#draw thrash to scale challenge failed

[cardboardmoon]

Earthspark sibling dynamics if I was in charge of the writing department

[remmushound]

Curse of the clan Part 23! @scentedcandlecryptid @selfindulgenz

The part of the cave Raphael was brought to was hot. Extremely hot. Hot enough to smack him in the face like a solid mass the moment the large door was opened and he was shoved inside. The floor He landed on was covered in red-hot rocks, making Raphael cry out as he danced from foot to foot to try and stop the burn. Even through his thick skin, the rocks were painful! He jumped out of the center, the space filled with the burning embers, and onto the safety of a small walkway that followed the walls of the room. He sighed as the coolness of the path, no matter how temporary. The door was sealed and lined where the walls met the floor, vents started to spew steam to into the room.

“Ah— guys— I don’t really think we need the heat on in here!” Raphael called to the door, but there was no answer. “Seriously— h-how hot do you like it?!”

The only answer he got was the hiss of even more steam. It was harder to breathe now through the heat and the humidity, but that was fine. He was a turtle— he could hold his breath for a long time! But with this controlled weather, it was almost painful. Raphael looked around and, except for the heat that still scalded him, he could find no challenge.

“Uh— guys? Though I was supposed to have a challenge in here. Hello?”

A door on the opposite side of the room hissed open and some of the steam escaped through it. Raphael waited for a moment before assuming he was meant to go through it, but he only had the chance to take a few steps forward before he was proven wrong. Something else was coming through; something far bigger than he was. Four hundred pounds of reptilian muscle lumbered through the door with a slow gait. The door sealed behind the creature once the length of his tail had passed through, and though Raphael couldn’t imagine the creature could get any bigger, he did.

The reptile stranger stood up straight, his chest stuck out to show the details of hardened scales, leading down into a body that, while it was slender, was also detailed with chiseled abs. The only clothes the creature wore to keep his decency, if he even had anything exposed, was a long red loincloth decorated with yellow and blue beads dangling between his legs. Hanging on a a rope necklace over his chest were teeth— sharp teeth, jagged teeth, sickle teeth, even human teeth!— none of them seeming to be from the same creature. He was gray— no, not gray, blue! Or was it both? It was hard to tell through the steam that quickly filled the room again.

“H-hey! Don’t step on those— rocks…?” Raphael’s call of warning quickly turned to bewilderment as the massive lizard stepped over the burning coals like they were nothing. Couldn’t he feel them? Even on the walkway, Raphael could still feel their emulating heat!

At first, the wingless dragon approached him slowly, a forked blue tongue dancing in and out of his mouth to draw in Raphael’s scent. Earthy, red eyes dilated and locked onto Raphael while a massive tail, the very tip of it torn off and scarred, thrashed behind the beast. The dragon fell to all fours and charged before Raphael could do anything about it, parting a broad mouth filled with yellowed teeth ready to snap.

Raphael yelled. He caught the beast by its maw as it lunged, but the creature only gave a churring laughter at the resistance. His tongue stuck out to trace across Raphael’s face, tasting his sweat and tears.

Raphael’s veins bulged with the strain of holding the bigger creature away. He found himself missing his tonfa more than ever when tiny, but sharp, teeth finally found a hold in his bicep. Raphael screamed. The moment the great beast tasted the blood, his eyes went cloudy and he withdrew from Raphael to return to the hot rocks, licking his lips and trying remove the powerful taste of the mutagenic blood. When that didn't work, he tried to swipe it out of his mouth using his oversized hands.

Raphael ran forward, preparing himself for the burn and giving a shout as he scooped a handful of the hot coals into his hands. He angled and threw the coals at the dragon’s face. The coals hit home in his chest and his eye, and a few in his mouth. The dragon’s eyes went wide, looking down at the scorching stones cauterizing the same wounds they had caused. His mouth snapped shut upon the red stones, nose scrunching, and his left eye had closed itself from the debris of the impact.

“Ha! Take that!”

The dragon looked at Raphael with his good eye, and then closed the eye to swallow. Raphael could see the lump that followed the passage of the gulp and, for additional proof, the dragon opened his mouth to show new burns inside with the absence of the coals.

“Wait, that’s not allowed.” Raphael gulped.

The dragon gave a shrug, and then lunged into the battle once more. Raphael was ready for him this time, dodging between the giants legs and running across the stones. The dragon caught himself on the wall and pushed off of it to pursue Raphael. The snapping turtle dodged for as long as he could until the pursuing yokai had him cornered. The dragon took a moment to savor the mutants terror before he charged. Raphael could do nothing but hold his arms out in front of him to absorb the impact, slamming them into the dragons chest to hold him and his snapping jaws at bay. Jaws…

Raphael licked his own teeth, serrated edged built for ripping and tearing meat. He was a snapping turtle! When teeth are all you have left, you use them. And Raphael did. He lunged and sunk his teeth deep into the flesh of the dragon’s shoulder. He listened to what his body was telling him and shook his head in violent, jerking motions to rip further through the scales and into the soft flesh beneath.

The dragon roared. He grabbed Raphael by the shoulder and pulled him off. Raphael felt muscle and scale rip from the dragon and in his mouth as he was forced to part. He was slammed against the ground hard enough to bounce back up, and when he did he was met with a powerful lash of the titans tail that sent him flying into the opposite wall. He tried to flip over in a position ready to fight off the yokai again. He was too late.

The dragon’s mouth locked around Raphael’s throat, snapping closed. Raphael froze, squeezing his eye shut to prepare for the crushing he was sure was about to happen. But it never came. Instead, when Raphael opened his eyes, the dragon was slowly removing his mouth without leaving so much as a tooth mark in the mutant’s neck. He slammed his hand down hard on Raphael’s head to keep him in a pin, leaning down slowly to rasp in his ear.

His voice was deep and rumbling, like a living embodiment of an earthquake. “You do not have the King’s blessing…”

***

Raphael felt defeated. How could he lose— how could he fail his brothers?! He should have fought harder— fought longer! If that had been a real fight, if that komodo dragon had really wanted to kill him, Raphael would have been done for! And his family wouldn’t have even known what happened to him! His burns and bites still stung, and the rush of the air didn't help matters. He tried not to look down.

Claws were locked securely around his chest and hooked under his arms, like a tight harness. The claws belonged to the falcon Koya as she flew Raphael through the Hidden City air, mechanically produced wind buffeting her feathers and chilling Raphael to his core. He hated being cold.

Raphael tried to talk to the falcon, but his voice was lost in the wind. Even if she did hear him, Raphael doubted she would have responded. Her eyes were focused ahead of her, not paying any mind to the creature she had locked in her talons. Her wingspan was even more impressive out in the open than it had looked in the cave when Raphael first seen her; she could fly and maneuver freely here, and she was fast too! So fast that it took them only minutes to escape the main heart of the Hidden City and enter a section of city Raphael had never seen before; he used the term city loosely, however. He could see the scaffolding where buildings had undoubtedly once stood; some were still standing, becoming a breeding ground for various plants to take seed, while other buildings were completely swallowed by swampland.

“Sorry kid.” Was all Koya said to him as she dropped him off on a half-sunken building. Raphael opened his mouth to ask what she meant, but by then she had already gone, and Raphael was alone.

Slowly, meticulously, Raphael made his way down to what used to be the sidewalk but now, like everything else in the section of city, it was lost to a whole host of strange plant life. Raphael sank up to his ankle in mud, wincing and struggling to pull his feet out of the squishy, grossly warm suction.

“What is this place…?”

He gave a startled yelp and fell back against one of the more stable buildings when he heard a low, reverberating bellow. Searching for an enemy, his eyes found only a frog. Its color was an odd shade, more blue than green, with one eye drooping while the other seemed mostly normal. The frog itself was impossibly gaunt, skin seeming to melt off of the defined bone. Raphael felt immediately sad for the creature. When he moved close to it, the frog didn't seem to care. Even as he picked the creature up, the frog only stared, the occasional bellow the only proof it was still living.

“Hey little guy… you look hungry.”

Raphael couldn’t imagine why! Only a few feet away was a massive swarm of buzzing insects! How could this creature be starving when there was so much food around? Still, he carried the frog over to the swarm and held him up to it hoping the creature would at least try to eat! But the frog only stared at the swarm for an uncomfortably long time before Raphael finally realized he was wasting his time. He placed the frog gently in the shallow water, but the frog made no attempt to swim. Simply… floating. Raphael figured it might have been sick, and leaving it behind almost broke his heart.

“I gotta figure out here I am.” Something weird was dancing in Raphael’s chest. Normally by now, the solitude would have driven him to his black-out state, but he felt nothing. None of the normal, preceding signs of tightness or suffocation or sickness. He felt just… fine. Following the sidewalk, he came across an intersection where all but one of the street signs were covered with black grafiti. The one sign that wasn’t completely blacked out still had the initial street name covered, but had a new one stamped over it; the letters were pressed together so closely they were hard to read, but Raphael did his best.

“The Fog Lands…?” Raphael read outloud. He looked around at the fog and nodded; that seemed about right. He didn’t notice the R pressed between the F and O.

Further down the road, trying to find a way out of the dismal swamp, Raphael yawned. His fight with King had left him exhausted! And it had only been two days, he told himself, so he had enough time to rest! His brothers could wait anyway; he deserved a break! He started off looking for someplace comfortable to rest his head, but his muscles began to weigh so heavy on him that the sidewalk seemed the perfect place to lay down and rest, just for a few hours...

[reynesofcastamere]

I Know How To Twist Ya

(A/N: Okay, so this is about...5, 6? Years overdue. Basically @bifacialler asked me for a Butterfly Bog drabble back when I was still taking requests and I...er never got around to writing it. Sorry! This is definitely a lemon and very much not safe for work. My usual warnings for this pairing apply, as well as a bit of bondage, knifeplay, and blindfolding. Those weren’t requested, but they kind of...snuck their way in there. ORZ.  Title comes from “I Get Off” by Halestorm. Unbeta’d.))

So she’d be willing to admit that her expectations had been a bit...skewed when they’d started doing the Wild Thing on a regular basis. Aside from clawing furrows in the nearest surface, lapsing into Goblin tongue, or insisting on eating her out at least once per ‘concert’, Bog seemed perfectly content with her being in charge. Which Marianne was completely fine with. Honestly, couldn’t ask for better, especially with the Love Potion fiasco out of the way.

At least, until she’d found out that it wasn’t so much that he was....er, really dedicated to backup vocals. She just hadn’t been giving him the right incentive to take centre stage. He thinks she’s beautiful no matter her appearance or  what she does, but apparently her acting and looking like the Queen of the Dark Forest? Especially wearing something dark purple and easy-to-remove? Really brings something out in him. And by the gods if remembering that night of discovery didn’t fail to make her hot and bothered every. Single. Time. Hence her current position: Clothing reduced to gauzy shreds, two of which had been used to bind her wrists and cover her eyes, being bent over the dining room table while still recovering from round 1, their combined fluids slowly seeping out of her exposed core. Marianne has to choke back a sob as one of his fingers carefully dips inside her, his other hand spread over her lower back to keep her from thrashing. She’s still sensitive and it hurts a little but it’s so good. Her sore and thoroughly-bitten breasts rub against the hard and slightly uneven surface beneath her with every shift and squirm. The digit slips in all the way to the knuckle before he withdraws it and she can hear him sucking it clean with a low, satisfied hum. Her passage clenches down on nothing while she moans, suddenly in need of relief from the heat he’s re-ignited in her. Something cold and flat meanders its’ way up her spine as he leans over her, feeling the vibrations as Bog violently slams it into the table and readjusts the fabric on her wrists so that she’s secured to this...thing. Feels like...a handle? Oh. He’d taken one of the knives and buried it deep enough to prevent her from accidentally injuring herself. Or attempting an escape. The second one is way more likely, given their history.

“Don’t s’pose yer considering surrender?” The soft, purring taunt is right in her left ear, his tongue flicking out to trace the lobe. It’s endearing that he’s considerate enough to ask her if she wants a break or to stop entirely; But it is also entirely his fault that both of those options are the furthest thing from her mind right now. Marianne should have known he’d get her back for deliberately riling him up during a very long diplomatic meeting. It had been worth it, though. “Not a chance.” She growls, biting her lip when she feels the head of his cock rub against her entrance. “Hurry up already.” Her attempts to push her hips backward and take him inside again are met with failure, leaving the thwarted fairy muttering curses under her breath. “Much as Ah’m enjoyin’ your...creative suggestions, yeh ken tha’s not how it’s done, lass.” Bog reminds her, soft and rumbling, his mouth latching onto the semi-permanent bite mark where her neck and shoulder meet. She groans from a combination of the scrape of his teeth on her skin, his insistence on her doing this one thing, and how wet the prospect of it makes her. “I order you to fuck me.” Marianne begins through gritted teeth, a harsh pant escaping when the hand on her lower back curved down to grasp her hip. “Hard. Until the whole castle can hear me scream.” She’s drenched and absolutely throbbing and she needs him right now or she might go crazy. “As my queen commands.” There’s a brief nudge before he splits her open, thrusts deep and savage. She would honestly swear that she could feel him in the back of her throat, like this. Their current position leaves her partially immobilized, despite her efforts to try and match his frantic rhythm; his large, rough hands at her hip and now the back of her neck keeping her pinned while the table jolts and trembles from the force of it all. She has to take it whether she wants to or not. And she most certainly wants, keening sharply and deliberately squeezing so the ridges on him can scrape against the spot that makes stars burst behind her closed eyes.  Bog isn’t silent or passive in his appreciation, grunts and growls slipping between the lips and teeth that are currently inflicting a line of fresh marks between her left shoulder and earlobe. She can feel him starting to swell and expand inside her in a very...particular fashion, grinning like the madwoman he sometimes accuses her of being when he gasps sharply in realization. “You planned this.” His shaft will lock them together for a time, and she knows from experience how fantastic that feels, even if it only happens when she’s at a fertile peak in her cycle. Which just started this morning, as a matter of fact. Something she’d had to work to hide from him until this very moment. “Ah’d wondered why yeh muddled up yer scent with perfumes and oils. ‘Specially your sweet quim.” He’d paused for a moment as he spoke, then drew out the time of his next few thrusts, pulling out a high-pitched, protestant whine from her. “You should -mm- know by now -ah!- I don’t do things by halves.” Marianne points out smugly, jumping a bit as the hand on her neck shifts next to her right ear, his claws dragging downwards ever so slowly, leaving what sound like long, shallow trenches in the wood. Well, give a Goblin’s instincts credit, he knows how to make a point even without talking. “One of these days, you’re going t’get in over your head, Tough Girl.” Bog rumbles, squeezing her hip hard enough to draw little crimson beads from her skin, before the other set of claws becomes embedded in the table as well. She turns her head just enough to give him a look at her challenging smile, a silent dare for him to ‘bring it’. And then there isn’t much room left for talking between them. Only fervent motion and noises that slide up and down the scale between pleasure and pain until they reach that final, tortured crescendo; her leading, him following a heartbeat after. 

It’s intense enough that she blacks out for a few seconds, coming to with the blindfold and restraints removed, her lover gently kissing between her shoulderblades. She can feel his shaft pulsing lazily within her and hums in contentment. “Mm...I hope you didn’t have any plans for the rest of the day.” She teases, stretching out and feeling him chuckle. “Ah have a feeling yeh’ve somehow conspired to clear my schedule like the scheming wee fairy that y’are.” He answers, right before their lips meet in a soft carress. Bog’s right, of course, but Marianne isn’t about to tell him that. Their respective kingdoms won’t collapse if they take the afternoon off, and she hasn’t even shown him the full extent of her plans. Yet. She does so look forward to surprising him, though.  (A/N: *coughs* Yeah, so. That happened. Hope you enjoy?)

[daedriclorde]

A Thief in Wolf’s Clothing, Part III: Chapter 6, “Till The End”

Summary: Kjolti, Aela, Farkas, and Vilkas make their way to Ysgramor's Tomb to attempt to free Kodlak's spirit. With some of Kjolti's secrets now revealed, the journey is an uncomfortable one.

Read it here on Ao3

Chapter 6, “Till The End”

It took most of the day for the four of them to ride north to the tomb. They rode in an uncomfortable silence. Farkas rode ahead, not wanting to speak to any of them. Kjolti rode behind, wallowing in her shame. Vilkas and Aela rode in the middle. They tried for a while to make conversation, but any attempts at drawing Farkas or Kjolti into their chatter failed monosyllabically. Vilkas even tried singing, but he only got a few notes into “99 bottles of mead in the hall” before Kjolti, Aela, and Farkas buried him in curses and vulgarities. 

Silence overtook the party.

Kjolti held Wuthraad in her hands as she rode. She looked down at it, examining the legendary weapon closely. Eorland had done an exquisite job reforging the blade; she couldn’t even find seams along the reassembled shards. There was a certain power emanating from the blade, though it didn’t feel like an enchantment to her. 

Her eyes drifted up from the shaft to the double edged blade. She ran her fingers over the ornate engravings, trying to make sense of them. She gasped when she realized what they were.

Tucked between two harbingers of death, the visage of an elf was engraved in the very center of the blade. Its eyes were wide and fearful, its mouth agape. Not only was this clearly a depiction of an elf about to die, slaughtered at the hands of Ysgramor, but it was a caricature, its features exaggerated to comical effect.

Sickened, Kjolti sheathed Wuthraad. She did not want to wield this blade. 

She closed her eyes and trusted her horse to follow those in front.

Vilkas told Farkas everything. 

Kjolti wanted to be filled with rage. She wanted to scream and shout and rip into Vilkas.

But she didn’t have the fire for it. 

Instead, she just felt that same consuming emptiness that she had felt after Brynjolf died.

They reached the northern coast as darkness fell. Rather than try to cross the deadly waters at night, they decided to make camp and enter the tomb in the morning. All four set about making a safe camp. Farkas found them an alcove against the icy cliff side, easily defendable. 

A meal was eaten in deafening silence. 

As the fire dwindled down, Vilkas stood and stretched exaggeratedly. “Well, I’m calling it a night,” he said too loudly. “I’ll just be in my tent…over there…” Kjolti felt him looking at her, and she glared at the snow under her boots even harder.

Vilkas stood there for a moment, and when it became clear that no one was going to join him, he turned and left.

Aela looked at Kjolti, then at Farkas. Both were staring at the ice like their gaze could melt it. She threw the scraps of her meal into the fire, and muttered that she was going to bed too. Kjolti glanced up. Aela jerked her head toward where Farkas was sitting. He had volunteered for first watch. Kjolti nodded, and Aela padded off to her tent. 

Silence fell once more.

“Farkas,” Kjolti started.

He glared at her across the fire.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I really am.”

Farkas straightened and intensified his glare. “Tell me what?”

Kjolti shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. “That I’m the Dragonborn.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I…” she trailed off. The truth was she wasn’t sure herself. “I just…” She sighed. “I’m not ready to be the Dragonborn. I can’t bear it. I’m not ready to, not worthy to. And when I’m with you, I don’t have to be anyone or anything. I can just…be. And I liked it that way. I didn’t want it to change. I am sorry, Farkas.”

He looked away as he processed her words. “But you told him.”

“Only because we were attacked by a dragon when we were sent to Dawnstar. I didn’t so much tell him, as he found out.”

“I see.” he stared off into the dying fire. “But you could have told me then.”

“I didn’t want anything to change.”

“Why would anything have to change? You’re still Kjolti. Just with some extra responsibilities. I could even help.”

She stared at him. “But things have changed, haven’t they, Farkas?”

His brow furrowed. “What do you mean?” he sputtered defensively.

“Why did you want to know if Vilkas and I had kissed? Why would you care?”

Before he could open his mouth to respond, an awful screech cut through the air.

Kjolti sucked in her breath and reached for her blade. Farkas jumped up and did the same.

Will I ever fight one of these damned things in the daylight?

The ground shook in an all too familiar way, and a blinding flash of fire broke the darkness nearby.

“Companions! Rise, and fight!”

***

Truly, a dragon had little chance facing off against four Companions with fire in their veins and a collective patience that could fit in a thimble. Vilkas and Aela were out of their tents in a flash, weapons at the ready. Farkas and Aela, who had not seen a dragon in the flesh before, only took a moment of shock and fear before attacking the beast.

Vilkas, Farkas, and Kjolti all fell upon the dragon with their behemoth blades while Aela showered it with arrows. Kjolti cursed with disgust as she found she had drawn Wuthraad, instead of her own sword. Already upon the dragon, she had no time to change weapons, and swung viciously with the famed axe.

Faced with four foes, who had fanned themselves out, the dragon had trouble picking its targets. If it began to breathe fire at one, the others began to hack at it from all sides, and the two legs were surprisingly fast for ones with no wings. Plus, small piercing projectiles kept raining down on its scales, and often punched through its wings. It roared in anger and frustration.

Blades sliced through the air and sunk into scale. The dragon’s club-like tail bludgeoned those that wandered too close to its rear. Aela released arrow after arrow with uncanny accuracy.

In the darkness, the snow and ice appeared black as it became saturated with blood. One of the twins cried out. Kjolti saw Aela in the distance by the light of the fire that singed her. The fierce huntress grimaced and gritted her teeth, but did not relent in her attack. Kjolti found herself knocked on the ground several paces back from the dragon, sent there from the force of a deadly claw. She gasped and strained to get the wind back in her lungs, her ribs screaming in pain. They had not recovered from the beating they took the day before from Farkas.

Kjolti rose to her feet. The dragon had that desperate, wild look in its eye. The kind of look a beast has when it knows it is dying, but will not stop fighting. Kjolti knew it well.

Raising Wuthraad and unleashing a primal cry, Kjolti charged forward and dropped the axe into the neck of the dragon. It was enough.

The life drained from the monstrous form before her. It screamed out its last breath, a challenge even in the face of death, and grew still at her feet. 

Kjolti felt her blood pulse, heard it rush in her ears. The dragon in her chest was thrashing about, craving the dragon soul like an addict craves skooma. Her body seemed to fall in with an ancient beat heard only by her.

She stood in front of the fallen dragon, eyes closed. Its soul began to rise from its body, swirling with unspent energy. The night was ignited with hues of purple and orange. Kjolti’s eyes burst open as she breathed in the spirit.

Farkas, who was watching this wide-eyed as a child would, thought for just a moment he saw Kjolti’s eyes flash blood red against her shadowed silhouette. But they returned to normal not a heartbeat later, and he knew it must have been a trick of the light.

The soul settled within her and darkness once again fell upon the northern shore. Kjolti blinked for a few moments, and then she looked around. 

“Is anyone hurt?”

Vilkas was leaning against the icy cliff, favoring his left leg. Farkas had blood smeared across his face, and Kjolti didn’t know if it was his or the dragon’s. Aela’s skin was pink where the fire had nearly scorched her skin. She felt her own ribs burning from the abuse they had taken.

“Nothing we can’t handle, Dragonborn,” Vilkas said softly.

“I said don’t call me that!” Kjolti snapped. She looked back to Aela, the only member of their party who had not known. “Aela, I—“

Aela waved her hand. “I figured it out a long time ago, Kjolti.”

Kjolti was taken aback. “Does everyone know??”

“Just us. We’re with you, Kjolti. Till the end,” Aela said in her steady voice. 

Kjolti looked around at her battered friends. “Right.” Fighting back tears, she gingerly walked to her tent. “I’m going to sleep.”

When she finally fell asleep, she was tormented with nightmares of her friends falling in battle with Alduin, torn asunder by his claws and words. She woke with a start, gasping and panting. She crawled out of her tent.

Farkas was sitting alone in front of the rekindled fire, keeping watch just as he had promised before the attack.

Kjolti walked over and sat next to him. He turned and looked at her. They locked eyes for just a moment, before Kjolti collapsed onto his shoulder and wept. Farkas placed a comforting arm around her and held her close.

[damienthepious]

okay,,, so, , it’s not tuesday in my timezone anymore, but it was when I posted this to ao3, so it still mcfreakin COUNTS. i DID it. the streak still continues

Even With Missteps (chapter 1)

[ao3] [Ch 2] [Ch 3] [Ch 4] [???]

Fandom: The Penumbra Podcast

Relationship: Sir Damien/Rilla, Lord Arum/Sir Damien/Rilla, Lord Arum/Sir Damien

Characters: Lord Arum, Sir Damien, Rilla, (other characters mentioned but not named)

Additional Tags: Unresolved Romantic Tension, Dancing, Costume Parties & Masquerades

Summary:  There is a masquerade ball in the Citadel tonight. Every knight and citizen has turned out, and all of them bear disguises of monstrosity. What better time could there be, for a monster who needs to find a way inside?

Notes: SO WHAT IF ARUM HAD TO DO HIS INFILTRATION DURING A DIFFERENT SORT OF CITADEL PARTY, IS ALL I'M SAYING. There might be more to this idea eventually, i don’t frickin know. I wrote all of this within the last like three days so I’m feeling a little punch drunk at the moment. Title from the song Little Trouble by Better Oblivion Community Center. 

~

Arum slips in with the rest of the crowd. This is not particularly difficult. The entire writhing population of the Citadel seems to have turned out for this ridiculous, overblown party, a hot mass of humanity tittering and falling over each other and pouring into the courtyard and the smaller royal ballroom beyond. And all of them to a one are bedecked in absurd parody of monsterkind; horns and fangs and feathers, silk flowers and leaves for the affluent and recently cut branches for the less so, billowing fabrics for false nymphs and plastered-on false muscle for facsimile ogres.

It’s a travesty, really. Arum can only stomach it because it fills him with a grim sort of humor to contemplate the fury of certain monsters at their human interpretations.

Arum’s disguise is simple. The thick layers of his own deep purple robes suffice to obscure most of his body, most of his scales, and he has his lower arms tucked into the folds, easily hidden by simply hugging his own midsection beneath the cloth. His robes also dip low enough to that only his feet show beneath, and he has used clay and cosmetics to obscure the shine of his claws and scales, to make his own features appear to be the true costume. His tail would be an issue, but he has painted it in a similar way to his claws, and if he only holds it stiff it looks a fair approximation of similar false appendages on some of the humans in attendance. For his other two hands he has long gloves with embroidered scales to cover his own, and his real claws pierce through as if part of the decoration. His hood is up, and beneath it is the centerpiece, his mask.

It is copper, decorated with the stylized face of a dragon that echoes the shape of his true face. The brows are heavy over the holes for his eyes in a way that shadows the inhumanity of them, and the way it rests on his face beneath the hood should rather skillfully maintain the illusion of a mere human beneath the metal. His height is such as to be noticed, but not such that he will be seen as alarming. A fair number of the knights he has passed already outpace him in that particular quality, anyway.

One knight guarding the entrance to the main ballroom appears to have simply applied charcoal to her armor with stripes of swirling orange painted in between, and her helm is affixed with a pair of dark antlers that chime with bells whenever she moves her head. She conveniently diverts her attention to berate her companion, who is dressed as a rather childish approximation of (Arum needs to blink, he is convinced he is mistaken for a moment before he realizes, no, that is almost certainly-) his own mimic monster, recently killed and likely by this oaf, and Arum scowls as he uses the distraction of these fools to slip inside beside the rest of the cacophonous crowd without scrutiny.

Then, all he needs do is cross the ballroom and slip unnoticed deeper into the fortress.

(Arum is convinced, secretly, that the Senate chose to have him perform this task not simply because his body structure is close enough to these scrawny bipedal creatures to require minimal obscuring during a costumed party. If that were all that were required, one of those absurd nymphs would be the obvious choice. Humans never notice their strangeness until it is far too late, after all. No- Arum is convinced that the Senate chose him for this as an obscured punishment for the failure of his former projects. Acquire your own materials. He sneers harder under his thick mask, since the expression will go unseen. The timeline is fixed. Do not disappoint again, as a denial of the wishes of the Senate constitutes a denial of the wishes of the Universe itself. Arum knows when he is being humiliated, and the need to infiltrate not only this disgusting Citadel but to do so during such a foolish event- it rankles, to say the very least. If the Senate did not have the power to damage his swamp and his Keep, he would laugh in their faces. He wishes he could. If he had his own way, he would not be involved in this nonsense at all. The thrill of challenge wore off at least three failed experiments ago.)

So. Yes. All he needs do is cross the ballroom.

Unfortunately, the humans have already begun to dance. There is a clustering of musicians, or what passes for them in human society, playing their instruments up closer to the creature who must serve as their Queen. He can’t tell what she is disguised as from this distance, but he can see the vague silhouette of wings up behind her. Extravagant, of course. He should expect as much.

The dais upon which the Queen is perched is surrounded by knights, guards, decorated armor but armor nonetheless. With the entire Citadel welcome inside these walls tonight, this is to be expected. They cannot risk the safety of their little ruler, after all. And with so much of their fighting force dedicated to bodyguarding, there is likely very little left to haunt the halls of the Queen’s private chambers. Why would they bother with more than a cursory guard, when the much more obvious potential for danger lies here? Here, where any rabble rouser or - he could almost laugh - sufficiently humanoid monster could creep in unnoticed, could creep close enough to pounce?

Beneath her, between Arum and his goal, is a squirming mass of humans, and if those fools above are performing what passes for music with these creatures, this must be what passes for dance. At least the rhythm is sturdy, if obnoxiously predictable and unvarying. He could creep around the outside of the dancers, but at the moment there are very few doing more than lingering there for a few moments at a time. It is still early enough in the evening that none seem compelled to rest for any noticeable period of time, and besides that, the knights are dotted along each wall, keeping a wary eye on the crowd.

If any human were to see through his garb it would be one of those most trained to slay his kind, of course, and he would prefer to keep as far away from that risk as possible. His best option is to cross the dance floor itself, so he can make it to the other side, where he can either distract and sneak past a guard through a door to the more inner chambers, or alternatively slip out onto the balcony where he can climb up a floor and reenter. He is leaning towards the second option just this moment, if only for the chance to breathe properly in the open air for a half second without the radiant heat of a thousand mammals stuffing up his snout.

He sets his jaw, fists his two free hands at his sides, and ventures into the crowd.

He makes it approximately four steps before he is jostled enough to unbalance him, and his tail smacks the floor in an automatic effort to keep him on his feet, which thankfully does not appear to draw attention. It must have looked enough like the ‘false’ appendage simply wavering with his own steps. He barely has time to feel grateful for that, though, before a heeled foot steps immediately upon the end of his tail, and Arum’s snarl of shocked pain is too natural to suppress.

Ridiculous human dance, Arum thinks viciously as a pair of the creatures stop and take unfortunate notice of him, one with brow furrowed in confusion beneath rattlepanther face paint. Humans certainly do not snarl as Arum just did, and it is clear that these humans think they have heard something, even if they are not yet raising the alarm.

Arum freezes. This is incorrect, considering that every other creature in eyesight is in motion. More eyes turn to him, and Arum feels equal parts stupid and furious. Of course his stillness is suspect. He is on the dance floor, and he is the only one not dancing. If he wishes to shake this scrutiny he will have to follow suit.

There is only one human nearby not already coupled, a slight thing staring off to the side of the dance floor and bouncing lightly on his feet, and Arum seizes the opportunity and the human before he can think too long about it, because he would rather dance than die, despite the embarrassment. He spins with two armfuls of alarmed human, then, staring doe-eyed up at him out of a decently stylish basilisk costume, with the mouth of the creature framing his face rather than obscuring it, with fangs above and below. The human’s scowls and frowns, and he stammers hard for a moment or two before he finds his tongue.

“P- I beg your- I do beg your leave, I was not looking to be-” he squirms slightly in Arum’s arms, but he seems too polite to pull away entirely. “I am not unattached, I was merely waiting for my Rilla to return, and-”

Arum is still aware of the suspicious eyes of others upon him and cannot give up this shield just yet, cannot dip back into the crowd alone without arousing further suspicion, but if his new partner will not cease his thrashing then the suspicion will follow him into the dance as well. He will have to appease the human, if only for a few moments, just until those who noticed him grow bored.

So, Arum leans down (far down), and he murmurs (he won't sound so monstrous in a murmur), “I am only stealing you for one dance, little basilisk.” The human blinks in surprise, and Arum can feel the heat that flushes the human's cheeks, and he pretends that this strange mammalian quirk is not… interesting. He pretends, and he keeps whispering. “I promise to release you when your partner returns. You are the only monster here who has interested me in the least, and I would take what little time you will allow me. Is this fair?”

The human has long since stopped stammering, and after a long moment he blinks again, and nods, and his hands find their proper places on Arum for the dance. “I suppose, I suppose that a single dance would not be… that is to say, just one dance couldn’t hurt. Could it?”

It only takes a few steps for Arum to find his stride. Human dance seems predictable, to say the least, and he manages a passable imitation rather quickly with this human in his arms, and he starts to slowly maneuver the pair of them across the dance floor, inching towards his goal and away from suspicious eyes. Of course, once his trajectory is planned, it becomes rather difficult to ignore the attention of the creature he is holding, to ignore the heat of his body or the curiosity in his eyes or the skill in his footwork as Arum moves with him.

And, perhaps, Arum finds dancing with this particular partner to be substantially more enjoyable than he could have expected. So enjoyable, perhaps, that he forgets to focus on the reason why he is here, for a minute or two.

"Your eyes are-" the human stops, smiles strangely beneath the fangs of his mask, "quite beautiful," he settles on. "They look almost… almost violet in this light. Like amethysts, sparking in the lanterns' glow. They are quite enchanting."

Arum's face is hidden well enough that he needs not conceal the way that twists his mouth into a strange smile of his own, and he laughs just low enough to disguise the rattle in his throat. "I thank you for the compliment," he murmurs, leaning close again. "It was phrased as elegantly as your steps, little basilisk."

“Elegance-” the human inhales sharply as Arum spins him, and when Arum pulls him back he laughs, and Arum realizes quite suddenly that he is not merely being influenced by the nature of this party, by the jaunty song drifting down from the dais. This human simply has a voice that rings like music, in laughter and in speech. So much so that, once his breathless laugh subsides, his next words are not so much of a surprise. “One could say that elegance of phrasing is a part of my trade. I am a poet, you see.”

“A poet,” Arum echoes, and if that idea delights him, there is no one but the poet himself to hear the warmth in his voice, or see the spark in his eyes. He is merely playing the role, isn’t he? Pleasing the human to maintain his cover. Flattering by necessity, not because he feels drawn to do so. Of course. “Such a strange basilisk I have caught, then. Delicate as honeysuckle, and just as sweet besides. Is there any venom at all in those fangs of yours?”

“I suppose you will only find the answer to that question if you provoke me to bite,” he lilts, and then his face flushes with heat again, and he looks just as surprised by his own boldness as Arum is. “I- that is to say-”

“I will endeavor not to deserve your ire, then, honeysuckle,” Arum says, and all this deception and merry-making must be going to his head, because even to his own ears his voice sounds playful. “For the moment, at least,” he adds, and the human breathes another bright little laugh.

“Do I- forgive me, I do not know you already behind that disguise, do I?”

“I would be dearly surprised if you did, honeysuckle,” Arum says dryly. “And even beneath such frightening attire, I would certainly remember someone like you.”

It is flattery only for the purposes of acquiring his goal, Arum reminds himself.

“Oh,” the human says, as if realizing something, and his smile goes apologetic for a moment. “How rude of me, then, not to introduce myself. I am Sir Damien,” he says softly, and every part of Lord Arum where Sir Damien is not touching him goes cold.

A knight. Arum has been twirling and embracing a knight, and for all this little human looks and sounds like some gentle, sweet-spoken thing, he has almost certainly destroyed his fair share of Arum’s distant kin. His steps go on automatic, but his mind spirals away in something he recognizes distantly as panic. He will not be discovered (of course he will not, the idea is ridiculous), but if he is then he will be in the worst possible position. He does not know how he has managed to forget himself so thoroughly. Little basilisk knight with his honeysuckle nectar voice- what was Arum thinking?

Damien’s grip on Arum is soft as Arum leads him, his thumbs brushing light over Arum’s scales through his cloak, but now that Arum is paying attention he can see the subtle musculature of his shoulders and arms even through his costume, can feel the muted strength of his grip as the knight allows himself to be lead. Arum thinks, perhaps, that when Damien failed to pull himself away from Arum at the start of this encounter, it was politeness alone that kept him in Arum’s grasp. That idea is- it twists in Arum’s stomach. He does not know how he feels about it, besides simply that it makes him feel something.

“Though-” Sir Damien says, and the hesitant hope in his voice draws Arum’s attention back. “Though on the other hand, I suppose in revealing such I may have betrayed the spirit of the event.” He ducks his head, peeking up at Arum from beneath those shining false fangs. “You may continue to call me as you like, be that basilisk or honeysuckle. I find that I am enjoying playing the monster with you- er, playing such for the evening, rather, substantially more than I expected.”

Sir Damien is close. His skin is warm, the fangs of his mask are sharp, and Arum can hear the way his heart kicks faster when his words stumble.

playing the monster with-

Arum is rather enjoying playing the human. More so than he expected. Far more, in fact, considering that he did not expect to enjoy it at all.

And when Damien looks up at Arum from beneath his false fangs with a soft, shy smile, Arum wonders how a knight such as this could survive, when he displays his warm little heart so openly, so easily. Then without thinking Arum pulls him closer, and Damien is terribly hot, pressed against Arum’s front like that. Arum wishes he had his other hands free, to hold him more securely, to draw him even closer.

Arum feels his own heart skip, like a stone on still water.

Oh, Lord Arum thinks. Oh no.

He becomes aware, again, of the humans that surround them. Of their noise, of the way their bodies press in on all sides. He releases his grip on the knight, a cool shiver racing across his scales. He steps back, and bows. “I- I must excuse myself,” he says, clipped. “Forgive me.”

“But-” Damien takes a half step closer, lifting one hand to cover his heart, and his mask does nothing at all to conceal the way his expression has fallen into confusion and disappointment. “But the dance is not finished yet, is it?”

“Forgive me,” Arum says again, and he is surprised to find that he means it more earnestly than intended. “I- I believe you have a partner you meant to return to, did you not? I am sure they are missing you, honeysuckle.”

Damien’s mouth curls further, sudden guilt, and when he glances away to try to catch sight of his original partner Arum takes another step.

“W-wait-” Damien follows another step in turn. “Please, I hope I have not offended you-”

“No, honeysuckle. Nothing of the sort,” Arum says, and isn’t sure why. It would be much easier to escape if the human thought he had offended, wouldn’t it? “But I must take my leave.”

“Please,” Damien says, though he does not follow this time, and his voice has gone softer. Less certain. “I- I don’t even know who you are.”

And that truth is the only thing keeping Arum safe and alive, at the moment. So, Arum would not be able to explain, if asked, why he steps closer to the knight again, why he leans down close, why he breathes a few short words into Damien’s ear. “You may call me Arum,” he murmurs, “and I thank you for the pleasure of your company, for however brief a time.”

He straightens, and then imitates a gesture he has seen around the room many times already tonight. He lifts one of Damien’s hands, brings it to the mouth of his mask, and brushes the copper over his knuckles in a facsimile kiss.

Arum has no ready excuse for this action, either.

As Damien stares at him, lips parted but wordless, Arum does not give himself time to hesitate. He drops the hand. He sweeps away, taking quick purposeful steps, dodging artfully around the dancers now that he is intimately familiar with the motions involved, and he is outside on the balcony without a single human seeming to note him in what feels like the space of a breath. The other humans are all too enraptured with their own partners by now to pay him any mind, he thinks.

The balcony is cooler. Darker. Quieter. Only a few scattered humans have come out to rest where the air is clear. Arum takes a moment, breathing as deeply as he can beneath the metal adorning his face, and feels his own inadequacy and embarrassment like the skipping stone finally sinking beneath the surface, down into the muck.

Just another foolish little human, no different from the rest of his kind. Just another human, all too soon to perish with the rest of his species in this poorly constructed termite mound. Just another human, another thoughtless monster-killer destined to a death that fast approaches.

A death Arum will have a hand in.

He glances back over his shoulder. He does not mean to.

The people inside cannot see out into the darkness of the balcony, but Arum can very easily see in, can very easily pinpoint his former partner, standing amongst motion, staring in his direction without seeing him. He looks very small, like that.

Underneath his robes, Arum presses his claws into his ribs. Focus. He has a job to be doing. Nothing else matters if his Keep is not safe, and it will not be so again until the Senate has their attention safely away from him, once he performs his task. However interesting this one human might seem at a cursory glance, he cannot possibly matter.

Basilisk, Arum thinks, somewhere between fascination and disdain. He had asked about what venom was in those fangs, and Arum, oddly, feels bitten. Like something strange and hot is flowing thought him in place of blood.

Ridiculous.

Ridiculous, and unhelpful besides. Arum walks purposefully towards the end of the balcony, where the railing meets the high wall of the central tower of the Citadel. He leans his back against the cool stone, and watches the small groups of people cooling off as they come and go. And when the opportunity presents itself, when none are close enough to see him, he begins to climb.

He will finish this task, and then he will return home, and then he will never need think of nectar nor venom again.

~

Rilla finds Damien standing, motionless among twirling skirts and cloaks, his hand over his heart and his face flushed, and she takes his hand in her own, raising an eyebrow.

“You looked like you were having fun out there,” she says, and Damien jumps, spins, and his expression goes guilty when he recognizes her beside him. “I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“Rilla!” he squeaks, and his shoulders hunch in misery when she leans close to kiss the cheek of his mask, since she can’t actually reach his face. “You- you were- you saw-”

“I saw you get swept off your feet a bit, I think.” She grins. “It was cute. I didn’t expect tall guys to be your thing. Though… there was something odd about his gait,” she muses quietly, half to herself. Damien and the stranger had certainly looked lovely dancing together, and she could watch Damien make that dopey wide-eyed expression all day, but she had been distracted from the playful elegance of their movement by the way the stranger had moved in particular. Something about the way he stepped, about the way he seemed to counterbalance so easily with that fake tail- “Couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but… hm. Well, maybe if we stick around we’ll catch back up with your new friend later, yeah?”

“I- I- m-my friend?” he asks, looking even more flushed, more dazed. It’s pretty adorable, actually.

“I think it’s my turn for a dance now, though,” she says slyly, slinking closer and winding her arms around him, the red and gold feathers of her phoenix costume tickling his neck. “I wanna see if I can make you go that starry eyed for me,” she teases as she tugs him into motion, and that, at least, seems to snap him back to coherency as his own hands find their familiar places.

“Oh Saint Damien above- oh Rilla I apologize, I shouldn’t have-”

“Shouldn’t have what, danced?” She smiles, and squeezes his shoulders through her feathered gloves. “Damien, I’m glad you were out there having fun instead of wasting time waiting for me when you could be having fun.”

“But I should be dancing with you, not-”

“Damien.” Rilla tips back and Damien catches her without a thought, and she grins up at him. “You’re dancing with me now, aren’t you?”

“I-” he blinks, and when he pulls her back to his feet he laughs, just lightly. “Yes, I suppose I am.”

“Then dance with me, Damien,” she says, and if she presses closer to her fiance than is strictly proper for such a public event, no one is going to mention it. “Dance with me now, and maybe later on I might be convinced to share you with your friend again, if you promise to look that pretty every time you dance with him.”

“Rilla!” Damien squawks, cheeks delightfully pink, and then he laughs more brightly, and his hands settle upon her more securely, and Rilla wishes badly that his fangs weren’t in the way, because all she wants to do right now is kiss him.

Kissing can wait for now. After all, they have the whole night long to spend together.

In the meantime, in the low lantern light, they dance.

[themarginalthinker]

Undertow

this is so late omg djlfsflnflF;m;a here, have some soulmates avien wingfic Jearmin indulgence. Read the first chapter here. Thank you!!!!

It had been clear skies and smooth winds for Jean, up until now. Totally fine and free. 

He was following his star, the call, the music in his heart and embedded in his soul since his birth finally singing out. The lands below him had been simply more of the gentle rolls of hills and streams and and endless seas of treetops swaying on the breeze. It had been warm rainstorms with playful eddies of air to keep Jean on his proverbial toes. Crystal nights with the Hub in his sights and the correct star clusters at each wingtip to guide him onward - just like his flock had taught him. 

The change had come like a slap to the face - worse - being knocked, as Jean was sure he was, somehow, impossibly - off course. 

The storm hadn't appeared so...deadly from where it had lain broiling on the very distant horizon. Jean, still on his perch in the warm evening and watching the sunset fire streaming from behind those onyx clouds contemplated this development with blase mind. He munched idly on a ration of waybread, wondering how much longer he'd be traveling. Where the Calling would take him, and most of all, who he'd find at the end of all this. Why he was the one the Hub plucked up from his comfortable nest and decided to fling him across the wide world while the other merely had to deal with the weeks of anxiousness, feeling their other half draw ever nearer. 

Jean sighed as he felt his hunger, as small as even that vital urge had become in the face of the Call these last few days, wane as these thoughts took root.  Reiner had been near-inconsolable those last few days before Bert's arrival. He'd been fifteen, Jean a year his junior. Waiting in the topmost branches of his hometree, eyes always on the horizon day and night. Even if they knew what it was, how special Reiner was for being one of the few to experience this, his family worried. Not all who were chosen to journey succeeded. The result of a bond never properly made - severed before it was even begun and the toll that took on the one left alive...

Brow furrowing in obstinate determination, Jean tucked away the rest of the uneaten meal. He'd made it this far, with little if any problems. This may just be a quest he'd have little to report upon, a story too dull for flock-talk or festival stories to gussy up for fledglings, and he's...alright with that, he thinks. Sure, it was more exciting and captivating to hear tell of folk fighting off wvyrms - great flying scaled beasts, scourges of the air - or braving extreme elements to find their beloved, but Jean's come to realize just how close people telling those tales must have come to the edge of failing. Of leaving behind their destined, devastated mate forever without having even met them. 

Jeans stood on the thin bow, looking out over the land defiantly, looking at the miasma lurking on the horizon and finally blotting out the last of the sunlight from the land. Staring at the world, and offering a simple challenge; 

Try and stop me.

~~~

The sky was chaos incarnate. 

Jean could barely right himself - at least, find a position in the air that might have been right-side up - before a fist of wind and rain and ice slapped him in another direction, stealing the breath from his pumping lungs. His wings felt useless, like an insect drowning pitifully in a puddle. Worse. 

He didn't know where he was. He'd....he lost it. Somehow, impossibly, he'd lost his Call. 

The storm had caught him with his guard dropped. Lingering always just far enough away Jean could keep a decent eye on what stars it was blotting out from the sky and how fast. It seemed in the blink of an eye though, like a predator just waiting for something to creep by - Jean being the unlucky candidate in this case - it had reveled itself a wild thing, uncaring, violent in how Jean was pulled right into it by hot, humid updrafts nothing escaped from.  He'd been stupid....oh so stupid, and this was his punishment. 

Trying to keep his wings close to his body so as the delicate feathers wouldn't be pulled from their shafts, and perhaps try dipping to a lower altitude to escape the heart of the storm, did little. The wind just found ways to curl under his wings and lift him back up into the mess, whether he liked it or not. Rain whipped at him, needle-like and blowing all directions. Jean was soaking and wind-burned, and there was an odd lightness to how he was tossed about. Although there was obviously more pressing matters to consider, he dreaded to think about how he may have lost one of his packs. Hopefully not his knife. If he made it out of this madness in one piece, he might still need it.

A sudden chilling gust grabbed up the avien once more, throwing his ragdoll body in another direction, his neck aching with the force. And again, it was all gone in an instant. Jean blinked both sets of eyelids at the conundrum  when he was falling. 

Sodden wings and clothing, limp in exhaustion, the air currents that had ensnared him only seconds earlier abandoning their prey like he'd never been there in the first place. Taking with them, of course, the one thing keeping him in the air at all. His head spun, or maybe that was just the world around him, a smear of bleak stormy grey and flashes of scudding white. Panic, panicpanicpanic Jean mind was consumed with his immobile body, unresponsive, unable to even save himself. He couldn't find - where - the song, the Call...

Jean's feathers were useless, and as if the gale had decided it wasn't truly done with him, a blast of freezing air whipped around him as he left the deadspace. It barely caught his wings - not enough to slow his downwards spiral but enough for him to realize that pain was still a constant. 

The icy currents were little better then the squall that had spat him out. Suddenly his clothes weren't just wet, they were stiffening under the sudden change in temperature - his wingtips forming ice, creeping over the tiny barbs and fusing them together.  

Jean couldn't think properly, couldn't even right himself anymore or concentrate above the growing din of absolute terror and pain in his head and heart. The ground shifted meters below him under the dark of the storm overhead, fluid and surreal. Jean thought he was surely going mad. It had been known to happen, old fliers who'd gotten sucked into the same mess Jean had just barely survived only for the power of the storm to drive them loopy. Even now, as the avien saw his death coming towards him, the flat hills swam in swirling waves - 

Jean realized his mistake as the first breaker, white-capped and towing flows of ice with it glowing out of the darkness, narrowly skimming his primaries. He didn't have a moment to think of his new misfortune as he slid into darkness, lead waters seeing fit to send him into a new thrashing. Salty water flooded his mouth as Jean tried - for some reason, it was all useless now, he'd...lost - to find the surface. 

Wings and feathers were hardly buoyant, however. Jean couldn't even feel his fingers or toes anymore, and his arms and legs burned from being on action for so long, the arctic waters serving only to sap what little energy he had left. Everything was so dark. Dark and cold, and songless; the waves all around him his only music now, beating the avien senseless in an uncaring tempo as he surfaced only to be struck down again...

He was giving up. He could feel it, starting in his dead wings and creeping like the numbness of the bottomless water down to his useless body. Jean felt his eyes sting, and in the endless mire of pain and fear, maybe he thought, he was crying.

Though, that could just be the salt and grit of the sea. It hurt either way.  He'd never get to see their face. He'd never...never get to know their name, or who they were, or where they came from. He'd never get to hear the sound of their voice; marvel over the color of their eyes in the sunlight, or how their feathers shone under the moon. 

He'd be leaving them, all alone. 

That, perhaps, aside from the deathly water and his failing lungs and motionless limbs, dragged him down the most. He is...resigned. Jean can feeling it all leaving - no light in the darkness greets him as his eyes shut, and only ringing  fills his head. Just the turbulence of the violent waves, the slowing pounding of his heart. 

The lull of the surf is everywhere...a rhythm that Jean can't escape, can't help but listen to. Perhaps his fleeting consciousness is trying to sooth him in the end, and it works. If he wants to trick himself even more, believe his own painful fantasy, it's sort of like a song, in a way. 

The voice of death singing him to his watery grave... Jean doesn't know what he feels first. He had been fading, chest heavy and mind almost gone. Just a mess of sensations and pain and cold, dark lonesomeness - and the sudden, blaring, all-consuming song so loud, cacophonous almost in it's clarity, 

but there's - there's arms, and...movement? And, yes, air, cold, so cold and new and slapping his face and clothes and blowing away streams of water pouring out of the mess of feathers that were but a mockery of his wings on the briny sea winds. The hands - they had to be, though how he knew Jean couldn't tell you at the moment as detached as his body was from his mind - clawing at him, clutching, holding so tightly. Too much for the deathly pull of the waves, even. Jean thinks, chest aching, it felt like there was nothing that would keep him from those arms. They'd die for him, they'd kill for him...

He was rising...then dipping  and rising again, the water wasn't there anymore? Jean couldn't open his eyes even if he had the strength, didn't dare...what if he saw his own corpse bobbing along down below like a broken twig? This had to be death, at last - 

"-elp me! C'mon, I can't carry yo-"

...Death had an awfully young voice. 

Something licked at the bottoms of Jean's feet, the waters from bellow roaring up again in their agitated waves under the still-raging storm above, the tongues of the ocean desperate for their stolen meal back but whatever force held Jean kept him from succumbing to their depths again. Something so tight around his chest and so warm against his back and in his ears and heart...

"-lease! Don't! You have to stay awa-"

It is no wonder the singing of the great Hub had stopped, Jean thinks slowly as the world begins to return to the blackness of the frozen ocean.  It's voice had belonged to his savior all along.

~~~

Jean supposes it's indicative how close he was to slipping down death's throat, never mind being caught in it's jaws, when he rises back to consciousness after failing to realize he'd dropped from it in the first place. 

There was no song, but his spirit was calm.

Warm...and pain. Fuck, it's as if his whole body was waiting for him to wake up to assault him with all the worst sensations it could possibly hope to feel. His wings ached worse then the first time his flight feathers were growing in as a child, and from the sudden bloom of stinging as he dared to try and twitch them, he knew he'd likely lost and broken more then a couple important quills. He didn't go more then a few breaths without weakly fighting the urge to cough against the stickiness his chest, which he gave into more the a couple of times. His head was splitting, his body felt weak and the tips of his fingers and toes were throbbing...

But he was...alive. 

Alive and...warm, and burrowed in something incredibly heavy and soft and furry that tickled at his nose where it was pulled up under - enough to make him sneeze, suddenly. 

And someone definitely not him give a small squeak of startlement. 

"Ah! You're awake!"

Jean's eyelids grappled with their own weight as a surge of excitement and energy he knew he shouldn't possess at hearing a voice. The same voice the unknown arms from the sea sang as they carried him off. When he did manage to open his eyes, at first it was all blurred, a smear of colors like a child's painting across his vision.

Then it was...blue. 

Bluer then a clear sky in the late autumn evening, bluer then the highest, oldest mountain ice. 

Bluer then the ocean.

How young... Jean first wondered as he found himself lost in those bottomless eyes - well, that and he could feel the world around him spinning a little, so his staring probably wasn't total enamorment...and yet. He still couldn't draw himself away. He looked barely older then a boy, the honeygold hair hanging in mildly frazzled clumps framing his face and thin shoulders idly shifting long, soaring seabird wings behind him from where Jean was laid. And it seemed Jean was not the only one to be found taking too long of a first look. 

Those eyes had been looking at him like a dry riverbed takes on water, quick and darting around and filled with an endless greed of want. Blinking, it seemed to break the spell, and magically, the stranger speaks again. How damn young, Jean idly muses again, though it is soon lost under the utter shine of hearing the bell of a voice. 

"I...I was so frightened that you were gone...well. Not gone, but like - like, more sick then I could help. I'm not usually so good at these things, see. Healing people, and not from almost drowning, either. If you'd gotten anymore water in your chest, I don't think I'd have been able to....um... And you were like a deadweight all the way here, and I... I think you did stop breathing at some point..." 

Jean watches with waning strength as the boy rambles, seeing a clawed, scaly hand much like his own reach up and start anxiously combing through his hair. Suddenly the boy must realize Jean's not able to pay much attention to much more then the comforting sound of his voice rather then what's actually being said, and with another admonishment against himself and some muttering, turns swiftly from the bedridden avien. 

Jean can feel himself beginning to drift. It's like a balm to his core, just hearing the other whisper and fumble about wherever they are. The furs he's been veritably cocooned in feel like a physical weight pushing him back down with as much ease as the crushing depths of the ocean had rage. He lets his other senses tell him about what's going on - so long as he can hear that voice...

Woodsmoke, though it's different then he's ever smelled before. Something he can't put a name to within it, reminding him of the scent of the storm and the sea. Herbs, strong and spicy and mellow. The pop and hiss of droplets of something on coals from a banked fire and more muttering and fluttering. A small chill blew through Jean's hair, the tiny draft whistling a little windy moan as it passed. Jean wondered what aery they might be roosted in...A very gentle clinking pricked Jean's attention for a moment, enough to force his eyes open one more time as the shushing of feathers not his own drew near again, along with a salty, fishy smell. 

"It's just broth. I can help you sit up if you need, but you need to eat something before you go back to sleep." 

The sick avien wasn't sure if he totally conveyed his acceptance around his sluggish movements and through the thick furs, but the boy must have seen a 'yes' in all the tiny jerk of his head, and soon the world was tilting again, and after a long, nauseating moment of vertigo his kind shouldn't have to know, Jean was resting against a wall behind him with the soup pressed to his lips by gentle hands. 

Trying to use his own required coordination Jean didn't possess at current, so Jean let himself be nursed like a downed nestling. The broth was thin but oily, bits of minced fish and bitter greens slipped past and filled him more then he figured such a small bowl would have. In the middle sometime, the stranger switched it out for another of cool, cold water, and Jean was forced to heed his warnings for Jean to take it slow when he almost choked at the laugh in that voice. 

When he was finished, Jean leaned heavily against the wall, and gave the boy before him a long look with eyes burning for more rest. 

It was killing him. He needed sleep, and time, and to trust this person - his person, which he had finally found after nearly stumbling into Darkness for.

But he had to know, also. 

"Wh-" the first sound Jean had made aside from his wayward sneeze what felt like forever ago eeked out painfully, and coated with the gunk still in his chest, but with a dreadful cough which shook his poor body, he managed a full sentence. 

"Whass....what's your nayme.. 'Mm...Jean.." 

If he were in much better shape of mind he might have winced at the slurring, but another, rather frazzled part of him reminded him he did almost very nearly drown, and he was lucky to have breath to speak at all. 

The stranger just gazed down at him for a few puzzling seconds, looking for all the world like he'd never heard another person's name before, or had no idea what a name was...then he smiled. Smiled like sunlight on snow...

"Jean...that's a nice name. I think I've dreamed about that before..." he said, airily, as if he suddenly lost the conviction of his own words. Though, even in his state and feeling like he couldn't actually rest until the boy, his beloved, his Hub in the heavens told him his name there was something about hearing his own fall off those pale lips.

Reaching back up with some of that now-nearly-familiar anxiousness coming back, the threaded his dark talons through his long hair and ducked his head.  "I'm Armin. And...I suppose you're the call that's sung to me every night now, huh?" 

The sky was silent and empty, for all Jean's starsongs were here.