was no telling when he'd return, but you'd already spent at least thirty minutes of that time trying to wash him from your thoughts. You needed to get going.

“I thought I’d eat a bit later, actually.” You offered an apologetic smile. “I wanted to forage for some supplies before the day is out.”

“Later?” Lottie tried and failed to conceal a grimace. “With, er, everyone else?”

“Yes.” You raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Oh, well I…” She looked at her shoes, rolling back and forth on the balls of her feet. “It just may be uncomfortable. With Alice.” When you replied with only a confused blink, she continued, “She’s still, ah, a bit upset.”

“Still?” You scowled, folding your arms. “Why?”

A sigh escaped her as she searched the ground. “I don't suppose it's that strange,” she said, and then lowered her voice. “Her miscarriage was only a month ago.”

“So?” Snorting, you rolled your eyes. “I said I was sorry. To her face, even.”

Lottie nodded sympathetically. “You did,” she said. “But—”

“But nothing,” you said. “I apologized. It’s done with. She needs to gather her skirts and start anew.”

“Perhaps…” Lottie pursed her lips, regarding you as she considered her words. “Though I'm sure she feels differently.”

“Perhaps she shouldn't have started it, then.” You shrugged. “I certainly don't start arguments that I don't plan on winning.”

“As I've come to learn.” Lottie smiled wryly. “Give her time. Alice clings to her grudges even tighter than she does to her Bible, I think.”

You nodded. “Precisely,” you said, comforted in your knowledge that Alice was the problem and definitely not you, or anything you’d done. “She won’t disturb me. I’ll scrounge some food and find you afterwards.”

“Lovely,” Lottie replied. “Don’t stay out too late. Benedict said we’ll be moving to Camden soon, and you know how the colonel is about giving notice for such things.”

“Camden?” You frowned. “Did he say why?”

Lottie shrugged. “Apparently we are to meet the general and his men there.” She wrung her hands. “Do you suppose it’s to do with those rebels who attacked us?”

“Most likely.” You sighed, forcing down a disquieted squirm. “Though if they know what’s good for them, they’ll have long since turned tail by now.”

If only you didn’t suspect that to be a false hope.

“Might they still be in the area, though?” A little line of concern folded along Lottie’s brow, and she glanced out toward the woods. “Planning an… an ambush, or something?”

“I doubt it,” you said. “Those men got a whipping they shan’t soon forget.”

Lottie let out a relieved half-laugh. “They did, didn’t they?” Skipping forward, she took your hands in hers. “Still. Do promise to be careful.”

“Of course.” You offered a small smile. “I’ll not allow Alice the satisfaction of my abduction.”

She grinned and pinched your arm. “Don’t say such things!”

“You’re right,” you said through a giggle, flinching from her. “Far more likely I’ll be tarred and feathered.”

“Oh, you!” Lottie swatted at you as you retreated, lip pinched between your teeth.

“Strung up as a warning,” you said, pantomiming your own hanging as you flounced away.

“Cards. Tonight.” Lottie shot you a final, quelling look as she began to turn back. “This time you’re done for!”

“You’re on,” you said, and watched as she departed toward camp.

Smile withering on your lips, you breathed deeply, turned your head north. Continentals were not only patrolling the road that direction, you knew militia were stationed toward that way as well. If the Wilksburg company had joined up with them, then that would be the best opportunity you had to find someone—anyone—who knew anything about your father.

In an ideal world, of course, he would be there when you arrived. But you knew better than to practice idealism.

After casting around to ensure that you weren’t being watched, you started down the road. Keeping to the sides, in the grass, was the best strategy for now. It gave you plausible deniability if someone from Tavington’s legion did happen across you.

You hadn’t considered, yet, what you’d even do if and when you found the Continentals. You just knew you needed to do something, anything to peel the guilt from behind your eyes. Kissing Tavington had been an incredible mistake that would require incredible redress. Providing the Continentals with whatever knowledge you possessed was your first attempt to achieve that.

The sun dripped down the sky as you walked, a bead of honey making its way to the horizon. Its heat had gathered sweat at your temples by the time you reached the bridge crossing. With a strange pang of disappointment, you found it deserted, the ground scarred by boot and hoof. The Continentals must have made good on their plans to fall back, spooked by the numbers they encountered at Tavington’s camp.

Huffing a sigh, you hiked your skirts and started over the bridge, reveling for a moment in the rush of cool air above the river.

There was always the possibility that you wouldn’t find the Continentals at all. That they had retreated all the way back to North Carolina, and you were following their long-cold trail. That no trace of them would be found by the time evening fell and forced you to circle back.

Or perhaps you wouldn’t circle back. It would be so simple. All you would have to do is continue walking. Forever. You would never have to see or touch or taste or dwell upon thoughts of William Tavington ever again.

And without you, your home would be burned.

And without you, Grace would be killed.

And you would never know if your father would live to learn of any of it.

Anger lashed you, quickened your steps. It settled into its chosen home of late: a dull, scraping throb in the back of your skull.

No, such whispers of despair would not seduce you. You would keep its lips just as far from your ear as you would keep Colonel Tavington’s lips from your own.

Continentals had to be here. You would find them. And this cacophonous discord in your mind would finally cease, so long as you could affix your sights upon—

“Madam? Madam, can I help you?”

To the west, a nearly-familiar voice. You turned to meet a mounted horse trotting over the hill. As the rider drew closer, you recognized his face.

“Wilson?” you said. “Is that you?”

Wilson gaped, kicking the horse to a canter until he reached you. Your heart was torn between relief and elation, tempered by confusion, since the last time you’d seen Wilson he was waiting out a hanging in Dorchester. Given his appearance now—closer to a bedraggled, bearded orphan than a soldier—you would’ve thought he’d just escaped.

“By God, it’s you,” he said, examining you. He glanced around. “What are you doing out here?”

You grimaced. Perhaps Wilson was trustworthy. But this wasn’t something you wanted to bet your safety on. You needed someone of higher rank.

“There’s a lot I need to explain,” you said. “How did you manage to get out of Dorchester? Do you know anything about my father?”

“Your…” Wilson frowned for a moment before realization dawned across his face.. “Of course. Your father broke us out of that lobster pit. He’s back at camp.”

“What?” It was definitely elation, now. You sidled up to the horse, grabbing at the cantle. “I must see him.”

“Indeed you must.” Wilson held out a hand and vacated his stirrup, letting you clamber onto the back of his mount. “We’re only a couple miles over the valley.” He urged his horse into a trot and laughed. “Oh, he’s going to be thrilled to see you, kid.”

Your chest tightened with excitement. “I know,” you replied, smiling.

You explained on the short ride to camp that you’d been paroled, but omitted anything about working for the British in the encampment down the way. And obviously omitted anything having to do with any superior officers or your attraction to them and how that potentially endangered everyone in your life.

Guilt trailed the horse’s stride. You’d be rid of it soon. Your father—your father—was at the camp. Safe. Alive. You brought your focus to that and that alone. It didn’t matter, the weeks of struggle, the fear and torment over your family’s well-being, the weight of it on your shoulders. It would all be worth it to hear your father’s voice.

A white mass of canvas bloomed into your field of vision, split into distinguished tents as you rode nearer. When you were close enough to shout at them, you could restrain yourself no longer. Squealing, you hopped off the horse, stumbling to the grass and nearly grinding your face into the dirt. You didn’t care. You scrambled to your feet and ran, ran toward the camp, waving your arms above your head, calling a single word out to the air.

“Papa!” you cried. “Papa!”

A dozen heads poked out of or around the side of the tents, squinting in the direction of the wild running woman. Realizing you weren’t their daughter, they dismissed you, nudging their comrades to look in your direction. It wasn’t until a head crowned in a tricorn hat emerged from the crowd that you met recognition in someone’s eyes.

First it was disbelief. Then a yielding, laughing shake of his head. Then he stepped, ambled, bounded toward you, his arms outspread in joy. To see his face was to see a mirror etched with age. He called out your name.

“My girl!” your father hollered. “It’s my girl!”

In long, loping seconds, you crashed together, your arms curling around him, his own embrace crushing your shoulders and head against his chest. You laughed, burying your face in his shoulder, every single shred of shame, panic, and fear withering to the ground. He was warm. He smelled like home.

Papa. Papa was here.

“Papa,” you mumbled. “I’m so glad you’re faring well.”

Papa squeezed you again before holding you at arm’s length, and looking you over. “No worse for wear, yourself.” He met your eyes. “Now what in God’s holy blessed green-and-blue earth are you doing here, cub?” His attention fell to Wilson, riding up behind you. “Where did you find this rascal?”

“She was looking for us, Captain,” Wilson replied with a sheepish shrug.

You fought off a grin, tilting your chin to the sky. “I found him,” you said, fixing your hands on your hips. “And we have much to discuss, Papa.”

“Oh-ho.” A laugh broke out of him, and he wrapped an arm around your shoulder, pulling you into another hug. “Of course you did. Of course we do.” He rubbed your back before guiding you around to face the camp. “But first—let me introduce you to everyone!” Papa led you forward, hand raised triumphantly in the air. “My girl is here!”

As you entered the Continental campground, men parted for you, greeted you, tipped their hats in your direction. Miss, missus, good day, pleased to meet you, pleasant to make your acquaintance; all floated in your ears, the words melting together in unfamiliar groups of sound. Never had you been treated with such deference. And never had men seemed so interested in earning your favor.

Even back in Catawba, where Papa was well-known and well-regarded, the local boys had grown up with you. Knew you too well to try speaking to you any more often than courtesy demanded To the Continental men, you were a potentially pretty stranger exposed only through anecdotes shared by a respected, impressive man.

Unfortunately for them (and, given your recent inclinations, perhaps you as well) not one of them impressed you. Though they were, potentially, not at fault for that.

Men shambled through the camp without shoes, without trousers. Handfuls waddled in mud only draped by blankets. Those who sought you to introduce themselves appeared to have gone without shaving—or washing, given the crescents of dirt under their nails—for days. Wilson had not been unique in his swamp-mongrel regalia, you realized.

The condition of the Continental encampment was abominable.

You looked to your father. Glee beamed from him like sunlight. If he was concerned about the deplorable circumstances of his soldiers, it didn’t show. He directed you toward a fire, where several men were seated in a circle, all of them outfitted in some sort of blue coat. They each eyed you as you approached, their gazes flitting between you and your father in confusion.

“Gentlemen,” he said, gesturing toward you, “this is my daughter.”

You gave them your name, bowing your head toward them. One of the men shot to his feet, his eyes wide and locked onto you. The rest of the men followed, standing and nodding toward you as they introduced themselves with names you didn't remember. The first man to stand tipped his cap in your direction.

“Miss.” He was dressed in an outfit that resembled your father’s and stood tall, with tawny hair and high cheekbones. “Captain Pearce. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Your heart stalled. Pearce. That name pierced your memory in a clap of thunder, a flash of lightning. Your eyes widened, and you offered him a tight smile in the most normal manner you could possibly muster.

It had been dark. Storming. He hadn’t been the one speaking to you, and no hint of recognition stirred within his gaze. When you met his eyes, he grinned and returned to a seat around the fire. Your chest fell in relief.

You planned to tell your father what you’d been doing, but involving anyone else seemed foolhardy. If Tavington learned from some desperate Patriot soldier that you’d been dipping between camps with the desire to undermine him, you didn’t think you’d be able to get to Grace before he strung you up on the nearest tree.

Besides, the thought of even considering, let alone explaining, what sort of game you’d been playing with him made your stomach sink. Now that you knew your father was alive and occupied by the war, you could even dare to hope you might never play that game again.

The thought sparkled like a distant star. You imagined bidding your father farewell, escaping back to Catawba, whisking Grace away to Pennsylvania and never seeing William—Colonel—Tavington again.

Why, oh why did some awful, craven piece of you wilt at the very thought of it?

“Cub?” Papa said. “Everything all right?”

You blinked alive. You’d been staring into the fire. “Oh!” you said, laughing. “Yes, yes, Papa, sorry.”

“Go ahead and have a seat, my girl.” He sat on one of the benches by the fire and patted the spot next to him. “You said we have much to discuss.”

Nodding, you took the seat. Your hands folded into the fabric of your dress, your palms sweat onto your knees. You weren’t sure why you were nervous.

“I have information. About the British Army.” There was something important Lottie had mentioned earlier, too. “And about Camden.”

One of the named-but-forgotten men sat forward. “You know about the attempt—”

“Hold on.” Pearce extended his arm as if to quiet him. “Hold on, now.” He met your eyes before setting his jaw, sitting up taller. “By what means did you attain this information?”

You stiffened, looked toward Papa. “I’d rather reveal that to only my father, thank you.”

“Is there a reason you refuse?” Pearce sat forward, gesturing to his uniform. “I’m a captain, just like your father.”

“That’s evident,” you replied, “but my father you are not.”

Pearce glanced at Papa before continuing. “Well, yes, miss. I understand. But I can assure you that I, too, can be provided with sensitive information. My accomplishments in the war—”

You frowned. “I care little for your achievements, Captain Pearce,” you said. “Your behavior is what engenders my trust, and I have seen nothing of that thus far.”

Papa held up a calming hand. “Pearce, it’s all right. She’s a skeptical type. As well she should be.” He grinned at you. “We can talk in a moment.”

“Thank you, Papa.” You folded your arms over your chest.

Pearce huffed, but relinquished, easing back and glancing around. “Very well, then,” he said. “Should we gather the militia?”

“No need,” Papa said. “I’ll inform Colonel Martin later. He and his boy went out scouting a couple of hours ago.” He nodded toward you. “Go on.”

You took a breath, glanced around the circle of men, then at the fire. Your chest tightened. You swallowed the feeling.

“First,” you began, “how long since your forces returned to South Carolina?”

Papa pursed his lips, glanced at Pearce. “Six days, I believe,” he said. Pearce nodded in agreement.

“And how far out have you managed to scout in that time?”

Pearce straightened, shifted where he sat. “Well…”

“Not as far as we’d have liked, cub,” Papa said, raising a hand to the back of his neck. “Our General, you see—”

“Our resources are occupied elsewhere at this time,” said Pearce, a hint of what almost resembled distrust flickering over his face as he regarded you.

You fought the urge to roll your eyes.

“Yes,” Papa said, and you caught a mote of frustration in his tone. “I suppose that’s one way to put it.”

“Show me the most current map you have,” you said. “Much has changed, even since you were last here, Papa.”

Papa nodded, then gestured to a man seated across from him, who sprang to his feet and made for one of the surrounding tents.

“Changed, how?” Papa asked, turning back to you.

“Well,” you sighed. “The British have not rested a day since taking Charleston. They fan the flames of Loyalism across the colony as we speak. By force, or by…” You swallowed. “Enticement.”

Papa frowned. “This land has more backbone than that, surely.”

“Evidently not,” you returned, perhaps too sharply. “More towns pledge fealty to the crown by the day. Lord Cornwallis has dispatched entire legions of men to sweep the countryside and ensure it.”

“Perhaps they lie,” offered Pearce. “Swear whatever oath they must to be left in peace, while their allegiances truly lie elsewhere.”

“Precisely,” said Papa, holding a hand out as if to showcase Pearce. “The soul of liberty is not so easily snuffed.”

You met Pearce’s eyes. His shoulders rolled back. Words of doubt on your lips were distracted by the soldier returning with the requested map. He held it out to your father.

Papa frowned. “I wasn’t the one who asked for it, Private.”

The private’s back hunched in submission and he handed it over to you. As you spread it on your lap, he retreated to his seat around the fire, and you shot him a glare for good measure.

“So.” Your finger swirled over a swath of land in the backcountry. “All of these towns have sworn loyalty to the Crown over the past months.”

Scrutinizing the map, you hummed, leaned forward, and plucked an old charred stick from the edge of the fire pit.

“And there’s a road you’ve not accounted for. Here.” You scratched a charcoal line into the map. “It’s part of what they’re calling the King’s Highway. Supplies move from Charleston to be disseminated to outposts across the backcountry. These seem to be their primary fortifications, as far as I know.” With each new trail, you drew a new, black line. “Fort Ninety-Six, to the west. Stono Ferry, in the south. And Fort Carolina, here in the north.”

“New points of attack,” Papa said, staring into the map. “They’ll be vulnerable along those routes.” He gazed at you, face splitting with a smile before he slapped your back so hard he earned a small oof. “That’s my girl!” He looked to Pearce. “I told you that she was quite a woman, didn’t I?” Before you could begin to question that that meant, he continued, “Do you have anything else, cub?”

“What about the movements of their officers?” Pearce asked.

Your mouth parted as your pulse skipped. “I’m not quite sure what you mean, Captain.”

Pearce sighed. “We believe colonel of the Green Dragoons—William Tavington, if you know him—”

If only he knew how well.

“—was spotted here not more than a couple of days ago after our patrols encountered a redcoat encampment. We nearly captured him.”

Papa nodded. “Too bad, too,” he said. “Would’ve been excellent information for Gates.”

“General Gates continues to resist suggestions for the procurement of further intelligence,” Pearce said, partly to you, partly to your father.

“Well.” Papa scoffed. “Gates is a damn fool.”

Pearce gave a commiserating look before turning back to you. “We have reason to believe Tavington’s legion is in the area.” Grey eyes scrutinized you, flicked over your face and hands before meeting your gaze again. “Do you know anything about that?”

Had it been Papa asking, your answer would have been instant. But this was something you didn’t want to confirm for a stranger who could sell you out with the right amount of pressure. And you couldn’t discern Pearce’s intention, couldn’t figure if he already knew the answer to the question he was asking. He was studying you in a way that made your skin want to flutter off in flakes.

“No.” You spun to face your father. “I have something I want to discuss with you.” You glanced at Pearce. “Privately.”

Pearce frowned, looking between you and Papa like he was lost. Papa scanned your expression, chewed his lip before acknowledging Pearce, nodding at him and the other men around the fire to dismiss them. Exhaling, Pearce’s shoulders sank. He stole a final glimpse of you before tipping his hat again and following the rest of the soldiers to the tents.

Before he could speak, you lowered your voice. “Papa, how are you men surviving?” you said. “The state of this camp is horrific.”

Papa grinned, shaking his head. “Don’t be preposterous! No, it isn’t.”

“It’s atrocious.”

“What do you mean?” Papa craned his head, surveying the grid of tents. “Can you not see the fervor here? The thirst for revolution?” Like a poor boy on the eve of Christmas, the reality of his circumstances were obscured by delirious thrill. “These men are Patriots! They believe in something.”

From your perspective, it was difficult to identify what they believed in other than not being fully dressed. Perhaps the British encampment wasn’t possessed by passion, but they at least had the provisions to make it through a single battle. You weren’t sure how the Continentals had gotten this far.

“I’m just a bit concerned with the state of your men right now, is all.”

“Don’t be,” he said. “The colonel of our militia is a legend from the French and Indian war. If I could only tell you of his feats at Fort Wilderness.” He looked at you with utter conviction. “A word from that man could stir even the most phlegmatic hearts to fervor.”

You nodded. “All right then. Perhaps I need time to see it.” Giving him a sly grin, you added, “As of now, I see no such stirring man.”

“Not one?”

“Not one.”

“Ah…” Papa rubbed his knees, shooting you a rueful grin. “So, Captain Pearce didn’t impress you?”

Your brow furrowed. “No, he didn’t,” you replied. “Speak your meaning plainly, Papa. From where did this question arrive?”

He leaned back, sucking in air through his teeth. “Oh, I don’t know, cub,” he said. “He’s been a great help to me, and he’s around your age. He’s intelligent. Ambitious. I know you’re not easily impressed, so I thought maybe…” He waved you off. “Forget it, forget it.”

“Wait.” Your jaw dropped. “Were you trying to…” A laugh of disbelief escaped you. That’s why Pearce had been acting so strangely in front of you. “You were trying to arrange something with him?”

Papa threw up his hands defensively. “No!” he insisted. “No, no, no. Nothing like that. I just thought perhaps if you met him…”

“What, he’d—he’d… wing me away in a fit of infatuation?”

“Not a fit—no!” He clapped to silence further discussion. “Anyway. Just. Forget all of that.”

You grumbled, but nodded along anyway. Papa had never cared if you were married and had never tried to foist a man into your arms regardless. The romance of war had swept him in flight. He’d simply hoped to pass it on to you, as he’d done with all of his other idealistic aspirations.

The relics of your rage from a couple of nights prior resurrected themselves. If it hadn’t been for these very idealistic, romantic aspirations over something incredibly dangerous, you wouldn’t even be sitting in this camp. The three of you could have fled the encroaching war together, could have done something sensible for once.

Instead, just one of you was left with obligation.

Just one of you was left to put out the candles, to sweep the porch, to lock the doors, to tuck the sheets under the mattresses.

What had Tavington said, that first night you’d met him?

Is your father so thoughtless, leaving his daughters vulnerable while he dies in war?

You ground your teeth together. He wasn’t right. He couldn’t be. He wasn’t allowed to be.

“There’s something else I need to tell you,” you said, shaking off all thoughts of the colonel and how right or wrong or whatever he was. You dropped your volume to a whisper. “I’ve been traveling with the British army since mid-June. Grace and I were taken—”

Papa’s eyes widened. “You—cub, you’ve been what?”

“That’s where I came from!” You inched closer to him. “Tavington’s legion is just south of the river. That’s where I’ve been. Papa…” You glanced around. “Do your men mean to advance on Camden?”

His face fell. He drew in a long inhale, gazing into the fire. “Dammit. So they know, do they?”

“You must withdraw,” you said. “Cornwallis is on his way north to defend it. Whatever you’ve got planned, it won’t be enough.”

Papa nodded, silent, chewing on his cheek in thought. “Thank you,” he said, finally. “Though I’m not sure what good it will do with this fool Gates commanding us. I doubt he’ll hear a word of it.”

“Then you must make him hear. Relief though it brings me to have informed you of it.” You could let the load of this war die in its own wake. After seeing the state of the Continental camp, you were more determined than ever to get home and get Grace out of South Carolina. “More relief still to know you’re alive. I’ve spent all of these weeks thinking you might have been dead. Or hurt, or… I don’t know. Worse.”

“And that’s what had you out here staying in… did you say Tavington's legion?”

“I did.”

He hummed, giving another knowing shake of his head. “Tavington isn't known for being obtuse. Or charitable.” He laughed. “You might have gotten yourself killed.”

Or worse—deflowered. “I can handle myself,” you said. “Besides—”

“I know you can,” Papa said. “Just don’t give them too much hell when you get back there.”

Your fingers wound around each other. There, as in return to the British encampment. Not head home. You swallowed, panic creeping up your neck and bringing a wave of sweat with it. You’d thought it would be clear for you to abandon this entire charade and put the devilish whims of war—and Tavington—behind you.

Had you been neglecting some duty when considering your plan? Was there some important piece of information you’d omitted?

“But…” The word sounded wrong on your tongue. “How will I… what will I be doing?”

“What you’ve already been doing,” he said. “We need Tavington crippled. He’s been slaughtering us.”

“But how will I get you information?”

He shrugged. “Write letters to Grace, if you’d like. She can keep them for me. But I’m not worried about the information. I trust you to do what’s right.”

It wanted to leave again. “But I…”

You would never do that. There was no way you’d even accidentally implicate her anything. The fact that he’d even suggested it irritated you.

“Of course.” And then, with far more acidity than you realized you’d been holding, “Grace is well, by the way, since you asked.”

Papa frowned, face drawn with concern. “Well, I’m glad to hear it,” he said, “I’m glad she is. But I never doubted she would be with you there.” He paused, considering you. “Everything all right, cub?” He nudged you playfully. “Aren’t you inspired?”

Shame consumed you. Your stomach fell to your feet. You hadn’t been careful. You’d been selfish. That was the problem.

You held importance to people like your father, who was clearly awe-struck by the vigor of rebellion. You served a crucial point in preventing him from coming to harm. At least with the information you’d given him today, he might stand a chance in escaping certain death from a confrontation at Camden.

This was your father. Of course he trusted you, of course he assumed the best in you. How was it possible you considered doing anything but what he hoped for?

You’d been so stupid.

Nodding, you looked at Papa. Forced a smile just like you had when he told you he was heading off to join the Wilksburg company.

“Yes, Papa,” you replied. “I’m going to do my best for you. I promise.”

Papa smiled and pulled you into a strong, close hug. You closed your eyes, a knot bubbling in your throat and escaping as a pained laugh. You pressed your face into the crook of his neck.

“I lost your boots,” you whimpered.

His body shook with a chuckle. “My boots?”

You nodded. “Redcoats took them.” Your voice strained the words. “I’m sorry.”

“Damn the boots,” Papa said, holding you closer. “Damn the redcoats, too. It’s hardly the most consequential thing they’d take from us, given the chance.”

Warmth spread through you. Your father was right.

Tavington hadn’t been, wasn’t, and would never be right.

You allowed yourself to feel safety in your father’s arms for a few more moments. The sun was painting purple streaks through the sky, and you needed to return to camp with at least a few plants in your pocket. But for just a few seconds, none of that mattered.

After you bid Papa farewell with another long embrace, you waved at the Continental officers and their poorly-clothed subordinates. Wilson offered a ride at least to the bridge, but you declined it. You were not going to put yourself or anyone else at greater risk than you were already in.

The walk back to camp was long, but helped to soothe your racing mind. And at least it gave you the opportunity to collect whatever vegetation you could find. You managed to snatch a handful of a few different prophylactics for swelling along the way—the sumac and plantain would be best for that—and added in some dogwood to help reduce fever.

By the time you returned to camp, the sun had tucked itself into the trees, the eastern skyline bleeding black into the dying day. You neared the perimeter, and a couple of soldiers seated by a tent spotted you. Their eyes widened. One stood and slipped into camp.

Your mouth dried. Instead of waiting to find out what that was about, you scurried to the hospital tent, hoping to make yourself appear very busy instead of very delinquent. It was empty when you entered. You couldn’t decide if that was a relief or a disappointment.

Holding your breath, you hovered over one of the work tables and grabbed your mortar and pestle along with a few bottles. There had to be something you could start on that would allow you to perform innocence. If William—Colonel, dammit—

The flap to the hospital tent parted. Colonel Tavington stalked through.

You turned to see his brow relax when he saw you, only for his jaw to shift and tighten when his eyes met yours. His lip twitched.

You looked at your hands. “Good evening, Col—”

“Where were you?” He stepped toward you, hands behind his back.

“Sir?” You gave him a placating smile, gesturing to your bottles. “I was out gathering supplies.”

Tavington raised a brow. “Is that so?” Nodding toward the table, he said, “Show me, then.”

“What I gathered?”

“Unless you believe there’s something else I’d rather see as proof of your reason for absence.”

You pulled your lips in over your teeth and retrieved the vegetation from your pockets, spreading them all on the table. They sprinkled across the surface like a handful of hay on a pig’s belly. The amount now seemed pitiably inadequate for the time you’d been gone. Heat flushed your neck.

He stepped closer to you, looming over your shoulder. A slow breath left him as he examined them.

“This,” he said, pitch lower and quieter than you anticipated, “is all you managed to find?”

Ignoring the twist in your lower abdomen, you shrugged. “This was all that was worthwhile. And they’re all that I needed.”

He reached around you, lifting one of the crimson sumac clusters from the table and spinning it in his fingers. “Tell me about this, then.”

“That’s staghorn sumac.” You forced a small grin. The breadth of his chest, the rumble of his voice there almost unsteadied you. Almost. “Helpful for inflammation.”

“Sumac,” he said, twirling it again. “I remember you asking me if I could identify it.”

Your heart thumped against your chest. “I did.”

“Does it always look like this?” He slid his thumb up the tender stem, flicked it across the base of the fruits. “This color.”

“It does.” Your chin quivered, your insides writhing in a knot. The very fact he’d even asked made you want to hop on the table and wrap your legs around his waist. “You'll…” You exhaled a steadying breath. “You'll know it, now.”

“I should hope I never need to.” You didn’t reply. Only watched as he laid the sumac on the table and cradled one of the white flowers in his palm. “What does this do?”

“Dogwood,” you murmured. The heat from his body was not distracting. You were not thinking about how his palms would feel on your hips, your breasts. “For. Ah. For fever.”

“I see.” He brought the flower—and his arm—closer to your waist. “Have you noticed any…” he said, the next word hanging on his tongue, “neglected instances of feverish behavior recently?”

“No.” You swallowed. “Just preparation.”

“Ah.” Returning the dogwood, he picked up a plantain leaf, humming thoughtfully. “And this?”

“It’s good for insect bites,” you murmured. The memory of his lips, the moan he’d made into your mouth stole the stability from your knees, and you braced yourself on the table. “I know the men have been complaining of mosquitoes recently.”

“How thoughtful.” He stepped closer, hips grazing yours. “And unlike you.”

“Perhaps so,” you said quickly, stupidly. You needed him out of your space. “But I’ve found them bothersome as well.”

His tone grew cold. “I believe that’s the first honest sentence out of your mouth all evening.”

You straightened, moving to the side. “I really must ask—”

Tavington gripped the table, barring your escape with his arm. Spinning to face him, you found his chest an inch from yours, his gaze boring into you. Every good intention you had to tell him to leave chilled to ice.

“Where were you?” His tongue rolled in his mouth. “This,” he said, crushing a handful of the flowers in his palm, “did not take you hours.”

“We’ve been camped here for weeks. I’ve picked these woods bare,” you replied. “I had to go far out into the field.”

His eyes narrowed. “To find scraps?”

The wicked edge in his tone cut a shiver up your spine. You could almost taste his lips again, could feel the yearning to dissolve against him. Clearing your throat of need, you lifted your chin to the air.

“I’m being honest,” you lied.

“Honest, are you?” That smirk that you found so irritating, so devastatingly irresistible, quirked on the mouth you did not want to kiss. “Then tell me this, my little soldier.” Tavington’s hand drew close to your hip, found the edges of your skirts, tugged at them by only an inch. You flinched. “Do I detect the vestiges…” He leaned close to whisper with soft, trembling rage. “... Of desire?”

Your nails dug into the table. Finding his eyes, you did the only thing you could think to do.

“Lottie!” you shouted. “Lottie, come quick! I want to show you something!”

Tavington’s brows rose, and his jaw stiffened.

“I knew you to be a liar,” he muttered. “But I did not take you for a coward.”

With a short exhale through his nose, he withdrew from you. Seconds later, Charlotte Goddard charged into the tent.

“I’m here! I’m here!��� She was heaving. “What, what is it? When did you get back?” Spotting Tavington, she stood tall. “Oh, Colonel! Excuse me, sir.” She bowed her head. “Good evening.”

Colonel—yes, Colonel, thank you very much—Tavington’s attention flipped between the two of you. He marched out of the tent without a word. Lottie looked to the table, then at you.

“About as good as that’s going to get,” she said, walking over toward you. “What is it you wanted to show me?”

A long, heavy breath slid from your nose. An ache lingered between your legs. There were so many things you could have shown her, could have told her. All of them had to remain secret to your grave. So instead, you scooped up the sumac, dangling the clusters from your hands.

“Look,” you said, half-grinning. “It matches your hair.”

[minti-tales]

Minti makes good on a promise. We meet the Frost Queen, She Made of Ice.

---

Minti Chocolate had no desire to be in Coerthas again. And yet, here she was, riding her chocobo like she was late for supper, up-up-up the muddy path from the last post in the North Shroud. Broken twigs, well-trodden dirt, dead grass, goblin detritus - all these were hers, rewards for traveling during Eorzea's winter season.

The chocobo, a brown bird named "Riptide," wanted to press on despite the coming rainfall. Perhaps he thought this would get him out of a bath, dirty thing that he was, and each clawprint, each schluck from the grasping muddy ground, was further distance from his bullies, Soap and Tub. His confident "Kweh-heh-hehs" gave him away as much.

Thunder and lighting in Gridania's forests gave way to snow showers, causing the rain on Minti's winged golden armor to turn to frost. It was awful.

"Twelve above, girl, keep it together," the viera muttered, loud enough for Riptide to hear. The dirty bird might be relishing his time out of the free company stables, but Minti wasn't having this jaunt to the Observatory, and, quite frankly, neither was The Choir. To put their collected displeasure to parchment would take ages. The Volunteer was the only one excited about all this mummery and capering about.

It was that damned sense of honor, wasn't it, pushing rider and mount up the hills, past the river teeming with smallfish, past the wolves hungry for their next meal. It certainly wasn't the Volunteer pushing her forward, whispering in her ear about unfinished business. No. The Ishgardian "stiff upper lip" and need to maintain one's honor in the face of proper society, those were to blame. Yes, those. What wonderful gifts Lady Sabbatine had given her, a long time ago.

One last hill to crest, then to the First Dicasterial Observatorium, where Minti's honor kept a faithful vigil, ever waiting for her return.

Halone's faithful knight rides forth to confront the Dragoon, who lies in wait atop yonder tower.

---

Coming up from Gridania, aspiring adventurers are like to see The Observatorium's grand tower first, before they see the rest of the settlement. This structure holds an astroscope, a device which is used to study and document star patterns and movements.

During the time of the Dragonsong War, the tower and encampment was used by Ishgardian astrologians to predict the movements of the Dravanian Horde; with the ending of the War, it became a place to train new astrologians in the ways of the healing, although not as openly as some might wish. Here, too, was Ser Alberic Bale, former Azure Dragoon, current mentor to many of Eorzea's dragoons.

For many nights, Ser Bale had waited by the encampment's covered firepit, keeping both it and the hearts of his students warm. The end of the War gave rise to more soul crystals reaching curious hands, and more lancers coming up from the guild in Gridania. They needed guidance, and who better to give it than him?

This night seemed to stretch longer than most, which the biting cold and swirling snow around the Observatorium knew to take advantage of. To the imagination, it would seem as if a great ice dragon of eld, a frightful winged being with dark blue scales and gold claws, had made roost about the tower, and covered the Central Highlands with what Ishgard had known since the Calamity: Frightful, unending, punishing winter.

Of course, any Ishgardian worth their onze in salt knew that the weather was coldest before the start of Heavensturn. More logs for the fire were needed, then, and a hot cup of cider to ring in the new year. "Haisie, come by the fire, rest your bones and your spirit," Alberic called out to the shivering Twin Adder nearby. The Elezen was handing out Company scrip to a young archer and, as usual, complaining about the second watch not yet arriving. "There is little reason to suffer tonight."

Haisie must have said something to frighten the hyur, who ran off towards Camp Dragonhead at the fullest speed they could muster. "I would love a hot meal, and a place to warm my arse," the elf stammered out between shakes, "But I must keep watch, else I shall never be relieved of this gods-damned burden! Where is that second watch - Oh. *Well.* What fresh mummery is this?"

---

There was a new-old voice by the Observatorium's firepit, waiting to be acknowledged by Minti. A grand dragon of ancient ice, of Coertha's layers of snow, of the numbing cold that comes from the regrets men have of their younger years. She was tall enough to tower over Azure Dragoons, current and former, and small enough to be unseen for many winters past. A reminder of failures, of promises broken, of lies. Many, many wrongs, all kept in her pretty, glittering hoard of coins. A Frost Queen's ransom, perhaps.

My dearest child approaches, the dragon thought to herself as she flew to the upper mechanisms of the astroscope. No one would mind if she watched, would they? Creatures like her were always drawn to these sorts of spectacles, after all.

Ah! And what a fine spectacle this would be. Miss Chocolate herself, all dressed in shiny armor and lance, riding into camp like Emmanellian de Fortemps out a-courting. Head buzzing like a beehive, face scrunched up in such a serious expression. How much like a lady of Ishgard. How divine.

Our hero approaches that dottering old man by the firepit, yes, and sits beside him. Says nothing, just sits and looks over at him like a lost, frightened puppy. Is she nervous? Oh, she must be. She must be terrified.

What's this? They're talking. Real, deep, insightful conversation. Rubbish about how Minti hated how long it took to come back, and how sorry she is, and would Ser Bale please take her back, please, she'll be a very good girl this time around, sob sob sob! This isn't a good meal, it's a sad, pathetic snack. Bale would be in his rights to send Minti on her way. Everyone can agree on that.

The Queen nearly retched as Bale and Minti hugged, a long hug with rubbing of backs and soft words and forgiveness. And yet, in that sincere moment of forgiveness and acceptance, something about her changed. On a fundamental level, no less.

There must be time for forgiveness, the new-old voice of the Frost Queen considered, in between gusts of winter wind. A time for acknowledgement, and a time to move forward into tomorrow. We should learn from our failures as much as we should our successes.

Her hoard of coins had two faces on them now. How very odd.

As the night came to a close, and dawn was just about to come, the frightening visage of the Frost Queen shifted to one resembling a dear friend, an elezen who could call upon an Primal of Ice, then to an Au Ra wearing the blue and gold armor of a sworn Halonic Paladin. The Queen liked this form. It suited her well.

She would rejoin the Choir, and lend her voice to Minti Chocolate's cause. The rabbit would need her guidance to become a full Dragoon, after all.

[gear-project]

Annon-Guy: Please refresh my memory on how Ragna would do in Guilty Gear?

Same for Naoto, Es and Mai.

Hahah... I once wrote a huge "article" extolling the concept of putting Sol Badguy in BlazBlue, talking about all the mechanics that would translate in to the "Drive Button" that BlazBlue mechanics center around.

I suppose the reverse would happen in Ragna's case... instead of a Drive attack, his move kit would get replaced by Heavy Slash and Dust and several special inputs (though likely also simplified for STRIVE, given more modern conventions).

Also, Ragna's Crush Trigger frames could easily be modified in to a Wild Assault attack, come to think on it...

Much of Ragna's abilities centered around regenerating Health while his attacks were blocked by his opponent, often frustrating players because of his natural offensive capabilities. But it was also because of this that Ragna also suffers the same fate as Chipp Zanuff: having a low Health capacity, so that would also come in to play (and maybe even get adjusted accordingly to GG's standards of damage).

Also, because BlazBlue is technically more "Defense-Oriented", Ragna and the rest would also have to be adjusted to Guilty Gear accordingly as well. Including Roman Cancels, Faultless Defense, Wild Assaults, Air Dashing, and other aspects.

Naoto's Drive Attacks centered around the idea of Wild Assaults and guard breaking, so they could probably do something special for him there as well. Also, because Strive has a "Dash Button" Naoto's "Momentum-based" combos would be much MUCH easier to initiate and perform (less stress on the thumbs and wrists for us players!)

Es is centered around setting up Projectiles and placing Crests, so in many ways she plays very similarly to how Testament currently fights, as well as Elphelt and Bedman: the idea being setting up and mounting a stream of offensive attacks that are hard to deal with.

Es would most likely be very similar to Bedman's current style if she ever were to fight in STRIVE that is.

Finally, regarding Mai... her Spear acts very much like Elphelt's Rifle in Strive, with the varying homing abilities it can shoot. Still, Mai has other techniques that made it easier to break her opponent's defenses, effectively making her much like a Dragoon (or Dragon Knight) who darts through the air and strikes downwards... so her style would likely be a mix of Elphelt's and I-No's current styles. Though given how aggressive Strive is as a game, she would probably have to be adjusted similarly to how Giovanna got adjusted in terms of mechanics, because of how offensive a character she naturally is.

Mai's "combo system" would also have to be adjusted like how Elphelt's Lolipop Chain (Noel's Chain Drive) operates: a selection of fixed moves that she can alternate with that can still be reasonably dealt with on block... just to make things at least semi-balanced when dealing with Mai players.

Also, Mai had a "parry counter" move which is similar to how Anji Mito plays currently, so that would also have to be adjusted.

By and large, BlazBlue characters would likely have to be toned down a bit to exist in STRIVE... but even if they took the "Accent Core" approach, they'd still have to make a few adjustments to how Guilty Gear used to do things, since even proximity Throws were different in older GG games.

[elfyourmother]

What do you think House Borel's emblem is?

I’ve always had the exact image of it in my head but ofc I can’t draw.

The escutcheon is azure, with a silver falcon bearing crossed spears in its talons. For all the talk of “Borel blue” in fandom I do not hold to that in my personal canon as Borel is a House Minor and thus the sumptuary laws do not apply. The azure shade in the house crest is not unique to it, and symbolizes loyalty and faith. The spears are because House Borel has a long tradition of service in the Temple Knights, particularly in the Knights Dragoon. Aymeric’s maternal great-grandmother was one until an injury ended her service. The falcon is a Halonic symbol in my hc, believed to be the Fury’s messengers.

If you’ve ever read “the falcon and spear device” in my fics, now you know.

[midnighttyrea]

Art I made for Tyrea awhile back based off some keychains I own. The central circle holds the Midnight Rose, her rank as well as the symbol of the Wild Rose free company, while the other smaller circle hold other icons important to her character: House Fortemps crest, dragoon soul crystal, black mage soul crystal, Crystarium crest, Azeyma symbol, and Hraesvelgr’s eye.

[sbnkalny]

scrumpyfan43: It did mean how many other examples of needlessly gendered advertising.

scrumpyfan43: Repeated examples within the panzer dragoon series show Pure-Type creature’s exoskeletons provide excellent defense against small Arms fire.

afloorable: Drenholm is a boss featured In Panzer Dragoon SERIES show pure-type creature’s exoskeletons provide excellent defense against small arms fire.

scrumpyfan43: Drenholm is a boss battle

apt-get-repose: Drenholm is a boss battle

scrumpyfan43: Drenholm is a boss after leaving Pressburg, and we, not the elves or their toadies, will rule Skyrim!

scrumpyfan43: After leaving Pressburg, and we, in OUR canadian canoe, with gipsy tent and frying-pan on board, it's not "Dad," it's "Captain," got it?

apt-get-repose: Then we lay in our canadian canoe, with gipsy tent and frying-pan on board, reached it on the crest of a Rising flood about mid-July.

scrumpyfan43: Me, a copy of blade runner and used the resulting diarrhea to WRITE it on the crest of a Rising flood about mid-July.

afloorable: PLEASE help? I can only visit it on the crest of a rising flood about mid-July.

apt-get-repose: All I wanna do is 🔫🔫🔫🔫, and a 🔒🔓💰, And take your bike And ride it on the crest of a rising flood about mid-July.

grinserabe: Watch It on the crest of a rising flood about mid-July.

scrumpyfan43: Kalny eats tootsies pass It on the crest of a Rising Flood about mid-July.

[liightbringr]

𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬.

@famuran asked: “ you have me. you'll always have me. “

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐒 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐁𝐔𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐍 && yet she would remain here in this moment for all of eternity. It resides on this spectrum of tenderness that belongs to them. The way her hands so gingerly smooth over the crests of his cheeks, pads of her thumbs memorizing the structure of bone beneath. To be so enraptured by another---a feat she wholly believed to be impossibly out of reach. && yet here she stands, caged within his arms, soaking in the honey at the tip of his tongue && sincerity therein. What a thief, he is. An abundance of treasures he has sought after only to steal away with her heart no different. The sky pirate has made it seem so easy to fall. Head over heels && enthralled, she practically swoons in this picturesque setting. The sun falls low in the sky && leaves in its wake a myriad of hues in sun-spun splendor. It's nearly cliche. "I wouldn't have it any other way.." More a whisper than proclamation. Not of pride nor greed; only joy. Wherein she coaxes him nearer in the snaking of lithe touch toward the nape of his neck. Perhaps she hopes that she might appeal to him the way a jewel does. Perhaps she wishes that her luster could outmatch that of gold && silver. Perhaps she's unaware that it's more than she could ever hope for. Like breathing with desperation && stumbling over the multitudinous array of what if's. The dragoon sees it in his eyes in this unmatched surety && it leaves her breathless. So when the fans of her lashes come to rest against the crests of her cheeks, when she feels the warmth of his lips against hers, she is ever present in a moment she would deem home. The sinner that prays against the raging tide of damnation pales in comparison to the actuality that is they. Her hands that are capable of the grandiose choose him. Is forever even enough? Scarcely aware that the weight of her emotions dapple && dot along the lines of her lashes---she wanes if only to give unto him the entirety of her heart. A fragile little thing. Something that has been broken against tumultuous waves time && time again. Does he know he's mended it? Hinted in the smile she gives && the mouthing of sweetened words: I love you.

[giftsforus]

The Royal Canadian Dragoons (rcd) Button Up Hawaiian Shirt

The Royal Canadian Dragoons (RCD) Button Up Hawaiian Shirt is a versatile and unique clothing item that makes an excellent gift for both men and women. This shirt is not only stylish but also pays homage to the proud military history of Canada. The RCD is one of the oldest and most decorated armoured regiments in the Canadian Armed Forces. It has a rich tradition dating back to 1883 when it was first established. The regiment has participated in numerous conflicts, including both World Wars, the Korean War, and peacekeeping missions around the world. Its soldiers have displayed exceptional bravery and dedication, earning them numerous accolades and medals. The RCD Button Up Hawaiian Shirt is a nod to the regiment's spirit and history. The shirt features the RCD crest prominently displayed on the front, showcasing its distinct dragon emblem. This adds a touch of uniqueness, making it an ideal gift for both military enthusiasts and those who appreciate Canadian history. The Hawaiian shirt style adds a fun and trendy twist to traditional military apparel. The vibrant colors, tropical patterns, and button-up design give the shirt a relaxed and casual feel. It can be worn on various occasions, including casual outings, summer parties, and even beach vacations. The versatility of this shirt makes it suitable for both men and women. The RCD Button Up Hawaiian Shirt is made from high-quality materials to ensure comfort and durability. The fabric is lightweight and breathable, making it suitable for hot summer days. It is also easy to care for, requiring minimal effort to maintain its vibrant colors and crisp appearance. In addition to its stylish design, the RCD Button Up Hawaiian Shirt carries a deeper meaning. By wearing this shirt, individuals show their support and respect for the brave men and women who have served or are currently serving in the Royal Canadian Dragoons. It is a way to express gratitude for their sacrifice and dedication to protecting Canada's freedom and values. This shirt makes an excellent gift for everyone, regardless of their military affiliation. Military collectors and history enthusiasts will appreciate the unique design and connection to the RCD. Fashion-forward individuals will enjoy the trendy Hawaiian shirt style. Additionally, those who have a personal connection to the military or simply admire the courage and commitment of servicemen and women will find this shirt meaningful and special. In conclusion, the Royal Canadian Dragoons Button Up Hawaiian Shirt is a versatile and unique clothing item that pays tribute to the rich military history of the RCD. Its stylish design, comfort, and meaningful symbolism make it an ideal gift for both men and women. Whether it's worn casually or on special occasions, this shirt is sure to garner attention and spark conversations about the remarkable legacy of the Royal Canadian Dragoons.

Get it here : The Royal Canadian Dragoons (rcd) Button Up Hawaiian Shirt

Home Page : tshirtslowprice.com

[casualjacobwrites]

FFXIV Write 2023 Prompt #21 - Grave

So the next week for me is going to involve packing up house and prepping for a move. That's why this one was more of a "get it out and get it done," which again is the point of the whole thing. It's also helping me get an outline for the eventual mammoth undertaking that will be telling Pasha's full story.

Takes place after Stormblood MSQ for 4.0.

Word Count: 805

---

Estinien found Pasha at the grave. For a time he debated leaving her be and going about his business, after all he hadn't come to Coerthas to socialize. However, he couldn't stop asking himself why she was there now. He had just returned from Ala Mhigo having made sure the last of Nidhogg's eyes could no longer trouble the world. While there he'd been able to learn the full story of the Warrior of Light's success in bringing about an end to Garlean occupation as well as the death of Garlemald's prince and sole heir to the empire. Truth be told he would have expected to stumble across her in The Lochs rather than his homeland. Then again, why wouldn't she return here to visit the resting place of a man so dearly loved?

As he approached he made sure to create enough noise to draw her attention lest he startle her and find a lance at his chest. The two Azure Dragoons had never truly tested each other's mettle, but he was certain enough that catching the Warrior of Light off-guard would be detrimental to one's health to say the least. When he saw her hand reach for the lance at her side as he head snapped in his direction, he was full glad he'd foregone his usual attempts at stealth. Like any warrior fresh from battle she was on edge.

"Estinien," she said his name with a sigh of relief. Her hand pulled away from her weapon as her shoulders relaxed. "I half wondered if you might be an imperial assassin."

"I think they're too busy licking their wounds."

"His Radiance's son is dead after battling the Warrior of Light. It wouldn't be the first time someone wanted revenge even when they were at a disadvantage."

Estinien gave a wry smile. Her words might not have been directed at him, but he saw the irony behind them. "So it's true. He didn't die by your hand."

Pasha shook her head, several strands of her blonde hair falling into her eyes. He remembered it being much longer, but when he'd woken from Nidhogg's possession she'd cut it short. Now it was growing out again and long enough to touch the nape of her neck. "He cut his own throat," she said, her voice going flat.

"Coward," he spat. "Not that I think a trial would have been anything more than a farce, but it would have helped to sell the illusion of justice being served." He wandered closer to the grave and knelt next to her. A shield was propped against the front obscuring the name carved into the stone marker. The gaping hole at the center underneath the crest of House Fortemps served as a cruel reminder of a knight's ultimate sacrifice.

He gave Pasha a sidelong glance and noted the tips of her ears and nose were turning a deep shade of red while her lips had paled considerably. How long had she knelt there?

"I set up a camp not far from here," he said. "I can make a fire while you tell me what happened." He hoped she would be able to see beyond the vagueness of his words. Whether she would admit it or not, she'd come to Haurchefant's grave because of guilt. Guilt over what he couldn't say, but if anyone knew what it was like to carry the weight of those feelings, it was Estinien Wyrmblood. He might have chosen to run off alone to deal with his grief, however, for the Warrior of Light he could lend an ear.

Pasha wiped at her eyes and he noticed she had begun to shiver. He prepared himself for fight if she refused his offer, but then she picked up her lance and pushed to her feet. She took a moment to place a kiss on her gloved fingertips then pressed them to the top of the tombstone. "Where to?" she asked, not bothering to look at him.

"Stone Vigil. The walls outside make for a nice barrier against the wind. I already cleared out any unwanted guests."

She gave a stiff nod and attached her lance to her back. "Alphinaud will be upset you didn't say hello in Ala Mhigo."

Estinien smiled. "How did you know?"

At last her green eyes met his. "The same way you knew I was here."

Unable to help himself, he laughed. It was true he'd sensed her the moment he'd entered Coerthas. Likely it had something to do with the fact they were both Azure Dragoons, though why he had been compelled to seek her out was anyone's guess. "Fair enough," he said as he began following the path back to his camp.

Whatever the rhyme or reason for their meeting here, he hoped the Warrior of Light could lighten her burdens.

[aerialsquid]

FFXIVWrite Day 5: Barbarous

Yes, it's more of the Charlemend/Edmont that I've been putting up chunks of all month. Not my fault the prompts keep lining up with the plot beats.

Edmont waited in the rank, dark hold for a few moments, savoring the lingering embers of touch.

Then he muttered, "What am I even doing?" and went fumbling for a weapon.

Outside the deck was slick with blood as well as seawater now. Edmont couldn't set eyes on Charlemend. 

Blutwyn had come aboard without weaponry and didn't seem to need them, thrashing about her with a commandeered oar. A glowing serpentine form surged up from behind him and lashed out with its tail to send several pirates flying in a burst of saltwater, before reforming into the more pleasant form of Gerald's carbuncle .

The small knots of struggling pirates at least meant Charlemend was alive, that they still had something to fight over, and almost no one seemed to pay Edmont any mind.

Except for the miqo'te pirate with beaded hair who snarled 'you'll do' and came at him with a knife. Edmont got his shield up in time and the pirate laughed, grabbing it with both hands and whirling him about until it was yanked from his fingers.

"Useless," she spat, flashing a smirk that was missing an incisor, and rapped his wrist hard enough to make him drop his sword. Edmont had only one bare heart-stopping moment to say his prayers before her knife came down.

Came down, but did not strike. A jingling blur of red and pale blue shot between them, faster than Edmont's eyes could track, sending the pirate tumbling across the deck. 

Dragon? was Edmont's first, dazed thought. No, but it was far too thin for a dragon.

The creature stood chest and head above him, with pale rubbery skin like the elbst but with plumes of cresting from its back, head, and lower arms. Chains of small, linked plating hung from its chest and legs, along with a larger golden piece for a headdress. Woven bands of some kind of fabric were tied at its forearms, and hung down as tassels from its waist to its legs. The pirate's knife landed in one webbed, clawed hand and the creature immediately flung it back out into the ocean.

No, not the creature, the person. This was no beast, with how the narrow red eyes turned thoughtfully upon Edmont's chest, then his face. Edmont had never met a Sahagin before but he'd heard enough lurid tales up from the South to know he was speaking to one.

"Clutchfather Duraindaire?" the person asked. The gurgling, guttural voice was deep enough for Edmont to stick 'he' onto the person until told otherwise.

Bloody hells, even they want Charlemend?

"No-" And then, in case that answer seemed cowardly, "No, but I'm his friend."

The Sahagin snorted wetly, and patted the clinking panels on his chest. "Then I am also a  friend," he rasped. Behind him, another pirate tried to charge them with a boathook, screaming something about fishman scum. The Sahagin sidestepped the attack neatly, grabbed the hook as it passed by his head, and used the momentum to sling the pirate around them and send him back the way he came, minus the boathook and his hat. The entire movement was done with the resigned lack of effort you saw from trained knights under attack by ambitious children. 

"Where is Durandaire?" the Sahagin asked, tossing the boathook overboard.

"I don't know," said Edmont, resigning himself to his new ally. Good gods above and hells below, this might as well happen today. Any port in a storm, as the pirates said.

The Sahagin abruptly grabbed him around the midsection and leapt ten fulm into the air, using the rigging to launch them higher still up the foremast as Edmont clung as best he could to the wet scales. His eyes scanned the fracas below.

"stay," he said, stuffing Edmont onto the foretop platform before leaping down into the melee with an elegance to rival Isgard's greatest dragoons. The Sahagin moved through the crowd like the prow of a ship cutting through water, drawing no blood but not letting a single blade come near him. 

A sunburnt sexagenarian in culottes running at full tilt with a sword in each hand and screaming "Northward" at the top of his lungs had apparently taken both armies by surprise, and Charlemend had made it to the other side of the ship before every man and woman still standing had managed to tackle him. 

 In the thickest of the fighting Edmont could just barely see the peach and amber blossoms on Charlemend's shirt, smothered by a mass of bodies. The Sahagin plucked him from the fray with delicate grace and leapt again, grabbing hold of a hanging rope and hauling himself upward in short, forceful yanks of a single arm.

Blessed be the Fury, Charlemend was still moving. There was blood streaking his face and running down his leg, but most of it seemed to belong to other people. Both swords had gone missing but he was waving the dagger around, until the Sahagin tossed him up onto the foretop and plucked it patiently from his hand. 

"Fight me like a man you damn cross-eyed–"

Edmont put a hand on his friend's arm before he could swear and writhe his way right off the platform. "Charlemend, I think he's here to help."

Charlemend looked up, his face a mixture of relief and confusion. He looked down to the fighting, then back up to the Sahagin, who'd perched himself on one of the crosstrees just below the foretop.

"Help?"

"Yes. My name is Clutchfather Novv," the Sahagin said, as pleasantly as if they were taking tea in someone's study and not sitting directly above a pitched battle. The 's' sounds of words slurred into soft 'shh' noises in his mouth, but he seemed to be making a dedicated effort to be understood. "And you are Clutchfather Durandaire and Clutchfather Fortemps, yes? And we are friends now."

"I don't recall making friends with any bloody–"

"Sahagin," Edmont cut in, before Charlemend could say any words that weren't that.

"Sahagin," Charlemend echoed sulkily. He reluctantly rolled over to sit up, back against the mast. Edmont reached to check his wounds and he shook his head, showing off that they were mostly scrapes and minor cuts. A blessing, that so many blades had come after him that they'd all gotten in each others' way.

"A new friend is still a friend," said Novv. It was hard to tell on a face full of thorn-like teeth, but Edmont got the impression Novv was intending to be beaming at them. "And a better one than your last set of hosts."

"Aye, and we do thank you for your help, Master Novv." Edmont put in, cautiously looking below. The ranks of the pirates were thinning, judging by how many of the still-standing fighters didn't have shirts on. The one with the tentacled tattoo was fighting with the rage of a wounded dragon, his axe cleaving paths through the fray. "Will you be rejoining the battle?"

"No, no. We are safe here. And I am not here to fight. I am, expressly, specifically, not here to fight." Novv set an emphasis on the last words that made them even more gurgling and rasped. "It shall all be over soon, anyway. Rest your fins and drift to the current's flow, clutchfathers."

[altanirynsi]

Whumpril Day 1 - Distress Call

Stormblood Patch 4.56: A Requiem for Heroes Part II

Sprinting through the ash-scarred battlefield, Aymeric glances over to the dragoon running alongside him. They had heard about Hien's party encountering trouble with the apparently-resurrected Zenos, sending a distress call through the Linkpearls, though Altan was supposed to catch up with them and provide support. Aymeric bit down the anxiety trying to brew in his throat. Raubahn didn't sound so sure the Warrior of Light was in a fit state to battle Zenos, despite the soldier's insistence to the contrary.

And thus, Aymeric and Estinien run like hell, hoping their concerns are unfounded.

Aymeric had not had much time to see Altan, much less hold a conversation, with the situation here at Ghimlyt Dark escalating so quickly, though he finds himself swearing he will find time to have a quiet moment with Altan once the dust settles. At the very least, they could both use the time to rest. In the fleeting moments where the two passed each other at the camp, Aymeric noticed Altan almost seemed... distracted? Exhausted? Thoughtful? Perhaps all three, like he knew he'd forgotten something but couldn't quite grasp what it was. Aymeric kicks himself for not taking a moment to ask him. Perhaps he could've helped in some way.

Cresting the hill, Aymeric draws his weapon as he's able to better see the battlefield below, the stifled anxiety surging to the surface once again.

[Read the Rest]

[xolta]

recommended games list Part 2

Xolta's Big old recommended games list Part 2 gen 4 edition

Gameboy: Pokemon Red, Blue, yellow(Monster raising rpg) Dargon Quest monsters(monster raising rpg) Adventures of Lolo(puzzle) Tetris(puzzle) Centipede & millipede(arcade/ the music goes so hard) Donkey Kong 94(arcade platformer) Donkey Kong Land(platformer) Game & Watch Gallery 1-3(mixed bag) Kirby's Dream Land 1&2 (platformer) Pokemon trading card game(tgc) Quarth(shoot em up puzzle hybrid) Revenge of the 'Gator (pinball) Super Mario Land 1&2(Platformer) Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles III: Radical Rescue (metroidvania) Wario Land: Super Mario Land 3(GREED) Metroid 2 samus returns(metroidvania)

Game gear: Devilish(arcade) Gunstar Heroes (run and gun) Pengo(puzzle) Power Strike II (shump) Sonic Triple Trouble(platformer) Tails Adventure(metroidvania)

Lynx: Battle Wheels(combat racing) S.T.U.N. Runner(racing)

Genesis/megadrive/Cd/32x: Alien Soldier(run and gun) Alisia Dragoon(Platformer) Beyond Oasis(Action adventure) Burning Force(rail force) Castlevania Bloodlines(platformer) Enteral Champions(fighting) Columns III(puzzle) Comix Zone (beat em up) Contra: Hard Corps (run and gun) Crusader of Centy(adventure/ zelda like) Decap Attack(platformer) Sonic Cd(platformer) Android Assault(shoot em up) Lords of Thunder (shoot em up) Shining Force CD (Srpg) Snatcher(Adventure/interactive comic movie thingy) Dynamite Headdy(platformer) Elemental Master (shoot em up) Gunstar Heroes(run and gun) Jurassic Park and rampage edition(dinosaurs/dumb fun) Landstalker (action rpg) Mega Turrican(action platformer) Forbiden worlds( shoot em up) M.U.S.H.A. ( shoot em up) Outrun 2019 (raceing) Phantasy Star 3 (prg) Phantasy star 4(rpg) Sonic 1-3(platformer) Punisher (beat em up) Mortal Kombat 1-3(fighting) Road Rash(combat racing) Rocket Knight Adventures (platformer) Streets if rage 1&2(beat em ups) Strider (platformer) Super Hang-On(racing)Snow Bros(Platfromer) Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles: The Hyperstone Heist (beat em up) Shinboi 3(platformer) Thunder force 3(shoot em up) Virtua Racing (racing) X men(platformer)

Zero wing(shump/memes) king of the monsters 1 & 2(kaiju fighting)

Super Nintendo/ Super Famicom: F zero(racing) Super mario world(platfromer) Crono Trigger(rpg) Terranigma(rpg) Breath of Fire(rpg) Congo's Caper(platformer) Mortal Kombat 1-3(fighting) The Lost Vikings (puzzel platformer) Primal Rage(fighting) Evo Search for Eden(rpg) ActRaiser (god sim/ action platfromer) ActRaiser 2 (action platformer no god sim sadly) Arkanoid: Doh it Again (barkeout clone) Axelay (shoot em up) Batman Returns (beat em up) Biker Mice From Mars(racing) Contra 3(run and gun) Sparkster(platformer) Demon's Crest(platformer) Donkey Kong Country 1-3(platformer) Mega man X `1-3(platformer) Megaman 7(platformer) Doom Troopers (run and gun) Doom (fps) Illusion of Gaia(action rpg) Joe & Mac (platfromer) Judge Dredd (i am the law em up) Killer Instinct(fighting) Kirby's Avalanche (puzzle) Kirby's Dream Land 3 (platformer) Kirby super star(platformer) Super mario rpg(rpg) Marvel Super Heroes: War of the Gems (beat em up) Metal Warriors (mecha action) Yoshis safari(light gun) Battle Clash 1&2(light gun) Jacki Crush(pinball) Mighty Morphin' Power Rangers(beat em up) Mighty Morphin' Power Rangers: The Fighting (Fighting) king of the monsters 1 & 2(kaiju fighting) Pocky & Rocky(run and gun) Secret of Mana(action rpg) SimCity (sim) Sonic Blast Man II (beat em up/ kinda trash but fun trash) Star Fox 1&2(3d rail shooter) Stunt race fx(racing/kinda lag fest) Sunset Riders(cowboys) Super Bomberman games (bomber man) Super castlevania 4(action platformer) Castlevania Darcula X(action platformer/botched port) Super Mario All-Stars (collection) Yoshis island(platformer) Super Metroid(metroidvania) Super Punch-Out (boxing) Super Street Fighter II turbo(fighting) Street fighter Alpha 1&2(fighting/impressive port for the system) Tetris Attack (puzzle) Tmnt 4: Turtles in Time(beat em up) Magical quest staring mickey mouse(boner wizard em up) The Legend of the Mystical Ninja (adventure platformer) Zelda Link to the past(adventure) The Ninja Warriors (beat em up) Wild Guns(run and gun) X-Men: Mutant Apocalypse (beat em up) Der Langrisser(Sprg) Dragon Ball Z - Hyper Dimension(fighting) Front Mission: Gun Hazard (rub and gun) Godzilla: Monster War(kaiju fighting)

Turbo Graph 16/pc engine/cd: Air Zonk (shump) Alien Crush(pinball) Blazing Lazers (shump) Bonk adventure(platformer) Devil's Crush(pinball) The Legendary Axe (platformer) Castlevania: Rondo of Blood(platformer)