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kettlequills · 3 years

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C4: waking dreams: master of fate

slight body horror in this one. grief/mourning. a03

A meeting was called to discuss Frea’s findings. Frea spent the interim hours between her return and the gathering of the Skaal kneeling tensely before her father’s shrine. She stared with eyes that stung and burned but did not water at the carvings Skorn had worked into wood with his own hands – the bears that chased the tumbling snow-foxes, the evergreen leaves and feathers of hunting hawks. A whole world cavorted across the knots and grains of the wood, a whole world that, frozen forever, did not know Skorn was dead.

The smoke from the sputtering candles spat and hissed over the fatty tallow. Last year’s rendering, stinking up the village with the vast cauldrons bubbling away, had produced squat, greasy candles. Too much moisture. It had been a hot year, and the snow had fallen as rain, miring the mountain paths thick with mud. Skorn had sent Frea on a long trip to pray at the Sun Stone for the will of the All-Maker. She remembered that spring, sweating under her furs as she struggled triumphantly back up the path to the village to his smiling approval. She had been proud, back then, to be trusted with such a task alone.

The movements of the village outside were only a wooden wall away. She could hear the crunch of boots through the snow, the metallic bang-bang-bang of Edla driving nails into her leaking roof, the murmur of voices rough and warm and familiar. Coughing, too, a nasty wet gurgle as Oslaf fought the winter in his lungs, and Aeta’s giggles as she played a throwing-sticks game. Inside the dimness of her hut, the furs of her hood fluttered against her cheek with each harsh exhale close to a sob. The stiffness of her knees was distracting, but not enough to cloak the hollowness that dogged her like a ghost.

“Father,” she prayed. “All-Maker, guide me. I know not what we should do.”

She closed her eyes and tears sprung then, like they had been lying in wait. Warm and wet, they rolled down her cheeks like a compassionate hand. The All-Maker’s touch, like that day at the Sun Stone, as if the clouds had parted to shine brightly on her perspiring forehead.

If it had been any other, Frea would have counselled them to look to their faith, reminded them that all things ended eventually. That although her father was dead, his strength lived on in her, in the house he had maintained, the forests he had kept watch over, the people he had loved. The Skaal who were dead had never died so long as their loved ones still drew breath against the harshness of the winter, but when one suffered, they all carried the pain in their breast. They were interconnected, not just because of their way of life, but because of their reverence of the All-Maker, and the great breathing of the world they lived in. A shaman’s duty was to learn to listen to that heartbeat – but it was difficult, so difficult, when hers was wounded.

Still, there was some comfort to be found in the familiar motions of prayer and tending the shrine, and when Frea had cried herself out the weight on her heart had not gone, but it did feel less heavy. The shadows of the snow-foxes dancing in the light of the candles made her smile, genuine, if watery.

She sat up and wiped away the salt crusted on her cheeks, and as she did a silver glinting caught her eye. It was the Dragonborn’s warhammer leaning against the wall, dented and scratched from breaking the skulls of dragons, but still shining fiercely with the foe-slaying enchantments wrought within its steel. Beside the shrine, the warlike artefact radiated a cold kind of violence that felt unfamiliar and icy to Frea’s hands. This was not of the earth of Solstheim, and it had bathed deeply and well in the blood of Laataazin’s enemies. There was a certain weight to an object that had been wielded by a person of great power, to an object that could only be a killing weapon. Edla could not fix her roof with a hammer this large and heavy, and no quick hunter’s kill could be slit with its warped claw, polished with a deadly gleam that spoke of how many eyesockets it had been driven through.

She took it, her spine popping as she stretched, and felt the unfamiliar weight of the mighty hammer strain her shoulders. She remembered that steel shine reflecting the uncanny brown-red of Laataazin’s deep and worn eyes when they had pressed the heavy haft into Frea’s hands and bade Frea use it to protect her people.

“Do not fail,” Frea had said to them, and Laataazin clapped their fist to their chest and promised to return. Frea had trusted them, then, but she did not know what to think when dragons flocked in the sky like carrion crows above Miraak’s temple.

Surely, if Laataazin had returned triumphant, they would have slain the wyrms. It hurt Frea to think of Laataazin avoiding returning to the Skaal, made guilt needle at her heart. She had been curt with them, at the end, her father’s blood still wet on their hands. Perhaps Frea was the reason that the Dragonborn had not returned. Perhaps the warhammer was farewell, as much it was guardian.

Her knees popped as she stood, protesting the extra weight of the warhammer that Frea slung over her back. Frea imagined that her steps were heavier and louder with the Dragonborn’s gift shadowing her shoulder, as Laataazin’s had been, thunderous and world-changing.

Frea could not hunt a dragon alone, and send it scurrying into the sky with a few bone-shattering blows. But Frea could take the Dragonborn’s example and their gift, and use it to protect her people. After all, she was not alone. The whole of the Skaal were with her, and the All-Maker, and her father’s memory.

The sky was dark when she emerged, lit by the flickering sparks of the firelight. The meeting of the Skaal was already in full swing, but all hushed conversation stopped when Frea entered Farani’s hall, eyes drawn to the fearsome warhammer over her shoulder. They were all there, the adults of the village young and old, Frea’s family well-worn and familiar as the grooves generations of feet had polished into the floorboards of Farani’s hall. There was night-bread roasting on the fire, filling the hall with its yeasty scent. Fresh-faced Nikulas, flushed in the fire’s warmth, was nibbling on a spare twizzler of chewy bread. He started guiltily when Frea’s gaze swept across them and met his, as if he feared briefly being sent back to the house with his supper like a naughty child.

They all recognised the warhammer, of course they did. There had been no one like Laataazin Dragonborn on the whole of Solstheim, and though their energy was dark and their path had strayed far from the All-Maker, they had led them to free the Skaal with this very hammer. Yet still, Frea saw surprise and unease on their firelit faces like a wall of stones across the path.

“Frea,” said Farani, “Come, join us.” She made no mention of Frea’s lateness or Laataazin’s warhammer, though her sharp eyes lingered on the shadow it cast over Frea’s cheek. Or perhaps, the still visible smears of redness around her eyes from her grief.

Morwen made space between herself and Baldor, who grunted shortly. He was armed too, with a sword the pommel of which jabbed her ribs when she squeezed in next to him. Frea was jammed between two heavy bodies with her toes pointing towards the fire, yet all her body could muster was a persistent, creeping chill. The warhammer’s weight wanted to bow her spine, and it was an effort to keep her posture straight and commanding under that and the expectant silence of the Skaal both.

“Chief.”

“You have all heard the shaman’s news,” said Farani, looking over them steadily. The beads in her braided hair gleamed dully.

The shadows of the fire darkened the wrinkles on her face, like they were a bas-relief from the rubbings the lowlander scholar Tharstan would take around the old temple ruins, streaky charcoal images of fearsome serpents and writhing wyrms, and the monstrous men that served them. To Tharstan, a wonderful story, to the Skaal, a grim warning. They had always known the Traitor’s trickeries were not yet done. Had not they fended off the gloam-eyed seekers of Herma Mora for generations, ordinary people who had been stolen from themselves, bleeding tell-tale ink over Skaal blade and Skaal wit?

“Dragons,” grunted Deor. Beside him, his wife Yrsa worked quietly on a torn shirt. He held the string and tugged free more when she reached the end of her row. “We have all heard tale of them, by now. Do we call council for every grizzly that ponders the strength of our walls? They are no business of ours, so long as they stay their claws.”

Frea’s heart sank, as a chorus of muttered agreement followed the woodcutter’s words. The Skaal, though uneasy, were a wounded people. They were no more eager to rush into another battle than they were to acknowledge one was happening. She wanted to rail at them – look, look, there are the signs, this is not over! But she could not blame them. Frea did not want to believe it was not over, though her heart knew it, with every grief-slung beat.

“He speaks true,” said Wulf. The scar that bisected his eye seemed to frown in the low light. “There is no wisdom in borrowing trouble we need not. Let the wyrms nest together in the accursed temple. They will move on shortly enough, there is not food enough for them all here.”

“Dragons don’t need to eat,” Frea said softly. Silence when she spoke, and she tried to catch Deor’s eye. He avoided her stare, his lips disappearing under the bush of his beard. Dismayed, she cried, “You cannot seriously think this means nothing at all! The Dragonborn spoke to me of more dragon-lore than any of you, and they do not flock together, not unless someone makes them! Is a dragon a dog, to be turned out when he steals from the table? If we do not act –“

“Frea.” Farani spoke strongly, and Frea flushed as she realised her voice had been growing louder.

“Chief,” said Morwen, glancing at Farani. Farani, suddenly appearing very tired, gestured for her to speak. Morwen addressed the fire, but none struggled to hear her words, intensely as she spoke them. “A sleeping trap is still a trap. Frea’s right. For now, they don’t seem interested in us. You want to bet on that continuing? No – take a party and hunt them. We drive them out, make sure that temple is properly empty.”

“To kill unnecessarily is not our way,” said Wulf, sternly, only belatedly glancing back at Farani for permission to speak. Morwen’s anger was sudden and bright, but she held her tongue at Farani’s gesture. Newcomer to the Skaal she was not any longer, but she took personally still any accusation that she was less a Skaal than any of them.

“I, for one, wouldn’t mind knowing if that foul magic is gone from the temple,” Oslaf muttered. “Are we still in danger of losing our minds to the Stones or what?”

As one, the Skaal looked to Frea. The weight of the warhammer on her back seemed to triple, until Frea had to lean forward onto her elbows to offset it. The bones of her elbows dug into the meat of her thighs painfully; she had lost weight. Her heart was almost as heavy as the hammer when she said, “I have not sensed direct manipulation of the temple or the Tree Stone since…”

She trailed off, a dozen ends to that sentence popping up in her mind. Since this all began, since I watched my father die, since my friend disappeared, since you all started to look to me.

Thankfully, Farani nodded, not needing her to specify. “So, the Traitor’s whispers appear, for now, to have stopped?”

“Here,” said Frea, helplessly. “We can all see that it has. I cannot tell what is happening in the rest of Solstheim. My connection to the land has been … challenged, of late.”

Someone snorted, and Frea white-knuckled her fists, and did not look up. She did not want to see which of her people had laughed at her pain, even as the meaty sound of an elbow jabbing into ribs assured her she was not alone in that grief that made it hard to hear the song of the All-Maker’s peace.

“Wait,” said Tharstan, slowly. Frea was surprised to see the scholar at the council, but she supposed in a question of dragons his collected lore about their history might have been deemed useful. “Direct manipulation? Does that mean …”

“It’s not gone?” Oslaf interrupted, in alarm. “Whatever he did to the Stones-?”

“It’s not,” Frea confirmed. “The energy the efforts of our stolen people raised there is aimless, since the Dragonborn destroyed his direct hold, but it has not yet dispersed back into the ground. I do not know why.”

Farani raised a hand to pre-emptively quell the storm that arose, and when whispers surged irrespective of her gesture she commanded, “Quiet!”

The echoes died loudly against the walls, hushing the Skaal, and proving the aptness of Farani Strong-Voice’s name. In the silence that fell, still as summer-woods, she sighed. “You said you recognised one of the dragons, shaman.”

“Yes,” said Frea. The use of her father’s title – now hers – subdued her. “It served Miraak. I was there when Laataazin drove it off.”

Farani closed her eyes, as if Frea had driven a dagger into her heart. “You suspect the Dragonborn failed.”

That caused a riot of questions and accusations, and through it Frea stared at the chieftain and felt something inside her freeze brittle-sharp. It cracked when she took in her next breath, and each thump of her heart felt as if it bounded against a thorny cage of icicles lodged in the muscle. Her hands shook when she clasped them in her lap.

Frea had not suspected, not truly, but now in Farani’s voice it seemed so much more real a possibility. But the Dragonborn – dead, and Miraak freed? No god would let that come to pass, Frea knew that. And if the Traitor had survived, the temple would not be quiet. The end would come upon them as swift as dragon’s wing.

“I do not know that,” Frea said quietly, but no one was listening.

“-go to the temple and find the fetchers,” Morwen was saying loudly, to the enthusiastic agreement of Oslaf, much to the irritation of Wulf, whose cheeks had bloomed a choleric red.

Finna, sat across from Frea in the circle, tossed the contents of her tankard onto the fire. It exploded in a fountain of sparks, and the rich reek of Skaal mead billowed up in the smoke.

“For the love of the All-Maker,” she snapped across the din, “You will wake the children with all this noise.”

“Settle, hear me speak,” said Farani, and the Skaal turned to their chieftain for her verdict.

“I agree that the time is not right to provoke the beasts by attacking the temple,” she said, and when Morwen opened her mouth angrily she continued, with a sharp look, “But nor do I conscience doing nothing. It concerns me that we know not what happened to the foe’s work upon the rest of the Stones. I would ask of you to go from the village and find the answers that elude us here.”

“I will go,” Frea said immediately. “I have been travelled the land most recently, and I am best suited to know if something remains amiss with the All-Stones.”

Farani inclined her head, but before she could speak, Baldor broke in. “Forgive me, chief,” he said, in his gruff voice like the creak of his own forge from disuse. He had been quieter, ever since his capture and subsequent escape from the sun-elves in their black and gold, and he had never been a garrulous man to begin with. “But you hold our wisdom, lass. If you don’t come back…”

“We can’t lose you!” Yrsa gasped, and her hand dropped swiftly to her belly with a clack of her needles.

“You will need to defend the village,” Frea met her eyes, reassuringly. “In case the dragons do attack.”

“Aye,” sighed Farani. With the formation of a plan beginning, the Skaal began to relax, and the tense atmosphere was slowly dissipating. Morwen grumpily tore off some of the roasting nightbread and stuffed it in her mouth. Inadvertently, Frea’s stomach clenched at the warm, homely smell. She had not eaten. “But that does not mean you should go alone, shaman.”

“Um.” It was Nikulas. He looked mortified at the attention of the chief, but though he fidgeted he spoke clearly, as a Skaal should. “I’ll go with her.”

“You’re a child,” said Edla, dismissively, and Nikulas blushed.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” he demanded, “And I can fight. I’m fast. Faster than any of you.”

“That much is true,” said Wulf, with a belly-laugh that made his shoulders shake. “Lad has the step of a hare.”

“And the shot of one,” added Morwen, to the warm amusement of the gathering.

“He may go,” said Farani, acknowledging Nikulas’ surprised thanks with a smile, then to Frea, “Well?”

“We will take supplies for two weeks’ travel,” she said, “If we are not returned by then…”

“Aye,” said Farani Strong-Voice. “All-Maker be with you both.”

---

Morning found Frea on the road as promised. Her pack was full, her armour donned, and her eyes tired, glazed from another sleepless night in her empty house. Her father’s dust-gathering bed haunted her with its silence, and she almost looked forward to unrolling the bedroll tucked tightly next to the threatening spire of Laataazin’s warhammer over the snowfields that wound their way like a great white skirt around the lower flanks of the mountains that night.

Nikulas trotted along behind her, far too eager for the morning’s earliness and the grimness of their quest. He veritably bounced along on the safe path to the Tree Stone, and Frea could feel his excited energy like a geyser’s spin behind her back. Thankfully, he knew to keep quiet as they skirted the Tree Stone with a wide berth, creeping low to the ground like thieves in case the dragons were about. Frea saw no shapes in the sky, but not three meters from the Stone they found a fallen tree.

It had been shredded as if by vast claws larger than Frea’s entire body, and each cut was clean as if a hot knife through butter. The bark was charred, and when Frea laid a hand on it, it was disturbingly warm. Recent, but the dragon who had done it had been quiet enough that no sentries had spotted it. Or long-burning, perhaps. Worst of all, one end of the tree looked as if it had been gnawed by mighty teeth – and was covered in peeling, vinegary splatters that Frea did not have to examine to know were ink. Herma-Mora’s poison in dragon jaws. That was no good sign.

She and Nikulas exchanged a look over the smoking tree. He had paled under his hood, and for a moment, Frea considered sending him back to the village. But she had no hope of changing Farani’s mind without word from the other Stones, and though he was clearly alarmed, he was too young and stubborn to go without a fight this close to home.

Against her better judgement, they pressed on, and made good time away from the temple of Miraak and the creatures that hid in its dark depths. They were climbing down one of the cliff paths that wound like snakes round the sheer mountainsides when he spoke up.

Frea was concentrating on where she was going, not wanting to fall in front of Nikulas, who, in the fashion of youth, was quick as a squirrel over the icy rocks. It had been some time since she had taken this path herself – it was faster, but it tested the nimbleness of even the most sure-footed of the Skaal. There was no way that she could have taken the Dragonborn, with their dizzying seizures and lowlander’s stride, down this path for Skaal mountain-bred.

“What were they like?” he asked her, and surprised, Frea overbalanced. She grunted, and planted her feet to keep from stumbling down the ragged path. A pebble rolled free and bounced down the rock face, and she grimaced at each dull thud and crack it made on its way down.

“Who?” she asked, though she already knew.

“The Dragonborn,” Nikulas clarified, impatiently.

Frea exhaled slowly and carefully edged her way round a protruding lump of ice. “A soldier,” she said, eventually, weighing the words in her mind, “with a great burden. Skaal-friend, perhaps, but no Skaal.”

Nikulas absorbed this, hopping lightly after Frea. A spray of gravel from his passage drummed against her boots.

“Do you think they’re coming back to help us again?” he said. When Frea remained quiet, he added in a boisterous tone she wasn’t sure which of them was meant to reassure, “We don’t need them, anyway.”

Frea said nothing. At her continued silence, Nikulas wilted. They didn’t speak again for a long time.

Their pace was steady though, and Nikulas was a helpful travel companion, pointing out quicker paths and steadier routes. He had a hunter’s eye, too, twice Frea saw his hand start to his bow before some creature she had not yet spotted bounded across their path. He spotted the figure first, too, as they made their way through the snowfields, thick with tumbled rocks and jagged sculptures of ice.

“Shaman,” he said, and touched her elbow. “Do you see…?”

He pointed, and Frea followed his gaze to see a dim outline, vaguely person-shaped, weaving drunkenly about on the path ahead.

“Hello?” Frea called, but there was no response. She frowned, thinking of how hypothermia could take a mind’s reasoning.

The figure lurched closer, and as it parted the thick mist her heartrate picked up. She knew these, had faced them before with the Dragonborn at her back. It moved oddly, like it was like clay instead of a person. It bent in the wrong places, too fluidly for a creature with human joints. What might have been flesh once was pushed up and shoved in random places, mounded as if it had been cast from a collapsed corpse and then got up from the floor that had cushioned it.

Its grey mouth opened and closed like a gasping fish caught in a paroxysm of once-life, and it hugged itself like a crying child. Ash flaked from it like shedding skin, so it left a little trail as it came towards them.

“What … is that?” Nikulas breathed, appalled.

He sounded sick. She didn’t blame him. The wretched creature made her nerves jangle, like breathing in poison-dust, and sweat spring out on her forehead. It was unnatural, tortured, undead. Frea grabbed for the Dragonborn’s warhammer. She was almost too revolted by it to pity it, but there was something in the way it began to reach for them, its clumpy fists wavering as a newborn’s, that cut her as much as it horrified her.

I’m sorry, she thought, all I can to is put you out of your misery.

“Ash-spawn,” she said. “Don’t let it hit you, they’re strong.”

It stumbled towards them, unsteadily, its eyeless head bored with two blank dark holes that had no tear ducts with which to weep. There was a red stone embedded in its chest, she could see its muted glow through the layers of ash and grime that made up its twisted body. It pulsed, like a heartbeat, but far too slowly.

She heard Nikulas rattle an arrow from his quiver. From the sound, she guessed his hands were shaking.

“We must put it down,” said Frea, remembering how Laataazin had tried for several hours to pacify one of the ‘spawn. It never worked for long. They were as relentless as waves on the shore. “Do it cleanly.”

“Aye,” gulped Nikulas.

Frea readied the warhammer, widening her stance to adjust to the weight of the cumbersome weapon. She had, just in case, her hand-axe tucked into her belt, but it felt right to use the gift Laataazin had left her. The hand-axe had always been helpful for scaling the sheer ice-cliffs, but Laataazin’s warhammer was that: a war weapon. Just the sight of it had made enemies quail in Laataazin’s powerful hands, in Frea’s, she hoped only that it might help her avoid a needless fight.

Nikulas nocked, drew, aimed – and missed. The arrow clattered off a rock, and Frea heard Nikulas swear, but the ash-spawn was on them.

Laataazin’s warhammer was easier to swing now, as if it hungered for violence. Frea howled as she brought it over her head and crunched it down onto the ash-spawn’s shoulder. The ashy shell shattered inwards. Dust exploded, and Frea coughed as her eyes were stung with the bitter smoke that billowed from the ‘spawn’s wound. This close though, with a hammer like this, she didn’t need to be able to see to score a hit. Frea’s muscles burned as she swung the hammer back for another go, feeling her grin distorting her face as the lethal weight cannoned through the air. But before her swing could connect, Nikulas fumbled with his bow and shot again.

This time, his aim was perfect.

An arrow sprouted from the side of the ash-spawn’s face, and with a dusty groan it collapsed in on itself. With nothing to stop her momentum, Frea stumbled into the ashy remnants, accidentally kicking the strange stone that had been embedded in its chest far into the snow. She rolled her shoulders and slung the hammer back over her shoulder.

“Good shot,” said Frea, electing not to mention the first one.

Nikulas grinned; she could see his pride in his puffed chest. “Thanks.”

“I have not seen one this far north before,” she said, “Normally, they haunt the coast by the wizard’s tower, far away.”

“They are not common then?” Nikulas asked with bald relief, and Frea smiled.

“Not to my knowing, no.”

“Thank the All-Maker!”

Frea broke and chuckled. The sound was weak and strained, as if some part of Frea had forgotten how to make it at all, and died almost as quick as it came. But Nikulas beamed, and when they started walking again, the silence felt a little more companionable than before.

Raven Rock’s walls were visible through the drifting ashfall when they stopped for the night in a small Skaal-camp normally used for trading. Nikulas erected their tent in a rocky lee while Frea laid wards that would sing to her through the earth if any would pass into their little sanctuary. They lit no fire that night, warmed well by their exertion, and dined on snow melted in Frea’s fire-cupping palms and good food brought from the village. Nikulas spoke a little, but when Frea did not respond to his overtures he lapsed into thoughtful contemplation of the sky.

It was a mild night, the stars covered by soft clouds of ash that dusted down slowly. Hazy outlines of the double moons pierced the blanket of the warm, muted darkness that passed as night below the mountains.

“Soon,” he said to her, as she unbuckled her armour, “I will be the furthest from home I have ever been.”

Frea looked at him, the uncertainty in his brave, excited smile, and didn’t have the heart to tell him it did not grow any easier.

They jostled together in the single tent. Nikulas fit well in the circle of her arms, his scruffy hair tickling her nose when she breathed. He smelled of sweat and lye-soap and home. Frea closed her eyes and felt his warmth like a bittersweet balm. The tears were swift and silent, and she cried in gasping breaths for her empty house and her dead father, and the many Skaal who would never feel the warmth of a kinsman’s embrace again. Though Nikulas said nothing, he cautiously tightened his arm around her, and that was enough.

That night they slept curled together like pups, and for the first time in weeks, Frea’s rest was deep and dreamless.

#my fic waking dreams: master of fate #frea #nikulas #skaal #skyrim #tes #inkwrites

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obihoekenobi · 3 years

Text

title: sandstorm

pairings: din djarin/reader/cobb vanth

ratings: explicit

warnings: smut, threesome, unprotected sex

word count: 4,311k

What happens when a sandstorm, a Marshal and a Mandalorian turn up on your doorstep?

An afternoon to remember.

Link to AO3

You think it's a mirage at first, as you look out towards the horizon.

You straighten up from the ground, shielding your eyes against the twin sun's, as you try to make out the blurred figures.

Your Bantha, Mirta, snuffs against your arm as if to remind you she's still there. You place a hand on her in comfort, as you try to figure out if you're seeing things. You don't get many visitors out this way. The closest town was Mos Pelgo and those folk didn't often have reason to venture out from the haven their small town provided. If it could even be called that, between the Tusken raiders and the Krayt dragon.

Mirta stirs restlessly beside you, as you become aware of the wind picking up around you. Another day, another kriffin' sandstorm.

As you cast another look out, you realize the figures accelerating towards you are on speeders, dust kicking up behind them as they try to escape the coming storm.

With a sigh, you wipe your hands with the towel that hangs from your waist. You cast one last glance at your fast approaching guests, as you herd Mirta inside.

She was the runt of the litter, and just small enough to fit through the wide door into your storage room. You pull the tarp down to protect from the worst of it, as you fondly watch her settle down in some discarded blankets. You both knew it was a pretense at this point, pretending she should sleep outside. More often than not, she ended up in here.

"Behave", you say, pointing a finger at her in warning. You don't have to see her eyes through the thick fur, to know she's staring balefully at you.

You're interrupted from the staring contest, at the sound of speeders drawing to a stand outside.

Pulling your goggles down from where they rest on your forehead, and wrapping your shawl back around your head, you peel away the tarp and step back out into the elements.

Sand buffets against your exposed skin, as you try to take in the two men. Even after years of experience, you still flinch as sand rolls over you and streaks across the protective transparisteel of your goggles.

Wasting no time, you gesture the men after you, as you enter the sanctuary of your home.

You do your best to shake the excess sand off, as you wait from them in the entry way. You can't help but shake your head as you recognize who it is.

The marshal of Mos Pelgo, Cobb Vanth.

You wonder what he was thinking now, as he ducked inside your home. He always did warn you about the dangers of living alone, and here you were welcoming him and his friend into your home without a second thought.

Speaking of his friend, you send him an assessing look, as he steps in hesitantly after his companion and closes the door behind him, the noise from the storm cutting off with a shrill whistle until it sounds distant and muted. You don't see many Mandalorian out this way. You don't see many people, period.

"Much obliged, ma'am", Cobb says, easing his own goggles up over his head and shaking free the sand like a Mastiff pup. He shoots you a disarming grin, somehow managing to look dashing with his skin covered in a film of dirt.

You just barely stop yourself from rolling your eyes.

"Don't make me regret it", you say dryly, as you begin to divest yourself of your gear.

Cobb joins you in stacking his outerwear in a nearby cubby, but not before shooting a look at his friend. You file it away for later, as you watch the Mandalorian shift nervously on your doorstep.

"You don't have to take anything off, but I don't want you tracking sand inside", you say, shooting a mournful look around the already messy hallway, "you can clean up in privacy, if you go in through the door on the left".

It was a washroom, if it could even called that. It had a mirror, a stool and a sonic that didn't worked more often than not. Still, it should let him clean up without any prying eyes, if that was his problem.

When Cobb sends you a grateful look, you know you're right. You both watch the other man disappear through the door.

"He's the shy type", he whispers, jokingly, as he empties the sand from his boots. He knows the house rules after all.

"Not unlike yourself", you say, unable to contain the quip. He treats you to another blinding grin, and you're glad your face is still covered, as you feel it heat up in response.

"You know what I'm like", he says, falling into the familiar banter, "always a man of few words".

"I don't think I can keep this joke up much longer", you reply, finally unwinding the shawl from around your face, winching as become aware of the sand still clinging to your skin. You use the fabric to wipe away the excess, as you eye the other up and down.

"What happened to your armour?", you ask, as you finally realize why he looks so different. You didn't notice it at first, distracted by the blood red scarf he had used to cover his upper half. He looks strange without it, vulnerable somehow.

"It was returned to it's rightful owner", he replies easily, in that way you find so infuriating. It's like nothing bothers him.

You're interrupted before you can say anything, by the re-emergence of your other guest. You can't help but envy him, as you realise he looks no worse for wear.

"Well, come on in", you say, for lack of anything better.

They follow you down the narrow hall into the main room. Both have to duck through the door, to fit inside. You busy yourself with preparing dinner, as you let them get their bearings.

You've taken it in a million times now. From the bare walls to the rounded ceiling, the room was filled with all the necessities for life in the desert. The kitchen was where you retreated to, as you listened to the men seat themselves at your table.

"What brought you out this far?", you ask, as you rifle through your cupboards. Usually you settled for a small, simple meal, a mixture of things you had farmed yourself or traded for when you made your monthly trip to Mos Eisley.

"Well, my friend here, he insisted we had to visit, after I described the vision of the wastes".

You shoot him a look over your shoulder, this time you don't bother to hide the eye roll.

"Tap the table twice if you're being kept against your will, Mandalorian".

He makes a rasping sound from beneath his helmet in response, like a laugh that's been cut off too soon. You notice the way the Marshal's eyes flicker towards him, both of you cataloging the sound.

"Are you kidding, this guy can't get enough of me", Cobb replied, "he came all the way back to this rock to visit lil ol' me".

"I find that hard to believe", you say, as you carry a tray of simple food over. It's mishmash of dried meats and pickled vegetables, with Mirta's milk as the crowning feature.

You listen to Cobb as he recounts how the two met, nodding along where appropriate. The Mandalorian mostly let's the other man speak, though he does interrupt once or twice to curb his enthusiastic retelling. By the end you're aware your mouth is open, but you can't hide your shock.

"You were inside the Krayt dragon?", you repeat, turning to stare at the armoured man. His hand rubs almost self consciously along the back of his neck, but he doesn't outright deny it.

"I never even noticed anything had happened", you continue dumbly, "I've been so busy these past few weeks with Mirta".

"How is the old gal?", Cobb asks, and you smile in response to the genuine warmth you can hear in his voice. The Bantha had taken an instant liking to the lanky Marshal, which was part of why you had even let him into your house, after greeting the stranger loitering outside with your hunting rifle.

"Much better now but I worry about her you know", you reply, rolling your empty glass between your hands, "they're herd animals, Banthas".

"I'm sure she's just fine, you treat her like a princess after all", Cobb replies, as he rests a hand on your arm in comfort. Your eyes drop to the contact, his grip hot like a brand against your skin.

"Yeah, well, she is the head of the house", you reply, weakly. It's been a long time since another being has touched you, and feel your stomach swoop as he removes his hand.

The Mandalorian saves you from any embarrassment, by continuing to speak.

"You don't get any trouble?", he asks, and you feel your lips twitch into a smile. You can tell he's honourable, just like Cobb, already worried about your safety. There was no doubt in your mind, he would ride out into the sandstorm to slay whatever foe you could come up with. Two honourable men at your table, what were the odds.

"Don't get much of anything", you reply, truthfully.

"What about the Tuskens?".

"She's a Tusken whisperer, just like you Mando", Cobb said, interrupting before you could reply, "they respect her because of the Bantha".

The Mandalorian, Mando, dips his head towards you and it takes you a moment to realise he wants you to explain.

"My Bantha, Mirta, she's the runt of the litter. Banthas, they're a matriarchy, and when she fell behind her herd, they left her. I found her out there in the desert and nursed her back to health. The Tuskens caught wind of it and apparently it was enough to win their respect. They bond for life with the younglings, so they liked that I managed to keep her alive".

"So they leave you in peace", he supplied.

"Yeah, and Tuskens raids are about the only thing I have to worry about out here, not that I have anything worth stealing anyway".

You feel guilty, as you realize that only you and Cobb have been eating, picking away at the spread before you.

"Now, I don't know if you'll take that helmet off with your friend here, but I'm going to the fresher and if you want you can either eat in here or you can go through that door over there to eat in the storage closet. It's a tight fit but it's private".

You don't linger, though you can feel Cobb's heavy gaze on you until you disappear from his sight. You can't help but remember the last time he was here, how you stayed up all night, drinking and talking before you eventually stumbled to bed. It wasn't the first time you had slept with him, and it probably wouldn't be the last. You were sure he might have joined you in the sonic, if it wasn't for his stoic companion.

You can't help but compare the looks he had shared with you, with how he looked at the Mandalorian. You let your mind conjure the image, as you strip off your clothes. Cobb would act first, you decide as you step into the sonic. You can imagine him coaxing the other closer, voice dipping low in that way that had sent shivers up your spine when you first heard it. Still would now, if you were being honest with yourself.

After a moment of indecision, you switch the setting over so that water flows from the showerhead. You don't indulge too often, so you can't help but sigh as the cool water runs over your head.

You don't wish the Mandalorian wasn't there, couldn't grudge the company or the bright spot in your otherwise dull routine, but you can't help but wish it could be different. Out here, you were caught in a lonely world of your own creation, and very few things could break the the monotony.

After indulging for as long as you can, you switch the shower off. You shiver as you step out onto the cool stone, letting out a huff of amusement as you realize you forgot to bring in a change of clothes. You weren't used to company after all.

You do your best to dry off, and wrap the towel securely around yourself. Knowing you'll be embarrassed if you think about it for too long, you knock lightly against the bathroom door to announce your intentions.

When you hear no response, you peer back into the main room. You're surprised to find the Mandalorian alone, sitting picturesque at your kitchen table.

You don't have to see his face, to see the surprise written across his frame as he freezes at your appearance.

"I'm sorry, I've forgotten my manners it seems", you say, gesturing down at your lack of attire, "I don't get many guests".

He stands from his seat and for a moment you think he's going to leave, horrified by the show of skin. But then, he steps closer to you. You can see the question, as he raises his palm up slowly towards you. You find yourself nodding, even as you clench your fists at the top of towel that protects you from his gaze.

You quickly find yourself reassessing your previous assumptions, as he shifts forward with a confident ease. You swallow dryly, as his gloved hand closes around your neck. It should be frightening, having this stranger touch you, but the weight is comforting and grounding and you feel yourself quietly exhale as his thumbs digs in under your chin.

You take a moment to assimilate to each other, as he steps even closer. He's a contradiction of warm gloves and cold armour. He doesn't demand your attention, and yet he manages to block out everything around you. It's probably why you don't hear Cobb, until he clears his throat from the entry way.

"I can't leave you two alone for a minute, can I?", he asks, and you're relieved to see he doesn't appear to be angry. Instead, he seems intrigued. You can't make out who he's really looking at, as his eyes track over you both. You preen slightly under the attention, pressing closer to Mando in what you hope is a compelling image.

The Mandalorian doesn't seem perturbed by the audience, the opposite infact. He seems focused on the task, as gloved fingertips slide between the width of your shoulder blades, sweeping up the droplets of water that were making a path down your back.

"Hope I'm not intruding?", Cobb asks, as he meanders over. He waits for you to look at him properly, before he approaches you, so that you're flanked on either side. His hand tugs at the top of your towel, and you let him unravel it to the point where it hits the ground with a wet thump.

Their attention is heady, as you listen to both of their breath stutter out in sync. The Mandalorian's hand falls down to palm your breast, as Cobb presses the long line of his body up against your back. It's too much and not enough all at once, as your fingers search for somewhere to shelter under Mando's armoured front.

Cobb seizes on your distraction to leave a trail of hot kisses up the arch of your neck, hands settling firmly on your waist. You fall apart between the two of them, like a wave crashing against the rocks. If it wasn't for their tight grip, you weren't sure you would have been able to keep steady.

"I'm feeling a little underdressed", you gasp, purposely directing the words over your shoulder to Cobb. You see a flash of white teeth from the corner of your eyes. You lean into Mando, as you both watch him peel his shirt off over his head. His torso is just as lean as you remember, and you lick your lips as you watch the play of muscles across his stomach.

"Keep going". This time it's the Mandalorian, and you stiffen slightly in surprise as the words rasp past your shoulder. The two seemed locked in a silent staring contest, as his arm snakes around your waist, pulling you firmly against his chest. It should be uncomfortable, but the armour is almost soothing against your feverish skin.

Whatever Cobb sees, he continues to undress. You watch with apt fascination, as he deftly unlaces the strings of his pants and let's them pool down his legs. The confident grin is back on his face, as he cheekily kicks his boots off, discarding his pants along with them.

He stands before you both, seemingly at ease with his nudity. You can't help but grin in response, as you squeeze the Mandalorian's arm where it rests around your hips. "What do you think, Mandalorian?".

"I think he's good at following orders, but what about you?".

"I think he did a pretty decent job".

You gasp in surprise as you're suddenly spun around, hands scrambling to grasp his shoulders as his helmet looms into your vision. "I mean, how good are you at following orders?".

"I don't know", you reply, hearing how breathless you sound but not caring the slightest, "I think you'll have to test it out".

"With pleasure", he purrs.

And then he steps away. You lurch half a step forward after him, but quickly stop when he tilts his helmet consideringly at you. You let your hand fall uselessly to your side, as you watch him sit on the edge of your bed. He kicks one ankle over the other, and leans back on hands as he surveys at you both. You notice Cobb makes no move to creep closer to you, both frozen under the Mandalorian's intense gaze.

"I want you to suck him off and I want to watch".

You nod eagerly in return, as you turn towards the Marshal. Cobb looks surprised as he glances at you but he allows you to grasp his hand and pull him closer. The ground is cold and rough underneath your knees, as you let yourself sink down in front of him. It's a heady feeling, as you run your hands up the length of his thighs, feeling the muscles tense and jump under your gentle touch. Cobb stares down at you reverently, but a filthy grin spreads across his face as your eyes lock again.

You don't bother teasing him, as you grasp him in your hand. The skin is velvet soft and already hard beneath your fingers, as you trail your grip across the length of him. Wasting no time, you take him into your mouth. You're gratified when Cobb drops a hand to steady himself on your shoulder, clenching in time with each bob of your head. You take him as far as you can, squeezing your eyes shut as he hits the back of our throat.

You pull off with a choke, taking him back into your hand as you try to catch your breath. You catch his eyes again, both grinning in tandem. Keeping your eyes locked on his, you bend down to mouth at his balls, muffing laughter as at hand on your shoulder flies up to cup the back of your head. Looks like he still likes that, you thought smugly.

You had almost forgotten about your advance, but the subtle shift of metal draws your attention away again.

The Mandalorian looks unperturbed and untouchable as before, except you can see controlled rise and fall of his chest. Deciding to see how far you can push him, you slide Cobb into the back of your throat, keeping your eyes locked on his impenetrable visor. You can't help but note the way his fists clench against your bedspread with a smug satisfaction. Looks like he wasn't as cool as he wanted to portray.

It also looks he wasn't the only one, as you feel Cobb's hand clench in your hair. His teeth are clenched in his bottom lip, and you can tell he's trying hard not to thrust into the heat of your mouth. You realize suddenly, that's he on his best behaviour and not just for you either.

"Want him to finish in my mouth?", you ask breathlessly, glancing between the two.

The Mandalorian takes a moment to reply, and his voice sounds rougher when he finally does speak. "Both of you, get onto the bed".

You scramble to obey him, as you climb up after the Mandalorian. You feel like a hunter trailing after it's prey, as he settles against the head of your bed and you crawl after him. Cobb isn't far behind you, though he doesn't make a show of it the way you do.

The Mandalorian has planted himself in the centre of your bed, and after a moment of hesitation, both you and Cobb settle on either side of him. You paw restlessly at his thigh, and you notice Cobb wants to do the same, if the fists clenched by his own thigh are anything to go by.

"You want him to fuck you?", Mando asks, jerking his head towards the Marshal. You're not sure who's gasp is loudest, as the Mandalorian's ungloved hand grasps Cobb's cock and gives it a sure stroke. You have to stop yourself from jumping the two, as you watch Cobb cling to the others arm, forehead falling to rest against his pauldron.

"How do you want me?", you ask, too excited by the possibilities that flash through your mind.

"Hands and knees in front of me".

You scramble to obey, setting your hands on either side of his spread thighs to steady yourself. The Mandalorian seems reluctant to let go of the other man, but eventually he lets up his grip and gestures the other man behind you.

You're practically panting, as you wait for Cobb to enter you. Your hands are tense around the Mandalorian's knees, as you feel him brush teasingly along the length of you. You have to bite your lip, to stop yourself from begging as you look at the Mandalorian in front of you.

You can feel the plea forming, but it quickly falls away as Cobb thrusts inside of you in one quick stroke. Your head falls into Mando's lap, as the Marshal starts to thrust into you, fingers digging into the sensitive skin on your hips. You bite the meat of your arm, to stop the nonsense pouring from your lips. Your eyes well up at the dual sensations.

You're startled when the Mandalorian cups your cheek, and raises your head to meet his gaze. He gently brushes the wet strands of hair from your tear stricken face, as his thumb brushes over your bottom lip. Your tongue flickers out in response, as your mouth wraps around the appendage. His grip tightens to just the right side of painful for a moment before he releases you and starts to unclasp the belts around his waist.

Your hands scrabble to help him, though your clumsy fingers are probably more of a deterrent than anything else. He's barely finished releasing himself from the confines of his flight suit, before you bury him into the back of your mouth. Both of his hands fall to grip your hair, as he curls around you with a curse that resounds inside his helmet.

You slide back and forth with each thrust of Cobb's hips, keeping your mouth slack on the Mandalorian's cock. You sneak your fingers under the edge of his clothes, digging your thumbs into the warm skin under his hip bones, and he lets you as his helmet tips back against the head of your bed.

"Kriffin' hell", Cobb moans, as he ruts into you with increasingly sloppier thrusts. It's maddening and the best thing you've ever felt, as you they fill you from both ends. You don't know how you've managed so long without this.

You can feel the moment Cobb tips over the edge, as he goes to pull away. You throw a blind hand back to grasp his wrist as you chase your own release, seating his cock back inside you. It's the only encouragement he needs, as his grip on your hips becomes ironclad, and he grinds himself inside of you. You both come apart together.

The sight of you both coming seems to do it for the Mandalorian, as he freezes above you, hands tightening against the back of your skull. You take him as far into the back of your throat as you can, as he fills your willing mouth.

You hold him through the after tremors, pulling off with a last suck as you swallow all of his seed.

The moment Cobb pulls out, you collapse onto the bed like a puppet without strings. You have barely enough energy to wrap your hands around the Mandalorian's waist, as you bury your face into the crux of his thigh. You huff out a laugh, as you feel Cobb slap your thigh companionably, as he collapses in parallel beside you.

A comfortable silence descends over all three of you, as you try to catch your breath. You can't help but purr as a hand settles into your hair again, blunt nails digging smoothly into your scalp. One eye peered open allows you to see it's the Mandalorian's hand, and that Cobb is receiving a similar treatment beside you.

You wonder if you could convince them to fuck, during the next round. It was a challenge you were up for you decided, as you snuggled further into your new armoured companion. But later on.

#din djarin/reader/cobb vanth #din/reader #cobb/reader #din/cobb #din djarin/reader #cobb vanth/reader #emwrites #star wars fic #am i embarrassed? yes

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fangmaw · 3 years

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misc vampire bf scene #2

"That's it. We're going to the farm."

Hex lifted his head from the arm of the couch to frown at Caleb, currently standing two feet in front of him, arms crossed.

"You heard me. Get your vampire ass off the couch and grab your coat." He jangled his keys and watched Hex bury his face in a throw pillow with a groan.

"Don't wanna."

Caleb softened, but stood his ground. "You've barely moved the past three days. Last time you fed off me, I practically had to drag you away."

Hex tilted his head enough to make eye contact and regarded him for several seconds before he spoke. "I'm sorry, Caleb. I didn't mean to hurt you." His voice wavered slightly as he turned away again.

"No, I didn't mean-" Caleb fumbled as he stepped up to the couch and knelt alongside his boyfriend. He slid an arm over his chest and pressed his own torso to the man's back, enveloping him. "I'm fine. I know you'd never hurt me." He felt Hex murmur in agreement. "I brought it up because it illustrates my point— you're getting hungrier."

Hex sighed and held Caleb's outstretched arm to his chest before leaning down to place a kiss on the back of his hand. "Still don't wanna."

"Well, I can't bring a sheep into the apartment without someone noticing, so it looks like we have a dilemma." At that, Hex made an effort to roll over, and Caleb quickly hopped back to his feet.

"How do you know your aunt won't care?"

Satisfied that he'd won, at least for now, Caleb turned to hunt down a warmer jacket as he replied, "It's a massive farm. Ranch? Not important. What matters is that I know where it is, I have keys to most of the gates and outbuildings, and there's enough livestock that a couple heads can be chalked up to animal attacks without ruining anyone's livelihood."

He disappeared into the bedroom and soon returned, bearing his own fleece-lined windbreaker and a sweater for Hex. As he shrugged into the teal behemoth, he watched Hex rise and stretch his back. His face looked drawn, and the skin above his collar more taut. Before Caleb had a chance to pity him, the ghoul saw that he had returned and grinned, exposing dual rows of jagged teeth. Hex thanked him and tugged the garment on over his head.

The turtleneck hid his collar from view; unfortunate, but Caleb still had the satisfaction of knowing it was there. Since Hex didn't leave the house much, Caleb had chosen something a bit more obvious than he would have otherwise - a lovely strip of black leather, fashioned into a choker as clasped with a petite silver lock. Hex was delighted to receive it —though not surprised, as after Caleb mentioned the idea, he had to measure Hex's neck to get it fitted, and at that point the gig was well and truly up. He wore it with pride nearly every day, and frequently Caleb caught him admiring how it looked in the mirror, or absently reaching up to touch it.

Looking at the collar always stirred that needless protective instinct in his head. Hex was more than capable of destroying any possible bodily threat that came his or Caleb's way, but seeing the clear mark around his neck, bold and unabashed, he felt that responsibility anew. He wanted to care for what was his.

Idly, he wondered if Hex felt something of the same for him. They'd never explicitly talked about it before, but Hex was always so tender with him after a bite, even just a nibble. Caleb was hesitant to broach the subject. He knew Hex struggled with reconciling biological necessity with kink, but it probably wouldn't hurt to ask. Eventually. Right now, they had other priorities, and they'd all be happier and more relaxed if Hex was fed properly first.

Hex was still a bit tense in the car. The Minnesota back roads were treacherous this time of year, and it was pitch dark beyond the headlights, so Caleb was focused mostly on the asphalt ahead of them. Even so, the restlessness of his passenger was hard to miss.

Out of the corner of his eye, Caleb caught him chewing at one of his claws and swatted in roughly the right direction.

"Quit that."

"You're not my mom," mumbled Hex. He did stop gnawing at the nail, though.

"No, I'm your chauffeur."

"Should've found a different driver. I always forget how small your car is." Though he couldn't see Hex's expression, Caleb could hear the smile on his voice.

Caleb chuckled a bit, and the pair fell into a silence. Caleb took it upon himself to slay the elephant in the room.

"Are you nervous because it's live animals?"

Hex didn't reply for a moment, so Caleb chanced a glance at his face. He was looking down at his hands, toying with a loose stitch at the hem of his sweater.

"I guess."

Caleb kept watching the road. They were less than twenty minutes out at this point, plus some time to find a good parking spot. He heard Hex sigh.

"It's been a really long time since I was feeding off animals regularly. I'm not sure- what if- it was different before. I was different." Hex breathed heavily. "Does that make any sense?"

With a nod, Caleb replied, "I think so. What if you think of it this way: you're always on my ass about eating something and drinking plenty of water after you have a treat; this can just be me getting payback. You don't even have a choice. I want you strong and healthy, so you'd better do as I say, or else." With a smirk, he flicked his eyes back to his partner, who was considerably more relaxed and currently mid-eyeroll.

"I hate how much that works on me."

"My psychic powers are unparalleled. And we're getting close. You had better start planning out your menu."

Turns out, cows have a lot of blood. Like, well over a gallon. Not that Hex seemed to mind.

The ghoul had whined about the cold the entire time they spent sneaking around the pasture, but now he was on his knees in the muddy snow, hunched over a limp heifer that quit kicking a good five minutes ago.

Caleb was nervously checking his phone, both for time and in case he got some last minute text from his aunt that she was coming back tonight. They were beyond the reach of the sparse lightposts framing the pasture, so even if there was someone nearby, they were as good as invisible. By the light of his phone's lock screen, Caleb could get a better view of Hex.

It was fascinating to watch. His face was magnetically pressed to the soft skin under the animal's jaw, while his hands roamed aimlessly about the body. Occasionally he would take a deep pull, struggling against the dying heart, and dig his claws into the nearby flesh, reflexively. Caleb bent lower, close enough he could see Hex's jaw work as he adjusted his grip, nosing along the stretch of muscle and making a fresh wound.

Though Caleb was tempted to place a hand on his back, he thought better of it and maintained his distance. He knew enough about animal behavior not to disrupt a predator while it was feeding. Even domestic dogs bite when they're approached incorrectly.

Caleb settled for taking a squat on the opposite side of the cow, a good few feet away, but close enough that his pathetic light permitted him vision. For a handful of further minutes, the only sounds were muffled breaths against wet fur and the crunch of Caleb's boots as he shifted his weight.

It took him a second to realize Hex had gone still.

"Hey." He would never use the word "feral" to describe Hex to his face. It was good that he was able to relax so much, especially with Caleb around, but it was always wise to test the waters after something intense like this.

"Mmph." Hex's face still hung limp off his shoulders, pressed to the animal's neck.

Caleb smirked. "You good?" Dork.

"Mm. Good cow."

With a short laugh Caleb got up. "I'm coming over, okay?" He could just discern the outline of Hex nodding against his expired dinner. Caleb surprised himself by throwing caution to the wind and kneeling in the slush. He lit up his screen and balanced the device on the massive shoulder to his left. The greenish glow let him locate Hex's hand and cover it with his mittened own. "Well, I'm glad you liked it. I'm impressed by your capacity."

Hex finally sat up, just enough to brace his forearms on the beast's back and allow Caleb a full view of the gorey mess. The animal's neck looked as though it had been run through with a garden rake, the flesh thoroughly tilled by Hex's greedy mouth. The ghoul in question tugged his hand out from under Caleb's to swipe his fingers across the dark blood cooling on his face. He laved his tongue over the digits before he looked to Caleb, grinning.

"I live to please." His suave demeanor buckled when his gut audibly complained about the rapid influx of fluid it was dealing with.

"I suppose I've never seen you really pack it away before." Caleb’s eyes widened as he watched Hex delicately push himself the rest of the way up off the animal and sit—or rather, try. The waistband of his jeans was giving him some trouble. Caleb watched him swiftly unbutton and unzip the garment with his slobbery fingers and bite back a sigh.

"Holy shit," Caleb gawked.

Hex narrowed his eyes, but he looked far too satisfied to actually emote irritation. "I'd like to see you drink a fucking cow and not bloat up a little bit." He tugged self-consciously at his sweater, now clinging tight to his midsection. He muffled a hic behind his sleeve. "Ugh."

"Swallow some air?"

"I will bite you."

"You can't possibly still be hungry."

As though it had gained sentience, Hex's stomach growled angrily.

"No way."

Hex stuck out his bloody tongue. He was always far more playful after he fed, even if he had glutted himself beyond all human decency.

"It's a freak biology thing. Eating makes me hungry. It's like snakes and stuff." Hex leaned back on his hands, far too proud of himself.

Caleb frowned slightly as he thought. "Do we need to get you another cow? Because I'm not sure I can swing that, and definitely not again next week."

"It wouldn't be much of an animal attack if they just found this lady dead and bloodless.” Hex gave the cow’s head an affectionate pat. “A good carnivore would take advantage of all that precious organ meat before abandoning its catch."

"I'd argue I caught this one," Caleb huffed.

"We can both take credit. You can barely see out here." Hex fell out of the banter to eye the soon-to-be carcass.

"You're drooling, dumbass."

"Sorry," Hex mumbled.

"Don't be. I'm happy for you. But, uh, I'm not sure I want to watch, if that's okay." Hex tried to hide his dejected expression under a guise of wiping saliva and cow off his face. Caleb's heart sank. "If I go now, I can have the car all warmed up by the time you're finished, so it'll be nice and cozy when you immediately fall asleep."

This seemed to reassure Hex, as the dopey grin was back. He stifled another soft burp. "Uh, will you be okay to get back by yourself?"

Caleb picked up his phone from its bovine perch and waggled it. "Flashlight." Hex nodded, but looked dubious. "I'll be fine. Promise." Caleb got up and did his best to brush the unmelted snow off his now slush-soaked pants.

Hex nodded and waited until Caleb was within the range of the lamps before tearing open the heifer's belly and burying his head in its chest cavity.

#original fiction #fangmaw's vampire tag

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onthevirgeofdestruction · 4 years

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Dreaming While I Wake

Sanders Sides Foster Care AU - Roman-centric Angst & Hurt/Comfort & Abuse Recovery

Roman tries to be upbeat and hopeful despite all the shit that’s happened to him. And a lot of shit has. Luckily, his new foster home is with two literal rays of sunshine (and a sarcastic asshole).

Words: 3,263 Warnings: Food, Food Insecurity Mention, Forcing Self to Eat Something Mention, Negative Self-Talk, Negative Self-Image, Video Game Violence, Dogs Characters: Roman, Thomas Universe: Dreaming While I Wake Genre: Vibing™ too hard and a bit of angst, as a treat

Chapter 24

chapter 1 for new readers - ffn mirror

Roman kicked off his shoes at the foot of his bed and dropped his backpack next to his desk. He was tired, what’s new. His feet finally hurt less, at least. He was also immensely grateful to say that for once he didn’t have to spend all night on homework. He had something due at the end of the week, but he didn’t have to do it tonight. He was terrible at starting homework early anyway, so there was no point in trying today.

Part of him was glad that the Sanders didn’t kick him back so he wouldn’t have to be doing this all over again at a new school. He’d only had two families that returned right away, but he did much less awful shit at their houses than he did here. It only made sense that they would send him away, but he didn’t mind still being here. They’d probably see reason eventually, so Roman shouldn’t get his hopes up or anything.

A snack and breaking out the art supplies sounded like a pleasant way to pass the time. He’d sketched something he really liked in English, and he wanted to give it a proper go and not on thin notebook paper. The coffee table was glass, so he could transfer it to his sketchbook with that. He gathered the supplies he needed and headed back downstairs, dropping off the stuff on the coffee table and heading into the kitchen for a bite to eat.

The pantry didn’t really reveal anything appetizing. He’d had mostly chips after school lately so he didn’t want those, and they’d long since finished those peanut butter filled pretzels much to Roman’s dismay. Roman scanned the fridge and freezer. He could have a healthy snack of an apple or something… or he could make some of those biscuits made entirely out of cheese they had with dinner last night and dip them in pizza sauce. The answer was obvious. He pulled out the cheese biscuits and lined them up on parchment paper in the toaster oven on the counter. He cooked a few extras in case a wild Virgil appeared. He seemed to have junk food sensing powers.

Roman went to the coffee table to clear off some space to use it. The more he removed, the more it revealed it hadn’t been cleaned in a while. Spills and fingerprints would mess with his ability to use the table as a lightbox, so he grabbed the glass cleaner and a rag to clean it off. After cleaning both sides of the coffee table, he noticed the other glass in the living room was a little smudged up. The cabinet windows on the entertainment center had doggy nose prints on the lower parts, along with the windows. He already had it in his hands, so why not? Roman passed through and cleaned up all the glass in the living area, the mirror in the front hall, the microwave and stove door, and the window in the kitchen.

The toaster oven dinged and distracted him from cleaning off the front of the dishwasher. He had completely forgotten he’d put those in. Roman wiped the last corner of the dishwasher and washed the ammonia off his hands, leaving the cleaner and rag on the counter. He grabbed a plate and served himself half of the biscuits and dumped a little pizza sauce from the jar on his plate. Some part of his mind registered that they were fresh out of the toaster oven, but he picked one up to dip like an idiot and burned his fingers, anyway.

Roman grumbled while he ran his fingertips under cold water at the sink. He pulled them out to check if they were better yet, but they were still hot, so he kept them under the water a little longer. Virgil appeared as expected, which cheered Roman back up a bit. The idea of Virgil having junk food senses was funny, and he loved it when Virgil proved him right.

“I made you some, too,” Roman motioned with his head to the toaster oven. Virgil grinned wildly and just stole Roman’s plate and left the kitchen. Roman laughed out loud at the audacity of this bitch and shook his head. He pulled his fingers out again, and they felt fine now, so he served himself the other half in the same manner. He had the good sense to get a fork this time. He threw out the parchment paper and sat at the table, pulling out his phone to wait for his food to cool down. He saw the date and realized he probably needed to do laundry, so he got up to head upstairs and grab his basket.

He long since hasn’t needed to sort out his clothes into loads. His brights and darks were already all faded, and he only had a few whites, not enough to do a load with bleach. He just dumped the entire basket in the wash and put in some laundry sauce, starting the wash and bringing the basket back upstairs.

Roman stared around his room, not remembering what he was doing last. He paused and concerned if there was anything he needed to do. Probably clean his bedroom? There wasn’t much to pick up, just a few art supplies were out for some reason. He didn’t have that many things in his name to mess up. His loose stuff like old keepsakes or hobby items all fit in one drawer in the dresser, so it was easy to keep clean. But he should come back up to wipe off his desk with an all-purpose cleaner and dust. Roman yawned and returned downstairs for some water and to grab the cleaners.

He put away the filter pitcher and drank water, noticing his snack on the table. Oh. Roman chuckled to himself and sat down at the table, eating his four cheese biscuits and pizza sauce. He had completely forgotten he made them. They were at an edible temperature now, though. Convenient forgetfulness, for once.

After rinsing the dishes, Roman grabbed the duster and all-purpose cleaner to go handle his room. He dusted some shelves in the living room as he passed, just because he had noticed they were dusty and covered in dog fur. They mentioned they got a maid service once a month for that. How could Lita possibly produce this much wiry fur? Baffling. Roman headed upstairs to clean his bedroom.

Dusting the bookshelf in his room revealed that Lita must not come in here much since there was barely any dog fur on it compared to the downstairs. He was relatively certain Lita just napped in Thomas and Patton’s room until Patton appeared or something fun happened. Roman dusted off the books, his dresser, the desk, and the nightstand, then wiped down surfaces. There were plenty of eraser bits and broken pencil leads after the cluster-fuck of homework he had to do. Cleaning off the homework wreckage and such from the desk made it look much nicer, despite his pile of books and papers he hadn’t quite gotten around to organizing into something nicer looking yet. He organized his colored pencils by the rainbow in the organizer and took the cleaners back downstairs to put away.

What the hell was he doing again? Roman put the cleaners back on the shelf in the laundry room. He swore he was doing something. He had no idea what he was doing. The washer was going, which reminded him he started that. Maybe that was the thing. He clearly still had time to wait, though. Video games? Video games. Roman headed out to the living room and paused to make sure no one else was coming in to use the TV. Virgil didn’t reappear, and Thomas wasn’t even in his office. Seemed safe enough to him. There were quests to be had and demons to slay. Roman switched the TV input and turned on the game system to play, settling down on the floor in front of the TV to kick some lich ass.

Having free afternoons was a weird experience. Weirder than the forced days off, since he was kind of stuck in a room with Thomas for those. But this was totally up to him. He couldn’t remember the last time he had so much free time completely to himself. It was… wrong? It felt wrong. But also nice. It was wrrice. No. That was dumb. Whatever. He had an amulet that unlocked a labyrinth. Fuck real life. He made sure he had enough healing items and repaired his armour, absolutely raring to go venture into it.

Something warm pressed into his thigh while he was fighting some goblins and jumped. He paused the game and glanced down. Lita had laid her head on his lap and was looking up to him pleadingly. Roman couldn’t help himself from melting a little and cooing, dropping his controller to scratch her behind her ears. Lita’s tongue bleped out and Roman could have died. He pet her a few times and she got up and trotted over to the back door and stared longingly at Roman. Roman got up to let her outside and followed her out. Lita bolted into the yard and ran it in three loops before stopping to sniff around near the tree in the backyard and used the restroom. She stuck her tongue out and happily cantered back over to the door. Roman headed back in and returned to his game when Lita went to go get some water.

Things in the labyrinth were going well, but they were intense. He went into a room that had a bunch of greater liches in it and he nearly bit the dust fighting them all. He got plenty of potions from the room, but it miffed him that he didn’t get something cool like a weapon or rare item. Single-handedly killing four evil wraiths at the same time should have at least gotten some new boots. He saved and continued forward, anyway.

“Hey, Roman,” He vaguely heard someone say while he was eyeballing a hallway that looked like it might have a trap.

“Hey,” Roman responded automatically. Traps meant the game was protecting something, probably. He was tempted. Roman made sure he healed up and put poison immunity on and headed down the hall. The poison immunity paid off, but he should have done something to resist fire damage since he killed three potions from all the burn damage. He was rewarded with a giant skeleton monster and a better sword, though. Vindication! He saved again and kept going forward.

“Do you want anything for dinner?” Someone asked and Roman chewed on his lip while he thought and killed a small army of evil rats.

“Roast boar would be helpful,” Roman suggested after pondering it for a second. He could use a fortitude boost right now. The rats didn’t do a lot of damage, but it was impossible to dodge them all.

“In the real world, Roman,” The voice sounded bemused. Oh shit. Roman paused the game and rubbed his incredibly dry eyes.

“Sorry,” Roman muttered, wishing for moisture to return to his burning eyes.

“It’s fine,” Thomas sighed and laughed a little. “I can relate, honestly. But I’m just about to cook dinner and want to know if anything sounds good,” He said genially.

“Oh, um, ask Virgil,” Roman supplied and rubbed his face again. When was the last time he blinked and how long were his eyebrows furrowed?

“Is there a reason you’re not wearing the gloves?” Thomas inquired. Roman turned around and saw Thomas leaning over the back of the couch. Roman froze and looked at his ungloved hands. Whoops.

“Uh, I forgot to put them back on, honestly,” Roman replied sheepishly. “I promise I didn’t freak out about anything while they were off, though,” Roman added. Well, maybe he did a little at school, but his arms were untouched, so he must not have panicked badly enough to do any damage. Gym class was stressful again. He hadn’t gotten back grades on his packets and he hadn’t attracted a random bully or anything yet, so things were mostly okay. The people in his morning English class even friended him on twitter. Though he hoped he had implied he took the gloves off more recently than after he got to school in the morning.

“All right. Do you mind putting them back on?” Thomas requested, sounding less peeved and more concerned. Roman nodded hastily and leaned back to get them out of his jeans pocket to slide them on. Thomas sighed with relief. “Just for my own mollification, show me your arms?” Thomas made a twisting motion with his finger. Roman turned around and held them straight out and rotated them for Thomas to see. Thomas smiled and nodded, apparently mollified. “Thanks. I appreciate you putting up with them for me. So, dinner? I already asked Virgil. I want to know if you want anything,” Thomas said pointedly.

“I’ll eat anything, it’s fine,” Roman said dismissively.

“I know you’ll eat anything, but I still don’t know what food you actually like to eat,” Thomas urged, looking inquisitively at Roman.

“I like your cooking. Patton’s is seasoned oddly sometimes, but it’s all been fine,” Roman replied with a small shrug.

“Patton’s cooking used to be significantly worse. I made him take a few cooking classes. He used to think five tablespoons was a reasonable amount of seasoning for anything. The grill incident wasn’t the only time we had to throw food out because we couldn’t eat it,” Thomas responded and shook his head with a light chuckle. Roman stared at Thomas in amazement. Did they actually throw out edible food?

“That… why?” Roman asked incredulously. “That’s… food,” Roman stammered out, completely baffled by this information.

“If it’s too disgusting to eat, then it’s too disgusting to eat,” Thomas raised his eyebrow and said something redundant.

“I can’t… even,” Roman felt like his mind was melted. If it was turned into a charcoal brick by a fireball, that was one thing. But trashing it just because something was seasoned badly? That didn’t make any sense.

“Okay,” Thomas drawled curiously. “Well, is there anything you hate then?” He inquired and motioned towards Roman.

“Um, there are some textures I don’t like, and I’m not a fan of brussel sprouts, but I won’t waste food,” Roman answered him, still feeling really confused.

“We had brussel sprouts last weekend, and you ate some,” Thomas said, furrowing his eyebrows at Roman. “Why didn’t you say anything?” He asked, looking upset.

“I already said I won’t waste food,” Roman repeated and looked curiously at Thomas.

“So say if Patton made peas and there was half a container of pepper flakes in it, you’d eat it?” Thomas posited incredulously, looking at Roman intensely.

“… Yeah?” Roman replied, not following what Roman was trying to get at. It was food. The texture from the flakes sounded awful, but he wouldn’t waste the food.

“You are a braver man than I. Okay, so. No brussel sprouts. What about those textures?” Thomas questioned and drummed his fingers on the couch.

“Oh, uh, how… Gritty stuff and stuff that is mushy when it… shouldn’t be? There are also some things that just sort of… hit my palette weird, but I don’t have any idea how to describe that,” Roman supplied. “It only makes me kind of sick, it’s fine, though,” Roman said, shaking his head.

“You shouldn’t force yourself to eat food that makes you sick, Roman,” Thomas said emphatically and leaned on his arm while he looked a little frustrated.

“I’m not that used to having options, Thomas,” Roman replied blithely and sighed. Even with the Finleys he just made what they bought him, and sometimes there wasn’t enough for him to eat a complete meal. He’d always take what he was given. It was better than starving.

“Kid, I swear every time you open your mouth I feel the need to hug you and tell you that things are going to be okay,” Thomas exhaled hard as he held his head and shook it lightly.

“I’m… sorry?” Roman apologized, not understanding what Thomas was trying to say. He didn’t know how Thomas put up with Roman annoying him all the time.

“It’s not your fault. Is there anything we’ve made you particularly liked?” Thomas asked, running his hand through his hair and seeming a little discouraged. Roman paused for a moment while he waited for a further reaction, but Thomas just exhaled and patiently looked to Thomas for an answer. He didn’t seem as frustrated anymore, and Roman loosened back up.

“That pizza you made was probably my favourite thing,” Roman responded brightly. “The stuffed chicken breasts were fantastic, too,” He added.

“It’s even better if we let the dough rest overnight,” Thomas said temptingly, holding up a finger.

“You’re kidding,” Roman eyed him curiously. He didn’t think he’d ever had pizza as amazing as Thomas’s in his life and he couldn’t comprehend how it could possibly be tastier.

“Nope. How about I make some tonight so we can have it for dinner tomorrow?” Thomas offered with a small smile.

“Show me how!” Roman nearly jumped up right there but caught himself, gripping at the floor.

“Only if you pick what’s for dinner tonight,” Thomas pointed at Roman. Roman chewed his lip. He didn’t know what to choose. His shoulders slumped a bit, and he grabbed one of his fingers nervously. “Too hard?” Thomas asked softly.

“I just don’t want… to pick wrong,” Roman admitted quietly. “What did Virgil say he wanted?” He inquired, hoping for at least a starting point.

“Spicy and crunchy,” Thomas reported. “Picking meals is hard for him, so he usually just gives flavours or something like that. I read that choice paralysis is common with PTSD. Is it the same for you?” Thomas prodded and looked pointedly at Roman. Roman rolled his eyes and sighed. He managed to not say ‘I’m fine’ this time, at least. Maybe it was true for Roman, maybe it wasn’t and he was just dumb.

“I, uh, I am completely blanking, to be honest,” Roman replied impassively, trying to think of dinner. He desperately wanted to learn how to make pizza dough. But he didn’t want to pick wrong.

“Yeah, I assume it would have to be some sides or something. We don’t have the stuff for the things I usually make when he asks for that,” Thomas shrugged, tilting his head to the side.

“Uh, tortilla soup?” Roman suggested. It was the easiest one to make of what he thought of. “I mean, it’s a bit hot for soup, but it’s spicy and crunchy,” He added a little sheepishly. Maybe that was stupid.

“Oh, that’s perfect! I didn’t think of that. We can make that quickly in the pressure cooker, even. We’ll chase it with ice cream to cool down. Pat will be pleased about that, honestly. Save the game and I’ll show you how to make the pizza dough,” Thomas smiled and stood up straight.

Roman nodded rapidly and turned back around to save the game as fast as it would let him. His knee bobbed impatiently while he waited for the saving screen to finish processing. He didn’t know how to bake bread, and pizza dough was probably the coolest place to start. Roman nearly tripped as he rushed into the kitchen after Thomas.

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lovelylogans · 5 years

Text

the worst in me

NARISSA: Ah, all this nauseating talk of true love's kiss, it really does bring out the worst in me. You know I've been thinking, if I'm going to remain Queen, I'm gonna need some sort of story when I go back. Hmm... What if a giant vicious beast showed up, and killed everyone? And poor defenseless Queen Narissa, she just couldn't save them! Let's begin with the girl who started it all, shall we?! ROBERT: Over my dead body. NARISSA: Alright. I'm flexible.

-enchanted, 2007

ao3 | read my other fics | coffee?

warnings: remus, maybe unsympathetic thomas?, confusion/bitterness, self doubt/hatred, mentions of animal cruelty

pairings: none

words: 1,548

notes: so, this is for the 13 days of halloween prompt over at @sanderssidescelebrations! today’s prompt is dragon witch! this is my first time writing the garbage man, so i hope i did him justice! also i better not see any remrom in the comments/tags!

R—No, no, it’s Roman now, Roman Roman Roman—tightens his fingers around the hilt of his sword, his free one into a fist. His hands shouldn’t be shaking. They shouldn’t.

He’s done this a hundred thousand million times before. The Imagination is still his realm, still his place, despite the fact that...

Well. Despite the fact that he didn’t feel like him very much, anymore.

But a jaunt into the Imagination could change that. He’ll run around, save some people, feel more like him again. Or, well. The him he’s supposed to be now. Right? Because he’s supposed to be the good part, isn’t he? He’s supposed to be all damsels and dragons and danger, outwitting the enemy and saving the day. That’s him. That’s Roman.

...Right?

He doesn’t know. He should know, but he doesn’t. Since The Split (it’s warranted capitals, in his mind, and he wonders if they’ve kept enough similarities that it’s warranted the same in his mind, too) Roman’s felt... off. Confused. He finds himself shying away from things he’d have fully enthused about before—now he hates things he’d liked, and he likes things he’d hated, and everything is upside-down and inside-out and it’s like his whole existence has been thrown into a maze in a fun-house full of distorted mirrors, and he can’t get out of it, but he’s trying.

So. Imagination. Damsels. Dragon-slaying. Dashing sword-fights, magic spells, a prince in disguise—but is that his thing now, or his? Is disguising himself good or bad? Is sword-fighting good or bad? Who’s got what?

Like he said—he’s trying.

He follows his lines, even if everything’s changed around him—some of his usual subjects have vanished, replaced by new ones, scrubbed clean, and they act like that’s the way it’s always been, so he does too. The whole thing is straight out of a storybook—a (new) page comes to his palace, tells him of a fair maiden who’s been abducted by a (new) dragon witch, in an (old) crumbling tower that’s been the set of a fair few dramatic reenactments before. So he gets on his (new) horse, which doesn’t stink of the stables like his old horse, Phillipe, did, doesn’t have the pretty, burnished copper coat Phillipe did, but rather this one is pure white and only tarnished by streaks of gold in its mane. He isn’t sure what to name it. Caspian? Gwendolyn? Something very fairytale and innocent and pure?

He gets on his unnamed horse. He examines his (new) sword in its (old) scabbard. He rides through the forest.

Some things have changed and he has no idea why—the flora and fauna swap between familiar and alien—and some things have changed and he knows only too well why they might have changed. But he doesn’t want to question it. He’s supposed to be the good one now. If he questions the status quo now, maybe there’ll be a new new one, who knows how to smile and wink just so and is always kind and gallant and never screws up and never comes up with nicknames that sound mean.

Maybe he’ll be called Romeo, or something equally saccharine.

Roman snorts, and then immediately shies away from the thought, like some bolt of lightning will come to strike him down, strike him in two—or would it be three, then? Because if the bad one is already taken and the good one isn’t good enough anymore, what’ll happen to that one? Will he just be thrown aside? Like a toy that’s lost all entertainment value, replaced by something newer and shinier?

He’ll try harder. He will. He’ll be the best, most perfect, most fairytale prince that ever walked the earth. He won’t ever, ever find out.

“Sorry,” he tells the too-blue sky above him, as if anyone is listening.

And maybe someone is—because he can hear a scream, and a distant, furious roar.

The dragon witch. Roman’s heartbeat starts to thunder and finally, finally, the fight, the rescue, that’s his favorite part, he’ll go out there and he won’t be able to think about being good or bad or right or wrong, he’ll only think about parries and ripostes and lunges, and he digs his heels into the horse’s side with a “HYAH!” and goes galloping further into the depth of these recognized-foreign woods, to the tower, to the climax of the story—

The (new) dragon witch is clutching to the tower, gouging out stones with its massive claws, sending dust and debris scattering upon the ground like snowfall. It roars, again—it has black scales, with almost sickly-green accents, two wings flapping, and massive, curving teeth that would surely gouge Roman right through, if he stepped wrong of them.

Well. It’s certainly a foreboding villain, for his first solo fray back into the imagination, but he mustn’t let any misgivings halt him—he urges the horse forward, and bellows up at the witch, “Unhand her, villain!”

Strangely, the dragon seems to frown at him, and he calls down, voice cartoonishly villainous, “What happened to Phillipe?”

Roman falters, as the horse cants in place. He knows that voice. It’s a new voice, but he knows it, knows it as it’d been the first thing he’d heard after the split.

“Is that... you?” He calls uncertainly.

The dragon seems to shudder, before abruptly, it’s shrinking, downsizing and downsizing and changing until it’s in the shape of a man—a familiar man, wearing black and an almost-sickly green, a demented grin, and a mustache. He’s got bags under his eyes that Roman can see, even from here, ones like Anxiety’s got, and he feels a traitorous spark of concern.

And, for an alarming moment, Roman is jealous. Why did he get the kickass transformation powers—into a dragon?! That’s so cool!

Or at least, that’s what he would have thought before The Split—now, his brain is tossing up example after example of villains transforming into animals—Ursula into Vanessa, Jafar into a genie, Maleficent into a dragon—it’s a sign of evil. It’s a sign of something Bad, and he’s supposed to be the Good One. But half his brain is still stuck on Before, while half of it is stuck on After, and he doesn’t know which thought is his, and he doesn’t know what he believes now, and—

“Did you send Phillipe to the glue factory?”

Roman recoils from the very thought—he’d spent days grooming Phillipe’s fur, feeding him apples and carrots and cubes of sugar, he’d loved Phillipe—and the other him laughs.

Or—no. The other Roman? The other twin? The other side? Is he technically his own side, now? If they were both Creativity, then what—

His confusion gets abruptly set to the side when there’s another, terrified scream within the tower. Roman shakes his head, hard, as if he’ll be able to dislodge this whole crisis of personality like he’s erasing an etch-a-sketch, and solidifies his grip on his sword’s handle, not quite bringing it out of the scabbard yet.

“Unhand her, foul beast!”

He blows a raspberry, swinging frightfully from the side of the tower, only held by his boot, lodged between where a brick had been dislodged and his grip on one of the (new) spires—he could fall, and what would happen then?

Is he supposed to care? The death of a villain would be a good thing now, wouldn’t it? But then if that was what was meant to happen, then why bother to keep them split in the first place, why not just divulge the bad, keep the good? Is it bad that he’s thinking about this? Murder is bad, it’s definitely bad, he shouldn’t be thinking about it, but—

“Boooorrrr-iiiiing. C’mon, give me an insult with some pep to it, aren’t you supposed to be Creativity now?!”

Roman grits his teeth, and snaps before he can even think of stopping himself, “Aren’t you supposed to be the scary one, Ja-nefarious?!”

For a moment, Roman thinks he’s gotten him, but that’s before that demented grin widens and that worrying crazed look in his eyes shines brighter.

“I said an insult, not a compliment!” He preens, and Roman scowls.

“What, you can do better?” He says scornfully.

“Well, duh,” he says, and then, gleefully, “You’re boring now—Roman, isn’t it?”

Roman forces his hackles not to rise.

“I mean, think about it,” he wheedles. “Which of us is more useful—the one who comes up with the original ideas, the unorthodox ones, or the one who comes up with the same—“ He flicks a dismissive hand, nose wrinkling. “White horse, sword, save-the-girl kind of story, over and over and over again?”

Roman feels an angry flush take over his cheeks. “Unorthodox doesn’t have to mean murder.”

“Why not?” He said, and he sounded genuinely curious—like a small child asking why the sky’s blue, not posing the question of if murder’s genuinely punishable or not. “Which one will make more of an impact—if I drop this sweet, innocent damsel from the tower, or you saving her?”

“Don’t you dare,” Roman snarls, and the other one—Remus—bares his still-animalistically-curved teeth in a grin.

“Watch me.”

With a wild yell, Roman unsheathes his sword, and charges.

(He wonders if it makes him bad that a fight and seeing his brother him is the first thing that’s made him feel semi-normal since The Split.)

#my post #text #my fic #this occurred to me..... pretty soon after remus' reveal?#and this gave me an opportunity to write about it #so #sanders sides spooky month

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astridxhofferson · 5 years

Photo

❝ Don’t mistake my kindness for weakness. I am kind to everyone, but when someone is unkind to me, weak is not what you are going to remember about me ❞

𝑐𝘩𝑎𝑟𝑎𝑐𝑡𝑒𝑟⧸𝑓𝑖𝑙𝑒 : astrid hofferson ▸ viking ( haddock tribe ) ▸ lili reinhart .

❛❛ aesthetic . ❜❜ ― ◜ ❏ . ― dragons , scars , forests , wildfires , thunder && lightning , oceans , dragonflies , axes , knives , shields , swords , freckles , braids, campfires , hooded fur , bruised && bloody knuckles , campfires , ashes , leather , cuts , bruises . ― ✎ penned by gigi , 23 , est , she/her .

▐ ᴀᴛ ᴀ ɢʟᴀɴᴄᴇ ▸

[ NAME ] astrid hofferson . [ GENDER & PRONOUNS ] female ( ♀ ) she/her . [ SPECIES ] human ( hofferson bloodline ) . [ BIRTHDAY & AGE ] sept. 7th , AGE 21 ( twenty-one ) . [ VIKING TRIBE ] haddocks . [ KINGDOM ] dunbroch . [ FACECLAIM ] lili reinhart ( ♆ ) .

▐ ᴘᴇʀsᴏɴᴀʟɪᴛʏ ▸

courageous / competitive / loyal / spirited

input description

short-tempered / emotionally driven / stubborn / perfectionist

▐ sᴛᴀᴛs ▸

DRAGONS TOOK EVERYTHING YOU HAD

⚡ — THE TRAGEDY IS WRITTEN IN THE SCARS of the fallen born in an age of FIRE && s w o r d . murderous beasts . with their slaughterous talons && their razor-sharp fangs . generations have been spent drenched in blood && bathed in flames . with the snapping && cracking of bones still echoing in their nightmares as they watched comrades fall , sometimes helplessly , && other times despite every ounce of their heart-clenching effort .

a trespass terror in the kingdom of dumbroch’s sky that loomed in every shadow despite the blazes that never failed to lick their way through the wood && foundations that had only just begun to smell familiar to them . the first thing they took was their childhood , but this is the worst thing , because they didn’t even know it . they were so young when they were taught that valour && glory is shaped with a battle-cry, a shield && axe .

❝ when you carry this axe , you carry all of us with you ❞

your legacy , your family’s legacy , all rests on their shoulders . they're going to slay a dragon , the enemy of dunbroch’s kingdom , && take their place among the ranks of their viking warriors . carrying the name of the once fearless finn who froze at the sight of a DRAGON , bringing the hofferson name down in his shame ----- there was NOTHING more important than learning how to fight a dragon . but now , the enchanted world is in ruins . stuck in a war within a war BE FEARLESS , ASTRID , you’re a hofferson . YOU’RE A VIKING .

[ an unwritten tale of princess fishbone becoming a hero/villain the hard/easy way ]

DRAGONS GAVE YOU EVERYTHING YOU HAVE

▐ ᴛɪᴍᴇʟɪɴᴇ ▸

[ MONTH / DAY ] accepted into talehqs .

▐ ᴀᴘᴘᴇᴀʀᴀɴᴄᴇ ▸

[ BUILT ] athletic slender , lean && strong , fair-skinned , freckled ( beauty marks ) , a kaleidoscope of scars along her forearms && legs , calloused hands . [ DISTINGUISHED FEATURE(S) ] heart-shaped face , sharp jawline , high cheekbones , nordic nose , weathered , light freckles dusting across her nose && cheekbones ( more visible in the summer months ) . [ SCAR(S) ] small scrapes && burns littered across her body , numbing tissue , rough calloused hands , arrow gouge just above her right knee , tween sharkworm dragon bite imprint on the back of her left shoulder blade . [ HEIGHT ] 5′6 . [ HAIR COLOR ] weathered blond ( styled in a lengthy side-braid draped over her left shoulder ) . [ EYE ] really big , round , stormy bluish-green aquamarine eyes . [ VOICE ] rough , jagged && stormy . loud-spoken . [ SCENT ] campfire smoke , salty tides , a touch of eucalyptus-honey, fresh pine && wild bog myrtle . [ CLOTHING ] red chest binding , dark leather skirt , leg bindings , arm-wraps , yak fur boots && hood cloaked over her back && shoulders ( worn in the colder months ) , kransen .

▐ ᴀ ᴅᴇᴇᴘᴇʀ ʟᴏᴏᴋ ▸

[ ZODIAC ] virgo ( ♍ ) , RULED BY mercury && AFFILIATED WITH earth [ MOON SIGN ] ## . [ SEXUALITY ] bisexual . [ MARITAL STATUS ] single, clueless, and not ready to mingle. [ ABILITY(S)/SKILL(S) ] athletic prowess , melee fighting , combat , sailing , dragon tracker , the use of axes , shields , knives , swords && improvised weapons . [ THEME SONG(S) ] whats up danger - blackway & black caviar | born for this - the score | 1 800 273 8255 - logic

&&. / THE HOUSE OF HOFFERSON : astrid was born into the house of hofferson of the haddock tribe in the kingdom of dunbroch. &&. / DREAM : astrid dreams of creating a name for herself as a warrior . when she was younger , she dreamed of fighting dragons in the mists of the shores of dunbroch . she dreamed of valour && glory . dreamed of becoming renowned for her combative prowess && strategic mind , in honour of the family who had perished around her so quickly . but her dream has no future . she’ll die on the battlefield , which is the most honourable way to go for a viking warrior . &&. / INPUT : coming soon &&. / CURRENTLY : ( cause I couldn’t find a good angle this was the best I got ) with the whisper of war the chief stoick the vast && gobber the belch sent the haddock dragon trainees to collect intel && put their extreme survival skills to the test for the next couple of months in teams of two as they go about travelling from one kingdom to the next . &&. / SNOGGLETOG : when hiccup was 16 winters he gave astrid a knife ( that she still has to this day ) he forged himself && oddly after that every snoggletog they’d exchange gifts && sorta --- kinda -- talk &&. / WEAPON TESTER : hiccup lures astrid with his strange weapons as she honestly enjoys testing them out . her favourite invention thus far is his megapult ( ♆ ) . &&. / CHOICE : ( unaffiliated ) a model shieldmaiden && dragon trainee who sticks along with the viking status quo . she executes others plans && ideas . LATER; hiccup is the one who frequently comes along with the revolutionary ideas && out-of-the-box thinking . whenever he does so , astrid trusts his judgement && executes his plans && supports the plan that hiccup contrives . && like a general she chooses his choice of action rather heroic or villainous . for now , astrid is unaffiliated until hiccup decides what side of the war he’s really on .

▐ ᴄᴏɴɴᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴs ▸

x. HICCUP HORRENDOUS HADDOCK THE THIRD ( chasin’ all the wrong things most of my life been every kinda lost that you can’t find but I got one thing right, you ) the fishbone of a boy who cried dragon .

x. PRINCE ERIC ANDERSON ( lyric ) input .

#tw: not for the faint hearted / bio full of triggers / cautioned + warned.#tw: dark themes of war/death/dragons #tales.intro

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ertrunkenerwassergeist · 5 years

Text

Laying of the Cards

Here’s the Link to ao3!

After the fresh and biting cold winds outside the smoky air inside the kitchen of the small cottage that had been built many years ago at the edge of the village, caused Nyx' eyes to burn and his throat to itch. He blinked a few times to make out the other people in the room within the flickering light, the fire burning in the hearth the only source of light, their number higher than he had expected, considering what was to happen this evening.

There were seven people in the crammed room already, making the stuffy air even worse. Nyx felt his head swim at the smell of burning herbs and spices, wet fur, burning wood and unwashed bodies. The plumping had frozen about a week ago, causing some people to whisper that the white she-demon was wandering about again. In Nyx' opinion there would be a whole lot of frozen dead people right about now, if that were true, but he did the smart thing and kept his mouth shut. Let the people talk. That way they would have something to do over the winter that promised to be longer and harder than unusual.

He knew about half of the people here at least by face if not by name. The others were most likely either of the Watcher Clans or from one of the more western islands. The people there kept even more to themselves than the Galahkari did anyways.

Nyx lifted his dominant hand horizontally up to his collarbones in a general greeting, not really in the mood to more people than he absolutely had to. He should be at home right now with his mother and sister, helping to keep the house from cooling out or helping in the forge, seeing as that was the warmest place they had right now.

“Nyx,” he heard Crowe's voice from the corner to his right.

She, like everybody else safe for the mistress of the house and her apprentice, was still buried under thick layers of wool and furs against the freezing winter howling outside, battering the village with a gale of snow. Her cheeks were flushed from a mix of cold and the sudden heat in the kitchen but even then he could see her pallor underneath it. Despite her many layers of clothing he could see how tense she was.

“You too?” he said in a low voice when he stepped closer to her.

Crowe sent him a dark look. She wanted to be here as much as he was. Which was to say not at all.

Nevertheless he tugged at a strand on her long brown hair until she complied and leaned her forehead against his own. They stayed that way for the span of one breath before Crowe stepped away again. Nyx ignored the looks that action got him and grinned unabashedly at his friend. She huffed in fond exasperation, thankfulness lurking in the depth of her brown eyes. He wondered how the last week had been treating her. The heating at her place had always been shitty, but now it had to be even worse. Neither his mother or Selena would be upset if he were to invite her to stay for the rest of the winter. Another helping hand was always welcome, but she clearly wasn't in the mood to talk right now either, so he just stood next to her in companionable silence.

Sweat started to pool at the small of his back and formed beads along the arch of his brow. The stuffy and smoky air that smelled of burned herbs, was nigh unbearable. Nyx wanted very badly to open one of the windows to be able to breath, consequences be damned.

“You better not be doing that, boy. Elder Rhea will tan your hide if you take one step towards the windows, and she'll not be without help,” grumbled a burly man with a barrel chest and a deep voice that sounded like the rumble deep in the mountains.

“Chief Ostium,” Nyx greeted with a nod of respect that could be nearly taken as a bow.

“Cut that out, Ulric,” scowled the older man. His heavy brow, the thick beard and the long salt and pepper hair made it only more impressive. “You're a man grown now and a chief yourself. Start acting like it. People won't be as tolerant as they were when you were nine.”

Nyx resisted the urge to duck his head like a chastised boy, like he had done so often before, when this man had caught him and Libertus doing something stupid again. Murus Ostium nodded, his gold flecked blue eyes grew warmer as he patted Nyx' fur clad shoulder once. Unbidden, he felt himself stand up straighter despite Crowe's scoff. Murus didn't even spare her a glance.

“Come and greet Elder Rhea. No need to be impolite to an Aware One in her own home.”

With that he guided Nyx away from Crowe, whose eyes flashed with an old hurt Nyx would have loved to soothe, if he only knew how to. Libertus and him had met her too late for that.

Elder Rhea Etas stood by the hearth, bowed over an earthen bowl filled with smoldering sage, roasting cino nuts and druhm roots standing on a cooking grate. She hummed a tuneless melody while her gnarly fingers rummaged through the pockets of her layered wool dress. Her smile showed her crooked teeth and deepened her wrinkles when she saw them approaching. Or rather him being pushed by the older chief.

“Ah, Chief Ulric. Welcome to my home. May the fires warm you and the white she-demon not steal you or your loved ones during the night.”

Nyx made himself answer that smile as he crossed his wrists in the traditional greeting. “Thank you for letting me step into the light of your hearth. May it keep you warm during long nights and dark days.” The smell coming from the earthen bowl over the fire brought tears into his eyes and made him want to gag. He swallowed dryly. It made it only worse.

“Take a seat, young Chief and take part in the meal. Soon we will begin.”

The young man nodded and forced his questions down. He had no idea why he had been invited to a flow laying of all things. They were for people with power, influence important destinies – mystic heroes during times of old - and while he wished he could be someone like that, he doubted that he was such a person now. Some of the other participants also didn't make a lick of sense to him.

A young man, clearly of the Lazarus Clan with his blond hair and pale skin, sat at the table and frowned into a steaming cup. Nyx' eyebrows shot up in surprise. The Lazarus' seldom came out of their little conclave in Tenebrae. Especially after they had brought news of Tenebrae's conclusive conquest by Nifelheim and their slaying of the Oracle a few years ago. Next to him sat a woman he didn't know with sandy brown hair twisted into thick braids that wound around her head like a crown. A bit ostentatious in his opinion, but who was he to judge another clan's braids? She was talking to Elder Istoria Patientia, one of the few people he knew from the westernmost islands, who sat at one end of the table. The old woman had made it her mission to travel all over Galahd to keep the stories alive and well, as she said.

Nyx finally shed his furs and the outer layers of his clothing until he was down to a knitted jumper, his mother had made for him, his pants and his boots, and carefully laid it all over the back of the chair across from the Lazarus Clan member that had to be around his age. Him, Crow and Nyx were clearly the youngest people here. Now the heat in the room wasn't as oppressive and he could breathe a bit easier. Crowe claimed the chair to his left, looking even more uncomfortable than she had when he had come in. She was the first Nameless One to take part in a flow laying in a few hundred years.

At last he had stories to tell him what to expect from this. Ulrics had been part of this every few generations since the Clan had been founded. But her...

The leaden wight in his gut only grew, so he went straight for the fumir and also poured his best friend a cup of the steaming beverage. Without saying a word they drank a deep gulp. It nearly scorched his tongue and the stronger than expected spices made him blink the tears from his eyes before some of the other people in the room noticed. Crowe sent him an amused smirk, the traitor.

“Don't worry too much about it,” he whispered, leaning towards her, “The stories say that all you have to do is sit still and watch. The Aware One will do everything else.”

“Well, it's not like you have ever been to something like this either,” she hissed back, clearly agitated over her own ignorance.

The sound of a door opening and closing made them and the other people in the kitchen go silent and look up. Elder Rhea's apprentice, whose name he didn't know, flushed red in embarrassment at the attention she received. She carried a heavy looking wooden box in her arms. It was covered in elaborate carvings of the Galahdian jungle and the sea and was around one and a half handspans high and two long. She carefully set it down at the end of the table where two empty chairs stood and sat down on one of them.

The other guests also settled down, the plate in the middle of the table that had been stacked full of nuts and dried meats now empty, and a tense silence settling over the group. For a short moment Nyx let his eyes wander. Everybody seemed to be as tense as he was despite their best efforts to hide it. The young hunter could practically smell the nervousness in the air.

Finally Elder Rhea stepped away from the bowl over the hearth. Nyx followed her every move with keen eyes as her gnarly fingers opened the box, its well oiled hinges not making a single sound. Within, he knew, lay the cards with which this game would be played, even if it was a game in name only and that, too, just barely.

The fire crackled ominously as she pulled a surprisingly large stack of cards out of the box. All of them were made of thin wooden plates the length of his hand, one side painted in vibrant colours, the other bare. Some of the cards were older than Galahd, his mother had said, while others were as young as to have been made only a few years ago. The river was forever in flux and so cards came and went.

On his left Crowe was gripping her cup so hard he feared she would break it. He took another fortifying gulp from his own. The spicy alcohol spread its warmth quickly and made his face flush even more.

Elder Rhea put the cards into two neat stacks, face down. Her apprentice pulled out a pen and a stiff sheet of paper, her chair the one furthest away from the table. Nyx assumed she wouldn't take part in the game then.

“Thank you all for following my call. Strange things are afoot. This winter is far colder than many of its precursors. The magicks are restless and unsettled and all of you gathered here have to play a part in what is to come.”

Another short silence followed. Nyx shared one last glance with Crowe. Then, without further ado, the Elder picked up the first card from the stack closest to her and laid it on the table with an audible click. Nyx stared at the image. The only clear features he could discern were a pair of sickly yellow eyes on black and a too wide grin full of sharp teeth. The rest was hidden behind a screen of smoky grey, but he thought he could see the black spots of scourge marring a human face. The card practically oozed savage satisfaction and a sick desire for blood and vengeance that made something within Nyx bristle in defense. He shook his head. The alcohol must be getting to his head already.

“The Herald of the Starscourge,” muttered Elder Rhea just loud enough for all to hear.

Nyx couldn't tear his eyes away from it but he could still hear the hissed breaths the others took. The Starscourge cropped up on their isles every few years. Just a few cases, mind, but still enough for all Galahkari to learn what to do if one were to meet one of the scourge-sick. Which, in essence, boiled down to giving them a quick and painless death.

He wondered if there would be another outbreak, worse than there had been for many generations. Nyx had heard of the rising numbers of scourge-sick on the mainland, which was not only, but in part, because the last Oracle had been slain by the Nifelheimr Empire.

“He is the one who will put what is to come in motion, who will guide a great number of the players involved. With or without them knowing has no bearing upon it.”

A second card was picked up and gently laid down next to the first. This one depicted a softly glowing crystal in the form of a heart, wrapped in chains.

“The Chained Heart,” Elder Rhea said, her eyebrows raised in something resembling astonishment. “An opponent to the Herald but not an enemy. At least part of their goals align and lead towards the same outcome.”

The third card was laid horizontally across the first two. It showed a figure all of them knew and none of them liked.

Bahamut.

Self proclaimed King of the Astrals and all around pain in the ass. His tries to conquer them through the Kingdom of Lucis had made the Galahkari hate him even more than they already had after the Astral War. Nyx had to suppress the irrational urge to bare his teeth at the card.

“King of the Sword, Bahamut. Master of the actions taken by the Herald and the Chained Heart. What his own agendas are remains murky in the flow.”

Elder Rhea reached for the first stack again – Nyx wondered what the second was for – to pick up the third card in the laying but then something happened. Later Nyx couldn't say what it had been and neither could any of the other attendees he had asked afterwards. Maybe it had been a slight of hand, maybe a slip of old and tiring fingers, maybe her apprentice had jostled her as she wrote down what had already been laid out. Whatever the case, the intended card flew from her hand and slid over the edge of the table where it landed face down in a loud clatter of wood on wood. Instead another was shown.

The wooden card clattered onto the table, out of order and too far to the left, the sound reverberating through the smoke filled room like gun shots. It did so with a wight that couldn't be natural. For a moment none of the participants sitting around the table moved. Nyx felt his muscles tense up and the fine hairs on his neck stand on end as Elder Rhea leaned towards the fallen card, the beads of her gently swinging braids clinking against each other.

“The Black Ships,” she whispered hoarsely into the deathly silence.

Nyx felt lightheaded as his blood fled from his head. Suddenly any influence, the alcohol may have had, vanished. He looked at the Lazarus across from him, who sat head bowed and clenched fists trembling. The card of the Black Ships laid nearest to him. Their black sails and hulking hulls promising death and suffering.

The gisdrauhti said this card had come into existence when the Conqueror King of Lucis had come to take their lands in the name of his patron God. It was one of those stories that had scared him witless as a young child, but he had only understood it as he had grown into his teenage years. The Black Ships only represented bloody invasion, death and pain and deep sorrow, that would be remembered until the end of their days for his people.

A thin and calloused hand clutched his in a death grip under the table.

The near silent clinking of wood against wood made him look towards the Elder who picked up a new card, from the second stack this time he noted, with trembling fingers. Her mouth was pressed into a bloodless line. She seemed to stare into thin air for a few moments as all others, including Nyx, held their breath. The grip on his hand grew even tighter. His own grip was just as strong.

Gently, Elder Rhea laid it down in front of the Lazarus. Nyx could practically see the relief wafting off of the blond. Leaning forward, he breathed a tremendous sigh of relief himself in tandem with Murus Ostium next to him.

There, facing the Black Ships that sailed in a stormy sea, was the Watcher of the Hunt.

They would be warned.

Thank the ancestors and the spirits of the jungle.

They would be warned.

“Thank ahtrii,” whispered someone across the table. Nyx didn't know who it had been. Nor did he care.

“It seems we have much to prepare for. Dire times lie ahead of us. Dire times, indeed. What needs to be determined now is what role each of you will play in what is to come,” said Elder Rhea, her normally calm voice a tight curl of tension Nyx had never heard before.

More cards were laid out. This time in front of the people sitting around the table.

Orfefs, Father of the Hunt.

The woman with the braids wrapped around her head.

Priestess of Fire.

Elder Istoria Patientia.

Witch of the Hunt.

Crowe the Nameless.

Mage of the Wilderness.

Himself.

Wall of the Wooden Throne.

Murus Ostium.

Ship of the Hunt.

The man with red hair and Solheimr golden eyes that hadn't said a word until now.

Nyx had no idea what any of this meant but when he looked down at the card in front of him, at the man with the coeurl eyes, the wild grin, naked, safe for the white fur wrapped around him, he couldn't help but feel a rightness that scared him down to his core.

#ffxv #the games we play au #nyx ulric #galahdian culture #crowe nameless #rhea etas #murus ostium #galahdian clans #flow laying #my name for my fantasy tarot #bad things are on the horizon #be prepared galahd #has shiva something to do with the cold winter?#maybe?#galahdians call her the white she-demon #they don't like her #duh #the spirit writes #my fics

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grungyblonde · 5 years

Text

Gone Away

Chapter 9

When Ubbe has to depart for the raids, he leaves his young wife and child in the care of the only person he trusts to watch over them, his brother Hvitserk. What follows is a tale of love, betrayal, and brotherhood.

Catch up here

Ubbe wasn’t sure if he was awake, not really.

The tiny cell was pitch-black except for a thin sliver of light that shone from a lone crack in the wall. And still, rather than illuminating the cheerless dungeon, it cast an eerie otherworldly haze on what little he could see. How long had he been there? Was he asleep? Was he even alive?

“Prisoner! Rise!”

It was the first time since the battle that anyone had addressed him directly. He could heard them talk of him while he slipped in and out of consciousness, dragged across the ground with little tenderness or regard for his wounds. They wondered aloud what use the “heathen” was. It seemed not even his captors knew what was to become of him.

The guard’s sharp order stirred a bit of fierceness in the prince’s weakened limbs. Ubbe ignored the ache in his half-healed wound to strand straight and spiteful, grunting when his jailor yanked him by his chains.

“Walk!”

Ubbe only moved when impatient hands pushed him forward so roughly he almost fell to his knees. He caught himself and shot a growl at the stinking man before allowing himself to be ordered ahead, walking as proudly as possible under the circumstances. Resisting the urge to ask questions, Ubbe kept quiet as he was led out of what he now realized to be a tower.

The outside air stank of sweat and hinted of something rotting. It was obvious that the Saxons’ filth extended past their rat infested prison cells. Curious eyes of peasants watched as Ubbe was led across the muddy courtyard towards another great stone building. He ignored them in favor of focusing on not losing his footing as he sank past his ankles in mud and hay and shit. If he was being led to his death then he would die like a true son of Ragnar, descendant of Odin.

***

Brenna’s breath was thick and visible in the frigid midwinter air, heavy and rapid as her frozen fingers hurriedly fixed a cover on her only horse.

“Settle down, settle down,” she murmured quietly to the mare, trying to soothe its snorting and stomping. Her mind drifted to Hvitserk and his odd affinity with horses before she could stop herself.

Brenna hadn’t seen him since their night together; he had been gone before she woke. She understood, even as she felt like sobbing in the cold and unbearably empty sheets. She had made it clear to him what they were, a distraction, a way to cope. She imagined that he believed he wasn’t really wanted there, that he was respecting her space.

But still, she would wake some mornings to find fresh salted meat at her door. A tiny fur for Raul. The beautiful dress from the market. And she would look desperately from side to side, as if she could catch Hvitserk in the shadows. But he was never there.

Brenna finished securing the blanket and gave the chestnut-colored horse a final pat before turning away. The mare had been a present from Ubbe during their first days of marriage but she had never taken to riding on her own. Now the animal just felt like another reminder of a life that was gone forever.

She wrapped her heavy cloak tightly around her shoulders as she exited the barn. The winter was becoming a fierce one and it was the first one she had spent on her own. She and Raul were completely alone and it filled her with a solemn ache but at the same time the thought of being around people was unthinkable. And so, despite her plans, she had stayed in Kattegat, locked away in her own solitude.

Lost in her thoughts, Brenna didn’t see the gnarled tree root barely protruding from the deep snow and the toe of her boot collided with it painfully, sending her tumbling forward with a yelp.

Anger boiled under Brenna’s skin as she clutched her throbbing foot. The hurt seemed all the more unjustified as her eyes stung with unspilled tears. Why did she deserve this? Hadn’t she felt enough pain by now?

“Curse you Odin!” She shouted abruptly as she slammed her palm in the snow. “Curse you for taking my husband to Valhalla!”

Her voice broke into a quiet sob as her hot tears began to flow freely. “He belonged to me. He was mine.”

“Brenna?”

Brenna jerked her head up to see Hvitserk standing just outside the tree line, his bow slung over his shoulders. His thick brows were knit together in concern as he began to walk towards her but halted when she let out a harsh laugh.

“Here to save me again, Hvitserk?” Brenna’s words fell off her tongue bitterly as she looked down to her lap. “Haven’t you gotten tired of taking care of me yet? I know I am tired of being pitied.”

She was also tired of crying. Tired of her emotions being so volatile that she scared even herself.

“I am not here because I pity you,” Hvitserk sighed before approaching Brenna again, more confident in his movements now. He crouched down to her level, forcing her to meet his eyes. “I am here because I care for you.”

Brenna didn’t respond for a moment, only looked back to her hands as a flustered blush crept across her neck. “You left that morning. Without a word,” she finally spoke in a quiet tone.

“Yes.”

“Why?” She snapped back, a fierceness in her gaze that Hvitserk was beginning to be familiar with.

“So I wouldn’t have to hear you tell me to leave.”

Hvitserk slowly stood, offering his hand to Brenna who quietly accepted it.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, not yet pulling her own hand away from his forearm.

He let out a chuckle and Brenna could hear no bitterness in it. “Don’t be. Now go inside before you catch a sickness.”

“Don’t leave,” she blurted out before she could think twice. “I know Raul would be happy to see you. He’s sleeping now but I need to wake him.”

Hvitserk gave a small, almost shy smile that made Brenna’s heart beat faster against her will. “Okay.”

The short walk to her front door was silent, punctuated only by Hvitserk gently guiding her across the threshold with his palm on her lower back. The house was warm with the lit fire and Hvitserk could make out Raul’s sleeping form through another doorway.

“How is he doing?” Hvitserk asked, breaking the quiet.

“Good,” Brenna nodded as she turned to nurse the crackling fire. “He’s asked about you.”

The middle Ragnarsson couldn’t hide his small, proud smile at her words. “Was his fur too long?”

“No, it is perfect for him. You really shouldn’t have...and the dress..”

Hvitserk cleared his throat almost awkwardly, looking sheepish. “I only intended on making sure you had enough for the winter. But I couldn’t resist...I know I probably shouldn’t have...”

Brenna placed her hand lightly on his cheek, surprising them both. “Thank you.”

They were completely still for one long moment, Hvitserk standing still and careful, as if worried he might spook a wild animal. Finally, throwing all caution to the wind, he relaxed and leaned into her touch, placing his hand over her smaller one.

“Do you regret it?”

There was no need to pretend as if she didn’t know what he was referring to. Brenna held his gaze and whispered back, “No.”

The two leaned towards each other at the same time, their lips coming together softly and peacefully, so different than their first kiss. Hvitserk lifted his hand from hers and placed both palms on either side of her face, cradling her to him. Brenna did the same, her touch as gentle and sweet as his.

After a long stretch, she pulled away, an apology in her eyes. “I’m broken, Hvitserk.”

His eyes squinted in understanding and sympathy. “But you will heal,” he comforted.

“Will I? I pledged my soul to him, Hvitserk. And every time you touch me...and I forget him for a moment...it feels like a betrayal. My very happiness feels like a betrayal to his memory.”

Hvitserk smoothed a few wild hairs from her face as his eyes left her, his gaze going distant as he tried to find his own words. “Don’t you think Ubbe would want you to be happy?” he mused to himself. “You are young. This isn’t the end of your life. You deserve to find happiness and...”

“Hvitserk...”

He kept speaking, ignoring her weak protest and looking back at her with fresh determination in his eyes. “Raul needs you to be happy. You will always mourn Ubbe, as will I. But you can still have a life. I know you were my brother’s wife. And I know what some people will say. But I would do everything to make you happy. Everything.”

A question hung between them as they still held each other, Brenna’s lips parted slightly while she stared up at him in surprise. “You deserve someone who can give you their whole heart. You-”

“I want you,” Hvitserk interjected, his tone a little more forceful. “I want you in any way you can give yourself to me. And if you can give nothing to me then I will ask nothing from you.”

Before Brenna could respond, soft hurried footsteps thudded on the floor as an awakened Raul came running towards them.

“Verk! Verk!” the small boy collied into Hvitserk’s legs. He was scooped up into his uncle’s arms with a laugh as Hvitserk balanced him against his chest. The tot clutched at him, babbling his question. “Why go?”

Hvitserk smiled at the blonde boy, still the spitting image of his own older brother. “Ah, just slaying dragons and hunting monsters,” he spoke theatrically. “But I had to come for a little bit and make sure you were taking care of your mother.”

“Don’t go ‘gain,” Raul whined as he buried his face into Hvitserk’s neck.

Hvitserk’s mouth twitched, not sure what to say as his nephew held him tightly. “I-”

“Don’t worry, love” Brenna stepped closer to stroke her son’s hair, her other hand on Hvitserk’s shoulder. “Uncle is going to stay with us.”

Surprised, Hvitserk looked down to her, vulnerability in her face as she looked back up at him. He wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her close into his other side.

“Yes. I’m staying here with you.”

***

The warden had led Ubbe into a lavishly decorated room, tapestries and ornaments covered the cold stone walls. It was obvious he was in a great castle.

And yet it still stinks of shit, Ubbe thought to himself.

His shackles remained on his wrists and ankles but he had been left with a goblet of fine wine and had been instructed to sit and wait. And so he waited.

Finally, the thick double doors were thrown open by two more armored guards and in walked a smaller man wearing a crown, his graying hair falling around his shoulders.

“Ragnar?” the man breathed, his blue eyes widening in surprise as he surveyed a confused Ubbe. “But no, it can’t be.”

Ubbe rose to his feet, ignoring the guards that barreled in front of the king. “I am Ubbe, eldest son of Ragnar Lothbrok and Aslaug, Prince of Kattegat, he sneered proudly.

A smile crept across the elder man’s face as he waved at his guards to lower their swords. “Of course you are.”

@ceridwenofwales @laketaj24 @whenimaunicorn @courtrae89 @akamaiden @honestsycrets @tephi101 @equalstrashflavoredtrash @captstefanbrandt @ivarsshieldmadien @ragnarswhore @nocturneinaminor @therealcalicali @the-arctic-violet @hallowed-heathen @hizz-hizz-mothertruckerz @anarchy-is-coming @greennightspider @imagines-for-the-unpopular @writingfromasgard @tierneygonzalez @thisisabigmaze @pokeasleepingsmaug @triumphantreturnofpies @lisinfleur @naaladareia @starrmoondaisy @alicedopey @givemesmutorgivemedeath @lif3snotouttogetyou @ivarslittlebadgirl @xbergiex @cringemylife @guijh103 @therainebeforesunshine

#vikings #ubbe #hvitserk #fanfiction #gone away

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korkrunchcereal · 5 years

Text

Red Crown Rebellion

Bal-Varos Eyvor had always detested winter. It was a bitter experience of starvation and struggle that left men dead or weak. As lord of the Okenwald, it was his duty to ensure his people were safe. Yet winter had come, brought on by invaders from beyond the sea. As the snow fell, Bal-Varos was forced to bend the knee to a tyrant. He had been forced to listen to the orders of an Indaris and a High Elf simply to survive. He did what he needed to for his people, yet now the time had come to do what he needed for his country.

The letter had arrived three days previous in secret, borne by a man Bal-Varos had never met but had slipped through to his command tent. The man had spoken not a word as he swiftly passed on the letter, before departing. Bal-Varos had spotted immediately the seal of House Indaris upon the letter, yet more importantly the color.

A red seal.

Three days past agonizingly slow, due in no small part to the tenuous wait. He hated the waiting; always did. Time gave way to hesitation and the uncertainty of choice. Yet he needed to wait for the various pieces of the plan to move into position. Three lords of the Gilded Lands had plotted in secret before the High Elf occupation, and it was time to see their plots to fruition.

Bal-Varos wrapped his black furred cloak around himself, staring upwards at the walls of Waycrest and the high elven guards. The small city had been host to a scheme most foul, headed by its former Lord Moonsworn and his son. Yet their plotting had failed, leaving a broken home and an empty throne. For a moment, Bal-Varos mused over the irony that yet more treachery spawned in the northern holding. Would his own plans fall to ruin, much as Moonsworn’s did?

His boots crunched against the snow as he began walking. The tents of the Gilded army lay sprawled out in the near blinding whiteness of frost. Overheard, the sky had turned grey with clouds swollen with rain, or perhaps snow. It was a dark and dreary day and Bal-Varos could not help but shudder at the cold. Around him, soldiers offered salutes, bows and simple acknowledgements to the Lord of the South.

Much of the army was made up of his own men. The Eyvorian Guard were the best fighting force in all the Gilded Lands. None within the golden holdings could match the rangers in accuracy and speed, or the guard in their prowess for they clashed often with the forest trolls and thus were born of combat. It was why Eyvor remained strong and maintained the borders from troll excursions. Winter however bought some respite from the marauding warbands of the south, enough to pull troops away for this moment.

The rest were smatterings of troops levied from the multitude of lords and ladies. It was a rainbow assembly of colors near overwhelmed by the green, yellow and black of Eyvor, but their addition would prove useful. It was a force numbering near six hundred men in total, yet they were not alone. Bal-Varos cast his gaze northward along the wall, spotting the faint outline of tents. Aurelian had called on the Greyhall tp to send troops, and thus had brought them into the plot.

Their force was much smaller, perhaps some three hundred men though they were the elite of the province. Among their number Bal-Varos knew was the vaunted Greyflame Knights, led by his son in law Hyserian. As well were peerless storm-magi and sharp-eyed rangers and though small in number they were quite formidable. Notably absent were forces from House Squallcrest and Blacksand, though such was the plan of Indaris and the Lady of the Tempest.

“Lord Eyvor.” A familiar woman’s voice escaped behind him, Bal-Varos turning with a smile.

“Ranger Captain.” Bal-Varos gave a nod to his daughter Elandril. “Come, walk with me.”

“As you wish.” Bal-Varos waited for Elandril to approach, before he began walking. “The captains have been briefed as per your requests and await your signal, as have your bodyguards.”

“Good, good. And the governor?”

“He has been informed you wish to speak at the Manse and awaits you there.”

“Ah, excellent. What do we know of the north?”

“My husband confirmed that Lord Saderis’ plan worked…weasel bastard.” At that Bal-Varos chuckled, nodding.

“Aye, the Lord Mistborn as he likes to be called now is a bit of one, but he’s been useful so far.”

“Yes, but how long until the snake turns against us?”

“As long as it's more profitable for him to help us, he won’t. But if he decides to be a snake? Well, we’re neighbors.” Elandril rolled her eyes at his statement.

“As you say, my lord.” She looked over, noticing the morose expression his face as he looked up at the opened gates. “What’s wrong?”

“This whole damn mess. We should have seen the war coming.”

“We did, but we can only do so much. The other lords and ladies were too prideful and ignorant, and it comes back to bite them.”

“So goes the history of the Gilded Lands.”

“It didn’t help that Indaris pulled his stunt.” The name Indaris was spoken in a curse, as if the word was a disgusting taste on Elandril’s lips.

“No it did not, but what choice did he have? What choice did we all have?”

“We could have fought,” She suggested.

“And we would have been put under arrest like Saderis the elder or the various other lords that then went missing or be killed. No, sometimes the hunter must be the prey.” Elandril let the statement hang, remaining silent as the two walked through Waycrest’s streets. Snow covered the ground, and very few people were out. Those that were outside were Quel’dorei, who eyed the two in suspicion. Once or twice they saw a Sin’dorei scurrying through the streets, heavily cloaked due to the weather.

“Bah.” Elandril muttered. “It was a mistake letting the High Elves into our lands.”

“There have been many mistakes in this war, but the return of our brethren is not so great a mistake.”

“Father?” She had dropped Bal-Varos honorific, confusion in her tone.

“Look at them, my daughter. They are bakers, craftsmen, statesmen; common people who only wish to live in their former home. They sailed with the ‘High King’ to seek their old way of life. For many here this is the first time in over a decade they’ve stepped foot on Quel’thalas soil. The only crime they committed was leaving when Prince Kael’thas turned to darker paths to survive. They simply chose another way to survive.”

“I suppose so…”

“Of the many injustices Merik has done or proposes, the unity of our dying people is not one of them.”

“What of the soldiers that march under his banner? That slay our people?”

“Ah, that is the question isn’t it? I suppose in time we shall see. For now however we must focus on the presence. If I recall my studies of Waycrest’s layout correctly…ah yes, there we are. The old Moonsworn manse.” Just ahead was the half-damaged remains of the former House Moonsworn’s estate. Half of it had been blown away, leaving a massive hole in the building. The other half had been all but sealed off by the governor who, for some strange reason, had taken the cursed estate as his abode. Perhaps it was because it was abandoned, or perhaps that despite the damage it still remained on the non-destroyed side one of the nicer locations in the city.

As the two approached, several Quel’dorei guards, had been lazily leaning on a nearby wall, perked up. Gods Bal-Varos could weep at the discipline they had. Then again, they didn’t expect any real threat. This was their city now, for there were more high elven troops in the city than Sin’dorei outside. Yet some instinct at least warned the Quel’dorei to investigate the large man and the woman that approached.

“Halt; what business have you with governor Feron?”

“Lord Bal-Varos Eyvor requested an audience with the governor. I am sure you were at least warned of that?”

“Ah, right. Weapons, please.”

“Weapons? I am a lord of the Gilded Lands. I carry them where I please”

“And you’re to be in the presence of the governor. He’s more important than you, blood elf. Weapons…now.” Elandril narrowed her eyes, a hand slowly moving to the sword at her side.

“Alright, alright. If the Governor is so damned paranoid about two lone blood elves in a mansion filled with his soldiers, so be it.” Bal-Varos unlatched his scabbard at his side, offering it out the High Elves. It took both hands for the High elf to grab it, the man gasping in surprise at both size and weight. Begrudgingly Elandril followed suit, offering out a pair of daggers, her bow and quiver, and her sword to the guards.

“Proceed, Sin’dorei.” Bal-Varos gave a nod of his head as he lumbered into the manse. Behind him, he could overhear the guards muttering to each other.

“That was the Bear?”

“I’ve seen cats put up more of a fight.”

“He knows his place here.”

“They insult you, father.” Elandril’s fists were clenched as she walked alongside Bal-Varos, knuckles near white at the indignity.

“Aye, but we must play this game just a little longer. It has been many years since I’ve been in this dreadful place. If I recall correctly…we go down this hall.” Past a multitude of armed guards they walked, ignoring the suspicious glances and glares thrown their way. Ahead they can hear distant murmurs behind a guarded door which, as Bal-Varos correctly assumed, was where the governor was currently. The guards opened the door for the two, letting them hear the conversation.

“-and that is why these Sin’dorei need to…” The pale faced and spindly Governor Duke Feron paused mid-sentence as he became aware of the entrance of the Eyvors. His lip curled up, arms crossing. “Hello Bal-Varos.”

“Governor Feron.” Bal-Varos gave a bow of his head in respect, his daughter following suit. Quickly his eyes darted over the room and at the individuals inside. It was a handful of various high elves in different uniforms that Bal-Varos could not place but nevertheless assumed meant these were ‘distinguished’ individuals among the occupation force. “My thanks for allowing me to speak with you.”

“Yes, well I am a busy man considering the supposed rebellion in the Southwest, but your messenger was very insistent on the need to speak. What do you want?”

“You had yesterday wished to, as I heard, ‘report to me the offenses of my soldiers’?”

“Ah yes, of course! I was just speaking with the good captain Heroux here about the situation.” Feron waved a hand to an armored and scarred high elf at his side. “Your ‘soldiers’ if such a name is fitting for such brigands have been stirring up trouble in the taverns and inns of the city.”

“My men are just enjoying all the taverns this city has to offer, governor. I was not aware such was a cause for problem.”

“It is when they assault my own men.” Captain Heroux finally spoke up. “Harassing and assaulting Quel’dorei soldiers off duty and starting bar fights is hardly fit of a proper military.”

“Have they now?” The doubt in Bal-Varos’ tone was plain for all to hear, some shifting uncomfortably as the large man crossed his own arms. Even unarmed, Bal-Varos was a large and imposing man whose very presence commanded respect. Governor Feron, however, gave none.

“I don’t know how it is done in the backwater south where your lands are, but among civilized society there is nothing like your men have been doing.” Bal-Varos snorted at that, smirking.

“Captain Elandril; tell me, have the men reported any of these so called ‘bar fights’?”

“No, my lord. Nor did I assume they started any fights, for none of them have returned from being off duty with any kind of injury. Unless of course this ‘proper’ military of yours has no idea how to even throw a punch.” Feron’s lip pulled up in annoyance, eyebrows rising in contempt.

“Charming, girl. You will not be so insolent once the High King hears of this dismissal.”

“Ah, not to worry governor I will ensure the men receive a proper talking to of their conduct. They are simply…chafing at being forced outside the walls.”

“For the people’s own protection.”

“Bah; near a thousand Quel’dorei troops in this city can’t protect the people? Come now governor you’re beginning to insult me if you think my soldiers so barbarous as to threaten civilians.”

“Would they not? Your lands are quite close to the trolls; I wouldn’t be surprised if you shared some of your ‘culture’. It would explain quite a few things about your captain. She is quite the dire looking one.” That brought a chorus of snickering from the high elves, but not from Bal-Varos or his daughter.

“Careful governor; your tongue is getting the best of you. Would be quite a shame if I had to rip it out of your pretty little head.” There was a ringing of steel as swords were drawn, the near dozen high elves armed at the threat.

“No, it’s not the troll’s fault for your daughter, Bal-Varos. It’s you.” Feron stepped right up to Bal-Varos, looking up in order to meet his gaze. “So brutish and uncouth. No wonder Aurelian became prince; at least him and his soldiers have proper civility.” Bal-Varos ears’ perked, the great bear staring down at Feron.

“Are you suggesting, governor, that Aurelian’s soldiers are in any way superior to my own?”

“Ah, I see subtlety is actually beyond you Eyvor. Let me explain more clearly. Aurelian for all his obnoxiousness at least knows how to conduct himself to his betters, as do his soldiers. There is a reason the High King requested Indaris troops. Not Eyvor ones.” Bal-Varos’ ears perked again though not at the conversation at hand, the faint ghost of a smirk visible on his features. They couldn’t hear it.

“Let’s get one thing straight, Duke.” Bal-Varos leaned down, eyes not leaving Feron even as the other high elves approached.

“It’s alright; he wouldn’t dare put a finger on me or Merik would annihilate his lands, his house and his family. He’s a dog that thinks himself a bear. Go on, Eyvor. What is this one thing?” At that Bal-Varos grinned, noting now the unease Feron had in his surprising reaction.

“Indaris’ toy soldiers are nothing compared to my men, and you all made the grave mistake of leaving me my troops.” Before Feron could respond further, shouting escaped outside the doors. Bal-Varos lifted his head slowly as the Quel’dorei looked past him.

“What is going on out there?” Screaming was the answer, followed by the thud of something heavy on the floor. The doors flew open as figures streamed inside. Neither Bal-Varos or Elandril turned, knowing precisely who it was. They simply watched the expressions of the others, taking great satisfaction at the confusion, surprise and fear written plain on their faces.

They were dead before they could utter a word in shock, as green fletched arrows pierced throats and hearts. Governor Feron was the only one left standing, though now panic spread across his face. He tried to stammer out anything, stepping back and falling hard on the ground. He looked down, shrieking as he realized he had tripped over the corpse of Heroux whose mouth, opened wide in a scream, was stained by the blood oozing from where his eyes had been.

“Wh-what is the meaning of this!” Twelve Sin’dorei adorned in the emerald cloaks and hood of the Eyvor rangers stood beside their lord, bows drawn. Troll bone jewelry and trophies jingled on their persons while their fists had been stained crimson, giving the air of barbarity to the elves. Feron had been right about one thing; the Eyvor soldiers had picked up some things from the Trolls.

“Come now Feron, where was that confidence you had earlier? Something about I wouldn’t touch you? See, down in the South,” Bal-Varos began, boots making a thud as he paced before the fallen governor. “The soldiers of house Eyvor skirmish with troll warbands constantly. It makes them stronger as a fighting force, more so than any other military in the Gilded Lands. Indaris? Dolls in armor compared to my men.”

“You’ve doomed yourself! Your men! Everyone! The garrison here outnumbers your men. This little rebellion will end as swiftly as it started, and when they finish the other garrisons will turn on the lords and ladies. You created a slaughter, Eyvor!” A great booming laughter was the response, Eyvor turning to place a boot on Feron’s leg. He pressed hard, causing a shriek of pain to escape.

“You think your pretty soldiers will stand a chance? While you’ve been sitting in this cursed mansion plotting and planning, I too have been planning. For the week we’ve been here, I’ve had my men study the layout of the city. If you knew anything about House Eyvor you would have noticed the lack of training we had been doing. We studied. We watched. We waited. As for the other garrisons? Well, Captain? Did Lord Dawngrasp get my letter?”

“Indeed, as did the other lords and ladies.”

“Letters?!” Feron stammered out between screams as Eyvor pressed harder and harder, cracking bones with his great weight. “What letters!”

“"Right. Forgot to tell you. You know the new Lord Saderis? Weasel shit of a person, but even shit has its uses. It's an open secret the little lord of Mistborn is a thug and a cheat, but not as many know he's a demon with a quill. The rat's sent your garrisons southwest, on 'official orders' to deal with a rebellion that isn't there."

"What!?" squawked Feron.

The old bear laughed, flailing his hand about like one of Aurelian's pompous flourishes. "That's right; there never was a rebellion in Wyrmstorm's lands. Your pretty little soldiers are outside the walls of our homes...and Vaeldris Dawngrasp is waiting for them. Whatever survivors manage to crawl away from that massacre are going to find they have nowhere to run. When winter flees and spring comes once more, our fields will be rich in high elven blood. "

“Wh-wha…how. Bah, even if you take out the garrisons, there’s still the army in the Coast! Merik will have your heads!” Eyvor lifted his foot, before bringing it down hard on Feron’s other leg. Bones snapped as Feron screamed in agony, tears beginning to build in his eyes.

“Ah yes, about that. If I am correct, right now the army in the coast is marching north, under the orders to reinforce Shallowbrook.” Eyvor relished the disbelief in Feron’s expression, along with his pain. Worms deserved to be stomped out, after all. “By the time they realize the deception, my army will have marched into the coast to reinforce my son-in-law and I would love to see your armies break upon the walls of Seahallow. But all of that means little if Aurelian is able to keep his end of the deal. By tomorrow your kingdom will be without a king.”

“Treason! It is treason!” Bal-Varos lifted his foot, turning to walk to the nearby window. Outside he could hear panicked screams as his men went to work. Tavern trips had been much more than that. They were information gathering, patrol watching; anything to help for this day. He had watched and waited with the patience of the wolf. The time to switch from prey to hunter had begun.

“Treason? No. I commit no treason in ridding Quel’thalas of your ilk. The real treason was Merik assigning you to our little corner of the kingdom. He didn’t know it then, but he sent you to your death. Do you hear that outside? You were right; I have created a slaughter. But it is not my men being slaughtered. It’s yours.” He didn’t turn to look as Feron tried to stammer something out, only to be replaced by a wretched gurgling sound. His body barely left a sound as it collapsed.

“Your orders, my lord?” Bal-Varos finally turned around, watching his daughter wipe blood off of a curved dagger.

“Secure the center of the city, then rendezvous with your husband and ensure the northern district is taken care of. The Tempest forces are strong but small, and I don’t want them being ambushed. The Quel’dorei may know more of the city then we expect. Get captain Syrene to the west, and Garo to the east. I will take the south.”

“What of the civilians?”

“They think us animals, but we are not. I don’t want a single hair harmed on the common people. Those that surrender will be allowed to stay in the city under our occupation until the situation with the Kingdom Reborn is resolved. Those that fight back? Capture, but do not risk your life if they threaten it. “Oh, and as to your earlier question on the soldiers that fight for Merik? Make a lesson out of them.” Elandril grinned, offering a salute.

“By your orders, my lord.” Bal-Varos nodded, watching as his daughter left. For now, this mansion would serve as his command center and rallying point. He could not help but be amused in the irony, of this mansion now being host to yet another betrayal. His amusement faded quickly however as he heard a distant explosion, lips threatening to pull into a frown.

“Your plan had better work Indaris, or we’re all doomed.”

#Aurelian Indaris #Skullcrusha Writing #The Phoenix War

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whenyouwriteyouwrite · 6 years

Text

shopping with serendipity

Word count: 4,254 words

Characters: Nona, Mezuma, Mikla.

Warnings: swearing.

First | Previous | Next

Nona spent two days recovering. Even though her eye had fully grown back after the first day, Mikla wanted her to rest more as he did his own search on the culprits making the crappy remakes of Oserious’s weapons. However, not really getting anywhere, Mikla was starting to lose his mind being cooped up in Oserious’s huge house by himself, since his Uncle was away on his own business.

Today, he’s decided he needs his own day off and he’s gonna ask Nona to join him.

It was an hour drive to Nona’s apartment, Oserious had his home set up in a pretty secluded area. Mikla hasn’t even contacted Nona in anyway to let him know he was arriving at her apartment.

An elevator ride later, Mikla was knocking on the door to Nona’s apartment.

“Mikla?” a very tired looking Nona answered the door, she was still in her pajamas (joggers and a rumpled from sleep white shirt), which was new for Mikla to see compared to her usual everyday wear.

“Hello hello, Nans. How are you this fine day? Love the outfit.”

“What do you want?” she rubbed her face in annoyance.

“You gonna invite me in? It’s rude not invitin’ company in.”

“I’d rather you didn’t come in.”

“Why not?”

“I have my reasons.”

“Oooh, is the lady friend around then?” Mikla said, trying to peer over Nona’s shoulder into the apartment. “Well she can be included. I have a proposition for ya, Nans.”

“And what is this proposition...”

“Well if ya let me in I can explain everythin’ to both of ya, Banona. You know I hate repeatin’ myself.”

Nona gave out the longest sigh ever and rubbed her tired eyes in both annoyance and thought. This was inevitable. Mikla and Mezuma were bond to meet at some point, she just wish she had been better prepared and not have it sprung on her like this. After careful consideration, she stepped aside and gestured for Mikla to enter the apartment. When she shut the door, she shoved Mikla into one of the empty chairs in the kitchen and pointed at him in warning.

“Stay.” she kept her gaze on him while she walked towards the half wall separating the bedroom from the kitchen where Mezuma was half asleep, wrapped up in the bedsheet.

“Who is it?” Mezuma asked through a yawn.

“An annoyance.” Nona went over and pressed a quick kiss to the top of her girlfriends head.

“Tell the annoyance to go away.” yawning again, Mezuma reached her tired hands out to Nona, gesturing her to come into her space. “Come back to bed, babe...” she pouted.

“I would love nothing more than to do that, but I’m afraid Mikla is a very persistent being.”

“Hey wait-” suddenly wide awake, Mezuma sat up, holding the bedsheet against her chest. “You didn’t say it was Mikla.”

“I made it very clear it was Mikla.”

“Callin’ him ‘an annoyance’ isn’t the same thing, Nona.” Mezuma fumbled out of the bed, still wrapped up in the sheet, and was stopped by Nona from going any further out of the bedroom area.

“Please put on clothes before meeting him.” Nona begged in a loud whisper.

“I meet all kinds of strangers with less clothes on than this, Nona. Remember what my job is? Meetin’ someone wearin’ just a bed sheet is an upgrade for me.” Mezuma waved off her girlfriend and scuttled out into the kitchen.

“Well hello there gorgeous!” Mikla stood up from his seat at the kitchen table and bowed very deeply to Mezuma. “What a happy accident that you happened to be here today.” he took one of her hands in his, bowed his head a bit, and kissed the top of her hand. “Name’s Miklazal, only when I’m in trouble. Associates call me Mikla and friends call me Miky.”

“Mezuma.” she responded with a grin. “Friends call me, Mezzie. Nice to finally meet you, Miky.”

“Charmed, Mezzie.” he shot her a wink before Nona shoved him back into the kitchen chair again. “Relax, Nans, it’s going swimmingly!”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” Nona crossed her arms and stared down at him. “What was it you were speaking of earlier?”

“Oh right! See, I’ve been goin’ stir crazy bein’ stuck in that big ol’ house all by me lonesome and decided to take the day off today. So, I thought ‘well I’ll go out and do some shoppin’!’ A grand idea, eh? But it’s no fun doin’ that by myself. And I thought, I’d invite my best mate Nona to come join me!”

“You need a bodyguard to go shopping?”

“Not as a bodyguard, you absolute banana, as a friend. Since Mezzie is here too, she’s more then welcome- no- I am requestin’, that you come along as well.” Mikla hopped up to his feet and patted off his fur collared jacket. “We’re gonna go on a nice shoppin’ trip as three people who need to go shoppin’.”

“I don’t need to go shopping.”

“Mezuma help me out here.” Mikla turned to the pink demon. “Maybe you can finally help me convince this wonderful giantess to buy some practical and fashionable outfits. She wore those boots the other day, the ones with the gold studs on the back, I know she didn’t come up with that herself.”

“That was my suggestion.” Mezuma smiled and fluttered her lashes at her girlfriend.

“See! That’s is what I need! She don’t listen to me anymore-”

“I never did.” Nona cut in.

“-but she seems to listen to you no problem!” Mikla finished.

“Probably cause you’re not bangin’ her on the regular.” Mezuma pinched Nona’s cheek as the taller woman groaned again.

“I regret so many things.”

“No you don’t.” Mezuma tugged her girlfriends arm towards the other side of the half wall. “We’re gonna get dressed all nice like, and we’re gonna go join Miky shoppin’ because he’s your friend and you do need some new clothes.”

“I don’t need new clothes.”

“You do, you keep bleeding on them or gettin’ them cut up.” Mezuma tossed the bed sheet onto the bed and put on underwear she had stored in one of Nona’s drawers.

“I dislike shopping.” Nona sighed before getting distracted by her less than dressed girlfriend and wrapping her arms around Mezuma’s waist. “I would rather spend all day laying in bed with you.”

“We can do that any day.” Mezuma giggled and gently shoved Nona off.

“Who was it that wanted to do that just moments ago?”

“That was when I didn’t know it was Mikla gracing us with his presence and invitin’ us to go shop.” she swatted at Nona who was trying to deter her from properly getting dressed. “You are distracting me!” she called out with a giggle.

“You think you can stop me with these tiny hands?” Nona asked, easily blocking her girlfriends playful punches.

“I can do a lot of things to you with these tiny hands and I did last night.”

“Don’t.” Nona dragged her girlfriend close and put a hand over her mouth. “Mikla will hear you.”

“Aw,” Mezuma grinned and pushed Nona’s hand away from her face. “Big bad demon gettin’ all flustered~ Doesn’t want her best friend hearin’ how she has seeeeeeex~”

“Stop.” Nona bit her tongue to stop herself from laughing. “Get dressed, you menace.”

“You like me.”

“I do, yes..” Nona smiled and gave her girlfriend a quick kiss before going off to change into clean clothes of her own.

Mezuma was fast, already having on her outfit when Nona disappeared into the bathroom to fix her hair. Black high wasted shorts with a matching black, loose collared long sleeved shirt tucked into the pants.

“Oh Mezzie please.” Mikla slapped his hand on his chest right above his heart. “You slay me, the world cannot possibly be ready to handle you today.”

“The world is never ready to handle me, Miky.” Mezuma smiled and gave a little twirl.

“She’s modest and she gives a lovely twirl. Nona, how could you try to prolong me meetin’ this wonderful lady?” Mikla spoke accusingly to Nona, who was pulling back her hair as she was leaving the bathroom.

“I have my reasons.” Her outfit was a usual one. Leather pants and a black shirt tucked in.

“She just doesn’t like me havin’ any fun.” Mikla loudly whispered to Mezuma.

“I think you’re right.” Mezuma whispered back.

“Please behave.” Nona handed Mezuma her pink furred coat and heels then went to put on her boots and grab her jacket.

“I will if you wear the fur lined jacket you have.”

“I don’t have a fur lined jacket.”

“Yes you do.” Mezuma finished putting on her heels and went over to Nona’s closet to search through it. Moments later, she pulled out a jacket from the back that had dark gray fur on the collar of it.

“I was unaware I had that.” Nona took it from her and stared at her skeptically. “Why am I wearing this again?”

“Because it’ll look nice on you and you’ll match me and Miky. We have a fur theme going.”

“I love you more and more with each passing moment, Mezuma.” Mikla swooned from the front door.

“Mikla.” Nona warned.

“Behave, I know.” Mikla waved her off and grabbed his sunglasses from his pocket. “You both must be starvin’, so brunch is on me ladies.”

~~~

Brunch was at a cafe up north called Vice & Virtue. A cafe Mikla enjoyed for the hilariously ironic name and their extensive drink bar. Just as he offered he paid for everything and escorted both Mezuma and Nona out of the cafe.

“Now, Mezzie.” Mikla hooked an arm around hers. “Tell me, love.. what is it that you do for a livin’?”

“Well, Miky. I’m an dancer at this fine establishment called ‘The Crimson Club’.”

“I’ve been there a couple times, can’t remember if I’ve seen you before or not. I woulda remembered your face if I had.”

“You’re too much of a personality to miss, I don’t recall ever runnin’ into you there.”

“That how you two met then?” he asked looking at Nona who was holding Mezuma’s other hand and walking silently next to the two of them, slowly accepting her fate at this point.

“Not exactly-”

“She saved me from my asshole ex who kidnapped me.” Mezuma interrupted. “He stole weapons from your Uncle but.. Nona saved me. She didn’t have to but she did.” she smiled and squeezed her girlfriends hand. “We did run into each other again at the club.”

“I was on a job.” Nona quickly said.

“No pleasure eh?” Mikla asked, wiggling his eyebrows at Nona.

“It was all business with her despite how much I flirted.” Mezuma sighed.

“I came around, didn’t I?”

“Yes, but it took some convincin’.” the pink haired woman smiled at the other woman. “I am glad you came back that night.”

“You mean that night I pulled her away?” Mikla asked. “She almost didn’ if I hadn’t convinced her to go.”

“Oh really?” she responded, raising a brow at Nona.

“I thought I was too late.” Nona answered with a frown.

“Devastated she was. Practically in tears!” Mikla mused dramatically.

“I was not.”

“Nah, but you weren’t yourself. And I was worried about you! I ain’t never seen you that hung up on someone before. I wanted to help out. You’re always helpin’ me out, I wanted to return the favor!

“I thought you told me friends don’t have to return favors?”

“Did you-” Mikla stopped walking, and grabbed at his heart while leaning up against a street light post. “My Gods, did anyone else hear that? Nona. Banana Nona Nans, just said- nay- proclaimed that we were friends! Am I having a stroke? Can demons have strokes? I’m genuinely curious now.”

“If we ignore him, he will get over it.” Nona tugged gently at her and her girlfriends joint hands so they could continue walking.

“He is a bit over dramatic.” Mezuma said with a laugh.

“Only when he’s awake.”

“But did you mean it?” Mezuma asked quietly.

“I didn’t mean to say it out loud, but yes..” Nona replied softly.

“Hold on!” Mikla jogged up next to them and pushed his sunglasses up to the top of his head. “First stop is right here, ladies.” he steered them towards a large boutique store.

Very posh and nicely dressed demons greeted them at the door. Mezuma stuck herself to Nona’s side, afraid to touch anything because she would never be able to rationally afford any of the things sold here, not unless she wanted to give up eating for a week.

“This is not the place you usually shop at, Mikla.” Nona mentioned.

“I need new sunnys.” Mikla pointed up to the plain black pair on top of his head. “My good pair got knocked off my face and smashed on the ground by some bloke tryin’ to start shit.” he looked over the small portion of wall littered with different sunglasses.

“For one pair of sunglasses?” both ladies walked over to the wall of sunglasses as Mikla was pulling out a pair of round sunglasses with leopard print frames.

“Yes, Nona. I like the sunnys they have here. I always get my glasses here.” he tried them on and dramatically looked over at Mezuma to model them for her. “Yes or No?”

“Absolutely, yes.” Mezuma laughed.

“Thought so. They will clash with my clothes in the best kind of way.” he pushed those up onto his forehead. Then he reached over to a pair of cat eye shaped ones with pink lenses and gold framing. “Try those bad boys on, Mez.”

“Hell no, I can’t afford 40 dollars for a pair of sunglasses, I ain’t riskin’ tryin’ em on and breakin’ them.”

“You wont break em. Go on then.” he handed the sunglasses to her, which she took very gingerly and tried them on. “I’ll find a pair for you to try on as well, Nans.”

“I don’t need sunglasses.” Nona watched with a smile as her girlfriend looked at herself in the mirror and made kissy faces to her reflection. “They look good on you.”

“They do.” Mezuma said with a sad sigh. “Too bad, I want to be able to eat this week.”

“I can get them for you.” Nona offered.

“Nona, I’m not letting you buy me a pair of sunglasses.”

“No, you’re lettin’ me buy you a pair of sunglasses.” Mikla carefully picked the sunglasses off of Mezuma’s face with a smile.

“There’s no way in Hell I’m lettin’ you buy those for me!”

“Too late. I’m gettin’ these for Nan too.” He held up a pair of black sunglasses with a gold frame and backed up towards the register.

“That’s why I offered to by them for you.” Nona said softly.

“I don’t need them.” Mezuma mumbled. “And I don’t need people buyin’ things for me.”

“But you wanted them...”

“I don’t need them. I know the differences between want and need. And I definitely don’t want other people buyin’ shit for me that I don’t need.”

“Call it a friend buyin’ another friend a spur of the moment gift.” Mikla returned and handed each pair of sunglasses to the corresponding ladies he purchased them for. “No muss, no fuss. Just sunglasses.” he winked at Mezuma and put his on before walking towards the door.

“He means well.” Nona put on the glasses she was given and held out her hand for Mezuma to grab.

“This ain’t gonna sit right with me.” Mezuma begrudgingly put on her pair and took Nona’s hand while following her out of the boutique.

“I told ya, no fuss!” Mikla smiled at her. “I like doin’ things for good demons. And you must be some sort of saint for putting up with Nona and whatever follows her, cause trust me, every potential lover I try bringin’ round to this life style we lead ain’t easy breezy. This one had her eye shot out two days ago and you’re still lookin’ at her like she’s made of flippin’ sunshine and rainbows, which ain’t true in anyway, shape, or form.”

“Mikla.” Nona warned as Mezuma covered her mouth to stifle her laughter.

“Ain’t no thing. I buy Nona random shit too. It’s just a thing I do. Nona is right, friends don’t have to pay each other back, but if you want to.. you can just buy me a drink at that club of yours the next time you’re workin’ and I happen to be round the area.”

“Alright, I will... if I’m still there.”

“What, you quittin’? Gettin’ fired?” Mikla turned around suddenly. “Cause I’ll call some damn names if someone plans on firin’ ya.”

“No,” Mezuma chuckled. “I’m startin’ a new job on Friday. I’m singin’ between sets at Fatal Ecstasy a couple nights a week.”

“No shit!” exclaimed Mikla. “I would ask why I wasn’t informed of this sooner but I’m only just knowin’ you as a person today and not just a vague concept Nona likes to cryptically inform me of.”

“You mean after you interrogate me.”

“Ain’t no one alive that could possibly interrogate you, Nanners.” Mikla tapped his finger on her nose and ducked out of the way when Nona took a swipe at him. “I’m sure celebrations are in order for the new job.”

“No more buyin’ me shit, Miklazal.”

“Ooo, you’re throwin’ down the full name then, Miss Mezuma. I see how it is.” Mikla grinned at her. “Alright, no more lavishin’ my friends with things. I do however still need to shop for new shirts and I require your assistance in gettin’ our mutual 3rd party member here some bangin’ new clothes. Do you accept me challenge, Mezuma?”

“Sign me up, sir.” Mezuma responded with a salute.

“A woman after my own heart.” Mikla patted at his chest with a goofy grin. “Now we go do the real shoppin’.”

It was a quick drive away, but the actual store they went to for shopping was a little thrifty place closer to where Mezuma lives. Meaning, things were a little more on the affordable side for her.

“He likes this place a lot.” Nona explained as they walked into the small, empty store. “They always have hideously patterned shirts that he buys in bulk.”

“I’ll thank you not to insult my style, Nona.” Mikla warned. “Now, you two run off and go pick out some clothes to try on. We’ll meet in the dressin’ room area in thirty minutes to try on and show off our finds.”

“Roger.” Mezuma gave him another salute and tugged Nona’s arm towards the other end of the store where the women’s section is.

“I have no desire to try on any clothes from here.”

“That’s too bad.” Mezuma searched through the rack and picked out a black button up shirt with gold floral print along the collar and shoulders. “Cause you’d look really good in this.”

“I suppose..” Nona picked at the sleeve and ran her fingers along the pattern on the collar. “Do I have really have to try everything on..”

“Yes. Because you like me.” Mezuma smiled and handed the shirt for Nona to hold on to. Searching through the rack again she pulled out three more black button up shirts with more subtle gold patterns on them, a couple plain black t-shirts, and, laughing to herself, she grabbed a black shirt with a skull hand flipping the middle finger.

“You haven’t gotten anything for yourself yet.”

“I’m workin’ on it.” Mezuma quickly looked at the time on her phone. “We’ve got fifteen minutes before we’ve got to meet up with Miky.”

Nona followed quietly as Mezuma searched through a few racks, pulling out various shirts and pants to look out before deciding if it was worth trying any of them on. At the end of the fifteen minutes, Nona was carrying more than several items of clothing to the dressing room area in the back of the store.

“Looks like we’ve got some excellent finds here, ladies.” Mikla had already taken off his own coat and rested it on one of the chairs in the changing area. He had a stack of clothes himself, about a dozen shirts with vastly different patterns, and a few things hanging up in the changing cubical.

“You work fast.” Mezuma commented as she helped Nona get their things sorted out.

“I’m a demon who knows what he wants. By the by,” he went to the cubical he’s temporarily claimed, and pulled one of the things he had hanging in there off the hook. “Found this for ya, Nans.” It was a 3 piece all black suit with some gold studs along the shoulders of the suit jacket.

“Why would I need a suit? Suits are impractical to move in and you wanted me to get practical clothes, Mikla.”

“I also said fashionable, and this, my friend, is a LOOK.”

“I agree with Miky, I think you should try it on.” Mezuma shrugged out of her jacket, hung it up on the chair next to Mikla’s, and went to look at the suit. “It can’t hurt to try it on.” she said with a shrug.

“Fine.” Nona sighed heavily before taking the suit from Mikla. “I will try on the suit.” she disappeared in one the free changing cubicles at the other end of the changing area.

“While I have just you here for the moment.” Mikla tugged his phone out of his pocket. “I believe number exchanges are in order?”

“Yes please.” Mezuma very excitedly took his phone, typed in her number, and handed it back to him when she was finished.

“Cheers.” he sent her a quick text message. “You call me or text me about anythin’ and everythin’, Mezuma. I don’t mind. I know it can be difficult bein’... in this life style so I wanna be able to be there, yanno?”

“I knew what I was gettin’ into when I wanted to pursue Nona, Mikla.” Mezuma crossed her arms. “I ain’t stupid.”

“I know ya ain’t stupid, Mez. But it’s different hearin’ about these sort of things and then actually bein’ apart it.” Mikla smiled at her. “I adore you immensely, Mezuma, and I adore you bein’ with Nona. Bein’ with you as made her.. more colorful. For so long she’s been stuck in this rut thinkin’ this was all she was meant for in life and now she’s finally doin’ things for herself and I’m thrilled to bits about it.”

“Thank you for sayin’ that.” Mezuma rubbed nervously at her arm. “I’m always worried that I’m takin’ too much from this relationship. She’s helped me so much in so many ways. But.. hearin’ that I’m actually doin’ somethin’ for her makes me feel a little better.”

“You are, in more ways than you realize. I think bein’ with you has allowed her... to find herself and be more of herself. And I hope she’s treatin’ ya with the utmost respect that you so rightfully deserve.”

“She is.” Mezuma sheepishly tucked some hair behind her ear with a goofy smile.

“Oh love, you’ve got it bad.”

“Just a little bit.” she answered with a wink.

The curtain covering the cubicle that Nona was in was pushed back and Nona walked out wearing the three piece suit. She was too busy with adjusting the sleeves that she didn’t catch the surprise expression on Mezuma’s face until Mikla started laughing at the pink haired demon’s reaction.

“Oh my Gods.” he fell back into his chair laughing and holding his stomach.

“I don’t appreciate the laughing.” Nona frowned at Mikla.

“No, no, no, Gods no, I’m not laughin’ at you Nans. I’m laughing at your girl!” he snorted aggressively through his laughter and pushed at Mezuma’s lower back, making her stumble towards Nona a bit, the shocked expression still on her face.

“Hm.” Nona shoved her hands into the pockets of the pants and smirked at her girlfriend. “See something you like, Mezuma?”

“I...” Mezuma kept opening and closing her mouth to say something but her thoughts were too jumbled to come up with anything coherent. Instead, she crowded into Nona’s space and grabbing at the opening of the suit jacket. “You look really hot.” she breathed, daring to look up at her smug faced girlfriend.

“Do I?” Nona answered with an amused tone. It was so rare that Mezuma was the flustered one like this and Nona was finding great pleasure in rendering her girlfriend speechless. “Maybe I should purchase it then?”

“If you don’t, I’m buyin’ it for you.” Mikla called from the other end of the changing area. Mezuma jumped suddenly, completely forgetting he was there (and more importantly that they were in public) and cleared her throat before going over to her pile of clothes and grabbing something to try on.

“I’ll get it.” she looked at Mezuma again and winked at her as she disappeared back into her changing cubicle.

“Boy oh boy, I can’t take either of you anywhere.” Mikla tsked and sorted through his pile of clothes before picking out a button up that looked like the stain glass windows from a church.

“That was entirely your fault!” Mezuma still flustered and trying not to laugh at how ridiculous she was just now, threw a shirt at Mikla, who easily dodged it and began laughing manically at her.

#wastelands #mikla #nona #mezuma

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kingmaker-thac0hno · 3 years

Text

The Kingdom of Thornvale: A Year’s End

The month of Kuthona, 4711

By Kuthona, the cold winds of winter have settled across the lands, and most folk stay indoors by the warmth of the fire. The Lords of Thornvale announce their plans for the month, expanding the kingdom northwest along the Thorn River, and seeking to construct a horse ranch in the hills northwest of Haven.

Evrin works with prominent members of the Haven militia to familiarize themselves with the newly constructed ballista, practicing the slaying of various tree stumps and old barrels. He speaks with Thefina about the construction of a swivel base for the weapon, which she promises to begin working on next month, as she is dedicated to building a school for Lord Stonewalker.

The halfling begins a series of drills at the nearby Stag Lord's fort, and though the weather is unfavorable, many of the militia dutifully trudge there for practice. A few comment on the halfling's desire to fish on the Tuskwater during middle of winter - in truth, Evrin was acting to sink the enchanted and fey-touched Thorny Crown to the bottom of the lake.

Evrin speaks to Jubilost about the recent discovery of the Taldan burial site, and the little gnome is ecstatic. He immediately packs up his things and enlists the help of his gnomish companions to prepare for a journey to the site. Within a few days, the small group is able to reach the crypt and set up camp. Jubilost informs Evrin that he will likely stay here for some time to properly document and categorize his findings. At first glance, however, the gnome is able to explain some of the site.

Long ago, before the Golden Age of Taldor, the young country sent many explorations parties out to settle these lands. If my suspicions are correct, this site seems to be from that era. The markings on the walls and the arrangement of the burial site seem to indicate a person of some stature - perhaps a noble or warrior-knight. The sheer number of books here is astounding, which is indicative of a scholar. They are remarkably well-preserved, and the handful I dared to touch all appear to be written in old Taldan script. Some of these texts appear to be of a magical nature, and I have refrained from examining those in detail until I can be sure of their safety.

There are some interesting observations I can make, however. First, there appears to be a book missing from this crypt. Did one of your men take it? A surveyor perhaps? Something to look into, certainly: where it went, and why they took it?

Second, the deceased corpse from the sarcophagus, see it there? The crown on its head? It appears as though a gemstone once rested within it. Though I have not once seen a gemstone with such an odd, notch-shaped cut. It too, appears taken. At first I thought it may have simply fallen out in the battle, but no! Look there, and there - upon the gold, what do you see? Those little scrapes could only have been made by a knife or dagger.

Third, you are right. The shield here is indeed missing. You can tell by the depressions on the shield-arm here and here, where the shield straps were fastened. It would have been rounded, likely with a high or low grip as was commonplace at the time - not a center grip shield like we do now. Though I am confounded as to why someone would take the shield, and leave the sword. Or how it would have lasted all these ages, as the wood surely would have disintegrated by now.

Hopefully, these books will hold some answers, though I suspect the missing one is key.

*** Karis speaks to Kimble the tailor and Quill the Blacksmith, setting them to crafting various outfits and wrist dagger-sheaths. They, along with Thefina and her hidden-compartment crates, set to working and by the end of Kuthona have suitable products for use. He directs Lathon to continue drills with the Aldori - now taking place at the nearby ruined fort. The sailor looks hale and much more resilient than earlier in the year, and his demeanor reflects it.

Daily visits with his wyvern maintain the bond between the two, but the winter weather has made the creature lethargic and slow. It seems to sleep more and prefers the warmth of the fire. Throughout the month Karis dedicates many nights to meditation, seeing to connect with his patron - but the Lady remains disturbingly quiet.

Much time is spent on training with the young boy Rhys in learning the elven language and the subterfuge tradecraft. Though a few grumpily shoo the boy, most commoners in Haven often laugh at the lad as he slinks about the town, playing at being a sneakthief. Karis sends the boy on several play-missions such as how many pints is Oleg consuming between breakfast and dinner, performing some infiltration exercises, such as lifting some of Saryn’s fancy boots and returning the footwear before he notices them missing.

Unfortunately, the lad stumbles, and is caught red-handed by the Lord Saryn With a wink, he offers a few unsettling words. Momma always told me taking things without asking was asking for trouble! With that, sinewy elongated tongues jut forth from deep within each of the boots wrapping around the lad’s forearms as fangs tear through the fine leather cuffs and begin gnashing hungrily at his hands. Rhys, screaming in terror, yells, Lord Karis told me to do it! He told me to do it!

After a few moments, Saryn calmly explains, If you apologize to my mimic I am certain he will probably not devour you, but you should probably be far more careful in the future- especially when breaking into a house full of monsters!

Rhys, realizing he is unharmed, apologizes, and explains the exercise. He then sulks away sheepishly, returning to Lord Karis, who takes the opportunity to relay to the boy that failure and learning from these exercises within the confines of Thornvale is far more forgiving than far reaches of its enemies.

***

Upon returning to Blackstag from Haven, once well upon the waters of the Tuskwater, Odis says over his shoulder Well, it’s getting better...but they still don’t think of us as equals.

After a moments pause, Arna responds, ‘Cause we are not equals. We’re yet to provide to the kingdom main At this Odis actually stops paddling and turns to meet her We now is it?

Arna ignores the jest, surprised herself at her choice of pronouns. We know their needs, needs they have been trying to fill, but have been unable...you’ve been trading with Mivon, tell me about them.

What, the eel eaters? Walled city built on a bog. Lots of folk, but short on resources, nasty bunch of gangs. Duels weekly right in the square, damned waste of good swordsmen if you ask me, came the reply.

Let’s make a trip this month, take 3 or so of the fairest looking widows. See if we can convince some apprentice or journeymen to come to Blackstag in the spring. Men will come at the promise of getting their wicks wet or finding a bride along with the coin they’d make.

And so Odis, Arna, and several other women from Blackstag head south to Mivon. The journey is cold and slow, as they paddle down the Little Sellen Rriver via canoe. There are remarkably few dwarves in Mivon, and the city smells vaguely of peat. Nearly everyone here seems to dress in the style of the Aldori duelists, and virtually everyone with a sword seems to have the colors of one house or another emblazoned upon his person. Finally, a warm tavern is a welcome sight, and within, Arna gets to know the folk around town.

Little do they realize that they have ended up in the lower quarter of Mivon, full of the un-desirables. Two near-fistfights and a bowl of spoilt gruel later, Odis and the dwarf end up in a quiet discussion with the waitress, a lass of maybe 15, curious as to why such foreigners would come to her town. After a brief discussion of their mission, the gal excuses herself, promising to return.

Later that evening, the small group is approached by a rough-looking gentleman, but one clearly respected ( perhaps feared?) by his companions. He's heard of Arna's story, and comes with a proposition:

I have, at times, a need to relocate people out of Mivon. Good people. People who shouldn't have to face bad things. It seems that you are looking for people with skills. These people, my people, often do. It seems we may be able to help each other. Take your time, think it over. Have a meal on me - the good stuff, not that swill you’ve been eating. When you decide, let the lass know.

The man turns to leave, but as he does so, he speaks one final time, We never met, understood?

***

Continuing their plans for a school in Haven, Thefina and Stonewalker enlist a number of idle folk to help with the work. The going is very slow, as the cold ground makes digging difficult, but by the end of the month, the school stands - doors open for new students in the new year.

Regarding the position of instructor, Stonewalker speaks to many of the skilled folk in Haven, who all politely decline. Most - like Kimble Purling, Grutzner Brasse, Ardbeg, and Thefina herself ( among others) openly offer to take on younger apprentices to teach their trade, but most express that they have no time for classroom teaching ( and a few suggest that the classroom is no place to practice a trade). As such, no full-time teacher is found to staff the school. One of the local mothers, Midge, volunteers as nanny. In addition, a missive is sent to Blackstag informing them of the opportunity for education for their youth.

Stonewalkers biweekly meetings of various tradesfolk in Haven have encouraged more and more residents to speak up regarding suggestions. Jubilost Nartropple, recently retuned to Haven, suggests that a library of sorts would be good for academics, and is willing to contribute the first book to it's collection: The Mysteries of Mivon: An Exploration of the Eastern River Kingdoms, by none other than himself. In addition, he would like someplace where he could buy some decent ink.

Oleg mentions some warehouses to store surplus furs during hunting season, and one of the local farmers mentions that the cellar underneath Havenhall is getting rather full - suggesting that perhaps a granary is in order. A few of the fishermen in town suggest a establishing a curing house where they can salt excess fish for trade ( or a winter stockpile).

***

Saryn continues his tradition of aiding those in town, speaking words of inspiration to the departing surveying expedition and singing songs of rejuvenation to the workers at the ranch. By now, he has come to know the majority of the residents of Haven, and is able to quickly find and speak with the halfling seeking to create a gathering place for burrowing folk near the old sycamore.

Furret Quickfoot explains that he would like to convert the hill under the sycamore to a home for all burrowing sorts - a haven ( near Haven!) for little folk, filled with amenities that suit their kind. Though not nearly as proficient as the battle-hardened lords, the little halfling seems skilled enough with the blade, and light of foot to boot.

Another brief visit to the giant finds him sitting next to a roaring fire made from uprooted trees and surrounded by empty barrels of ale. Munguk is cold and miserable, and very, very drunk. Munguk walk see mommy, but she not home. Munguk wait. No come back. Mommy gone! Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah.

After a bit, Saryn is able to calm down the sobbing giant, and Munguk agrees that sitting in the cold hills sucks, and would rather go someplace warmer - provided there's something to drink.

Additional training with the owlbear and wyvern is difficult, as both creatures seem lethargic and slow. The young owlbear cub seems to just want to sleep all day, and the wyvern stubbornly refuses to leave the warm stone of the fireplace. As such, Saryn makes very little progress with any sort of 'training'.

***

The end of the month brings the end of the year as well, and various small celebrations during Winter Week. The Sootscale kobolds dedicate quiet moments to Aspu during their Time of Reminiscence. Lady Garess is spotted during the Winter Solstice, performing the Ritual of Stardust by singing songs and dancing about a blazing bonfire.

during the last week of the month, with construction of the school complete and Arangin's Acerage finished, the surveyors from upriver return to Haven, happily chatting among themselves and declaring their job complete.

Most Havenites stay indoors to mark the Final Day, waiting for spirits of the years' dead to pass by their doors on the Night of the Pale, and emerging the next morning to welcome in the new year: 4712 AR.

Turn 17; Abadius, 4712 AR

Petitions:

Cedrin reports that Jubilost has left Haven again, eastablishing a camp near the old Taldan burial site.

Cedrin reports that the workers sent to construct the Graniteworks upon the quarry site still refuse to return to work, and are scared of the giant bird who attacked the site in the previous month.

Cedrin reports that he has been able to process the many requests for land from the citizens of Haven. Virtually all of them are requests for small family farm plots in the outlying hills.

Cedrin has collected the submissions for the name of the newly constructed road. A full listing ( sans duplicates) is as follows.

The Kamelands Pass

Four Lord’s Road

Haven’s Trail

Kesten’s Way

The Eastern Stolen Trail

Rue de Garess

The Stag’s Path

Handor’s Highway

Edicts:

You may issue two (2) edicts for the month of Abadius.

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the-headbop-wraith · 3 years

Text

2 _ 33 Uninvited

They were cutting it close. Though tight time management was kept over the course of the traveled miles, plus the few days they drove none stop – with the stops and time invested into their ‘side quests – it was going to be another close call. Plus, the firmly established straight drive back, and Vivi had already judged there would be no time to stop, save for the absolute necessities.

That is, if all members were able and accounted for.

Vivi set aside her laptop and leaned over in the passenger seat to stare out the side window. As they coasted idly down the road she viewed the smooth sidewalks and narrow roads boarded by muddy slush, some tree bare of leaves or some oaks proud and full beneath the onslaught of the cold. She tries to focus on their primary job, the paid assignment, what the college had sent them out specifically to do. It felt like years ago. Seeing through to the conclusion of some very potent mysteries had been a fulfilling experience, her hope was only that they were indeed growing as a team and she wasn’t just imagining their advancement.

The report for the actual assignment had been fairly low-key if she recalled correctly, but of course she couldn’t bring forth highlights of the report. If Vivi had doubts, she wouldn’t have mapped out the course they had taken. No hostility, just the typical poltergeist activities the family… the Hershey’s? wanted an investigation of their home. There should be no complications, and they could call the investigation a success.

A low groan and a cold nose pressed under her arm startled her briefly, but it was only Mystery with that mournful look in his eyes. Vivi gives him the briefest smile and loops her arm over his shoulders, Mystery pulls himself up more onto her side and rests his head on Vivi’s shoulder. “You cold?” she hums, into his neck. Mystery was shivering. Poor Arthur, not even the heater would help.

“Was it right, or straight?” Arthur asked. He was slowing at an intersection, the light was still green but he needed to be in the right lane or they’d probably get lost for the better part of an hour.

“Right,” Vivi answered. She leans over for the smart phone left in the cup holder – a few bits of gum wrappers and variety of stained cups are stacked in both cupholders. She digs out the phone and checks the notary page. There was a rolled up piece of notebook paper, which she took out and straightened. Mystery gurgled as his cushion shifted about, but he didn’t move from Vivi’s side. “Okay, if we were lucid when drawing up this map, there’ll be this roundabout. Bypass it, and take an off ramp into this little neighborhood. Should be a lot of trees.”

Arthur nods, bleary eyes focused on the road, throat irritated by every little breath. The traffic could be worse, but there was always the random sour apple in the bunch that insisted green lights must be stopped at, and brake checks were proper road etiquette. “Good, okay,” he mumbled. “That sums up about every neighborhood across the globe. Name specifics would be nice, and maybe an address.” He hiccupped and gagged on his sore voice. The thick little hacks endured, until he reached snatched up one of the stained plastic cups in the cup holder. The fluid was tinted brown, diluted and hours old, but it helped.

“Maybe we weren’t as lucid as we thought,” Vivi added. She holds up the map for Arthur to see, her breath misting as she exhaled. “We forgot those things.” The map consisted of scribbles and lines, a few poorly illustrated self-notes such as ‘turn here’ and a black bar of ink, along with a vague message of ‘this is bad’.

Arthur groaned. “I’ll see what I can do.” He signaled when he came to the roundabout, and kept going. He did not want to get stuck in the circular road, seeking a calm spot in the perpetual ring of traffic for the remainder of the day.

They had only seen well-kept landscape and trimmed lawns across the city, most packed down with heavy frost. Salt trucks roved around making frequent stops to lay thin layers of gravel on some of the overpasses, and select areas where tall buildings refused the light of sun to touch earth/asphalt. The roads followed the roll of the terrain, slopping down curving hills, and a few of the local shops in the cities center still gleamed with light from the early morning. After several days of travel, the Mystery Skulls managed to arrive in the city at the right hour for work hours to have begun long ago, leaving much of the rush hour traffic vacant from the inner roads.

For the time Arthur drove one handed, while he held the Styrofoam cup to his mouth and gnawed around the edge creating dozens and dozens of tiny indents with his teeth. When he began to reduce speed and coast along a bend in the road, Vivi leaned around and over to dig around in the back directly behind the bench seat. She avoids looking further into the vans back than is necessary, instead she quickly claims what was sought and plopped down onto her seat with one of her personal backpacks. From the interior she pulls out a small blue colored booklet and unzips the side, the interior walls are fixed with straps and packed tight with pictures.

“I should really clean this out,” she mutters, as she goes through the bundles of pictures. A few tumble out onto Mystery, and the dog grumbles as he pushes himself up away from the sharp points jabbing into his coat. “But I really wanna create a portfolio with these, for later. Y’know?” Arthur makes a little sound, but continues to nibble at the Styrofoam cup. “Thanks.” Vivi says to Mystery, when the hound had leaned down to the floorboard and plucked up the fallen pictures. Vivi takes the offered photos and studies the images, musing over when and where they had acquired the specific shots. Print outs were always a must for the more memorable cases she, Mystery, and Arthur had taken – as keepsakes. It barely registered she hadn’t acknowledged Lewis as a member of their team, only because she couldn’t recall which adventures he had accompanied them on. It hurt, to dwell on the fact and hold the reminder. She tried to think but nothing ever came of it.

Vivi relaxed into the vibrations of the van, and studied one picture in particular. It was a dark image, the flash had gone off and the image of a woman was clearly lifted on the photograph; she wore a swollen, frilly dress and was descending some steps, high in the background was a cracked window in a gray stone wall. Normally, a picture like that would be unremarkable, but the woman the photographer had captured was not standing upon the steps, that were far beneath her suspended and outdated boots.

There was a surplus of images packed into the back of the notebook case, all of which Vivi was certain she had never seen before. She kept tugging out the bundles from the straps of the booklet, the whole time Mystery’s eyes flicked from her face to her hands working to loosen the photos. Some were so old they were beginning to stick together.

Vivi cleared her throat as she set one of the newer pictures aside on the dashboard, while another group was left balanced on her skirt around Mystery. She kept what she had gathered so far pinned to the notebook pressed into the seat by her knee, her other hand held up a bundle of the pictures. “Arthur?” He didn’t take his eyes from the road, but he had released his grip on the cup and set his hand onto the steering wheel. “Art?” Arthur moved his lower jaw to spin the edge of the cup around with his teeth. “Did I take these pictures before… the Cave?”

This time he did glance her way, but quickly snapped his eyes back to the road. The van paused at a stop sign, and Arthur took his time before moving forward. “Yeh.”

Pictures of shadows in windows, the upper half of a man seated at a long bar, bright glimmering eyes peering through doorways, odd crouching blurs beside a bush or the corner of a building, always peering up at the photographer; all photographs of past assignments, but none of them as a group.

“Did I… ever take pictures of just us?” Vivi spoke. Her brow furrowed. These things, she’d never thought of. It wasn’t important a long time ago. Mystery whined and tried to grasp the pictures Vivi was now holding, but the girl gently pushed his muzzle away. “Are there any pictures of just us? Art?”

Arthur gave a slight nod, without looking Vivi’s way. A car rolled up behind them and blared its horn. Taking his time, Arthur checked the driver side mirror, look between the intersections, and then accelerated forward. The car hugged his bumper but he didn’t care. He released the cup from his teeth and it plopped into his lap, the cup was empty long ago and its edges chewed through. “Most of our case files happened to be pics of us just being dumb.” He gave Vivi a smile with the edge of his mouth. “Especially the dud cases.” The look Vivi expressed slayed Arthur’s smirk.

“Then where are they?” she nearly demanded. She put her arms around Mystery when the mutt pressed the top of his head into her chin, the edges of his fur were frosty and almost painful to the touch; Vivi felt this through the coat and sweater she wore. “They weren’t destroyed… were they? We wouldn’t—”

“No,” Arthur said, voice low, barely heard over the sound of the cars offensive horn, as the vehicle zoomed by on the outer lane. “I have them stored somewhere safe. When we get back home, I can get them to you. Just remind me. Cool?”

Vivi took in a deep breath and let the air seep from her nose. Her arms remained loosely wrapped around Mystery, and the dog gurgled comforting sounds into her neck. “Yeah. T-thanks. Um… I think you missed a turn back there.”

While Arthur made the long detour to turn around in a dead end neighborhood, Vivi worked to pack the photographs together and put them back into some relative semblance of order. She stuffed the small book case back into her backpack, before raising the picture she had left placed on the dashboard. “This is the house here.” Vivi checks the back of the photo, before handing it to Arthur.

The van huffed off the main road and left behind the energetic traffic of the thoroughfare, their transportation followed the calm swaying roads laid between ditches and patches of fresh grass layered by the previous snow fall. Tall iron fences boarded the edge of the neighborhoods, and the homes that lay beyond. Arthur took the next turn in the road and ventured to the end of a long cul-de-sac, its numerous homes huddled in close at the edge of the black pavement. The van slowed as they approached one home that lined up with the photograph – many of the homes in the area had shared designs, but this one’s color scheme stood out from its fellow cookie cutters. The house had the largest lawn leading to the front porch, and a balcony built above the porches entrance alcove.

“Looks like the place,” Arthur comments. He pulls up beside the curb and cuts the engine, and shuffles forward on the edge of his seat to stare out of the haze infused windshield. The house wasn’t as wide as it was tall; it might be two stories, four if the attic was included. The roof was decorated with hard ceramic shingles with a satellite dish perched like a gargoyle on the roofs corner, and a lightning rod upon the roofs peak to challenge the sky. “Everything looks well maintained.” That was a note Vivi observed, and Arthur remarked on at first arrival; some ghosts did not like drastic changes or renovations to their homes. That is, if this was a genuine haunting.

Vivi tucked the picture back into her backpack, and stared for a moment longer at the looming edifice. “Well, they must be having problems if we were sent,” she presumed. Vivi was already reaching for the door handle. There was no reason to stall, except that she didn’t feel up to interacting with complete strangers, and didn’t know when she would ‘feel ready’ for this scenario. She tries to sound upbeat, as she says, “Let’s go greet the clients then, and see if they’re ready for us.”

Arthur scoffed as he opened the driver side door and slipped out. Mystery followed, plopping onto the road beside him. “They better be,” he grumbled. “We took a surplus of stops along the way.”

“Maybe they think we’re not coming?” Vivi commented. “They didn’t seem too thrilled when I called earlier, or maybe that’s because it was really early?” She flashed Arthur a sheepish smirk from her side of the vans cabin. Arthur rolled his eyes and shut the door.

Before Vivi climbs out of the van, she casts one last glimpse over the bench seat, just enough to assure herself everything is as she left it in the back. “We’ll be back soon,” she murmurs, without raising her eye level any higher. “Take your… see you in a bit.”

Vivi goes around the van, making certain all the doors are locked, though she and Arthur would be within eyeshot and this side of the street was virtually deserted, especially in the cold weather. Arthur says nothing, and opts to turn his attention to Mystery as the hyper pup goes streaking across the snow encrusted lawn. Arthur shivers as Mystery frolics, the dog paws at icy ridges churned up by the previous day��s rough play.

“C’mon, don’t get all dirty in the snow!” Arthur harps. He almost envied Mystery, almost. The cold didn’t seem to bother the dog, at least not at first. It was possible Mystery was fully enjoying the wholesome natural cold, rather than the vans—

Arthur jumped when a hand gripped his shoulder. “Vi! Really?” he panted, gripping the front of his shirt with his flesh hand. His knuckles were nearly as cold as his metal joints.

“Sorry,” Vivi chocked. She tugged Arthur by his good elbow, and walked him along the freshly shoveled sidewalk. “I didn’t think you were spacing.” Her shoes were definitely not for this weather, and she needed Arthur’s balance to keep from falling in a patch of refroze ice.

“I wasn’t,” Arthur muttered. “Mystery! Come on, first impressions are everything!” Arthur looked aside as Vivi snickered into her scarf top.

“He’s been cooped up for a nearly a week and a half,” Vivi said.

“Filth and lies,” Arthur mumbled. If it wasn’t for Mystery, Arthur was certain he would’ve gone mad with cabin fever. “I’m pretty sure he’s rubbing it in my face.”

Vivi tightened her arms around Arthur, mostly to shield his bare arms from the cold. “I’ll dry him off as we get the equipment. We’ll— WEEEEEEE!” She fell. And dragged Arthur’s noodle limbs down with her. Even with Vivi tangled around him, Arthur still managed to hit the sidewalk first and Vivi dropped onto of his chest. “Oh god Art, are your goods compromised?”

“I swear ‘a chair’ is an unadvisable use of my person.” Arthur took a breath, his ribs ached and the cold was burning his back. “Could you get off? Before my arm freezes to the ground.”

It wasn’t a challenge to get up off the sidewalk, not after Vivi was on her feet and hoisted Arthur up with her. Hopefully no one had seen it, but if they had then probably they would have stormed from the house to assist the two idiots. At any rate, Arthur was grateful for that small fortune.

As they neared the porch Vivi realized the home was not as large as was anticipated, maybe six bedrooms and two or three whole baths. Several large and pint sixed windows dotted thr front of the home, and the porch alcove that they were nearing. Over the roof some of the ice had melted and refroze, giving the slabs a white with black outline.

Arthur stamped some of the ice crystalizing to his shoes onto the course mat, he brushed some of the frost from his backside and stuffed his icy hands into his pockets. Vivi gestured the door, but Arthur shook his head. Frowning, Vivi placed her fists to her hips and leaned further from the large iron front of the door. Arthur shrugged and kept his arms plastered to his side.

“I’m sure they have the heater on inside,” Vivi hummed.

Arthur grumbled in his throat, and thrust out a fist to hit the doorbell. When the chime faded there came a lull of quiet. From within a voice hollered, a few voices. Arthur shuffled to stand behind Vivi and hunched over, mostly from the cold.

“Kind of hurry,” he muttered. “Have they checked the thermometer lately?”

“Do you want to borrow a coat?” To Vivi’s question, Arthur shook his head. They turn to the door as it creaks open, rather loudly, and a face peers back at them.

“Yes?” the woman behind the iron door inquires. She looks between the two people on her porch and holds the wood door beside her shoulder, as if there isn’t a large metal door between them.

“Hello Mrs….” Vivi paused, and grinned, and was making a very bad first impression. Crap.

Arthur leaned towards Vivi’s shoulder and whispered, “Hirstein.”

“Mrs. Hirstein.” Vivi widened her grin. The homes occupant stared at the two on her porch suspiciously, and edged the door shut. “We spoke this morning over the phone? We’re the Mystery Skulls, called out to help with your poltergeist problem?”

The woman squint her eyes a bit, and the embarrassment began to set into Arthur that perhaps they had gotten the wrong house. Not only that, they had crash landed in front of the wrong house. “Uh… Vi?”

“Finally,” the woman muttered. She introduced herself as Beatrice Hirstein, Brea for short. Brea opened the steel door and shook hands with Vivi. Arthur held his arm metal behind his back, as he took Beatrice’s hand. “We’ve waited long enough. It might’ve been better if you had gone ahead and canceled, if you were going to have problems with traveling.”

“Right,” Vivi murmured. “Sometimes things just come up. Anyway! Y’know before we come in and start going over the investigation aspects, we have some equipment to bring in.” Vivi gestured back toward the van parked on the street curb.

Brea raised her gaze above Vivi and gave the van a careful look over. “Er, are you staying in a hotel tonight?”

Vivi pulled back from accompanying Arthur, when he turned to head back for the van. Barks echoed across the open yard, bouncing around as Mystery trotted around beyond the edge of the porch. “No?” she said. “We came straight here to check in with you first. For the record, can I just have you tell me who’s all going to be around while we’re investigating?” She glanced off when Mystery renewed his joyful yips.

Brea leaned on the doorframe and held up her fingers on one hand. “Just my husband and our two kids, they’re twelve and thirteen. They know to behave themselves.”

“Well, that’s good,” Vivi reflected. The family was screened before the assignment was handed over to her group. “And who’s experienced the most paranormal activity?”

For now Vivi would collect the verbal data of the home, then later she’ll want a notebook to frantically scribble down everything she was offered. Arthur would make sure to find a few clean notebooks, and check the batteries in the camera and whatever else they might need. No candles, hopefully. This was their actual assignment, so the audio recorder and EKGs could go too.

“Hey bud,” Arthur mumbled, when Mystery trotted up beside him. “Stretching your legs?”

As Mystery fell in stride with his companion, he puffed out his chest and shook his mane out. His pelt was coated in fine white dust and it shimmered across his bristled fur under the early noon sun. The temperature would be on the rise soon.

Gray street slush crunched under Arthur’s shoes as he moved off the sidewalk and stood before the back of the van. He palmed the keys in his pockets but made no move yet to open the back door. In a way he wanted Vivi with him, she could help carry supplies and keep him company. Someone he could ramble to about the equipment, the whole time Vivi would comment and she’d ask if he realized he was nervous yet, and Arthur would admit he was. Vivi had been so patient with him these past few days, he wondered if it was because….

Arthur glanced at Mystery beside him. The hound stood fixed to the ground, eyes staring intently at the doors.

There was nothing to stress about. Go in, get the supplies. Vivi would be along shortly, he was sure.

“I’m a fuckin idiot.” Arthur takes a breath and holds it. The key chain clunks hollowly against the metal of the door as he twists the key, the latch clicks. He drags the door open and shivers. Standing outside, his toes numb and his arm aching, it was kind of pleasant. The sun was quickly gliding higher into the sky, the vans shadow and his intermingle on the snow and thicken, darken.

The interior of the van. It has become something else. Something Arthur no longer recognized. It’s steady resonance, faint but persistent and nearly nonexistent. The panicked shrieks of his own strangled voice came back; he didn’t remember much of when he… awoke. Vivi wouldn’t tell him much about it, she had only assured him it had been bad, but he had gotten better once she assured him nothing was wrong. Good news, he didn’t fuckup for once.

He’s indecisive of how to start or speak, he stands there longer than he should on a black crust of ice and transfers his only good hand from the vans door, to his arm, and shivers just a little more. He wanted to ask Vivi, but her disposition said it all. It hurt, to leave words unspoken, but it hurt worse to have thought—

A scrabble of clacking claws on metal jar Arthur out of his pensive state, but he sees its only Mystery clawing his way over the back bumper and into the van. Arthur exhaled a puff of thick mist as he whimpers. The dog hastily spins about draws his ears back along his head.

“S’okay,” Arthur mumbled. He set his flesh hand on Mystery’s mane and rubbed the dog’s neck. “I’m a little tense.” He hesitates to climb up into the back with Mystery, though he knew it was perfectly safe. Probably. The back of the van had long ago lost that sense of security it’d had from the ye olden days, when colors didn’t mingle so much. Since that… time, it wasn’t the first choice for a rest if Arthur could help it. The back and the floor wasn’t necessarily a place he’d equate to pain, it just…. he didn’t like waking up there.

“Uh… hey Lew. Just here to grab some things.” Arthur climbed up into the van, but made sure to give the one side of the wall plenty of space. “Please… don’t like, spring out at me or do anything weird. I’ll leave you to do your thing, so hold tight.”

Rustling came from the furthest corner of the van behind the bench seat, and Mystery was hunched over with a bag of chips in his teeth. The dog pawed at the bag, but otherwise couldn’t do much to get it open without making a mess.

The mood immediately lightened, and Arthur managed a small snigger. “Hold on, I’ll get that.” Mystery released the chip bag when Arthur took it, and the dog watched as his companion took the sides and splint the bag open. “Try not to make a huge mess.” Mystery peered down at the bag that was set before his paws, then, tilted his head to peer up at Arthur. “Aren’t you hungry?” By way of reply, Mystery snatched the edge of the bag between his teeth and raised it to Arthur. “No-no. I’m not hungry. You go ahead.” But Mystery wouldn’t hear that nonsense, and persisted to push the bag of chips against Arthur’s leg.

Arthur sighed. Once Mystery got something on mind, the pooch would not let it go. “Okay, here.” Arthur took the bag and scooped out a handful of chips. He stuffed the salty snack bits into his mouth. “There. I’ve eaten,” he grumbled through a mouthful of chip. “I’ve gotta get to work and collect some— ”

A cold hand gripped his shoulder. Arthur let out a squeal and nearly choked on his food.

“Sorry!” Vivi yelped, cringing back on the floorboard. “Geez, necessary much?”

Arthur managed to choke down his food and took a few short breaths. “Did you have to grab me? A little, ‘Hey you. How you do?’ would suffice. You don’t have to just throttle someone by the shoulder to get their attention.” He shuffled aside as Vivi pushed on by. Arthur began going through their bags, as Vivi began examining the cuvees.

“That hasn’t worked yet.” Like Arthur predicted, Vivi had already acquired a notebook and situated herself against the opposite wall of the van. With the notebook propped on her knee, she began to hurriedly scribble down on the unmarked pages. Halfway through filling out one page with her microscopic writing, Vivi set the pen down and watched Arthur as he plucked out the provision bags. “Hey, Art?” Arthur stopped moving, his head slanted slightly to indicate he was listening. “You didn’t have to do this alone, y’know? You could always wait for me.”

Arthur lowered his head and picked up one of the flashlights that had been left on the floor. “I know. I know. I just trying… keeping busy helps.” He tucked the torch into the side pocket on the bag. “Aren’t I always saying that?”

Vivi nodded. “Yeah, you are. Have I mentioned, lately.” She clicked the top of her pen and set the tip back down onto the paper, but didn’t start writing. “You’ll tell me if I’m asking too much of you?” Mystery paused and pulled his face from the bag of chips, he looked from Vivi to Arthur, when Arthur paused in packing a backpack.

“You know I would,” Arthur murmurs.

Vivi lowered her gaze, and placed her arm around Mystery when he shuffled closer beside her. “I wanna believe you,” she replied. Mystery put his head up under her chin and whined.

Mrs. Beatrice Hirstein had been hospitable and offered a spare room on the ground floor, to the Mystery Skulls during the duration of their examinations. The spare bedroom actually had a nice little set up, for being smack dab in the middle of a haunted home. Otherwise, Arthur would have had no problem unloading a few of his bags on the couch. They had windows facing the side and front yard, and a few folded blankets were already laid out on the bare bed with a crumpled up mattress liner.

“No one said anything about a dog.” That was Mrs. Hirstein’s voice.

Vivi froze in the doorway of the spare room, narrowly missing Arthur’s grimace when she made a precise three-sixty and rushed back down the short hall, to the front door where Mystery was standing. Blocking the dog’s path was Brea, waving her hands at an unimpressed Mystery and making ‘shoo’ noises.

“Outside with you. Dogs are not allowed in the house,” demanded Brea.

“He’s our assistant,” Vivi blurted, once she reached the two. Brea gave her the most offended stare. “He’ll be helping us in our work. If you’re worried about fleas or shedding,” Vivi ignored that look Mystery was giving her, and went on, “He doesn’t do none of that. He’s a… uh, a special breed.” Vivi sidestepped as Mystery padded on by, pinned between the tips of the dog’s teeth was the edge of a packaged honey bun cinnamon roll.

“That’s impossible,” Brea growled. “You! Dog! Here puppy-puppy!” She stepped around Vivi and tried to march after Mystery; Vivi was close behind her. Mystery seemed completely oblivious, or just flat out ignored the woman reaching for his collar. She couldn’t seem to grasp the red band around his neck, and Mystery always seemed to keep three steps ahead of the woman. “Call your dog back.”

Vivi rolled her eyes. “Mystery. No. Stop. I mean it.” Vivi didn’t mean to sound so monotone, she was about as fed up as Mystery was at this point. “Do you want a Scooby snack? I swear, that always works.”

Mystery kept going down the hall, went into the spare bedroom, and strolled right up to Arthur, who was seated on the couch placed along one wall of the room. A small tackle box sat on the couch cushion beside Arthur, and he had a small screwdriver which he was using to loosen a screw somewhere in the elbow connector of his prosthetic. When Mystery appeared beneath his peripheral, Arthur jolted and finally took note of the two escorts. Whatever question Arthur was about to ask was bypassed, when Mystery began shoving the packaged cinnamon bun into his knee. Arthur set the screwdriver back in the box, and reached out for the snack treat.

That was when Brea Hirstein acts. She snared Mystery by his collar and yanked the dog backwards. “Your dog cannot be in my house,” she seethed.

A long time ago, somewhere out on the porch, Vivi had deduced this case would be difficult. No fault on the ghosts part Vivi was certain, but due to their clients complete lack of cooperation.

In response to the nagging Mystery dropped the cinnamon bun and went limp, his legs curled up under him but the dog made no sound. He only tucked his front paws under his chest and held himself up, as Mrs. Hirstein began hauling him backwards.

“Now wait a darn minute,” Vivi hissed, snaring the woman by her wrist. “It’ll be— ”

“We don’t work without Mystery!” Arthur snapped. He stood up from the couch holding the prosthetic close to his body. Brea had stopped dragging Mystery, and Vivi kept her hand on the woman’s wrist to prevent her dog from being strangled. “You want to call someone else in our place, that’s fine. But we can’t do this without Mystery. He’s a… y’know, a good friend of mine, and you won’t treat him that way.”

“He can stay,” Brea went on. “But out— ”

“Too cold,” Vivi rebuked. She managed to loosen the woman’s grip on Mystery’s collar, and the dog rolled away. Mystery sprang behind Vivi and peered around Vivi’s skirt as Brea swayed, moving to grab for the dog’s collar again, though Vivi was right in her way.

“He’ll stay in the garage then,” Brea muttered.

“Nope,” Arthur persisted, shaking his head. “Either you let all of us stay together, or we’ll leave together. Y’know, we get a lot of these dud cases, and eighty percent of the time Mystery’s the one that sniffs out the gimmick stuff – like wires, hidden stereos, things like that. You don’t have anything to hide, do you?”

This seemed to have caught Mrs. Hirstein’s attention, to Vivi’s dismay. It didn’t bode well, but maybe it was just her suspicion.

Mrs. Beatrice Hirstein straightened and looked from Arthur to Vivi, and then to the dog hiding behind the blue clad figure. “Fine,” she grumbled. “But he does not go anywhere near the kitchen.”

Arthur was about to make another comment, but Vivi staggered past Brea and slapped a hand over Arthur’s mouth. “Yes, that seems fair,” she chirped, and smiled. “There’ll be plenty of other places in your home that we’ll be able to thoroughly check out.” She released Arthur’s face, and the lanky figure slumped down onto the couch. “But we really do appreciate this. Don’t we, Mystery?”

Mystery took a moment to adjust his glasses with a paw, and tugged his collar out away from his neck. He glanced up at Brea when she glowered down at him. He gave a slight nod, and spun away marching out of the room.

“Where’s he going?” Brea hurried to the doorway and out, the hard soles of her shoes faded down the hall.

Vivi waited until she felt assured Mrs. Hirstein was out of earshot before she spoke. “Is it so much to ask that people actually read our credentials?” Arthur glanced her way, but said nothing. “How’d they even find us? Throwing darts at a list of names?”

“They don’t really specify ‘us.’ No one’s done that….” Arthur let his voice trail off. “I’ve got to check the equipment. Make sure everything’s working before we start.” Vivi turned to him, and Arthur had lowered his head as he really focused on the panel of his arm. “I didn’t really check the case file on our way over?”

Vivi moved over to the tool box on the couch and picked up the cinnamon bun that was dropped inside. “Do you need some extra time to fix your arm?”

Arthur popped the long panel along his arm open. He shook his head, and began prodding the inside of his arm. Vivi wasn’t watching. “I’m just switching out a stick drive, and giving the gears a small tweak. Ten minutes.”

“Getting warmed up?” Vivi sat beside him on the arm of the chair. Tentatively, Arthur nods.

While Arthur did the required maintenance on his arm, Vivi took the liberty to seek out Beatrice Hirstein and spoke with her along the lines of the Mystery Skulls procedure of investigation. For the most part, Brea seemed to be in full agreement and nodded along with whatever Vivi related of their work and credentials. Yawn-yawn, but Vivi poured over how the group functioned, what would be done in the home, and on general tried to minimize the inevitable Q and A.

“So, unless you specifically want us to examine a room, we won’t go in.” Vivi was invited to sit in one of the chairs beside the dining room. This was down the hall from the front door and from her vantage point Vivi could look out one of the windows beside the door, and see where the van was parked beside the curve. It seemed very far away.

“But we ask that you keep doors closed, mostly for your comfort,” Vivi went on.

“And what’s the dog doing?” Brea inquired, as Mystery padded through for what must’ve been the fifteenth time.

Mystery crossed the room to a door, stood on his hide legs and tried the handle with his paws. Vivi could hear Brea’s jaw hit the floor when Mystery managed to open the door and stepped inside, then closed the door behind him.

“He just gives the area a look over,” Vivi answered. “I honestly don’t keep tabs on him, he just kinda does his own thing. He’ll accompany someone during the main portion of investigations.” Vivi returned her eyes to her notebook, and flipped through the ink scratched pages. “If you’re okay with it, we can examine the master first and have that information to look over. Sometimes activity fluctuates when there are new people visiting a home.”

“Of course,” Brea acknowledged. “How soon will you be able to start?”

“We kind of already have.” Vivi pressed the butt of the pen to her lower lip and read through the notes. “We get a feel for your home, its natural state during low activity hours. That’s usually in the day, when the home is awake.” The lack of a response prompted Vivi to glance up. Brea had the ‘skepticism’ expression many cynics wore upon first interview. And they thought her group was a bunch of weirdos. “I don’t mean that literally the home is awake. That would be silly, right?”

“Right,” Brea drawled out, still skeptical. That wouldn’t change any time soon.

By the time the briefing was drawing to its close, Arthur had emerged from the side hall that led to the spare room. The stairs to the second floor were located at the edge of that same hall, and Arthur joined Vivi and Brea as they began to ascend the narrow staircase to the upper floors. As Arthur approached he raised a hand and finger, as if on the verge of a grand proclamation.

“We’re headed to the third floor,” Vivi announced. Arthur brought his foot down soundlessly and pursed his lips into a thin line. “Could you grab the voice recorded and maybe the walkie-talkies?” Arthur didn’t answer, but performed an over theatric about face and walked off. “Do you mind if we leave an audio recorder in your room somewhere? On a dresser?”

“I actually do,” Brea spoke. She held the banister beside her as they moved slowly up the steps. “Anyway, we never hear anything in that room, but some of our personal property has a tendency to go missing, only to appear elsewhere in the home. It’s gotten bad as of late.”

Vivi wasn’t surprised. She wanted to question more of the families personal activities, and begin to make sense of the ‘paranormal activity’ that was supposedly happening in this home. To top it all off the house wasn’t that old, it was built in the late nineties and the most of its history she did find specifically, only mentioned a brief kitchen fire before the Hirstein’s moved in, but no casualties noted during that time.

“How long will it take to fix our home?” Brea inquired, quite suddenly. Vivi had been considering sneaking the audio recorder into the room, when Brea had spoken. The steps ended and Brea stepped out onto a carpeted floor of a corner hall, and turned as Vivi met her on the second floor. “I’ve seen some documentation online, and I have some concerns to voice.”

“Well,” Vivi began. There had to be a way to voice this without sounding corny. She continued to follow Brea, as the client continued to walk along the hall, waiting patiently for a reply. “You can’t really fix something that’s not broke. There’s nothing wrong with your home, it just… has inhabitants you didn’t realize were there.”

“Yes, I’m aware of the similes,” says Brea. “But my family was not made aware of the presence when we made the purchase, and I would like to appreciate my home as it was initially advertised. This constant tomfoolery I cannot stand, it’s stressful having to hunt down our property. You know how it is. And… what if they’re dangerous?”

“That’s why we were called out here,” Vivi said. She narrows her eyes a tad when Brea turns her head to acknowledge Vivi’s words. “We’re not Ghost Busters. I hope you didn’t get that sort of idea when you contacted the university. Mystery Skulls are here only to document, and understand what kind of activity has manifested. And then, if it’s determined to be unfriendly or… I dunno, if it is, we’ll work with you on that.”

They walked to the end of the hall, the wall opened up and there was another set of steps that rose up to the third floor. Brea paused at the staircase base and turned to Vivi, hand outstretched to sit on the banister. “But that’s why we called you,” she insisted. “We fear for our lives every night we sleep in this house.”

“Somehow, I doubt this.” Vivi pressed her glasses higher up onto the bridge of her nose, and folded her arms with the notebook behind her back. “My group is highly reputable,” she assured. She tried NOT to think of the Cave. “The college can give you a full backing of our work, and I give you the Mystery Skulls word; whatever actions are necessary, we will undertake to insure your families safety. But, as far as I’m concerned you are not our only clients this evening.”

“Are you being serious?”

Vivi gave up. This was going nowhere. “We may yet determine that your visitors are somehow a danger to you and your family,” she said, nearly sighing. “We’ll see what we can do. First though, I need to know what we’re working with. Can we proceed?” Vivi gestured the steps that Brea stood before.

Difficult clients were far more common than she cared for. That was why Vivi preferred finding the cases to explore, more leniency and they could get up and walk out in instances when their potential client became obnoxious about their work system.

Three windows were set into the wall, ascending with the steps, and Vivi could look out and see the front edge of the van. Since starting up with the university and receiving ‘official’ funding, they had been able to travel further away and stay out for longer on trips; or, Arthur, Mystery, and she were able to.

Though now that she considered this patter – it didn’t seem that long ago – she was sure Arthur had made a light comment about the recent work. The newer assignments the college had offered them. What was it? Not that bad, or something. It was a phrase along that line; even he had thought they were doing busy work. That’s what he thought! Busy work. They were not licensed Demonologists, but the university had them investigating the lighter claims. It was for Arthur she had decided, because he had been the one… in the accident. Or…

For her?

“Miss!” Vivi jerked back from the window plane and looked to Brea, five steps between them and Brea beyond the edge of the upper floors flat. “Are you okay? I’m sorry, I was yelling at you.”

“I’m fine,” Vivi choked. “I was… I had a thought about the evening.” She shut her eyes and pressed a hand to her cheek. It was ice-cold outside, the edges of the glass pane tinged with snowflake kaleidoscopes patterns. “Everything’s fine.”

The steps were kind of steep, but Arthur had a little fun going up them on all fours. Was he just weird, or did people still do that even at his age? Oh well, might as well keep at it until he needed a cane or a hover chair.

He made it to the second story and straightened up, then gave his perimeter a quick look over. He was at the corner in a hall, it opened up ahead of him and led to a single door. Probably the balcony they saw it when walking up the lawn. Vaguely the layout reminded him of his uncles shop, though it was clearly not like it at all. He was just projecting due to a mild case of homesickness. Where were the steps to the third floor? They didn’t continue here.

The wall at his shoulder had a long window in it, inside the house; some kind of art deco. He walked over to inspect the window, if it was truly a window and not some sort of trick mirror. The room inside was spacious, with couches and chairs spaced about in the late noon sunlight, and a teen sat on one of the long lounge chairs, a book at their face. One wall of the room was circular and filled with thin windows, and the opposite wall had a built in bookshelf painted soft crème colors to match the surrounding walls. The bookshelf was filled with books, and a telly set sat on the lower shelf.

“Um…” Arthur leaned toward the open door, and waved his good arm. “Excuse me. Hello?”

The person, a girl, jumped at his voice and brought her knees up to her chest, the book that she held was hugged to her front tightly. “Who are you?” she demanded immediately.

Arthur nearly ran for it, but managed to keep himself stationary by gripping the doors edge. “Sorry!” he yelped. “I wasn’t trying to startle you, really! I was trying to let ya know that I’m here with the Mystery Skulls. Er, you saw your mom and my friend come by here, ja?”

The teen, she peered at him carefully. Suspiciously, as if she were ready to snatch up a phone… or throw her book. She was no longer crushing the book to her chest. “No….”

“I’m sure they came up here,” Arthur muttered. He pinned his metal arm under the backpack on his back and leaned a little more into the doorway. “Well, you were reading so you must’ve missed them.”

“Who else was with you?” she asked.

“My… friend. I’m Arthur, by the way. Your name is?”

“Jezebel,” she answered. Jezebel shuts her book and sets it side, and brushed back her long hair. “Why are you here?”

“The investigations?” Arthur grumbled, shrugging. He paused to put the crook of his arm over his mouth and coughed. “The disturbances and stuff. Hold on.” He hacked and hacked but it just made his throat worse. “I should probably take some medicine.”

“Is that how you died?”

Arthur recoiled about as soon as the last syllable fluttered from her mouth. “W-what?” he stammered, and took another step back. Jezebel scooted forward on the couch a little more and leaned on the flat end of the chair. “What? No-no, I didn’t. I would know!”

Jezebel intertwined her fingers, but held from speaking. She looked Arthur up and down slowly, and said softly, “You’re a spirit, aren’t you?”

Dozens of old spook stories flashed through Arthur’s head. The guy was walking down the street but something was wrong. He didn’t know why he was there, and whenever he tried to ask someone for help they would look at him with horror and flee. That wasn’t Arthur. But Arthur did wonder, what did the man look like? He could imagine Lewis deep in the bottom of a pit searching for his friends. Confused, lost. Abandoned. Did he ever once call home? What would his parents have said? Or would some stranger answer the phone, and inform him they were at their son’s funeral.

Arthur brought his hands up and pressed his palms over his ears. His head was pounding, he was trying to breathe but his throat was raw from a long night of restless tossing. “Think carefully, don’t let this get to you.” There shouldn’t be any sort of debate, he’d know if something had happened. He would KNOW. His last memories, he had breakfast with Vivi that morning. And—

He stopped there and focused his eyes on Jezebel, patiently watching him mild concern on her face. She was there. But… Oh.

“You!” Arthur gagged. “You’re… Yeh!” He pivots and takes off without another word. Just like the people in that story. No word of why, only terror and escape.

“Vi! Viv-vi! VI!” he called. No answer, he was alone. The stairs were at the other end of the hall, far from the room and its mysterious occupant. Arthur vaulted over the rail and charged up the steps three and five at a time. When he reached the third floor he tried to keep racing forward, but some unseen obstruction cut his legs out from under him and he flopped forward. An agonized snarl slipped out of him, before he slapped his good hand over his mouth and buried the sound down. He’d hit his bad shoulder and jarred the connector built over his bone. Like, that was so bad. He rolled onto his side, the backpack flopped off his shoulders as he writhed and twisted.

“Holy shit! Shot! Shoot mushrooms,” Vivi cried. “Art! What happened? Did you try to walk through a wall again?” She raced from an open door across the hall and slipped down next to the cringing figure. “You’ll be okay,” she cooed, and rubbed Arthur’s back. “Just calm down. Breathe. Do you need your meds? How can I help?”

Arthur shook his head. He took his hand from his mouth and gulped in some fresh air. It took a few tries of noiseless gapping, but eventually he could manage human vocalizations. “I think I saw one of ‘em,” he wheezed. “Some girl, sitting in this room just reading. Said her name was Jezebel. Vi— ”

“It’s okay,” Vivi soothed. She placed a hand on his shoulder. “There were no hostile accounts in the reports, remember? Did she rush at you, or something?”

Arthur shook his head. “Nothing. Nothing,” he burbled. But he ran away. It hadn’t hit him until now, the ghost was talking to him and he up and ran without a second thought. Just like in that story. How non-threatening could a spook get?

He expected Vivi’s, ‘Why did you run? You shouldn’t do that,’ preaching; the one she used to lightly scold him with when he was the first to take off from an encounter. She doesn’t even bat an eyelash about it. In a way, Arthur kind of missed it.

“Was he hurt?” Mrs. Hirstein called, as she clopped up to the two. “Does he need some ice?”

“No-no. It just stunned me,” Arthur mumbles. He pulls the backpack from his shoulders and gets the flap open. “I also snagged your camera.” He let his prosthetic rest across his bent legs as he pulled out the digital camera.

“Are you ready to stand? Hold on to those?” Vivi wrapped an arm around Arthur’s backside, and took the bag beside him. Her free hand gripped his good arm, and she carefully heaved Arthur up onto his feet. She held the shaking figure until he remained balanced on his own. “Ready to do this?”

Arthur flashed Brea a quick look, and suppressed a sigh of exasperation. “Yeah, Vi. I just knocked myself down.” Looking back he saw that there was a railing at the end of the stairs, which had not been there prior he was certain. At least, he hadn’t seen it in his panic. The only way to step onto the stairs was from the side. Brea hadn’t looked away from his arm yet. “I’ll walk it off, and I’ll never know.”

That ended the concern for his wellbeing for the while. Vivi decided to keep better track of Arthur, though she couldn’t press to be more open any more than she had in the past; it would take time, Vivi assured herself. Too often Arthur tried too hard to hide what was hurting him, she was fully aware of this now and sadly, had come to anticipate it at his worst times.

“Before we continue,” Vivi said, as she took her arm from around Arthur. He offered the camera, which Vivi accepted and mouthed a ‘thank you’. “Let’s examine the area where you saw this specter?” she says. “She could be hanging around still. Can you do that?”

Arthur nodded. A bit tentative, he wasn’t sure why he was so nervous. He attributed it to embarrassment. He led the way back down the steps, with Vivi and Brea in company. “It was in this room with a bunch of windows. Cool layout,” Arthur mumbled. “Like I said, just reading. She hardly noticed me until I said hey.”

“You might’ve broken the pattern,” Vivi commented. They descended to the second floor and cross the hall, to the indicated room.

“This is the study,” Brea stated. She followed Vivi as the blue figure marched right into the room and gave the walls a brief check. “My husband’s idea. It’s his man cave or something.” Brea watched as Vivi began to snap pictures off, in random directions.

The walls were a darker tone of mahogany and had a few family photos, the son and daughter Tyler and Savannah when they were toddlers. Savannah had short mauve hair, like her father Arthur presumed.

After entering and giving the room his own examination, without the panic, Arthur murmured, “It’s all changed.”

Vivi looked around more carefully now, aware this was not the layout Arthur had first seen. There was a dark wood desk to one side of the room, with a silver lamp on the desks corner. The floor was dominated by a miniature golf set up, with the putter leaning on the desks side. The bookshelf on the wall was filled with paper documents all in pristine order, and on the lowest shelf was one of the new age record players.

“Why would the room be different?” Brea asked. She was edging back out of the room, as if she expected it to detach from the rest of the home and jettison off into outer space.

Vivi flipped her notebook open and elected a clean page to scribble on. “The room may have not changed?” she mentioned, while writing. It was tricky to do while holding the camera in one hand. “Personally, I think sometimes spirits project their memories onto others without meaning to. It’s actually more common than you think.”

Arthur sniggered and coughed. “I hit that rail going up the stairs,” he muttered.

“Is that what happened?” Vivi said, smirking. She looked Arthur’s way as she chewed on the tip of her pen. “But still, the rail didn’t go anywhere, you just couldn’t see it.” Arthur was still coughing into the crook of his arm, and had turned away from Vivi and Brea. “You gonna hang in there?”

The dry rattle soothed out, and Arthur nodded his body forward. “Yeah. I’ll get some Dayquil in a bit here.”

When the study shed no more insight onto the poltergeist, and Vivi’s pictures turned up nothing noteworthy, Mrs. Hirstein returned to the third floor leading Vivi and Arthur. Through the hall leading to the master bedroom Brea opened one door, then turned the next corner and opened another door on the furthest wall. The third floors wide hall was decorated with artistic reprints, and beside the wall near the second door that Brea opened was a wicker bench.

“Most of the activity is experienced on this floor,” Brea explained. “My husband’s heard voices from these two rooms, and the bathroom over there.” She indicated a door across from the room she opened. “We’ll hear running water early in the morning. Ridiculously early.”

“From your account, I thought probably this would be a case of a residual haunt,” Vivi explained. She departed from Brea and Arthur and went to the bathroom door. “Those are kind of tricky. I guess it could still be residual.” The door whispered open, and Vivi peered into the sun slicked interior of the bathroom; it too had a few small windows. “I read some geology reports about this area. The soils fertile, and there’s a lot of limestone in this region.”

When their client turned to Arthur with that sort of perplexed look, Arthur gestured with his hand. “Limestone is known to sort of store paranormal activity, or just residual energy in general. There’s not a lot of reports on it,” he said, voice creaking off into coughs. He slung the backpack strap over his shoulder and crossed the hall to Vivi. “She talked to me… er, Jezebel,” he added.

A contemplative hum emitted from Vivi as she played with the door, swinging it in on its hinges. “I wanna say both, for now, “,” Vivi settled. “Until we know about the home, and since the activity doesn’t seem intelligent? It’s more natural.” Arthur was about to argue, when Brea broke in.

“Whatever sort of haunt, I don’t gather what you two are talking about.” Brea stepped closer, reducing the distance between them. She smoothed out some the wrinkles in her coats front, then, crossed her arms behind her back. “You’ll have an easier time fixing one over the other. Is that what you’re saying?”

Vivi pulled the corners of her lips down and grimaced. She shut the bathroom door and turned to Brea. “Like I said it really doesn’t work with the mindset, that something is broken. Paranormal activity isn’t broken, it’s just…”

“A different state of energy fluctuation,” Arthur inserted. The room was warm but he still felt chilled, and looped his arms under his vest sides. “Different haunts react in different ways to us, the same as we react to them… I guess.”

“Right,” Vivi agreed. Brea moved her steadily annoyed glare from Arthur back to Vivi. “And… in the case of a residual, there’s no way to fix that sort of haunt. Even if you were to tear down your home,” Vivi motioned the walls around them. “It just kind of keeps going on. It’s saturated into… whatever, no one can figure out how that thing works. We have personal theories, but people don’t actually understands why it’s caused, that’s why we do so much research.”

“Oh,” said Mrs. Hirstein. It was the same monotone as before. She looked angry, but her anger had no factual direction and just floated about her eyes in a blurry haze. “I suppose you’ll do what is necessary then.”

It was despairing, but for the time Mrs. Hirstein had relented in the tireless ‘fix my broken house’ as if investigators were a business filed in the yellow pages, that could be summoned to replace a faulty pipe or reinstall a furnace.

The home was evaluated without further incident. After the master bedroom was ‘looked’ over, Mrs. Beatrice Hirstein led the Mystery Skulls to the areas of the home where activity had been most noted. The haunt was classic – objects relocated on their own, voices and sometimes clacking footsteps on floors where carpet was laid, and doors or windows would open and close on their own. It was Brea and her husband Adrian, and their son and daughter; an average family. Their house itself was tall but it was filled with many rooms and fixed with low ceilings, its individual built practically sized for the base square footage of the homes total foundation. It wasn’t difficult to splint up the audio recorders among the main rooms where the highest activity was noted, that being between the third and second floor. Occasionally, as Vivi and Arthur examined the structure of the rooms and used the EKG reader to pick out readings on electrical plugs, Vivi would flash her camera off and check the image.

During the homes examination, Mystery had all but made himself scarce. Neither Vivi nor Arthur ever saw the illusive hound at the same time as he drifted around the rooms, but that was a good sign if any. Mrs. Hirstein seemed to have forgotten about Mystery completely, or the hound was just excellent at being seen only by whoever he wished to be seen by. Mystery did typical dog things, sleeping on a spare couch, lying in a warm sun beam, but usually Arthur would catch him examining a shut door or just trotting around the halls as if he were late to some meeting.

The second floor had an entertainment room right across from the stairs to the upper floor. The family decorated the room with small, movable couches and a large television, the back wall of the room was dominated by a library of DVDs. The EKGs bulbs flashed across its top as Arthur drew back from the plugs behind the television desk.

“I’m getting some mild readings,” he said. “But it’s not quite faulty wiring. Also, they only have a few plugs.” He froze when the lights in the room went out. Windows along one wall would normally allow plenty of light into the room, if the thick curtains were not drawn.

“That’s something to consider,” Vivi answered. She snapped off a few flash pictures around the dim room, one for each corner, before she flipped the lights back on. “They think stuff goes on when no one’s up in here. Usually thumping and bumping, heard from the garage below. We can check that out tonight, once everything’s quiet.”

The heater was on full blast, and in the room with the low roof the sultry temperature was welcomed. It helped a little, but Arthur swore his body was just emanating waves of icy mist. He shivered as he knelt down beside the wall, where one of the filters was placed in the carpet. The EKG reader responded in no way to the vent. That would have been rare, and in the case of no paranormal activity would indicate fraudulent claims. “Walls are quiet,” Arthur murmured. “Nothing suspicious here. Vi?” Vivi stood beside the doorframe and was gazing up at the low hanging light of the room. Arthur called her name a few more times, before Vivi snapped out of her trace. “You with me?”

Vivi nods. “I was just wondering.” She stops, hesitates. “Art, could you— ” The sound of voices cut her off. They weren’t loud, but she shut her mouth and listened as they came near.

From the doorway beside Vivi enters a girl with short dark mauve hair, and a shorter boy with saffron hair which must have matched his mothers. “Oh, hey,” the boy greets first. The girl walks right by him and heads toward the television.

“Hi,” Vivi barked. “You’re Tyler and Savannah?”

“Yeah,” called the girl. Savannah turns on the television but does lower the volume. On the bright screen wild flashes of movement dominate the program, of a silent battle from the new Power Rangers series. “Our mom said your crew might be up here.” Then, she glanced around from Arthur near the telly, to Vivi at the door. “Where’s the rest of your guys?”

Vivi was about to answer, but Arthur rounded the front of Savanah and began speaking quickly. “It’s just us. Two people and a dog, no one else— I mean, who else would be with us? How many people does it take to investigate a haunted house? We— ” At this point Vivi sprint forward and grabbed Arthur by the back of his backpack and yanked him back. “Right! Did you expect anyone else?” his voice reached a higher pitch, and cracked. Arthur turned his face into his shoulder and began a powerful round of coughing.

Sometime during Arthur’s spiel, Tyler had ducked out of the room but soon returns wearing an expression of confusion. “I thought you’d have a film crew, or at least a camera operator,” he said. A little chime came from him, and Tyler reached into his jeans pocket and produced his phone.

“Sorry,” answered Vivi. “We’re investigators, not a reality show. We don’t mass market our findings, because we in fact believe in our work.”

“But I thought this was like a real job or something?” Tyler prompted. He was fully engrossed with whatever was on his phone, and began tapping across the touch screen. He missed Vivi tighten her fingers around the notebook and camera, and was completely oblivious as Vivi begin in his direction.

Arthur moved around to intercept her, and shouted out a garbled phrase, the suddenness startled Tyler. “We had some questions for you both! Would you be down with that?”

Tyler shrugged his shoulders, and returned to his phone. “Sis?”

“I’m not actually in to this ghost hunting gig,” Savanah mutters. She moves some of the small couches around, and pulls one of the denim covered furniture closer to the television. “Mom’s the one that usually sees and hears things. I think she’s just hormonal.”

“Same,” Tyler says. “Sometimes I think I hear voices, but the TVs usually on, or someone’s radio. I never have the… what d’you call them?” He looked up at Arthur.

“Experiences?” Arthur edged, eyes squinting. Vivi was frowning holes into the back of his head.

“Yeah,” Tyler mumbles, but fails to elaborate on the topic. His phone chirped its tune, and he was back to swiping his finger along the screen. Tyler takes his time reading whatever is there, Vivi half expected him to show them an image or something eventually, but that never happens. “This house gets pretty boring.”

“Okay,” Vivi grumbled. “I have a question. Did your mom at any point recently upset either of you?” She pointed the side of the camera to Tyler then Savanah, now seated on her couch and interested in the television program.

“No,” Tyler said. “Why do you ask?”

“Don’t go into my room,” Savanah piped up. “You’re not going into anyone’s room without permission, are you?”

“No,” Vivi sighed. She brought her wrist up and rubbed at her eyelids. “Unless you leave your door open.” She began stumbling after Arthur as he tugged her towards the open doorwayclose, but somehow so far from them. “If you remember anything, let us know. We’ll… hope to… it was… enjoy your show.”

They avoided the topic of the teens, and settled to resume investigation of the home before the family began to wind down. The sun was already fading among the tree tops of the distant horizon, the days were getting longer but the small portions of time that were added on hardly made the difference yet, or could be credited at all during the busier days.

To Vivi the past few days had taken forever to move on by, despite the fast setting dusks. She and Arthur went through the motions of examining the available rooms, checking out the usual spots most commonly mistaken for paranormal activity. Whenever Vivi had a spare moment between checking faucets and conversing with Arthur, she would try and check out the windows that faced the front lawn. The house had so many windows, it was an odd wonder none of the family had managed to spy something staring through the window panes during the late hours of the night.

“He’ll rise whenever he’s ready,” Arthur murmured, as he reentered the bathroom. They wandered back and forth between third and second floor, sometimes separating to test the movement of sound through the two floors. Currently, a small trickle of water was leaking from the bathtubs faucet. Arthur moved quietly behind Vivi, while she stood peering out of one of the small port windows of the bathroom. The shower faucet shut off completely with no problem, and hardly leaked once the water was cut. “Faucets are kinda hard to debunk,” he began. “Older homes you’ll have problems with water lines leaking, and sometimes the same problems happen in newer homes. It just depends on the pressure beneath the lines….” He turned to face Vivi. “Hey, Vi?”

“The pipes are in good order. But we get that a lot, don’t we?” she said. Vivi maneuvered around to face the row of cabinets beneath the triple sinks, and opened one of the cupboards. “You said bubbles sometimes form in the pipes of these larger homes?”

“Yeah,” Arthur drawled out. He’d go with it, until he and Vivi had some time together for private talk. “Depends on the barometric pressure of the water, as the temperature of the outer walls shift during night and daytime hours. The walls are insulated, but—” Before he could get going on the endless house ramble, Savanah came wandering in and stopped at the doorway.

“Excuse me,” she said. “Can I get in here for a bit?” Savanah leaned back onto the open door, and the wood bumped into the plaster wall.

Arthur barely spun Vivi’s way to ask her confirmation, right as Vivi whooshed on by. Arthur followed, stumbling, another series of convulsions working from his lungs. “Take your time, we’re done in here anyway,” Vivi states, as they exit the room. She flipped a page in the notebook with her thumb as she took the side of the hall, Arthur was close behind her. “Let’s check the other rooms on this floor, before we head downstairs.”

Briefly Arthur was confused, since they had just checked those rooms and Vivi was walking towards the stairs that led to the second floor. Then, he caught on and didn’t say a word.

There were endless debates in the past about their worst clients. Arthur didn’t have much to add on that subject, he mostly just listened to Vivi rave about these people and their ‘infuriating’ attitude towards the paranormal profession. For the most part, the client’s the university had elected as of late for their cases were usually tolerable human beings; but there was always an exception at some point. It was inevitable. In the past when the Mystery Skulls was an independent group, Vivi had up and left some fool clients when the situation had reached intolerable levels. That hadn’t happened in… how long? Arthur was disappointed to realize he couldn’t remember.

The Hirstein’s weren’t terrible people, but trying to get any support from them on their poltergeist problem was like trying to drag a large bucket upstream in four feet of white capped rapids.

“Don’t you have any fancy equipment?” Tyler found them in the study room. He was still on his phone, chatting or something with someone.

Vivi walked around the open space where Arthur had claimed to have seen the spirit Jezebel, completely oblivious to the presence of others until she was spoken too directly. Vivi considered the audio recorder she was holding. Currently, Arthur was on the other side of the window that was in the offices wall, tapping around below the frame. She could hear his knocks through the thin plaster wall, but the interesting thing was how the sound traveled through the walls around the room itself. It could easily be mistaken for paranormal happenings, if someone was trying to mess around with someone else.

“Most ghost hunters don’t need fancy equipment,” Vivi offers. Arthur made some movements with his hands. Vivi sighed, and waved back at him. Arthur shrugs. “You can ghost hunt on a budget of about fifty, depends on what you’re looking for.” Vivi turns to the space of the wall behind her and snaps a picture. She checks the camera and frowns. Delete. Nothing interesting at all in any of the dark corners or windows, she was debating on giving up on the camera this go around. Save the batteries as Arthur was always saying.

The silence hit her at once, and Vivi looked the room over wondering where Tyler had relocated himself. She caught visual of Arthur framed along the edge of the window, dragging his shirt sleeve down as much as he could over his prosthetics elbow and twisting his body over until he was nearly out of sight beneath the glass. It took a few seconds for Vivi to comprehend what had happened.

Tyler was already swiping through his phone screen, when Vivi stormed through the doorway of the study and snatched the phone away. “Hey! That’s not yours!” he snarled. Vivi was not much taller than the youth, but she could stand on her tiptoes and keep the phone beyond Tyler’s reach.

“You took a picture of him,” she accused, not screaming but voice on the verge of a fiery explosion.

Tyler looked offended. “I did not,” he shot back. “You give me back my phone!”

Arthur said nothing, but he kept himself curled over and hiding his arm beside him.

“I will speak to your mother about this,” Vivi hisses, “and either your phone will be destroyed or wiped completely.”

The teens eyes grew three times their size that day, and he bared his teeth. “My mom won’t let you,” Tyler screamed. “And if you break my phone, my mom will sue you and everyone you know.”

Arthur got between the two, and reached up for the phone in Vivi’s hand. He reached it easier than Tyler, but Vivi had not released it to him. “Lemme see it.” He tugged it from Vivi’s hands once she relented her hold.

“But Arthur—” Arthur held up his metal hand, while his flesh fingers manipulated the screen. “Latest phone, huh?”

“Y-yeah,” Tyler stuttered. “But if you—”

“I can’t break everyone’s phones.” Arthur paused and studied whatever he found on the screen. “Oh, you have a lot of pictures.” Tyler didn’t comment, he settled for glaring and did well with that. Arthur ignored him and continued, tapping his thumb here and there, double tapped. When he had finished, he handed the phone back over. “Nice angle. Your photography skills could use some practice.”

Tyler used both of his thumbs to touch over the screen, then frowned. “Did you delete them?” He didn’t look up, even when Arthur shook his head.

“Just hid them. If you look, you might find them.” Arthur fixed his rumpled sleeve and smoothed out his stretched collar. “We’re kind of busy, unless you wanna help.”

Tyler gave Arthur one last look of irritation, before he slowly pivots and wandered off back to the entertainment room.

Vivi waited until the door slammed shut, then turned to Arthur. “Hid them? Really?”

Arthur shrugged. “People are always taking pictures,” he murmured. “Most times, I don’t notice. I’m not the phone police.” He walked away, back to the doorway of the study room.

“I can talk to their mom,” Vivi mentioned, as she followed. She noticed the audio recorder still in her hand. “I have evidence of what happened, if he gives us any trouble. He shouldn’t—”

“Vi.” Arthur stopped at the doorway. He tugged at the wrist band on his metal arm, and turned his gaze back to her. “That… it’s not helping. It never does. Please.”

Vivi lowered her hands to her sides. She’d never noticed. Maybe because she never thought about Arthur like that, or his arm. But why? Her strongest memories of Arthur were the most recent, weren’t they? She could only remember when he was whole, when he was with a prosthetic. That wasn’t his arm. It was the arm he had replaced. A false arm, and false memories.

“Arthur,” Vivi stammered. It was coping. It was a lie. But that wasn’t the whole story. None of them knew the whole story. The Cave, the dark, the green tinged swirls coiling amongst an endless sea of gnarled teeth. “Let’s call it a night.”

“Huh?” Arthur followed Vivi’s movement as she dashed by, nearly pushed him aside into the study room as she hurried toward the descending steps. “What about spook hours? We’re supposed to do that.”

“We’ll take a break then, and go back at it when everyone’s asleep. It’ll be better for us.” Vivi didn’t look back, she kept walking with only the presumption Arthur would catch up. “I need some time to research the house, find out if someone named Jezebel once lived here.”

More than anything she wanted to complete their research and leave. Unfortunately, they had not begun the bulk of the investigations, and the Hirstein’s wouldn’t be helping them at all with their work. Vivi feared the core of the problems stemmed from the fact that the poltergeist haunting the home were not in any way dangerous to the current living family, but whatever or whoever had remained would not be tolerated by the Hirstein’s, even if Vivi could convince the family otherwise.

The ghost was not the problem. It was the family that lived here that was causing the problems.

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