#its surrounded on three sides by coal train lines

[fakezucchini]

Damn the bakerloo line. Must it be a squeaky as a West Virginia coal train??

[billie-venus-wrote-a-book]

Chapter One

“Elmsbury-Gallows Welcomes Responsible Drivers!”

***

              Elmsbury-Gallows was a brown town. Each leafless tree as you drove in on Elmsbury Town Way was a particular shade of coffin-mahogany brown; as you turned into Main Street, each of the once colourfully-painted shopfronts that lined either side were now peeling to reveal the eaten-at browning wood beneath, littered with pockmarks in small clusters like lotus seed pods; the pavement, if you could see it through the constant layer of fog, was constructed from large concrete squares- once intended to be reminiscent of limestone but now weathered to the same colour as the shell of an old computer, and littered over with squashed chewing gum and orange cigarette filters. Each house down on Mansfield Estate through to Abbey Way through to Forest Estate through to Church Street could have been tranquil, perhaps even quaint, late Tudor era buildings, but had been eaten alive by the council’s insistence on updating the architecture instead of preserving it: rows of brown brick houses with brown brick rooves and brown brick driveways. On the opposite side of Main Street sat Hopkins Village, a miniature conurbation growing like a benign tumour out of the trees like some vintage painted plasticine toy village, quaint and perfect and smug. Whether it be Eastbound or King James’s, the small local parks all looked the same in the end: the grass pack-hardened by frost in the winter, and burned dry and crisp by the summer heat: there was never really any sun in Elmsbury-Gallows. 

The town sat somewhere between Leicester and Derby, tucked away into one of the secret compartments of conservative brush and shrub present in the urban fells of North-West Leicestershire. No major, or working, train lines ran through or nearby, and all four roads that led up into Elmsbury were winding, thin B-roads, engulfed by a canopy of bended, ancient trees acting as walls to the forest that the town had been apparently built on top of. A road-sign was the only thing announcing its existence, though that had been pulled deep into the bushes around it, halfway down a ditch until the once sweet and quaint design of a ripe, green wych elm was now three-quarters obscured and peeling like sunburn. It was the kind of town you could only find if you looked for it, or if you put the postcode into your SAT-NAV.

At its founding, it had been a safe haven for Catholics during the dissolution of the monasteries, being named after the great wych elm tree that stood a little way out from the original settlement. Then, when Henry VIII’s soldiers found the town, they massacred its peoples: anybody who would not turn to Anglicanism was hanged from the branches of that tree; that was when it was renamed to ‘Elmsbury-Gallows’: a sort of morbid joke that the soldiers would tell one another in taverns and alleys. Matthew Hopkins’s witch hunt would find it next, after the construction of a fortified manor in the forest surrounding for Royalist soldiers, and once again the great elm tree served as the execution spot of twenty-or-so women. That’s what it said on the pamphlets in the local library anyways.

After the passing of centuries, that very same tree with its crooked and wrinkled branches curling upward to the clouds, was ripped from its roots to build a coal mine in 1980, alongside the construction of Elmsbury Common, the little mining community- which Mr Spencer was told was separate from Elmsbury Town, that had stood for damn near four-hundred and fifty years beforehand. However, both Elmsbury Town and Elmsbury Common came together as Elmsbury-Gallows; it all appeared very important to the patrons of the King Henry he had talked to that lunchtime. The wych elm had stood for an eternity before any of the little towns that came together as one big town even acknowledged its existence. And then it was gone- plucked from the ground as easily and painfully as a single hair from beneath the nose of a scowling lady.

Only five years later, the mine had collapsed due to a tragic underground flash flood, killing all forty workers who had been sent down there- and now on this present, humid August evening, they were opening it back up.

“Here to watch the big reveal?”

Mr Spencer looked up from the pamphlet he was reading, his eyes met by a man of medium-height and middle-age, with a short crop of receding brown-turning-grey hair spiralling atop his head; he peered a little downward at Mr Spencer, a shorter than average man himself, through his pair of tiny round spectacles propped up on the bridge of a pig-like nose, the lenses of which magnified his eyes into two great beady pits in the midst of his otherwise very ordinary face. He smiled, placing one hand in the pocket of his black overcoat and using the other to absently scratch his priest’s collar. Altogether, he had the forgettable face of a good man.

“Reverend Fairfax?”

“Please, call me Jim, everyone does.” The man smiled, showing rows of square, eggshell-white teeth.

Jim the Vicar. That’s what he had heard the locals refer to him as anyways: nobody here seemed to be all that caught up in formalities. Mr Spencer laughed nervously, “Ah- yes, yes, very sorry Revere— Jim.” The supervisor felt his mouth dry up a little. It was probably the heat- the town got particularly hot this time of year, according to Mr-Graham-Sparrow-to-you-sir from the King Henry, which Spencer found bemusing since he hadn’t really seen the sun all day- as if the whole town were dough left to prove under a tea towel.

“So you’re here for the big reveal?” Jim the Vicar asked again.

“Oh! Yes, yes I’m, uh, I’m the supervisor of the whole… operation, so—”

“Ahh, of course- we had to get in you sophisticated lot to do it this time.”

Mr Spencer didn’t quite know what he meant. Jim continued, “See back in ’94 we got a bunch of our local lot to try this whole operation,” he chuckled, gesturing with a wiggle of his fingers in the direction of the workmen around the old mine,“which didn’t go over quite as well as we’d have liked, see, it weren’t safe for ‘em and all.”

The other man nodded, his eyes flitting over to the adit bandaged in yellow caution tape, “I see…” 

“Though,” Jim continued, “this’d be the first time actually getting the thing open since the collapse.”

“Oh?”

“Aye, indeed, I was a young man here when it happened,” Jim rocked back and forth on his feet, looking up as he recalled the story, “only about eighteen, maybe nineteen since I’d been sworn into the Church already,” he redirected his gaze back to the supervisor’s pallid face, “was lucky my brother weren’t down there that day, eh?”

He said it far more lightheartedly than Spencer would’ve liked- as if it were a day at work where his brother had missed a fire drill, not having escaped a slow suffocation under a hundred tonnes of dirt and rubble, deep inside the belly of the town. Again, he found himself glancing at the mine, “yes, well,” he looked back to his new companion, “we’re just renovating it so they can put the museum in.”

“That you are- and I know you are,” Jim said kindly, his black eyes wet from the haggard, muggy air, “I am the deputy head of the Parish Council, you know.”

“Of course, sorry, ah, I- I didn’t mean to sound all—” he waved his hands around as if that would conjure up the right words like some form of vocabulary magician, “—well, all that.”

“I think they’re opening it up now,” Jim started off towards the caution tape barricading the workers from the onlookers, taking strides across the uneven ground that somehow didn’t stop him from keeping to his constant height. Spencer followed him- it looked like it was going to rain.

***

              The black umbrellas bloomed open into a mushroom-like cluster around the edge of the tape, the small crowd creating their own tent to which they were the poles. The drizzle had become heavier, pattering down onto the open parasols creating silver nebulas and shooting stars which each rolled off as another raindrop came; the sky had darkened to a navy blue- had there been a sunset? Mr Spencer wondered to himself, he probably had just not noticed it whilst talking to Jim. He was stood beside the Reverend, the only person there who was not wearing a Stabilo-yellow safety vest- apparently they had just neglected to give him one, and he had neglected to ask. A group of four or so workers gathered at the adit- drills in hand- ready to pry out the screws from the rusted, brittle iron bars that had kept it closed since 1994.

Huh, odd, Mr Spencer thought, the bars were rusted far beyond the apparent age of the screws, which appeared to be silver, oddly shiny. It must be the light; each workman had on a head-torch, which illuminated tubes of rain as they panned around: it must be that the rain had wet the screws making them appear to be shiny and new when the light fell on them. Mr Spencer suspected that in reality, they were just as decrepit as the bars. Which they had been that morning when he inspected them- hadn’t they? Honestly for the life of him he couldn’t quite remember. They probably were.

The whirring of the drills wrenched Mr Spencer from the inside of his head as they pulled the little metal rods loose like blackheads from pores out of the rotted, softened wood of the adit. The rain was like a drumroll before the big reveal, and with a groan from the four men surrounding it, the bars were finally off.

Cold hit Mr Spencer from the mine- not hard or fast, rather it crept up him, starting at his knees before ending on the tip of his nose and in the corners of his eyes. It was the cold of something ancient- the kind of cold you only really feel inside a basement you forgot you had: a cold you could smell; a cold you could taste. A dusty antiquity seemed to spice it, and he twitched the feeling away involuntarily, realizing that before now, the inside of that mine appeared to be the only place in Elmsbury-Gallows the fog had not reached. It was eager to now, though, the white mist from around his ankles swirled inwards through the haggard opening- without it, Mr Spencer could have been convinced that they had opened the adit onto a solid wall of rock, even though the collapse had happened some miles down deep into the earth beneath the town; but the fog seeped downwards like worms into a blackbird’s mouth, confirming that this was the undisturbed entrance they had spent the past three days looking for.

Down, down, down, down.

He stared at that darkness- who knows for how long- watching as his eyes adjusted and he slowly became convinced that he saw movement. The blackness oozed and mixed like blood in milk, swirling around, making it difficult to notice, but obvious if you looked: if you really looked.

A familiar yet distant sensation overcame him, and though it took him a moment to pinpoint what it was, he managed to get close enough to an articulate description: it was the feeling he had when walking from his bedroom to his kitchen at night as a child. Not a fear of the dark, and not a fear of being caught by whatever his seven-year-old mind imagined was in the dark, but something else. He always made it back to his bedroom- without fail- and yet every time he stood at the top of the stairs looking down into the hallway, the light from the bathroom behind him that he always turned on so he wasn’t in complete darkness never quite reached past the fourth step down. And yet, he would descend the stairs, hand tight on the bannister, mustering up every last iota of courage that his little boy heart could manage- he knew he always survived: whatever was down there never caught him- heck, it never even chasedhim, he hadn’t even seen it.

But he wasn’t in his bedroom anymore, and he wasn’t in the kitchen yet.

A creeping anxiety made its way from the hollow of his throat to the middle of it, lodging there, wriggling and stuck as he just stared into that familiar blackness that stopped not four steps down from the opening of the mine, before the rocks closed in to an even smaller aperture only a few inches tall and wide. A prickling came at the back of his neck, as if something had its nose just above the hairs on his skin, stirring them like blades of grass with each inhale, exhale: smelling him. Spencer absent-mindedly scratched his clammy nape, his hair sticking to it from where his jacket and umbrella couldn’t shield and as soon as it had started, the feeling had gone. He was just being stupid. Staring into darkness like that, he was bound to see something. It was human to want to see something. Darkness just tends to move.

Outside him, the crowd was clapping, triumphant at the successful opening of this part of their history. The museum would bring in money to the town- at least that was the premise, and of course the goal- and they could use it to bring in tourists interested in the local history and seeing the sights of a proper English town, so long as they stayed out of the estates around Mansfield Estate and Elmsbury-Common; additionally, it would serve as reparations to the families who lost their grandfathers, fathers, brothers, cousins, and friends in the collapse. They never found the bodies- perhaps their stories would become immortalized in the museum instead: no longer forgotten.

“Done a blummin’ good job there then haven’t you!”

A thick hand clapped down on Mr Spencer’s back; he pretended not to buckle slightly. Jim the Vicar was grinning in his face, showing his tiny teeth again, telling the supervisor that he was proud the town had managed to gather up enough money for the museum, and that hopefully the town history would be remembered forever now that it was in place. Maybe they would even be able to fund the Preservational National Park and restore the manor on its grounds.

“They drink where you’re from?” Jim had started to walk, intangibly pulling Mr Spencer along with him.

“I didn’t think you were allowed to drink.” He felt the need to look back through the crowd- just to check the mine one more time. Jim let out a hearty laugh, interrupting him, and threw his head back, “That soft, eh?”

“No! No, it’s just,” Spencer corrected himself, “not me— you! You’re a priest.”

“Reverend.” Jim smiled, “and God forgives.”

***

              Purple lightning cracked across the sky like the forked tongue of a great snake, illuminating the clouds as a roll of old thunder followed. Another summer storm with no rain had befallen Elmsbury-Gallows, and had turned the drizzle from the day into steam now rising up from the pavements and mingling with that impermeable fog. From her window across the street, Bellamy Cokes watched as a thin bolt of lightning broke free of the thick layer of clouds, striking the cast iron crucifix from the spire of the old Church. It was sent careening downward onto the gravel pavement. A crow cackled at this symbolic beheading. Amy revelled in how gothic this whole scenario was.

She was a tall girl, needing to fold herself up like a deck-chair to fit in her sitting spot at her window, and was composed entirely of rectangles and ridges. Her bones poked out from underneath her pale skin, and her eyes sat wide and smudged in the centre of her face like an owl’s. Her hair was dyed a box-dye jet black, and would be backcombed to the high heavens every morning into a matted bats nest. Bellamy felt that she was quite a standoffish kind of person, not really wanting to get in the way of trouble if she could help it, and used to cry when teachers scolded her. Which is what made it so ironic that her and her two friends’ favourite activity was trespassing. They preferred the term ‘ghost hunting’, but really trespassing was what it was. Her anorak hung loosely from her shoulders as she peered down into the street wondering again to herself where Kat and Trent were.

Tap!

Finally.

Bellamy nudged open her window, smiling down at the two of them on the driveway. They were holding up the makeshift window-opener to her, aiming to use it to hook her bag down before she got down. Obliging this routine, she sent down the small satchel that held her polaroid and hand mirror. She swung her feet over the window ledge, being careful not to slip on the wooden awning over the front door before slowly lowering herself as far as she could off the edge of it. Bellamy let go of the guttering and fell onto the driveway, her well-practised landing finishing with a flourish.

“Graveyard?”

Trent nodded, “Yup, got a photo and everything.”

“Who from?”

“Mike Gregory,” Kat interjected as they started to lead the group towards the Church across the road. Bellamy turned up her nose.

“He thinks it’s gonna be funny to freak us all out,” Trent started to lead the group to the other side of the street, “he forged a photo and everything.”

He held out his hand, crumpled in it was a small polaroid square; Bellamy took it, squinting in the orange glow of the streetlamps overhead.

“It’s terrible quality.”

“Really, Amy? But Mike Gregory is so well known for his impeccable artistic prowess!” Kat laughed to themself. Amy made a face at her friend before re-examining the photo, “I can’t see anything, it’s just the… the crypt, I think?”

“You have to really look, Amy.” Trent remarked from in front.

“I am looking— you look— you show me then.” She thrust the photo back toward him, and he stopped still and jabbed a chipped black fingernail to the middle of the photo, “There.”

“The crypt?”

“Yes—“

“Okay, let’s maybe not stop in the middle of the road,” Kat took their arms and guided them to the pavement outside the Church.

“There’s nothing there, Trent.” Amy squinted.

“Bro— look, Amy.”

She looked, and as her eyes readjusted to the horribly taken photo, she made it out. The photo was of the graveyard, specifically the lower level of the graveyard where the crypt for the body of Matilda the Witch sat. A yellow pool of torchlight was smeared over the front of the stone, causing an unintelligible glare to be cast over the scene. It appeared to be raining, or have been raining, and the sky was that dark twilight blue of dusk. Amy angled it up in her hand, catching it in the orange of a streetlamp. Oh, there.

From behind the crypt, wrapped around the stone were three thin, long, pale fingers, all about the same length. It wasn’t apparent at all to Amy if the fingers were disappearing behind the crypt, or emerging from it.

“Eugh,” she put the photo in her pocket reflexively.

“I know, creepy innit?!” Kat chided.

“If it’s an effect he’s actually gone and put some effort into making it.” Amy glanced into the graveyard over the gate where the three were now stood, the crypt not visible at all in the nighttime, and the glow of the streetlamps only reaching about three or four steps down into the lower level of the graveyard, “I’m kind of flattered,” she said jokingly,  “But, I dunno, it just doesn’t seem like something Mike Gregory would do.”

“He’s obsessed enough.” Trent muttered.

“Yeah, it’s just…” Amy trailed off, knowing what she wanted to say but not wanting to be cruel.

“He’s not smart enough to do something like that, at least not to do it well.” Kat said it for her, “not to be rude or anything.” They added.

“So are we going in or not?” Amy asked, “I don’t really fancy running into a weird hand creature any time soon.”

“Me neither, but I do fancy smacking Mike Gregory over the head with my torch,” Trent punctuated his statement with the click of the ‘on’ switch on said torch, and pointed it into the graveyard, illuminating the crypt in a sickly pale spotlight.

***

              Hopping the gate was a piece of cake, Amy always wondered why Jim the Vicar hadn’t thought to make it taller if he didn’t want any trespassers, as indicated by the laminated A4 paper with red comic sans text reading “NO ENTRY BETWEEN 7PM-7AM” gracefully tied to the bars with zip ties. The three of them made their way slowly down the path toward the crypt, the headstones around them seeming taller and more jagged in the dark, jutting upward like the legs of dead hikers from snow; the shadows cast by the torchlight ran up the trunks of trees and down the stone steps to the lower level. Amy was snapping photos, the bright white flash of the polaroid quietly illuminating the graveyard all at once, before just as quickly plunging it back into darkness; she had gotten very good at aiming the flash away from the little backdoor window of Jim the Vicar’s house on the grounds, as to not alert him to their presence. Trent was scanning the torch back and forth simultaneous with the rhythm of his walk, and Kat was darting about the edges of the place picking flowers to put on the graves that were photographed, their bright orange hair bobbing in and out of view behind the headstones. The three descended the steps, and made headway toward the crypt.

The crypt itself was not old at all, built in the 90’s with that very of-the-time gothic flare that was once thought of as ‘classical’ but was really just tacky in hindsight. Amy had always liked the campiness of it though, as it looked like something straight out of Francis Ford Coppola’s Dracula. It was, however, extremely tawdry.

The little circular structure was built to house the bones of Matilda the Witch, Matilda Borthwick to call her by her real name, who was one of twenty women killed in the witch hunts that came to the town in the 1600s. Her body had been dug up by accident by the small renovation team for the old mine in 1994, to Amy’s recollection, and thus housed in the old Church’s graveyard a little out of respect, but mostly as a tourist attraction. Amy had never liked that very much, they had already left her body on display hanged from the old wych elm for days before it disappeared, probably stolen. It didn’t need to be made a spectacle again, even if you couldn’t actually see her bones.

Amy came across her favourite grave, it felt a little weird to call it that, but she didn’t see too much of a problem with it to give up the title completely: a small stone angel carrying a crucifix on its shoulder with one hand, holding a wilted rose in the other. This, she had always thought, this was far classier than whatever Matilda Borthwick was holed up inside. The statue was intricate, though weathered, and the thin folds of the angel’s dress that the sculptor had pulled from the rock were just so delicate she couldn’t help but imagine it flowing gently in a breeze. Adding to it was the message on the headstone underneath:

Beloved daughter, taken so violently that heaven will be nothing but the soft embrace of your mother’s arms.

1848-1854

Amy had always liked that. It was so peaceful. The name above the phrase was too obscured by ivy and overgrowth to read properly, all she knew was that it started with “Ch…”. She snapped a quick photo of the grave, before running off towards the crypt to join her friends, her boots leaving imprints in the soft dirt.

“Where’s Kat?”

“Uhhm, over there, I think, putting flowers on that one grave you like.”

Amy looked over to see her friend lightly jogging towards them, their eyes cast in deep black shadows by the torchlight leaving only the white of their teeth glowing in the darkness around them, “any sign of Mike Gregory?”

“He in’t behind the crypt, probably inside or under a bush somewhere,” Trent shrugged, “you wanna have a quick scan for him?”

“Nah,” Kat took off their hoodie and tied it around their waist as their hair started pasting itself to their forehead from the humidity of the summer night, “I think he’s probably run off, got bored of waiting.”

“It is pretty late,” Amy looked up, “I mean we all met up at like midnight…” she glanced between her friends, “…wanna do a hunt whilst we’re here?”

Kat reached into the pocket of their cargos and protruded a small spirit box plastered with numerous brightly-coloured stickers, “good job I left the ol’ screeching radio in my pocket from last time.” And they took the arms of Amy and Trent, pulling them through the archway and into the crypt.

***

              The small square window on Jim the Vicar’s back door was only just visible through the arch into the crypt, and Amy had to duck round behind the wall to stop herself from anxiously glancing over to it. They had only been caught in the graveyard once, on one of their earliest hunts when they didn’t really know where else to go where ghosts might be. Ever since, Amy couldn’t shake the image of the black silhouette of Jim the Vicar through that small square, the light behind his head swinging gently back and forth, methodically illuminating then casting into darkness his expressionless face. The only part of him that had remained at all visible were the reflections of the light in the lenses of his glasses. She hadn’t seen him come out of the house, as she alerted Kat and Trent before he could’ve gotten the door open, and the three had sprinted out of the graveyard as fast as they could. It was just the way he had stood there, unmoving, like he had been watching them since they got in. Every time they came back, she had not been afraid of what he would do if he were to catch them, but of why he wouldn’t do anything at all.

Kat sat down cross-legged in the crypt, their back to the other archway on the opposite side to where the three had entered, making sure not to sit on the engraved part of the floor that marked where Matilda’s body lay. Trent had placed his torch face-up in the corner, the white glow spilling upwards illuminating the space. Outside, the storm began to bubble again.

The barking noise of the spirit box was far too loud for Amy’s liking, making her jump as it cut through the hazy background noise of the night. Kat started to flick through the various frequencies before setting the radio down on the floor and closing their eyes: they took communing with the dead very seriously. Trent rolled his eyes and smiled, turning his attention to the information plaque on the wall as he did whenever they came in and tried to talk to Matilda the Witch. The harsh, gravelly sound of the spirit box scratched at the stone walls, and Kat had to raise their voice a little too loudly over the top of it, “Spirits of Elmsbury-Gallows, those who rest and those who do not: hear us now call out to you from our plane to talk.” The infernal box continued its chattering uninterrupted.

“Go on Nancy Downes really give it some.” Trent teased. Kat opened one eye and shot him a pointed look, mouthing: Don’t interrupt.

“Ask about Matilda.” Amy leaned back against the wall, feeling the tension in her shoulders loosen slightly.

“Oh, yeah, uhm, Matilda!” Kat called out into the night, the fog from outside curled around Amy and Trent’s feet, almost engulfing Kat completely up to their waist, “Matilda Borthwick, we call out to you- we know you have been, uh, reluctant to speak with us, but we mean you no harm.”

The rhythm of the radio static echoed about the stone walls, abrasive and grating like skidding tyres on gravel. Kat glanced around before hesitantly adding, “We, uh, we want to let you know it’s safe to talk- uh- we just want to talk.”

“I think she gets that we want to talk.” Trent muttered.

The little radio chittered and chirped in the darkness, its noise uninterrupted by any real speech, though Kat was stretching to derive some words from the various syllables that it spat out every so often. Thunder from above groaned, followed by small purple fizzes which absently drew Amy’s attention to the illuminated, white, expressionless face floating behind Kat.

“What are you three doing here?”

Kat shot up off the floor, immediately crushing the spirit box in their hand and desperately fumbling for the off-switch. They and Trent scooted over to where Amy was stood, now forming a line to face Jim the Vicar, who was standing very calmly just outside in the centre of the archway, his black overcoat blending him into the night around him, leaving only his pale face illuminated by the small fizzles of lightning and the glow of Trent’s torch reflecting upwards onto his features. Amy swallowed dryly: he looked like a pickled head floating in a jar.

“I’m waiting for an answer…”

“Jim! I— uh… we’re, we’re just—” Trent’s eyes flickered wildly as he tried his best to improvise. Jim raised his eyebrows, nodding at Trent to continue his excuse. Trent let out a short breath, “How long were you stood there?”

“Oh! Oh I’d just gotten here,” Jim said with a kind smile, his voice carried a similar wavelength to the quiet of the night: measured, soft, local, and constant. The Reverend extended a booted foot and lightly stepped over the threshold, his black overcoat sweeping in around his ankles like a magician’s cloak, “I thought I’d seen movement out in the graveyard- which I now know I was right about- but t’was only you three,” he had positioned himself now in the centre of the crypt; Amy glanced downward, noticing that the tip of her boot was a good few inches from the hem of his coat, though it felt as if he were pressed right up against her. A strange ozone scent flowed off of him, like the smell of clothes that have been left damp for hours. Jim idly removed his glasses, wiping the condensation from the lenses as he continued, “I had panicked, and thought it was an intruder, or worse: a grave robber!” He was clearly humouring them. Kat and Trent let out a nervous laugh, which Amy subconsciously joined in with. Jim smiled again, “I do not mind you coming in and exploring, you know?”

The three nodded.

“Just—” he sighed with fake empathy, “I’d just rather you’d do it in the daytime, alright?”

They nodded again, more guiltily. Amy looked up at him, but glanced away as he smiled when he caught her eye.

“Bellamy, does your mother know you’re out here?”

“Wh— oh? M-mine?” he pulled her gaze back to meet his, she hated his unblinking demeanour. Jim softened his eyelids, though his black irises still glimmered through those now half-crescents, “I believe she’s yours, yes.”  

Amy stuttered, which seemingly answered Jim’s question on her behalf.

“You probably want us to leave.” Kat had put the spirit box in their pocket.

Jim nodded, “Yes, yes that would be good, thank you.” His eyes slid across the three of them, “you ought to find a more orthodox way of learning local history- maybe you could pop down the mine when it opens up to the public?”

“Yes sir.” Trent had placed a firm grip on Amy’s arm, squeezing. A thin drizzle finally managed to pitter down in spite of the dry, hot storm above as they turned and fled the crypt.

“Now, keep safe on y’walks home!” Jim called after them, as the three made their way up the steps and out of the graveyard- their pace becoming gradually faster the further they got from where Jim the Vicar was still stood on the threshold of the crypt, the light of Trent’s torch still illuminating it, casting him in black shadow. The only part of him that was visible were the reflective ovals of his glasses over his eyes.

***

              “Ah, piss.” Amy craned her head up to her window, trying to trick herself into thinking that it hadn’t been left open.

“Your door was locked though, right?”

“Yeah, definitely.”

Kat emerged from the small bush on Amy’s drive, tossing the makeshift window-opener back to its hiding place, muttering about how it probably wouldn’t be needed, “He won’t have got out then.”

“I know, it’s the fact that the rain’s probably got in.”

“Ooh, that sucks dude.”

Amy sighed, yep.

She started to scale the wall anyway- a route she had become so accustomed to that it felt no harder than walking up the stairs. She wriggled in through her window, falling onto her bed with a wet thunk, about eighty-percent sure she heard Kat laughing at her from the street. Trent had gone straight home, not only spooked by their run-in with Jim the Vicar, but also because he lived all the way in Elmsbury-Common, which was a considerable distance from Church Street Estate and Forest Estate where Amy and Kat both lived respectively.

“Maybe it’s not so bad?” Kat’s voice curled in through the window. Amy stuck her head out, “It’s bad, Kat,” she said it in a tone far harsher than she intended, “sorry, it’s just—it’s like 1am.”

“Damn, it’s that late? I didn’t think we’d been out too long.” Their gaze drifted behind them, flitting briefly over the church on the other side of the street. The amber glow of the streetlamps glinted in their eyes.

“Kat… no.” Amy knew what her friend was thinking, “do not go back there- we all promised we wouldn’t do hunts on our own.”

“I won’t, I won’t…” Kat smiled up reassuringly, “you just get your shit cleaned up- I’m gonna go back home.”

“Don’t go back to the graveyard.” Amy repeated, she didn’t feel that reassured.

Kat mouthed an irritated “okay Mum.” to their friend, before laughing to themself and waving goodbye, setting off back down the street. As Amy closed the window, the rain turned from drizzle to downpour.

Kat was right, the damage done to Amy’s room really wasn’t that bad. All she needed to do was change her sheets, since her bed seemed to have soaked up most of the fog and rain, though it still took her to half past one in the morning to get everything cleaned and rearranged. She slumped down in her bed, kicking her boots off across the room, wincing at the loud thuds they made on the carpet, now growing suddenly conscious that her mother was also in the house and very much asleep.

“Mrrp?!”

A small chitter came from under her bed. Amy smiled and swung her face over the edge, dangling off to look underneath, greeted by a pair of round green eyes that quickly barreled towards her in a zoom of black and white fur and the jingle of a small golden bell, “Argh! Sir Pounce!” she yelped as her small tuxedo cat collided with her. She scooped him up, kissing his fluffy head, talking over his indignant meows about how he could’ve escaped and how he should be downstairs in his bed, not under hers. She stretched to the satchel hanging off one of the posts, reaching in and taking out the small plastic pocket where she stored her photos before putting them away, “wanna see the photos, Sir Pounce?” The cat rubbed the side of his face against the folder as Amy brought them up to her eyeline, taking the photos out and showing them to Sir Pounce, very curious as to what he had to say about all this, “okay, okay pouncey.” She giggled.

Amy flicked through the photos one by one, some of them just blurred shots of Trent and Kat’s backs as they walked down into the graveyard. Others were illuminated perfectly by the flash of the camera, and looked delightfully spooky, especially in the colour of the developed film. The one of the angel grave came up, and Sir Pounce purred in approval. Amy scratched him behind his ears, “I know you like those ones too,” she placed it neatly in a separate pile to the others next to her on the bed, to put in the specific collection of photos of that grave she had amassed over the years. She got to the second to last photo and Sir Pounce hissed quietly. She made soothing noises as he wriggled in her arms, jumping off the bed and jetting towards the door. Amy followed, a little disheartened, and let him out of the room. She watched his bobtail dash down the stairs into the dark house, and before she could get her bedroom door shut she gave into the temptation to look at the photo more closely.

Illuminated by the dim light in her bedroom, Amy stood in the threshold of her door facing the darkness of her hallway. The photo was a little blurred, one she took on a whim as Kat had called her name to have it taken. They were crouched by a bush, throwing up double middle fingers and their face was stretched into a joking smile as the light of the flash bounced off their white teeth, reflecting red in their eyes. They had a small bunch of begonias clutched in their left hand, and the photo would have looked completely normal if it weren’t for what Amy saw next. By Kat’s left foot, just obscured by the lower branches of the bush was a small tuft of light brown and white fur. Flashes of pink glistened where it seemed to peel back, Amy guessed it was some sort of rabbit or rat. Folded around it, further into the bush, were three long, pale fingers.

***

               The sound of the window rolling down and thunking against its wooden frame cued Kat to looked behind themself as they made their way down the street towards Forest Estate. They only got a little way away before they felt their feet slowing beneath them, the constant background noise of the rain falling harder onto the tarmac crowding their ears. Their eyes guided their head to slowly move their focus to the looming shape of the Church, obscured slightly by the branches of the sycamore tree that had begun to shake with the impact of the raindrops. The fog swirled in the thick, muggy air, creating a clear path from the tips of Kat’s toes to the wrought iron of the little gate. The rain pasted their hair to their face and forehead. Kat blushed at the invitation.

It became almost physically painful to heed their friend’s warning not to go back: they had the spirit box in their pocket, it was everything they needed really, aside from a light source since Trent was the only one with a torch on this hunt. Rain fell in cones where the light from the streetlamps cascaded, creating a surrounding illumination of autumnal, amber glow. The Church looked very close, even though Kat was stood nearly rounding a corner about a hundred metres away from it. The green of the ivy that crept up the stone bricks was deep and sea-like, and a humid breeze picked up like a hot sigh, hitting the water on Kat’s face and hair and subverting their bracing for a shock of cold all over. Almost karmically, they gasped out loud into the muggy silence as a heavy raindrop rolled down their spine, having fallen into the crook of their collar, and they inadvertently pressed their palm to their mouth, as if they were afraid they’d be heard. Taking the hint, Kat hurried down the street and back towards home, leaving the church and graveyard stood up behind them.

The rain fell harder, chipping away at Kat’s already soaking sweater, their leather gloves sticking to their palms- half with sweat and half with rain. They ducked their head down even more, their chin nearly touching their sternum as they waded through the pale brown streets of town, the only thing they could see was their boots kicking out under them, glistening and wet in the orange glow of the streetlights. Kat rubbed the back of their neck, almost subconsciously, the hairs seemingly creeping upward on end, bristling their fingertips as they combed them down again. It was like someone had passed a single hot breath on the back of their neck, and they twitched their head in an attempt to shake the feeling, scrunching their eyes shut and keeping their head down. Trickles of rain oozed and flowed over their hand, half squeezed from their hair and half falling onto them from above, causing Kat to retract in reaction to the nasty sensation.

Just keep walking.

Their house was only five minutes from Amy’s, basically a dead straight line down the road except for the turn they made at the end of Church Street going into North-to-Church; they must be nearly there, mustn’t they?

All the cobbles looked the same in the dark; all the front drives and brickwork of the houses seemingly duplicated a million times: the white of the windowframes smooth and plastic, and the black of the wooden awnings lumpy from decades of layers of paint; every cigarette filter crammed into the pavement sat crumpled at the exact same angle; every rooftop peaked at the same height, and troughed to the same dip; even the gates to the church still remained politely shut, sheltered from the rain by the tree above them with the laminated sign flapping gently in the stormy breeze.

Kat stopped walking and looked down to the gate in front of them, specifically at their hand: it was hovering just above the gate, ready to prop them up to hop back over it like they had done earlier. They pulled back sharply like they had been burned.

What?

Kat craned their head up, soft droplets of rain pattering their skin as they had seemingly found themself seeking shelter under the shaking sycamore that sat just on the other side of the low stone wall.

If you were to look from opposite them, from the other side of the gate, the streetlights made Kat into an auburn-haloed silhouette, staring abjectly into the black. Even more so than before, the light was lost past the threshold, seemingly unwilling to stretch any further, in spite of it illuminating the whole town behind them.

Kat had lived in Elmsbury since they were born, they had memorised nearly every street, every alley, every shortcut by the age of fourteen.

Their house was barely a five minute walk from Amy’s, in a dead, straight line.

They had started to sweat by this point from walking so vigorously in apparently no direction at all, yet Kat saw between their eyes that their heavy breaths were coming out in white plumes. The sounds of the storm became low background noise, the rain lukewarm in the summer heat, and they felt all of a sudden a wave of calm sleepiness. A good sleepiness, like they had been working all day and could finally sink into bed. That was it, surely they were just tired. Yes, just tired and had zoned out not looking where they were walking. That made sense, didn’t it? Kat wanted to move away from the gate and go back home. It was dry at home, and warm; they were just tired. So tired. Complacent.

Dull thudding echoed from their heart to their skull and they squinted into the darkness, the faint smell of ozone and damp filling their nose and hitting the base of their tongue. The black in front of them swam like deep water, or as if a solid wall were there instead of thin air; it obscured their view of the graveyard past even the tip of their nose, now. The rain soaked them head to toe, they no longer felt the need to tuck in their head to their chest as some feeble form of protection. They stood at their full height, their shoulders relaxed, staring out into the black.

Eventually Kat mustered enough energy to move their eyeline down, and they watched the fog closest to them as it gently swirled outward, clearing the path up to the gate.

Like an electric shock had been pumped straight into their muscles, they jolted hurriedly away, the feeling of utter exhaustion exorcising from their body as they were sure they had seen something move in there. The flat sole of their foot came down hard on something soft and squishy. Looking down, Kat saw the lifeless body of a small brown rabbit, its guts spilled out onto the cobblestones, the black beads of its eyes pearlescent like frosted glass. They didn’t notice it then, but in spite of the gore, there wasn’t a single drop of blood anywhere on or around the animal, like a diagram in a biology textbook.

Awake, Kat frantically wiped their foot on the stones and sprinted through the rain in a dead straight line.

***

              Neil Holly didn’t like to stare, he found it unbecoming. Throughout the thirty-seven years of his existence, he had slowly come to accept that he was, in fact, an introvert; he was misconstrued by many as a recluse or a misanthrope, but Neil knew that deep down he would simply rather be alone. Which is why he didn’t like to stare: it brought unnecessary attention to himself; even worse, it made people think he was initiating a conversation with them. He had friends, sure, but none he would be comfortable allowing into his home, especially since, well… he didn’t like to think about Lou very much.

Over the bush, he could see the new mine renovations, the battered yellow steel of the various sets of machinery a bright and ugly blemish on the usually deep greens and browns of the fields on the south end of Elmsbury-Gallows. He squinted at the workers, reminding himself to get his prescription changed, before hearing the rumbling sound of tyres on tarmac approaching and deciding that now would probably be the best time to step out of the middle of the road.

From the renovations, he could hear the bustling conversations of the out-of-town workmen, the acoustics just so that he could make out them saying something about needing to bring over equipment from whatever base of operations they had been summoned from. They were, apparently, finding it hard to widen the hole on the inmost part of the adit- Neil remembered it being only about eight inches tall and wide. This was never going to be a good idea, he had thought since the renovation efforts had been announced in the Elmsbury Weekly, and with every scrape and crumble of the rocks around the adit this feeling became more and more apparent. He absently scratched the back of his neck with his free hand, then swapping his bag of groceries to said hand so that the other could rest in his jacket pocket.

“Couldn’t make it to the grand opening, I take it?”

Neil felt his stomach sink at the familiar voice, turning to see that Jim the Vicar had neatly placed himself next to him on the side of the road, his black cassock making him look like a crow. Neil inwardly groaned, “No, Jim, unfortunately not.”

Jim laughed, showing those pleasantly small teeth that made Neil’s jaw tighten: it wasn’t that he hated the man, hell, he had done a lot for the town since becoming head of it’s Parish Council, but it had made him just so… smug? He had always been a little smug, mind you, and their own personal history really didn’t help Neil’s distaste of the man. That was the closest articulation he could land on before Jim started talking again: “I didn’t think you would.” Neil shot him a glance, met with that same tiny-teethed smile. He had always wondered if the reverend got hot in his seemingly unchanging attire, or if he had a wardrobe chock-full of the same outfit, like a cartoon character, and now he was coming close to confronting the man about it.

“I didn’t see the point, in all honesty,” Neil tried his most courteous smile, “and the weather wasn’t good that night- it’s quite a walk out.”

“Right, of course,” Jim nodded, “you’re at Johnson’s Farm now?”

Neil raised his eyebrows quickly, not saying anything. He didn’t like that Jim knew where he lived: he had moved to the farm in an active attempt to avoid that.  

“It’s very picturesque up there,” the reverend continued, “nice and secluded.”

Neil looked up at the clouds, hoping for some sign that it would rain soon so he could make his departure. The sky was bright and white with no hint of grey or black. Neil thought he could even see sunrays. Damn.  

“It is a lovely day, isn’t it?” Jim looked up as well, smiling.

“Quite.” Neil muttered. Jim the Vicar seemed to sense his unease, “What’s wrong, Neil? You seem so…” he pretended to think, “…unsure about the whole thing.”

Neil sighed, “Well if you must know, I don’t like that it’s being reopened,” he looked the other man in the eyes, “some things should stay buried.”

It was a very pointed thing for him to say, and he hated how confrontational he had come across, despite the comment being very intentionally so. He hated reminding them both of their somewhat strained history. What he hated the most, however, was that it made Jim smile: a curling smile that stretched up to the corners of his eyes: wide and unpleasant and gleeful. The reverend had clocked who the statement was directed at and laughed a little too long and little too hard, “for a history teacher you sure don’t like the preservation of the past.”

“That’s not what I mean, Jim.”

“Then what do you mean, Neil?”

Neil said nothing. The sky above them both had turned a queasy grey, “Oh would you look at that,” Jim gazed up to the clouds again, “seems like rain to me,” he shrugged at Neil, “British weather.”

When he looked back from where his eyes had landed on the renovation site, Jim the Vicar was already rounding the corner and off down the road. Neil waited a few minutes before following in that direction, just so he was sure that Jim was far away from him. For peace of mind, of course.

***

              “Eugh!” Kat obtrusively threw the little polaroid away from themself and at Amy, who was sat on the other side of her bed, “that is creepy, innit?”

“Definitely,” Amy felt herself wanting to glance out of her window; she definitely-not-on-purposefully knocked the polaroid onto the floor, leaning down to pick it up before getting off her bed altogether to sit in the spot where it had landed, “I nearly shit myself when I saw it,” she grinned shyly, “Absolutely not something you want to see when your bedroom door is still open at night.”

“I bet,” Kat leaned forward with their elbows on their knees, “have you told Trent about it yet?”

“I phoned him this morning, he said he’d be over when you were- after lunch.” She glanced at the little red digital alarm clock on her bedside table: 13:01.

Three spritely knocks sounded from the front door, right on cue. Amy said that she’d run and get it, leaving Kat behind her as she rushed downstairs, hearing faintly the sound of them trying to coax Sir Pouncelot out from wherever he had hidden himself.

Amy swung herself around the end of the bannister and stood on her tiptoes to peer into the peephole, just out of habit, expecting to see Trent on the other side. She recoiled when she was met by the acne-speckled pink face of Mike Gregory, who had obviously seen her eye on the other side of the peephole and was now pressing his face up against it, cooing to her, “Oi! Cokes, let us in will you?!”

Amy put the door on the latch, before opening it just a crack, “go away, Mike.”

He leaned up against the doorframe, pressing his nose in through the little gap, “C’mon just let me in, man,” he laughed pig-headedly, “I wanna see the ghoooouls!” he guffawed in her face; Amy was tempted to slam his nose in the door then and there. He looked her in the eyes, wisps of his ashy blonde hair curling in over his forehead, “hey, is Kat in there with you? What about Liz?”

“His name’s Trent.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Mike stepped back a little, though he stilled leaned into the gap. He put his hands in the pockets of his joggers, “still getting used to it.”

How kind of you to get Trent’s name right before you go and bully him, Amy thought to herself, but she didn’t say it out loud. Mike Gregory stuck three fingers through the gap, now trying to tug the chain on the latch loose, “let us in already, Cokes.”

Amy ripped her hand away from the door as it slammed shut, Mike Gregory’s digits making an awful squish-crack sound as the thick wooden door crushed them in an ooze of red. Amy spun around, covering her mouth as a yelp escaped it, looking at Kat stood behind her; all of their usual unserious pretentions had drained from their face, replaced with an uncharacteristic look of abject and pure hatred. Sir Pounce lounged back in their arms, purring as they absent-mindedly scratched him behind his ears. Kat looked at Amy as Mike Gregory’s muffled screams still pounded from behind the now closed door and called him a word not worth the risk of repeating.

***

              “Eugh! That’s freaky!” Trent pulled the little polaroid closer to his face, half burying his nose in it, “oh, I don’t like that at all, ew.”

“Weird innit?” Kat sat cross legged on Amy’s bed, Sir Pounce curled up in their lap.

Trent furrowed his brow, “You sure it in’t just like… the prop chucked in the bush or anything?”

Amy shrugged, “I dunno, it definitely looks like it’s grabbing the, uh, whatever it is under there.”

Kat murmured something quietly, Trent asked them what it was. They sighed deeply, and looked up from the cat in their lap, “It’s a rabbit, I think anyway.”

“Why do you think that?”

They paused, their mouth making the half shapes of syllables as they avoided eye contact with both of their friends, “just— just a feeling, I have— like based on size and stuff.”

Amy raised her eyebrow, hopefully not noticeably.

“We should go back tonight.” Trent’s eyes were wide, “I’m low-key invested,” he laughed nervously.

“That sounds good to me, I could get some more film from Cery’s today, only thing is we do have to go back to school on Monday,” Amy shifted a little, “so like, I might wanna actually sleep this weekend,” she turned to Kat, who had gone quiet on the bed, “you good?”

Kat shifted a little, but mustered up their usual grin, “yeah, yeah of course, I’ll go along, I can’t wait to actually catch Mike Gregory this time.”

“I think you’ve done enough to him today.” It was a half-joke, Amy was scared that it came off too harsh. Kat laughed, “yeah, well, he deserved it.”

“Oh my God what did you do this time?” Trent leaned forward to his friend.

“Slammed his bloody fingers in my door,” Amy answered for Kat, who was too preoccupied with the grin of pure mischief that had bloomed on their face. Trent’s mouth fell open, “You did not.”

Kat pulled a mock-coy face, making their friend’s mouth hang even wider, “Kat.”

“He did deserve it.”

“We are so cooked.”

“Shut up dude,” Kat laughed, “eye for an eye, first of all, second: he was literally trying to like, break into the house.”

Trent looked to Amy for a more honest clarification. She told him that yeah, he kinda was.

“Bro his best mate’s dad is like a cop or something you’re gonna catch a case.” It was another half-joke from Trent.

“Well since I’m already a fugitive, we might as well do a little trespassing tonight,” they redirected the conversation back to the graveyard, “we’ll be fine don’t even worry. What’re they gonna do? Imprison me for being a fucking legend?”

***

              That next morning, Amy found herself stood at the gates to the graveyard, her polaroid slung over her shoulder in its bag. This time, they needn’t have hopped the gate, the Sunday service was being held that morning, and besides it was between opening and closing hours of the graveyard for once. She hadn’t gone with her friends that night, despite their unofficial pact not to leave each other out of hunts, but Trent had reassured her that they were just across the road if anything truly awful happened. She felt a little guilty over how covetous she had been of her camera, but they had resolved to tell her about anything she could photograph that they would go back to see in the morning.

Amy mused out loud that they probably saw the place in darkness more than they did in light, though was wary of her volume since a few metres away from her, she could see Jim the Vicar welcoming in the congregation, his pale hands floating on the backdrop of his black clothing. He was smiling plainly to those walking through the great wooden doors and seemingly sensed a pair of eyes on him as he looked up from the small crowd and waved at Amy from where he was stood. Feeling compelled to, she waved back shyly, consciously moving her satchel from her left side to her right.

“Amy?”

She turned to face Kat, who was already halfway down the steps into the bottom level of the graveyard, “C’mon, we need your expert photography skills for this.”

Amy hurried after her friend, hearing the Church doors close as she did so and a few moments later the organ started to play. She nearly slipped down one of the steps in her rush, it was slick with the rain from the past nights and obscured by a thin trail of fog that progressively got thicker as Amy descended: like deep water lapping at a dock. She skipped on down the path between the headstones, approaching Kat who was stood with their back to her, hands waving her towards them, looking to where Amy assumed Trent was stood behind the crypt. A small, pointless breeze tousled their bright orange hair, making it curl at the bottom of their neck. As Amy got to her friend’s side, she heard that they were muttering to themself, over and over the same phrase: “they were right here.”

The faint tune of The Lord Is My Shepherd drifted on organ-song from the stony shell of the Church up behind them.

“What— what was?” A half-laugh escaped her, “Kat, you’re freaking me out.”

Trent was moving around sporadically, kicking the air as if to scare the fog away from a small, almost invisible, indent in the grass behind the crypt; he was muttering the same thing Kat was, over and over and over. Amy asked Kat again what they were talking about, and was met by their dark green eyes in a confused stare. They smiled a little, involuntarily, almost bemused at the apparent absurdity of a situation which Amy was an outsider to: “the rabbits,” they gently put a hand on Amy’s arm, steadying themself, “the rabbits— there was a pile of them—”

“—there.” Trent pointed to the space he had been wafting, “literally right there, we both saw them, they were there.” He motioned a hand level to his hips, “it was this tall, Amy, they were…” he trailed off, “…I mean, they were torn to pieces.”  

Amy’s throat slowly started to dry, “If you’re trying to freak me out it won’t work ‘cause, like, if they were so torn up and everything there would be blood all over the place.” She felt like she was trying to convince herself more than she was her friends, and a certain look had overcome Kat’s eyes: one that seemed less and less easy to fake, “Trent.”

“I don’t know Amy! I don’t—” he looked around wildly, “—I don’t know, alright?”

“Look, I’m sorry I wasn’t there to take a picture.”

Trent sighed, “No, no it’s fine just— you’ve gotta believe me dude it was there and it was… well it was pretty big.”

“Well, where could it’ve gone?” Kat offered the question , it was a stupid question and all three knew it.

“Wh— bro I dunno! Where do you hide, like, a hundred dead rabbits? How do you even carry them without someone noticing it?”

A horrible inkling pushed its way through the front of Amy’s mind and out of her mouth, “Mike… Mike Gregory he— he wouldn’t kill something to freak us out, would he?”

The question floated between the three, Kat had gone icy pale, almost green, “we’ve gotta tell someone.”

“Who are we gonna tell, Kat?” Trent said, exasperatedly, “he’s probably already gone and told someone about his fingers, I mean he’d have to it’s not exactly an injury you can hide very well- if anything they’d say we were making it all up to get back at him, hell, they’d probably say wekilled those rabbits or something.” He was sweating by this point, the humidity of the summer biting and buzzing around him as his chest rose and fell shallowly and quickly. Kat buckled a little into Amy, who had long since decided this was enough, “okay, I think we should go back to mine and talk about this,” she looped her arm around Kat’s, eyes locked on the spot behind the crypt that Trent was so focused on, “if we relax we can think more clearly.”

They walked back away from the crypt, their flight played out by the methodical, simple sound of Father, I Adore You as they hurried over the road and back to Amy’s house. She closed the front door, watching as the congregation left the Church, bidding goodbye to Jim in his thick black robe: a shadow against the white summer day.

She managed to get the door shut before he could look up at her again and wave.

[dragon411keeper]

Rail line number 6; Kohledrache

a train that is said to pre-date the existing intercontinental train network, when days of heightened technological and magical pathways were a thing of the future, the train that I dare to speak of is rail line number 6; "Kohledrache"

An old train of germanic origin that translates into "coal dragon" the speed of which it carried was like no other, being able to pull along thirty cars in its heyday at speeds beyond that made by stampeding bison.

But during a particularly foggy night at a station whose name was lost to time, it accepted a passenger the like it never seen before, a tall, lankey looking fellow that carried an aura about him, but that was among the normal happenstance the train was known to carry, but why you ask I bring up such a boring detail? well dear reader, they had something on their back, a scythe.

That is right dear reader I speak of death themself, but that is just the thing, he had in tow an iron coffin, they told the conductor that they would like a car all to themselves, the conductor knew better than to ask death themself as to why they would want a car to themself, but did ask about the cargo of which they carried.

What was said was also lost to time, but a passerby reported that all blood drained from the conductor's face when he was informed what the cargo carried, and when the train disappeared he was questioned, all he said was "a soul made of pure malice".

At that point in time they had no idea evil was brought upon the train that night, all we do know is that now, that train is still chugging to this day. With screeches that echo the wastes it roams. With speeds faster than that of what bison ran. Lest you wait with a golden heart, rail line 6; Kohledrache will meet you there and bring you aboard to your final stop.

Look, I used google translate to get the name, ok? I don't speak german.

That is all I have for tonight, I'll possibly have on for next year.

A whistle is blowing in the distance

Ah, looks like my ride's here.

And up pulls a train that is old in make and model, it's paint seems to absorb the surrounding light as if it was a black hole, the whistle looks old and corroded, the wheels themselves are encrusted with barnacles and rust, like it has been chugging since long before the Crackening, but that is impossible, it must be a special train that they bring out for holidays like today you say to yourself, but even then something compels you to look at the side of the engine itself, you could barely make out the lettering but it says "Kohledrache".

When you realize what it is written on the train itself, you notice more features about what makes it, despite the overall rust and barnacles that cover the wheels you can more the easily make out the words "dwarven mining company; bullstrutting", from your historical knowledge you know it went out of business three decades before the Crackening happened because of superstition surrounding the very train that is stationed right in front of you.

Before you call out to the elderly fellow you catch a glimpse of a pale red figure sitting in car number 5, the worst mass murderer to have ever lived, it was said that he could take out entire castle-cities within the night that he decides visit, his only weapon of choice was that of a black and red damascus rapier of unknown origin, Tirg Bloodraven, over three hundred castle-cities were wiped before he was caught.

That must have been the soul that took over the train, and is the only soul that death themself said that got away. it was too late to call out because the train was already chugging away, with the elder nowhere to be seen...

[thebartleyeffect]

There are old popular songs of the day out there that describe the excitement surrounding the legend of the Wabash Cannonball, and I'm sure you've no doubt heard of it as well.

To see this bridge not only preserved, but actively in use makes me very happy.

As the guy drives across it, I try to imagine that I'm the engineer aboard a fast passenger train, pulled by a monstrous steam engine belching coal smoke from the stack and steam from the driving rod cylinders. The mournful wail of the Baldwin 4-4-0's whistle echoes off the banks of the river as the train approaches the first span of the bridge, alerting anyone nearby (including the bridge tender) that the Wabash Cannonball is about to begin pounding its way across the bridge at speed, followed by a consist that might have included a parlor car, a dining-lounge car, a couple of chair cars and a pair of reclining seat coaches, the last of which sported a pair of softly-glowing kerosene rear marker lanterns with four lenses that included three amber: two to the sides, one to the front, and a red lens facing to the rear, the train's taillights, if you will.

Another, fainter wail of the whistle, this one doppler-shifted, as the last of the cars exited the last span and the silence of the river descended once again over the scene.

The stars in the sky shone brightly, while an orange-tinted crescent moon hung low in the Northeast sky. Three red and green navigation lanterns atop the center swing span glowed green for approaching trains, while displaying three corresponding red indications to any nearby river traffic, while the soft white glow of a reading lamp could be seen emanating through the windows of the bridge tender's hut, located off to the side of the tracks, midway out across the center span.

Hours might pass before the next train, perhaps a rumbling freight, would announce its approach with the distant wail of its own morose whistle, as the first gray light of dawn began brightening the Eastern horizon, faintly visible through the branches and thick canopy of River Birch and Black Maple that line the banks of this lonely stretch of the train's namesake Wabash River, marking the beginning of a new day along the route of the famed and legendary Wabash Cannonball.

[garthnightmare]

Cyffordd

The town of Cyffordd rests in the crook of the Penglogau Mountains, on the Avanti North Eastern Mainline, which was once the Dreffyniwl & Tomenasgwrn Company Limited Line. Once, it was one of the foremost exporters of coal and slate to the ports of Cardigan and Deganwy; now, like so many, it is but a shell of its former self. The only notable industry it still supports is contained within the great chalk-white edifice that rises like some ghastly tombstone from the foothills that surround the larger of the peaks; the University of Mid Merioneth, birthplace of several noted advances in the field or electromagnetic analysis, and a passable rugby side that gave Aberystwth a run for their money in the latest hustings. This, of course, has meant that the town is kept afloat by students, and their associated habits- not the most popular shift in demographic, but it at least means the place is still standing.

While the industry it was built to support is long since exhausted, the line, however, is still operational. Northbound services run to Bleniau Ffestiniog and Holyhead, and southbound toward Harlech and Porthmadog. (The branch to Llandudno closed after the sea washed away the tracks between Rhyl and Colwyn Bay- the steel swept into the ocean to rust and drown with the wrecks)

The station is something of an anomaly; it is caught in the crevice of the mountains, the southbound tracks seeming to fall away sharply, and the northbound being swallowed up entirely into a great tunnel, giving the impression that the trains are devoured whole by the mountain. The peaks loom large over the prospect, which fills visitors with awe. As with many stations in these towns, one gets the sense that it was once much larger and grander; the platforms are oddly far apart, and have been docked by hastily-erected fencing, leaving a good three hundred feet or so of the construction to vanish under an ever-growing carpet of weeds.

And there is one thing that every railworker knows; the trains do not like to linger long at Cyffordd.

So it was that when Dr Julius Glenn arrived on the delayed 14.52 service to Llanfair and Holyhead, and did what every newcomer to the town inevitably did, taking pause to stare at the great craggy peaks that towered ostentatiously above the skyline, he was shocked at the speed with which the service departed, vanishing into the tunnel with a roar of diesel smoke, the retreating lights glowing like hot coals.

Julius took a moment to compose himself. He was a thin, nervous-looking man, his jet-black hair clinging to his scalp like a petrified cat. He wore thin, wire-framed spectacles and a weather-beaten duffle coat. He glanced down at his watch, and set his jaw.

The further out you go from civilisation, he thought distastefully, the less the trains run on time. Although by that logic, the whole of the bloody UK left civilisation behind long ago.

He was expected, of course, but no-one seemed to have bothered to come and receive him. Now, of course, he had no moral high ground- was it the University who had erred, or had they simply misjudged the degree to which his train would be late? There was simply no way to be sure.

Sodding typical. And yet we pay through the fucking nose for them.

He irritably fumbled in his pocket for his phone and discovered, much too late of course, that it had not exited the train alongside him, but was still lying on the scuffed baize seat. He loosed a sudden violent expletive into the frigid October air.

What on Earth was he going to do now?

He was in the middle of processing a rather long and complicated thought involving finding his way into the town and seeking a phone, or better yet some kind of internet access point for his laptop (which was thankfully still in his shoulder bag) when all at once he became aware that a rather horrible silence had fallen. The birds had ceased to sing in the trees, the distant sound of drilling from a building site shut off as though a plug had been pulled, and even the sound of his own footsteps on the platform seemed somehow to have lost their lustre, like when one is descending a set of stairs after exiting a music venue.

Julius shook his head, confused, and opened his mouth- but his words were suddenly stolen and swallowed by a deafening roar, a screech of harsh sound, unquestionably inorganic and yet horribly, definitely human. This was the scream of something living,

He struggled, later on, to find the right words to describe it, falling back on awkward similes and metaphors- a finger dragged around a granite wineglass, the sound of mechanical failure amplified a thousand degrees, like the axle of the earth beginning to fail- but nothing he ever wrote even seemed to capture it. Even his memory didn’t seem right, as though the sound had actively torn through his working memory. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once, and confusedly, he thought of the mountains screaming in pain as the train tore though their innards.

He clutched his head, trying in vain to shut it out, and all at once it was gone.

‘You right there?’

Julius looked up, startled. The speaker was a thin young man whose concerned eyes were framed behind wire glasses. An expensive-looking camera was suspended about his neck.

‘I…that…’

‘Most people round here don’t even notice it anymore,’ the young man said conversationally. ‘Dunno if they don’t want to or if they really can’t, you know? But it’s never gone away for me. 5 o clock, on the dot. Day in, day out. It’s loudest over by the tracks. So I make sure to be here. As many days as I can.’

Julius was never more sorry to have lost his phone. He would have loved to use the voice recorder function now, to capture this. But it didn’t matter. Pen and paper would have to do.

‘Tell me everything,’ he urged. ‘Tell me about Cyffordd.’

[whitepolaris]

Perryman Mansion

On the Perryman Peninsula in southern Harford County, there exists an old and crumbling manor house. Once the estate of the Boyer family, the sprawling mansion lies on the coastline of the Bush River.

The once extravagant multi-level mansion was abandoned by its longtime tenants decades ago when Baltimore Gas & Electric Company purchased the home along with two hundred and fifty acres of land on which to build a regional plant. 

The home and property were cut off from civilization for years because of their unique location and situation. Surrounded by water on three sides, the peninsula is accessible by only one road, which is closed off to the public once it reaches the BG&E plant. On one side of the peninsula runs an active railroad line, and on the other side is the Aberdeen Proving Ground-the heavily guarded and fenced U.S. Army Post. 

Situated as such, the mansion was literally cut off from human contact. Naturally, rumors begin to spread and its legend grew. Any Maryland ghost hunter worth his salt has heard of the Perryman mansion and its storage goings-on. 

There are stories of ghostly green lights moving in patterns along the walls. Visitors say they have heard voices and other unexplained noises. Many get chills just gazing at the imposing structure and refuse to enter its doorway. Maybe that’s because the ground outside the mansion is littered with small bone fragments. And animal carcasses are commonly found along the road leading back to the house. 

Historical records also point to an old graveyard on the property, which is now covered in weeds and shrubs. Most investigations of the mansion have uncovered death-in one form or another. 

Photographs taken in and around the mansion routinely captured orbs or other mysterious lights and objects. One recent investigation of the Perryman mansion did result in the positive identification of one of its reclusive inhabitants. A strange crying spooked the team and led its member upstairs, where they were able to definitively pinpoint the shrill whine-a baby raccoon! 

Those brave enough to venture into the attic-the highest point in the mansion-are greeted by the putrid smell of decay where coal-black turkey vultures have been found silently guarding clutches of bloody eggs. 

There is little left of the mansion now. A fire destroyed much of it. The suspected cause of the fire was arson, but no one was ever charged. -Brian Goodman, acurse.com

Perryman Memories

The Perryman mansion has been almost a playground to my friends and I for more than six years. Every time I have been there something or someone has made itself known. It starts with the hike to the house. The first 10 minutes are ducking the lights of the electric company, BGE, and staying close to the sporadic trees to hide in the shadows from any disgruntled workers. This is the only area you will feel safe. 

As the large lights disappear you are surrounded by thick woods to your left and the train tracks to your right. Even if you feel you are brave enough and nothing can keep you from venturing on . . .  a train goes by and drowns out all the noise around you. You can’t hear if you are being followed in those brief seconds. 

At the end of the paved you hang a left and became swallowed by woods. A long walk and you can see far enough ahead to trick yourself into thinking there is someone waiting beside the tree lines. As you approach the mansion itself, there are rhododendrons near the stone entrance. A fence surrounds the house but there is a hole cut out to squeeze through . . . or get caught up in while trying to escape. 

There have been more than three occasions when I have heard women speaking as I made my way left of the fence. I am not the only one who heard them. Left of the house you can go to the old pier that sits sideways over the river. You almost forget that you are about to go into a haunted mansion and will more than likely have some sort of unexplainable experience. Let me just tell you of a couple. 

A group of us went into the house. Outside were bones of some sort of animal. There are always bones. We stuck together in a uniform line and decided to go through the living room and upstairs. One of us stayed behind due to fear of seeing something. I had been there so much I honestly wasn’t worried about it. Until we began to walk up the steps . . . one by one pushing each other to go faster. I heard someone whisper in a very stern and serious tone, “LOOK.” 

We all turned our heads at the same time as if in a bad Robert Palmer video and on the wall behind us leading up to the stairs a green glow seeped through. At first it was still . . . then slowly moving up. Then back down. Then up, down and side to side. A cross shape? Needless to say, we didn’t go upstairs or in the basement. We ran out of there. Another adventure also included a large group of people. We made our way to the basement . All of us going our own ways. As we explored, many of the group talked to keep their spirits up. All of a sudden a loud thump came from the first floor. My friend and I stared at each other wide eyed. Only three of us heard it. As I saw my friend’s mouth open to warn the others I demanded her to not say a word. The last thing you want to do in an old building that is literally falling apart is to give reason to freak out and run. We kept our secret until we were safe outside. 

There is nothing special about the way the mansion looks from the inside. It is the sight of it from the fence that makes you shudder. The blank gaze of hollow windows seems to warn you. -Melissa F.

[sirensumbra]

Chapter 2 - Impasse

Nothing.

He had found nothing.

A few abandoned camp sites and cold fires was the only evidence that someone had been in the area. He kicked at the ring of coals with the toe of his boot. Small bones, likely from a bird, skittered across the rough stone ground like pebbles across a pond.

From his pocket Azriel pulled a worn, folded piece of paper loose. The handwriting across the page was tight, neat. Bending at the knee, he rubbed a bit of coal against the pad of his thumb. With a single swipe he crossed the last marked location off, the scrawl beneath disappearing.

He’d read Gwyn’s handwritten notes over and over the last few weeks. Unable to sleep, tired of watching the stars, he’d read the lines until they were memorized.

Azriel had missed nothing. Neither had Gwyn. She was concise. He’d found himself drawn to the small footnotes and occasional quick sketches she’d inked in the margins.

There were moments, evident in her scrawl, where she’d taken breaks, or hesitated. He could see it in the varying thickness of her pen strokes. What had she been thinking? What had given her mind pause?

Heaving a deep sigh Azriel tucked the parchment back into his pocket. Wrapped in shadow he left the Illyrian mountains, winnowing through dark umbra until he was far enough from the camps. The rest of the distance he covered in flight, enjoying the sting of rain against his cheeks.

The townhouse was dark, quiet. His mind, however, was restless.

It took only moments for him to drop his things and grab his throwing knives. The archery stalls outside the House of Wind were empty when he arrived moments later. As he knew they would be.

Azriel raised a blade, pulling his arm back. As the knife passed his ear everything around him disappeared, leaving only the flex of powerful muscle, the thin steel against his palm, the air in his lungs.

He relaxed, exhaling, arm extending forward and wrist snapping. The blade shot through the air, then a thud of impact.

“You’re as good as Adir.”

Azriel glanced over his shoulder as he pulled more knives from his holster. His brother crossed the distance from where he’d winnowed in, stopping a few feet away. Dressed in casual attire, he squinted against the light looking toward the target at the far end of the stall and the dagger embedded at its center.

Keeping two blades tucked against his palm, Azriel raised his arm to throw another. His hand barely passed his ear before he loosened the weapon. Flipping the other knives, he pulled back and released, then snapped the last one. All three hit the center with consecutive sound.

“Think I’ll ever surpass him?” Azriel asked, sparing a few moments to think about the old Illyrian who’d first taught him to throw.

Rhys shrugged. To anyone else the question would have sounded self loathing, but Az was genuinely inquiring.

“In throwing, maybe,” his brother answered, starting forward.

Rhys followed him across the stall. Four blades pierced the target, plunging through the red center. Azriel pulled them free, checking their tips for damage.

Rhys watched him as he freed the knives. Azriel didn’t feel like he’d worked off any tension that had driven him here in the first place. He eyed the board, pondering whether he wanted to sling a few more.

“Did you find anything out there?”

“You know I didn’t.”

Rhys nodded, saying, “Do you think this is a waste of time?”

“Probably.” Azriel swung around to face him, leaning against the target. “Your concerns are warranted, though. There were signs of activity around the western edge of Ramiel.”

“We need to learn what Koschei wants.”

The name of the ancient being - arguably a powerful primordial creature - sent a thrill of nerves down Azriel’s spine.

He shook his head. “I know.”

Rhys leaned against the other side of the target, absently picking at the straw. “Why haven’t you been by the River House? Feyre misses seeing you.”

“You know why,” Az snarled.

“It wasn’t my intention to push you out of our lives, brother,” Rhys pleaded, pain slicing through his expression.

Turning the knives over in his hands, Azriel exhaled. He met Rhy’s violet gaze, the intensity there identical to his own.

“What are you not telling us?”

The words were a whisper, floating between them. Despite their shared eye contact, Rhys gave nothing away. He was the one fae Azriel couldn’t read. At least, not well. Partially his own fault, though. He’d sat with Rhys for hours working on controlling his tells.

When he didn’t answer, Azriel opened his mind. Rhysand’s presence was felt immediately - a washing calm, like tranquil night, spilled through him.

Most described the high lord’s power as wrenching claws - but not Azriel. He found comfort surrounded by his brother’s dark presence. Each detail from his search over the last few weeks was plucked and observed.

“What are you afraid of, Rhys?” Azriel tried a different angle, watching the other males expression for anything that might give his inner turmoil away.

“What do you know of the codes the Illyrian war camps use to communicate with one another?” Rhys asked, removing his presence from Azriel’s mind.

“Not much, that’s Amren’s arena, not mine,” he lifted a shoulder in a disinterested shrug. “I overhead some soldiers saying Devlon has been avoiding some lords, while reporting to others.”

Rhys nodded, gazing up at the overcast sky.

“We’ve gotten our hands on correspondence,” he started, eyes dropping to meet Az’s once more. “The letters are coming from Devlon’s camps. They’ve adapted the way they’re coding their messages.”

“How did you get the letters?”

“Balthazar.”

“The boy from the Blood Rite?”

Rhys nodded. “He’s been feeding us information.” He held up a hand as Azriel opened his mouth. “He came to us. After the girls returned from the Blood Rite, the war camps were boiling,” Rhys growled. “Balthazar was concerned about the rhetoric. He’s been handing over information for a couple weeks.”

“And you trust him?”

“Yes, for now.” He smirked. “He’s young - feels passionately. He wants to help.”

Companionable silence settled between them and Azriel was left thinking of their last conversation. He didn’t regret his words, but he regretted his anger. Rhys was the only one who could withstand the brunt of his temper. Even Cassian, for all his battle savvy, waved a white flag a the thought.

“Rhys,“ Azriel started.

His brother waved a hand in the air. Their gazes caught.

“You were right,” Rhys conceded.

The admission stole Azriel’s breath and the two males stared at one another.

“My intentions to protect Feyre were grossly innopropriate,” Rhys went on to explain. “I let my fear cloud my judgement. Again.”

He let loose a drawn out sigh and Azriel’s heart softened at the sound. It wasn’t that Rhys was incapable of being wrong. Frustratingly, he was often always right.

But his High Lord worried. A lot. As any high lord should, but Azriel worried the affects it was having on Rhys. His father had grown paranoid in the last few years leading to the his death - seeing enemies at every turn. Azriel refused to see Rhys head down that same path.

The last few weeks of camping in the wilds that surrounded Mount Ramiel Azriel had spun his brother’s words over and over in his mind. Recalling Solstice, his frustrations, Rhys’ response. Elain.

In the end Azriel knew he was wrong for wanting what he’d planned on taking that night and the regret was festering inside him. He wanted. Ferociously. His entire life he’d been robbed…

“So were you,” Azriel admitted, shame flooding him. A playful smirk hitched Rhys’ lips, pulling them at one side.

“An impasse then,” he questioned smoothly.

“So it seems,” Azriel replied, carrying them into another stretch of silence. “Has Gwyn found anything else? In my absence?”

Something in what he asked made Rhys smile. “She’s rather frustrated trying to break this new code and Amren hasn’t been much help,” he explained, smile growing. Azriel’s shadows pulsed steadily, sensing a trap. “You could, though.”

“I can’t think I’d be much help, Rhys.”

“She could use some guidance with translating some of the Illyrian language-“

“Rhys-“

“And I’ve been told the two of you meet regularly for private training-“ The emphasis on training had Azriel’s shadows twirling. All of which those vivid amethyst eyes didn’t miss.

“Is this an order?”

“You can’t disobey an order if you haven’t received one, yes?” Rhys’ eyes glittered in unrestrained mirth.

“Solid strategy,” Azriel relented, suppressing his own smile. With flourish, he placed his daggers back in the leather holster strapped to his chest. “Then I guess I’d better get it over with,” Az said as he pushed away from the target. “See you later.”

“Will I see you later?” The High Lord teased after him, knowing that Azriel would continue to stay away.

He swung by the townhouse to drop off his throwing knives and wash. Having headed straight to the training rings on his return, he still wore the stink of travel.

Once finished he reluctantly ventured to the library beneath the House of Wind. Despite the quiet, various priestesses hurried about, arms laden with books or papers. None bothered to look his way as he stepped toward Clotho, half hidden behind her desk.

Hello, shadowsinger.

Her note greeted him as he approached.

“Hello, high priestess.”

Gwyneth is upstairs in her workroom. I ask you not to disturb the other priestess as you go up.

“You were expecting me?”

Our High Lord told me days ago to expect you. I’m glad you’ve offered to help. The poor girl is close to pulling her hair out.

Days ago? Azriel bristled. He felt the tickle of shadow over the back of his neck. An image filled his mind, a slender, freckled hand, fingers combing through molten strands.

“I’d best not keep her waiting then,” Azriel forfeited, pushing the strange image from his mind. His earlier frustrations with Rhys bubbled again to the surface.

Leave your anger at the door, lord Azriel. There is no place for it here.

Clotho’s warning was a bucket of snow over his head. She was right, but the rising dark within him was unsettling. He could feel Rhys’ presence, always watching, waiting, to see if this would be when his infamous spymaster would finally crack and his dark umbra spill out across the world.

“I’ll behave,” Azriel said studiously and turned toward the staircase, tucking his wings tightly behind him.

He didn’t belong here. Priestesses passed him, some greeting him politely. He offered them quick nods in return. He would rather happily jump out the nearest window then have to linger amongst their pain.

It was in the way they darted their eyes away, turned their faces. Each of these women had experienced terrors he wished he could say he was unfamiliar with. But he wasn’t. He shared in their trauma not just because he’d witnessed it first hand by his own family - he’d also dealt it out.

A weapon of war. Tool of torture. Filthy, foul magic that hurt, terrified, destroyed. That’s what he was.

As another priestess avoided his gaze, skittering around him, Azriel jammed his hands into his pockets and walked faster. This is why when he usually came here it was during off hours when the stacks were quiet and empty and he didn’t have to resist the urge the paint the world a vengeful red.

He’d spilled so much blood in his long life that he wondered if the killing would ever end. If his search for euphoria was a circling path with no conclusion, then he was doomed.

At Gwyn’s workroom, he paused, realizing he’d gathered enough shadow to almost disappear from sight. He took a moment to reel his emotions in before raising his fist to tap against the door before swinging it open.

The priestess sat against a worn couch, a weathered book held in her hand. Golden light shimmered from the window, spilling down the wall and catching in her shimmering, chestnut hair, which she combed gently with long, slender fingers.

“Why are you upside down?”

Gwyn tilted her head back, peering over the book that hovered barely an inch from her face. Azriel strolled further into her small work room, eyebrows high above glittering bronze eyes.

“You should knock,” Gwyn shot back.

This was her private space, the one place in the tower she could call her own. Across the hall from Merrill, it served as an assitant’s office - not that it looked like one.

She lay upon a plush couch, legs up and off the back, head dangling beyond the seat. Books piled high in every corner. The desk pushed under the window was barely visible for the clutter of papers strewn about.

All the furniture, even the bookshelves that lined the walls all seemed pulled from different places and time, a collection of things no one cared for anymore but Gwyn adored. His shadows purred against him, vibrating in the priestess presence.

“Do you know all the sorts of things you can learn about a person when you walk in on them unexpectedly,” Azriel returned, unapologetic, ignoring the undulating shadows bobbing up and down at his shoulders.

“And what have you learned about me, shadowsinger?” Her eyes caught his, the turquoise depths dark with mischief, before darting to his shadows. She waved her book in the air. To his utter shock, they waved back.

“That looking at something from a different angle helps you think.”

Gwyn sighed and sat up, pulling her legs from the back cushions.

“Am I so transparent to you,” she huffed, tossing the book at him, which he deftly caught with a single scarred hand. “Why are you here? Aren’t you supposed to be stalking around Ramiel?”

“I don’t stalk, Gwyn.”

“Yes, you do,” Gwyn remedied. The twist of her lips was daring him to argue with her further.

To emphasize her point, she glanced again at the shadows that had covered him so thouroughly he was barely visible. The light had all but been absorbed, blanketing Azriel in rich, undulating dark. Maybe she had a point…

Azriel ignored her teasing gaze and opened the book she’d thrown, glancing curiously at the pages. “What language is this? It looks like gibberish.”

“It is, unless you know how to read it.”

Azriel snorted. “You’re translating something from this?”

“Trying to figure it out, yes,” she corrected. Moving from the couch she stepped before him, plucking the book from the spymasters hand and dropped it onto a table. “What brings you here? Certainly not to discuss books written in jibberish.”

“Actually that’s exactly why I’m here,” Azriel replied. As he spoke he internally cursed Rhys’ name and he swore he could hear his brother laughing from the River House. “Did Rhys not tell you? I’ll be helping you with… this.” He waved his arm around her very messy room.

Gwyn’s mouth curved in a half smile but her eyes were guarded. Azriel wasn’t sure what to make of it.

“If you’ll have me,” Azriel remedied.

Gwyn blinked in surprise, a blush blooming in her cheeks, then barked a laugh.

“I guess I have no choice.”

He huffed agreeably, reaching for the wood chair at her desk, spinning it so that he could sit down without crushing his wings. Propping his elbows on the back, Azriel braced his chin on his palm.

“This place is a chaotic mess,” he murmured, glancing around. “How do you find anything?”

A shadow darted out, bobbing along his shoulder and then danced above his head, as if fascinated by his hair. Gwyn watched as another fluttered against his cheek. He blew a puff of air at it, sending it scurrying away.

He settled against the chair, the runes covering the knife at his thigh glinted in the glowing light. She had no fireplace. The room was lit with what he would describe as a dangerous amount of candles.

Glancing around as if noticing the state of the room for the first time, Gwyn’s blush darkened further.

“I’ll have you know,” she told him pointedly, “I happen to know exactly where everything is.”

She dropped to the thick rug that covered nearly the entire floor and leaned back on her hands. Azriel peeked at the papers on her desk. She was pretending to ignore his curiosity, busying herself with the way her robes lay across her legs. Yet Azriel didn’t miss the way she nervously bit her lip or the way her heart raced.

“So, show me what you’ve learned so far.”

“Yes, ok.” She answered, picking at the invisible thread on her robes. “Could you hand me that notebook behind you?”

“Sure.”

“Not that one. It’s the red-“

“This?”

“That’s the one.”

He passed the book to her outstretched hand. Pulling her legs beneath her, she thumbed through the pages, her thoughts wandering about the room like lingering ghosts. Before her, Azriel sat studying her features, a dark imposing shadow impossible to ignore.

“Illyrians,” Gwyn began, “have lots of secrets.”

“Yes. That’s the point of this is it not,” Azriel deadpanned.

“Listen,” Gwyn huffed, sitting up straight. Her gaze was sharp, challenging, and Azriel wondered if anyone had every looked at him in such a way.

“Gwyn, I’m-“

“Let me finish.” The command in her tone had Azriel’s shadows snapping to attention. There was no fear tightening her expression. Her chest rose and fell quickly - the only other sign of her agitation. “If you have something to say about this situation, just spit it out. Otherwise, let me explain, which, by the way, you asked me to do.”

“All right, priestess,” Azriel spoke calmly, wary of the crackling power that danced under her skin. His shadows curled against him, warning him of her rising ire, not that it hadn’t been obvious in the way her eyes flashed at his condescending tone. “Tell me about the coded letters.”

The fiery expression she’d garnished faded. With trembling hands she picked up her book and began reading to him various bits of interest she’d discovered during her research.

Azriel was content listening to her. The rise and fall of her voice was smooth as the Sidra. Even her eyes sparkled like water.

In comparison to Rhys, Gwyn was an open book. There was no need to study, examine. She moved with purpose, inflection, sincerity. Even the way her hands clutched at her book as if it were some precious thing worth protecting. Azriel found, for the first time in a very long time, he felt at ease.

His shadows played along her desk. Even so bold as to venture down the rug to where she sat, like attentive children at reading time. Azriel pondered their curiosity. It was if they enjoyed her voice, her presence… He found it utterly baffling.

As Gwyn spoke they whispered to him; wondering at her trembling hands or the way she kept biting her lip. The former was ever present, at least when he was around. Her hands shook during their first few sparring matches after he’d agreed to train her.

Did he make the priestess nervous? Perhaps he should have met her somewhere more public.

“Are you listening,” her voice was shy, soft, as if she were worried about startling him.

“Sorry,” Azriel shook himself. “I am. Just a bit tired.”

Her summer eyes narrowed at his lie but she said nothing of it. Gwyn had so disarmingly accused him of finding her transparent that he worried maybe she saw through him just as easily.

“Oh, I have to show this to you!” Her exclamation sent a wave through his shadows, some jumping into the air - not startled… excited.

Azriel watched as she plucked a piece of paper from her desk, having pushed up from the rug so fast it had rendered him still. As she brushed past him to reach, the smell of rose and amber washed over him. Feminine. Sweet.

“Ok,” Gwyn stood before him, hands held out to him in offering. “Hear me out.”

Her mouth quirked, curling at one end into an appeasing smile. Azriel nodded, gesturing for her to continue. A creeping blush spread across her cheeks as a returning smile graced his lips. He found himself so engrossed that he hadn’t the wherewithal to consciously remove it.

[thereluctantinquisitor]

27, 63 or 76 for the kiss meme!

So first of all, I apologise - this got a lot longer than I anticipated! I went with #76 - Top of head kisses, and decided to write a scene between Adiran and Riin. 

This scene takes place after the final round of the Red Fury - a Talveran tournament dedicated to the old god of war, Velos Devo. Adiran, after five years of training with Riin, managed to win his earlier matches and was finally up against the former champion. It goes... not so well.

The world returned to Adiran in flashes - shattered pieces of memory shaken loose inside his head. A roaring crowd. The smell of sweat. His skin, feverish inside his armour, brought to temperature by the blazing sun. It was the final day of the tournament. The final bout. He could remember the pull of his heart, insistent, like a hand tugging on a mother’s skirt. Remembered how he had pressed his own hand to his chest, leather gauntlet creaking, as though to still it through his plate. How many rounds had he fought? Six? Seven? He should know the number. Divider, he should live and breathe the number. But it eluded him, slipping from his grasp like an oiled vase. 

A sound broke through the images - a chair sliding over stone. Adiran dreamed it was a crow, shrieking in the cloudless sky above the arena.

Crosus waited, a mountain at the center of the sands. He was a man whose shadow stood a worthier opponent than any Adiran had already faced. Trained since youth in the barren stones of the Split, he had been named champion two times. Two times. To win once was to be favoured by Velos Devo, the old god whose name was only resurrected once every five years for contest. For glory. To win twice was a miracle - a feat for storybooks and legends. Three times would be utter madness.

Something soft brushed Adiran’s forehead. He flinched from it. In his mind, he shooed a fly from his face as he strode to meet his opponent in the red-lined ring. 

Sweat sticking to his skin, he positioned himself in the giant’s shadow. Brown eyes, shielded by a heavy brow, watched him quietly. He swore he read pity in Crosus’ gaze - a secret between only them, carefully kept from the crowd. Adiran had no time to question it, only to tighten his grip on his sword. A cry from the stands ripped the silence, sharp as an eagle’s talons. 

Begin. 

Adiran’s breath caught in his chest. He couldn’t breathe. Rasping, he tried to pull in air, the shape of Crosus freezing, turning brittle, falling apart behind his eyelids. Hands were on him, strong, frantic, levering him up, turning him to the side. Pain lanced through his chest like a thousand tiny knives, stabbing holes in his bruised lungs. The air stuck halfway down his throat. 

Nauseous, dizzy, breathless, the arena returned.

At some point during the fight, he remembered stumbling. Pivoting, his heel digging a deep gouge in the sand. The shape of Crosus’ mace filled his vision, swung with two heavy hands. Muscles bulged, brown eyes blazed, pity forgotten, lost to the Red Fury. Chosen once again. Adiran barely had time to brace, his sword arm too wide, his shield knocked aside, his stance a panicked mess.

He saw the sky - a pale, piercing blue. 

The sun. 

The crowd. 

The sand. 

Adiran’s back exploded in pain as he slammed into the ground, the wind driven from his lungs. Mindlessly, desperately, he chased the lost air, gasping, helmet knocked askew, blinding him, mouth opening and closing in the metallic dark. His chest stuttered, spasmed, tried to rise but was stopped by something impossibly hard. Impossibly tight. He couldn’t see. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

There was a voice, deep, familiar, vibrating by his ear. Adiran strained, but the words eluded him, too low to decipher. A hand was on his forehead, holding back his sweat-soaked hair as he coughed, retched, clung to whoever kept him steady. His body felt made of hot coals - not blazing like a fire, but burning with a silent, agonising heat. Everything ached. He trembled like he was about to come apart.

Breathe, Adiran. It’s over.

He was in the arena again, lying helpless on the ground. Even in the darkness, white spots burst and swam in his vision. Adiran scrabbled at the sand, unable to turn, get up, do anything to save himself. Mindlessly, he struck his open palm to the ground once, twice, three times. Surrender. But no one came. Nothing changed. He fought to breathe, willing his chest to rise, begging for the hot summer air to pass his throat, panic rising when it would not. Death was not uncommon in the Red Fury. The contest’s very name made a grim promise to the cheering masses in the stands. Death was never the purpose - never the goal. But once the favour of Velos Devo, Lord of the Bloodied Hand, was cast, the rules of mercy and surrender all too often fell aside. As was expected. As was tradition.

Something tugged at his left side, then his right. Adiran’s vision faltered, his heart pounding an erratic, frantic rhythm against his ribs. It echoed in his skull - deafened him to the crowd. To Crosus. To a new voice, shouting, saying... something. He couldn’t understand it. Couldn’t see. Couldn’t breathe.

Just as the world began to sputter and dim, everything was suddenly drowned out by a piercing screech. The sound tore through his skull, jolted him back into his body. If he had air to give, he would have screamed.

He was dying. This had to be dying.

His back arched. His fingers went limp in the sand. Then, with an final, awful shriek, the weight on his chest was suddenly lifted. Air flooded back into Adiran’s newly freed lungs - he heaved it in with a mindless, choking gasp. The helmet was tugged from his head, sunlight flooding in, burning his eyes. Hands cupped his face, smoothed his hair, said his name over and over like a mantra. Like a prayer.

His name...

Adiran’s eyes flew open, wild and panicked until his surroundings finally began to take shape. He was in a room, a place dim and dull and far from the arena sands. He trembled, gasping, cringing against the pain as he pulled in breath after breath, unable to stop - unwilling to stop - even as his vision cleared and the agony of it threatened to turn his stomach. He was sitting up, a woolen sheet pooled at his waist. The bed beneath him was a familiar, simple affair. After a few more seconds of half-sobbed gasps, Adiran finally recognised the physicker’s ward. 

Riin’s arms were around him, holding him up, bracing him as though to protect him from a storm. “Breathe, Adiran. Just breathe.” His voice was low and familiar, but edged with something Adiran had never heard in it before. 

Fear.

“R... Riin...?”

The tall man shifted, pulling away, leaving just enough distance to take Adiran in with those amber-bright eyes. Adiran stared right into them, ragged and fraying at the edges. He was clinging to Riin’s forearm, fingertips digging into the man’s skin as the truth of the situation finally crashed over him. 

He’d nearly died. He’d nearly fucking died.

And for what?

“Adiran, stay with me.” The relief in Riin’s face, near palpable, wavered as he raised a palm to Adiran’s cheek. It was a strange gesture - strangely intimate - but in that moment Adiran simply accepted it. Needed it. He leaned against the palm, bone-tired, eyelids drooping even as Riin urged him to stay awake. The room blurred, sharpened, then blurred again, chased in and out of focus by the line of his lashes. 

“I’m okay.” Adiran’s voice felt raw as it limped from his aching throat, but he forced it out. “I’m alright, Riin.”

Riin made a sound, and if Adiran had any coin to spare, he would place a bet on disbelief. But, despite his companion’s incredulity, it was true. For the most part. He was alright. He could breathe. He was alive. Riin was there. 

Riin was there.

Something sparked at the back of Adiran’s weary mind, stirring him away from the edge of sleep. He forced his eyes open again - found his gaze flicking around the room. Ignoring Riin’s questioning glance, he struggled on; kept looking until he found what he sought, discarded on a nearby table.

His plate. 

The chest-piece, once a gleaming, princely silver, lay like a piece of mangled sheet, discarded by a blacksmith’s apprentice. The sides, fastened by a series of thick clasps, were warped and bent, crushed against each other, broken beyond repair. He remembered now. The mace striking his chest. It had flung him through the air. The blow must have caved in the front of his armour - crushed it against him. When he hit the ground, hard and heavy, it would have only made matters worse, bending and warping the already ruined metal.

But there was something else that caught his eye.

“I... how...?” The words were barely above a whisper. Adiran felt Riin’s grip on him tighten as the man followed his gaze, but he said nothing. He didn’t need to.

The center section of Adiran’s plate, where the mace must have done its worst damage, lay entirely separate to the rest of it. From the neckguard down, a wide strip was missing, the edges jagged and twisted as though it had been torn. To see it defied belief - defied possibility. That was metal. Twice-forged steel. He remembered now, the moment when he had drawn that first breath. That skull-piercing sound - the thud of something heavy being cast aside. The palms pressed to either side of his face as he coughed and choked on air and blood. A pair of blurry amber eyes.

Riin must have leapt from the stands. Rushed the field. He had ripped Adiran’s ruined armour straight from his body. Torn it with his bare hands.

Opening his mouth, Adiran tried to form words, but found them impossible, each one slipping away from him faster than he could catch the next. He must have faltered, because Riin murmured something hastily, catching him and lowering him back down to the bed. How those hands could be so gentle, Adiran didn’t understand. Every time they had sparred - every time Adiran had cursed and struck and charged at him with everything he had - Riin had never hurt him. 

It couldn’t be real. He must be mistaken. Delirious. After all, he’d nearly died. 

Or maybe he had, and this was all just some strange, impossible dream.

The pillow was soft beneath his head. His skull still ached - thrummed with a pain so deep-set Adiran feared me may have it for the rest of his life. He groaned and said as much, and was rewarded by a quiet, relieved chuckle. It was a comfort, to hear him laugh. Even if it was at his expense.

“I can only imagine. Crosus does not hold back.” There was a pause, and both of them knew how much of an understatement that was. Dark eyes, wild at the edges. 

Almost tentatively, Riin spoke again. “My mother had a cure. When I was younger. For a painful head or a wounded mind.”

Adiran squinted his eyes open. Just a crack. Just enough to see Riin watching him, his expression... strange. Fond? Anxious? On another day, Adiran might have spent hours trying to decipher it. But as it was, he was exhausted. There was only so much he had left to give. 

So instead, he just groaned, and pressed his eyes shut once more. “I’ll take just about anything right now.” 

There was a pause. A moment absent movement or sound, save for a set of muffled footsteps passing outside the physicker’s ward. Then, a soft rustle of fabric. A quiet creak from the bed as Riin moved. Leaned. Even with his eyes closed, Adiran could feel Riin hesitate, his breath warm and gentle against his hair.

Slowly, he pressed his lips to the top of Adiran’s head.

On another day, Adiran might have teased the man. Rolled his eyes. In his dreams, he grabbed that beautiful, frustrating idiot by the collar and showed him how to do it properly. But, after so long teetering on the edge of consciousness, Adiran simply sighed, swallowed, and let himself drift away into a much-needed sleep.

[alanden-damouxmg]

The Battle of Goldshire

Alanden and Dawkson landed in an unceremonious tumble of flailing limbs. Those who rushed by offered no help - their staunch fear leading them to hopeful salvation within the dense forests of Elwynn that surrounded the small town. The building that housed the local smithy was lit aflame. No doubt caused by the unattended coals of the forge when the attack started. The heat lashed out against the streets and bathed the entire battle in a brilliant orange hue. Far more of an acrobat than his counterpart, Dawkson was on his feet in an instant and Alanden felt the man’s hands grip his tunic and hoist him to his feet. “I don’t know when you got so damn righteous, Damoux, but maybe that fall knocked some sense into you.” He shouted over the clanging of steel and shrill screams of victims succumbing to chomping teeth and slashing claws. “We make for Westfall!” Quickly reaching down to procure the blade he had tossed about before he himself jumped, he set his eyes on his surroundings. He watched as two figures stood back to back, one donning the armor and tabard of a Stormwind guard while the other was dressed in a simple tunic and breeches - armed with nothing more than a pickaxe. A local miner, perhaps, or a brave citizen who picked up the nearest bludgeon he could find. Regardless, they hacked, slashed and kicked at a pack of ghouls that set their eyes on them. It was a valiant effort, albeit feeble in the end, as both were eventually brought down by the undead. “Stormwind.” He ignored Dawkson’s suggestion. Whether it was out of a sense of duty for those around him or at the lasting command of Lord Sunshield to protect the people of the Alliance at all costs was up for debate. He was quite unsure of the answer himself. “We must warn the Capital.”

“No. Westfall,” Dawkson urged and swung his head towards the left. “We can stick to the alleys until we reach the forest! Let’s go!”

The two took off at a sprint. They dodged and weaved through the hordes of living and unliving. Alanden felt something snap beneath his feet as they ran - an arrow. The familiar fletching of Dawkson’s handiwork riddled about the wooden shaft. He looked to the man in front of him as they ran. During the fall most of the Huntsman’s arrows had fallen loose from the quiver fastened to his back and now scattered the streets. 

A voice by one of the market’s caravans at the crossroad between the smithy and the tavern boomed over the ruckus of battle. “Single column! Single column!” 

A man, armed and armored to the teeth and donned in a tabard which had the sigil of the Argent Crusade emblazoned upon it sat atop a similarly armored war steed - his longsword pointing to emphasize the orders he barked. “Dawkson!” Alanden shouted. “Crusaders!”

Others who bore the tabard of the Argents had formed a horizontal line in an attempt to drive back the dead. Far more organized and disciplined than the rabble that infested Goldshire. The line was holding and the undead were slowly but surely being beaten back into the woods whence they came. The inspiration and presence of the Commander atop his steed was so palpable one could nearly see it radiating off him. He galloped from one edge of the line to the next repeatedly, shouting commands and motivation as he did so. “Citizens of Goldshire! Those who can fight, rally to me! To me!”

Dawkson and Alanden had managed to reach the alley with little resistance and paused for a moment. “He’s in the wrong town to try and rally a defense. Look at this.”

Alanden followed his comrade’s gaze. Strewn across the alley before them was the body of a Stormwind Guard. Her helmet was nowhere to be seen. It was a younger woman, seeing no more than twenty-three summers, with hair the color of chestnut and a horrified expression riddled across her lifeless face. One would surmise the ghouls had gotten to her like they had all the rest, but as Dawkson knelt beside the corpse Alanden saw what he was referring to. Her throat had been cut. “That’s too clean to have been from a ghoul.”

Dawkson grunted in agreement. “Aye. Someone slit her throat. Probably in the chaos. Those Argents will probably die the same way if they don’t watch their back. Nothing but criminals in this town. Don’t trust *anyone*, Damoux.”

The sounds of fighting amplified and a howl sounded from behind them. Spinning around swiftly, Alanden came face to face with a ghoul which must have slipped around the line of Crusaders. It lunged for him - the husk of what once was living letting loose a guttural cry of anger as it did so. Alanden brought the blade to bear just in time to parry the flailing claws. They locked in a stalemate as he dug his heels into the ground. Basic swordsmanship training screamed at him to not give any ground. For something so lifeless, however, the creature possessed an unholy strength. As Alanden felt himself slipping he brought his left foot up in a swift kick to its gullet. As it staggered back he brought the blade high above his head and prepared to slash downwards upon it. 

A whistle and a gust of breeze flashed by the side of his head and an arrow lodged itself into one of the ghoul’s black eyes with enough force to send it careening to a pile of nearby crates. Spinning around, Alanden saw Dawkson had taken a knee, drawn a bead upon the undead, and sent the arrow into him. His bow lowered and his expression was enough for Alanden to know what he was going to say. “Pride be damned, Damoux,” He snarled. “Go to Stormwind if you want. I’m getting out here. Consider this my resignation.”

Alanden felt his lips twist and contort into a scowl. “Don’t be a coward,” He countered. “The King’s men will-”

“The King’s men are dead. Look around you.” Dawkson stomped towards him swiftly. “If you think this is the only place this is happening, you’re wrong. For all we know Stormwind is burning down as we speak.” 

The two fell silent. Battle chorused all around them outside of the alleyway they had found a minor respite in. It wasn’t until Alanden spoke was the verbal silence shattered. “Do me one last favor.”

Dawkson reached over his shoulder to fasten the bow between his quiver and back. “What?” His single eye narrowed.

With his free hand, Alanden motioned to the roof of the building on their left. “Climb to the roof and light one of your broadheads aflame. Send it up above the trees to warn anyone who may see it.”

With a scowl, Dawkson’s gaze followed his hand. He fell silent again in consideration. Alanden knew this man and, as much as he cared for only his own hide, there was a sense of morality within the woodsman. However minor it may be. “For the record,” His eye still remained upwards and rested on the roof of the building. “I hope I don’t ever see you again after this.”

The scowl was replaced with the barest of smirks and his left hand outstretched towards Dawkson. “I accept your resignation.”

Spitting within the palm of his hand, Dawkson met the offered hand in a firm shake. “Was a pleasure working with you.”

Alanden turned and took off at a run. As he exited the alley, the line of Crusaders waned even under the leadership of their Commander. He had to get to Stormwind. More and more of the ghouls poured out of the trees and crashed maliciously against the line of defenders. The streets were devoid of the living - only half-chewed corpses remained. He made for the wood line and felt the familiar sensation of sweat stinging at his eyes. 

He had to get to Stormwind and warn Lord Sunshield. 

[paellaplease]

Firebird | Chap.2

Summary: 105 years before the hero’s resurrection, a young woman trained under ancient knowledge once forgotten- enchants her very first weapon. For the sake of research and in search of a warrior worthy to wield it, she is sent to Rito Village, immediately clashing with the local archer, Revali, a bird too prideful for his own good.

Surviving deadly road-trips, sudden drops, and a hand bearing a Sheikah rune with a penchant for catching fire, she slowly begins to uncover the secrets behind who she once was and the old evil that lies asleep in the mountains beyond.

Chapter 1 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7

Chapter 2: The Chief

Good news and bad news. Fate plots her course and laughs in her face.

*

  The enchanted dagger hung heavy from inside its decorative scabbard as she ascended the multiple wooden steps taking her near the summit of Rito Village. Along with her backpack full of notes, books and supplies, she was also unnecessarily armed to the teeth, by her standards at least. 

Teacher carries twice this many weapons to a village picnic. 

Maiya felt silly, listening to the dagger at her hip clank noisily alongside the sound of her other sheathed throwing knives. She felt more like a bag of metal than a mysterious enchanter from a land far away. The thought made her snort.

The young woman adjusted her now shoulder length hair, tucking it underneath her newly acquired bandana. She quietly mourned for its comforting weight when it used to hang long and healthy at her waist. Brushing it out in the morning was one of her few indulgences, and now with it gone she felt an uncomfortable gap in her usual routine.

The bandana was yellow and scratchy, but it was cheap and did the job in hiding her lopsided haircut. This is your punishment for not paying attention to your surroundings.

Maiya shrugged, clicking her tongue and clutching the railing at her side with a bit more force than necessary. There were more important things to worry about. 

It’s just hair.

Humming a cheerful old folk-song, she attempted to summon her final dredges of courage as the number of stairs left began to dwindle. She was nearing the top and getting closer to the Rito Chieftain’s office.

As much as she hated to admit it, the near second brush with death had rattled her enough to have cost her sleep the night before. And she found herself more of a nervous wreck this lovely morning than she usually was. Comfy and plush the bed may have been at the Rito Stable, she spent the evening tossing and turning, plagued by night terrors.

For a moment, she thought it was the same nightmare she usually saw. Skeletons on horseback, metal clashing on metal. Voices, so many voices, calling out for her to run .

However this time instead of a sword plunging into her gut as she turned away, it was an arrow, coated in blue feathers, soaring straight and true towards her, piercing her skull’s soft flesh just between her eyes.

Maiya had awoken early that morning, finding it difficult to return to sleep. She packed her things and tipped the stablemaster, setting out for the village which blurred the lines between earth and sky, and reaching the connecting bridge by early afternoon.

Anxiously, she flexed her gloved left hand, willing the aching buzz of energy emanating from the rune underneath to recede. The soft glow seemed bluer, it’s shine reminding her of the Rito she had met the day before. 

Not all travellers that passed by the forge at Akkala were sunshine and rainbows. Some were quite icy, or downright uncivil, her mentor not wasting any time to throw them out should they had overstayed their welcome. 

However…him. What was his name again? That Rito. He was rude, callous, and absolutely full of it. Which made his willingness to help her all the more suspicious and confusing. 

Maiya half expected the oversized bird to lead her towards a bokoblin camp in revenge to her interrupting his target practice. However, she was pleasantly surprised to find that his directions were indeed correct, and that she found herself back onto the Highway within hours instead of days. 

What a weird guy. 

At her thoughts, her hand glowed brighter. Surprisingly, the usual accompanying pain felt dulled. Almost…non-existent. 

She glared at her left hand, pulsing like a blue beacon underneath her glove. Hush , she thought. 

Another worrying memory gnawed at her brain as she climbed the final steps, clutching the railing to catch her breath. Back there, faced with the threat of imminent death, the rune on her hand reacted accordingly, reaching out to neutralize whatever threat was heading towards its host. 

In hindsight, the protective fire wouldn’t have made it anyway, and the arrow would have killed her instantly. But the memory of a glowing blue light and the confusion she felt at a heavily feathered something running towards her still remained. 

Maiya grimaced, looking out at the bright, blue sky to her right. ‘Helpful’ as the Rito archer may have been, she wonders how friendly he would be if he finds out she nearly burnt him to a crisp. Good riddance. I hope we never cross paths again.

Three more steps, two, then one. She reached the entrance of the Chieftain’s office. What was a light breeze from below was now a strong gust of wind at the summit, playing with the wisps of hair that had escaped her bandana and making her clutch her brown traveler’s coat tighter as she suppressed a violent shiver. 

The outside of the hut was decorated with colourful silks and cloth, all printed with a white symbol of an oddly shaped half-circle with two wing-like geometric shapes fanning out from either side. She recognised it from her history classes with her mentor, the sacred Rito sigil. An emblem that had survived centuries of history. 

Along with the banners, shells and chimes were strung up and hung along sections of the hut. They danced merrily in the wind, creating soft music which worked well in reducing some of her nervous panic. She wondered where they came from, the shells in particular, some looked to be from mostly molluscs. 

Someone to her left just cleared their throat.

“Uh…Miss? Are you alright?”

Maiya blinked, shaking her head and turning to whoever just spoke. 

It was a Rito, clad in brown leather armour. He had piercing blue eyes, which stood out like two bright stars against the coal black of his plumage. The partisan spear gripped in his right wing, and the bright red sash with the Rito emblem secured neatly to his waist indicated that he was probably some sort of guard.

One second passed. Then another.

Oh dear.

“I was staring off into space again wasn’t I?”

Surprisingly, a small, shy smile graced the guard’s severe stony face. “Perhaps,” he said, shrugging awkwardly. “You looked like you were trying very hard to set that yellow cloth on fire with your mind.”

Maiya let out a shaky laugh. Yikes, bit too close to home, birdie. 

“Sorry,” she said. Rocking back on her heels and scratching the back of her head in embarrassment. “Anxious habit, I guess I’m a bit nervous to meet your chieftain…”

“There’s nothing to be nervous about.” The guard smiled kindly. “Chief Kamori is a wise and just leader. He has been dedicating himself to our village since I was a chick." 

He quickly surveyed her appearance. Though his gaze was purely calculating, Maiya still felt a tad self-conscious as his eyes took in her worn coat and old leathers. The guard seemed to understand where some of her stress was coming from, beak quirking into a serene smile. "He worries little about formalities, Hylian guest, so do not feel concerned over not packing your finest silks and messing up your curtsey,” he winked good-naturedly.

Thank Hylia .

The guard turned his head towards the Chieftain’s hut, “I’ve watched him govern our great village for many years now. He treats all that meet him with respect and honesty.” The Rito then stood to attention, stamping his staff on the ground and making Maiya jump.

“We only ask that you do the same.”

Filled with new understanding, Maiya’s shoulders relaxed. “That’s a reasonable request to ask for,” she smiled. 

She stepped forward to the cloth door, “Oh! By the way,” she said. “My name is Maiya, what’s yours?" 

"Talako,” he said. “Protector of the Chief and Guardian to the peoples of Rito Village." 

"Thank you Talako, hope to see you around I guess?”

“I hope so too, Miss Maiya." 

And with that, she pulled the curtains back and stepped inside. 

The Chieftain’s office was small and humble. Minimally decorated save for the large oak table which sat at the corner of the room. Glass lamps strung with carefully woven rope hung from the high ceiling, swinging lightly in the breeze. 

Tall windows surrounded her from all sides, all kept wide open as the cool Tabantha air danced and whistled through the room, carrying the sweet scent of flowers and fruit. Beyond was a stunning view of the snowy Hebra mountainside, with rolling hills and white capped peaks which disappeared into the clouds. 

Finally, in the middle of the room sat the Chieftain.

The Chief’s eyes were kind. His right eye was a dark shade of green, the same colour of grass after rain in the lush fields of her hometown. It was relatively clear, unharmed, contrasting with the milky white of his left eye, a long, old scar running jagged across it.

He was a rather large Rito, widely built and towering over her by a fair margin. His brown feathers were fading to grey in his old age, with the ones that grew under his beak decorated with silver plates and beads, braided to resemble a three pointed beard. 

She’d never met a Chief before. Maiya didn’t know what she was expecting. Someone grander maybe? A throne instead of a rocking chair? But a part of her felt relieved. This Chief looked understanding, fair. He was dressed conservatively in simple cream clothes, the only splash of colour being a green scarf printed with the Rito emblem tied neatly around his neck. 

Maiya’s eyes continued to roam the room, noticing the tapestry that hung at the back wall. Shells and feathers were woven into the fabric, with splashes of beautiful colour laced into its intricate weaving and embroidery. 

It depicted a surprisingly wingless Rito, golden light surrounding them like a halo. They were dressed in a red and gold robe, which fanned out dramatically across the tapestry like a crashing wave. Flying down from the heavens to meet the flightless bird was a giant serpent like dragon. Its scales were the colour of wildfire, with outstretched claws that gripped and curled around a snow-white mountain. The Rito was reaching an arm up, as if to grab the bright star which rested in the beast’s gaping maw. 

It was beautiful.

The Chieftain held out a wing, "Hoo! Hello!” he gestured for her to step further into the room. “Come in, let me have a better look at you! These eyes aren’t the same as they used to be, more a bat than a hawk unfortunately.”

The leader of the Rito squinted his good eye at her as she approached, widening as she stepped into the light. The expression he had on his face was puzzling. Open, almost trusting. As if he recognised the person standing before him now. Which would be impossible as this was their first meeting. 

Stop overthinking. 

“Hoo,” he smiled, “Are you the young Maiya that Nisandrey has been telling me so much about?”

That caught her off-guard. It was rare that she ever heard her mentor’s name spoken out loud. Let alone so casually by someone she’s never met.

“Yes…that’s me. Do you know my Teacher well?”

“Hmm,” the Chieftain said, turning his head to the stack of letters on the oak table. One of them was still rolled open, her mentor’s signature in the bottom in her favourite red ink.

“She and I have been friends for a very long time, young one.” He breathed, voice as light as the wind around them. “She says that you are progressing well in your studies.”

Maiya felt her ears go red, biting her tongue and clasping her hands behind her back to stop her from yelling out and fist pumping in the air. HOLY SHIT! YES! Yeah! Woohoo-

Instead.

She bowed her head bashfully. “Thank you, Chieftain. That is good to hear, especially coming from her." 

The wise Rito chuckled, "No need to be so humble, young Maiya.” He then began to sit up slowly, minding his back as his talons touched the floor. “Where are my manners? I am Chief Kamori of the Rito Village. But you may just call me Kamori if you wish." 

He walked to the side of the room, pulling a chair towards his and gesturing to her with an open wing to take a seat. "It has been a long time since an Enchanter had stepped foot on this village.” She thanked him and sat gently into the plush chair. Rito furniture, there’s just nothing else like it!

“Hardly an Enchanter,” Maiya said, relieving her shoulders from the weight of her travel pack. “I was granted the title just a moment before I left.”

Kamori smiled, eyes far away. “Ancient tales say that to be called an Enchanter means to have endured years of hard-work and intense study.” Sadness seemed to mingle with his voice as he continued. “Regardless of when it was made official, you are what you are now, do not belittle the efforts which have brought you to this point.” 

She gazed down at her left hand, wondering to what extent her mentor revealed to Kamori of her abilities. Enchanting was a science as old as ancient history, but the methods she used were rather unconventional. Moreso magical even- an opinion Teacher would never agree with. If she focused hard enough, she could feel the active hum of energy running through the veins and nerves underneath the lines of her scar. The rune on her hand made everything easier, but the pain and fatigue that followed almost always trumped the allowances. 

Many evenings she wondered if it was truly her skill and knowledge aiding her, or the rune acting as a permanent crutch. She was happy with her accomplishment, she wouldn’t deny that, but making a point to constantly take credit felt wrong somehow. Like she was cheating. 

Maiya’s lips curved, bitter. Pride was never her forte anyway. 

A short pause settled between her and the Chief when she finally remembered why she was here in the first place. Business now, self-deprecating internal rant later. Quickly, she reached down to the enchanted dagger at her side, unbuckling the scabbard and presenting it to the Rito Chieftain. “It will not harm anyone while sheathed, but please still be careful not to touch it,” she said. 

“There’s a defect I still need to work through. From what I gathered, the elemental energy infused within it is still tied to mine. Teacher believes the ancient masters met this issue as well in the beginning stages.” She frowned, shaking her head. Don’t think he would appreciate a lecture . “The dagger burns all except for me, a powerful enchanter, and…"

“The warrior you deem worthy to wield it,” Kamori finished, smiling knowingly. 

Maiya’s shoulders dropped. There it is. “Yes,” she breathed. “And you probably know that’s the reason why I am here.”

“Hooo, you are correct child. Dear Nisandrey…”

Maiya shivered. Such an endearing term before such a terrifying woman’s name was so unnatural.

“…has informed me of the details. You are very lucky, we have already named the village’s most skilled archer and fighter a few years ago. During the time, Nisandrey was invited to survey our new line of lightweight armour and weaponry, but unfortunately she had to decline due to previously scheduled…appointments.” The way his voice rose and dipped at the word appointments in a rough imitation of her mentor’s own accent made her laugh in surprise. Kamori sat back in his rocking chair, pleased. 

"I warn you enchanter, the Rito warrior is skilled, but young. He can be quite vocal of his achievements and I’ve been told this can be slightly off-putting at times,” He paused, deliberating over how he should salvage her opinion of their chosen after his quick admission. “However, he is inherently good of heart and extremely diligent. I’m sure you will both find a way to get along.”

A bell chimed in the distance, accompanied by the sound of flapping wings.

"Hoo! I believe that is him now.”

Maiya stood from her seat, sheathing the dagger and turning to face the mysterious Rito that had just entered the room. 

“Welcome back home, Revali, Pride of the Rito.”

Growing up, Maiya never really had much in the way of an extended family, or friends rather outside from the other smiths who frequented the workshop. 

Hence, she can’t say she’s ever had the honour of experiencing the specific, delicious concoction of embarrassment, anger, and surprise from being on the other end of a prank or practical joke. And for many years, she was happy to keep it that way. Till now.

This is a joke right. 

Her eyes were wide. Scanning the newcomer in disbelief.

Jade anklets, blue feathers, a familiar scowling beak. 

Haha…

I’m in danger.

The chair behind her let out a loud screech , and she belatedly realised that she was unconsciously backing away and towards the nearest exit, which in this case was a window opening up to an at least 30 story drop.

She could feel her heart galloping in her ears.

To make matters worse, in response to her panic, the rune underneath her glove started to glow once more, sizzling the leather. A trail of black smoke rose from the ruined material, making her predicament obvious even as she tried to hide her hand behind her back.

Across the room, the Rito known as Revali stood, royal blue feathers ruffling as he slowly began to process who exactly he was looking at.

“What are you doing here?”

Maiya raised her smoking hand and waved awkwardly, “Uh…hello again.”

'Idiot! You big dumbass! What the hell was that?’

I don’t know I panicked!

“Hooo,” Kamori smiled, oblivious to the heavy cloud of animosity that now hovered over the two. “It seems you both already know each other. Excellent.”

[ephrampettaline]

[ chatzy with @alessafalling, @ephrampettaline, @mayaparker, @rydenbolt, @scarlettxruby, and @thatwhichbindsus ]

A sunken grocery store. Somebody’s first time, another person’s trip back to the town. Six bloods spilled and six bloods combined.

The air had been strange lately, cool and damp like standing by the coal had been. The earth, unforgiving and unwelcoming. Roots weren’t growing, new leaves weren’t budding. There was a corruption slowly settling in like an oil slick over the lake, and Ciara had no idea whether it was that a ley nearby had been drained, or if something more deadly was setting in, or if someone had just cursed her with a sense of malaise. The two gitturns that she’d adopted were settled in the little pouch she’d bought them, so she could keep an eye on them and they could be exposed to the world a little. The vet had said to be careful with them, but that they could cope with this now. Their fur was thickening out and three days ago the white one had opened its eyes. So she took them to the grocery store with her, filled up her trolley with fresh meats for them and fresh veg for her. 

Ciara had almost forgotten her ill ease as she idly pet the dark one, when the fluorescent lights of the store went out. Ciara looked up, and saw only dark blue, and looked around as the shelves dissipated into wrought iron stalls, and the bright plastic wrappers of foods vanished, leaving only old, emptied cans. The light was weak and flickering, and the floor creaked and swayed. 

Swayed? 

There was a layer of water on the floor, slimy and thick, and the floor wasn’t on the ground at all. In fact, there was no ground at all, none for miles. Ciara stepped out of the abandoned, torn up grocery store, and looked up. Up. Up. Glass for a ceiling, with cracks. Above it, at first she thought was the night sky, until a shadow passed overhead, large, long, with a strong tail. A whale. Ciara looked to the side and there were windows there too, and beyond them kelp growing in all directions, illuminated by the light of a dozen underwater skyscrapers. In the windows, she could see shadows moving.

Maya wasn't having a great time. Sleep had pretty well escaped her for the last few nights. Between the mysterious warning that she hadn't quite managed to scrub out of her skin and the couple of things she was already trying to stay on top of, she felt the stress weighting heavily on her shoulders. But she still had to go about her day. Today found her in the grocery store, buying her things for the week. A few more comfort foods than usual were in her cart. She stopped in the middle of the aisle as something strange started to happen. "What the fuck?" Maya asked herself as a layer of water soaked the floor and her shoes. She looked around to see that was not the only thing that had changed. "Is this what you meant by they're coming?" she shouted to no one in particular, "Because I think you could've been a bit more specific."

“Maya?” Ciara called as she spun, reaching into some new, empty ley she could just about feel. Just in case it wasn’t Maya. “Who’s coming?” The little gitturns tittered and trembled against her hand, and Ciara pulled their pouch closer, just in case. Just in case. She was already breathing a little faster, this canned air that didn’t move or didn’t cycle, just creaked. She spotted the other witch with some small relief. Someone to survive this new hell with. Which was good. Someone was coming from a distant tunnel, their feet splashing in water puddles, and their giggles echoing off iron walls. “Can you fight? If we have to?”

Maya turned as she heard someone call her name. "They," she called back, "Because apparently being fucking specific isn't cool anymore." She saw Ciara just after the other witch saw her. Despite not knowing Ciara well, Maya breathed a sigh of relief. At least she wasn't completely alone. She nodded, "Yeah, I can fight." After a pause she added, "Course I was sort of hoping I wouldn't have to on my trip to the grocery store."

Ephram had been ranging around the town nonstop since the rat king at the decrepit bakery, and then the octo-beast at the dilapidated bowling alley. He found that after having encountered Essie's dust and so much of the mold in the course of duty, and then those two ugly versions of Soapberry places, he could feel his magic itching through him to lead him towards new pocket-worlds that were opening. So the grocery had been his new destination -- but even expecting something bizarre to happen didn't prepare him for being suddenly in an underwater abanadoned supermarket. The familiar voices, at least, were something that held constant. "I'm here too," Ephram called, hefting the golf bag he'd replenished after the bowling alley incident. "Is it only you two so far?" he asked Ciara and Maya, trotting up to stop next to them.

“Did you get a message about th- oh, the mould?” Ciara guessed, although she truly had no idea. “Likewise, but I guess we can’t trust this town at all. Hopefully we just have to find a way out... of here.” It was creaking again. Had Ciara mentioned she hated the creaking? “Ephram? There’s a ley here, you should connect to it,” she said, slipping into a teacher role where she hadn’t for Maya. “Just us. But someone’s coming.”

Ruby had been at the other end of the shopping center - having just finished up taking the statements of a naga couple that had just come from some mad max death race pocket, but seemed to be mostly alright now - and was headed into the store to grab something for lunch when things started to change. At first she thought she was imagining it. The doors slid shut behind her with their usual hissing sound, and she moved to grab a small basket when it cracked beneath her grip, dryrotted. Which was unusual considering the layer of water beneath her boots. She huffed a sharp breath through her nose, spinning around to face the glass doors of the store as the air suddenly became... less. It was tighter, more metallic. And the saltwater ooze of everything else made her cover her nose. "What the fuck..."

The Splicer giggled. “I can heaaaar you. Little rats digging through scraps, but they’re all gone, all gone now!” His sing song voice echoed in the large chambers, although he hardly had enough sentience left to consider himself a he. “You’ll make a fine roast and I can smell the good stuff on you. It’s mine, you hear me? MINE! Ohohoh Im going to be sooo happy when I find you!”

Ephram shook his head when Ciara mentioned a ley line. "From what I seen of these black mold creepy places, I don't reckon I'd wanna try connecting to anythang here," he said, looking around and stepping a little closer to a shelf at the thought of all the water pressure outside of the market. "Do youn's have your magic? Mine works okay. Works fair good against them beasties that seem to be lurking--" He stopped talking when The Splicer's voice started up, echoing even more unsettlingly because of the water surrounding them, and set the golf bag down between them. "By the way? I got weapons."

Maya nodded, "Yeah, I did. Sorry, I got a bit...distracted by some other stuff." She turned again as someone else approached. Her shoulders tensed, ready for a fight if it came to that. She relaxed a little when she realized it was only Ephram. She nodded in agreement with Ciara. "Yeah, just the three of us..." she was about to add so far when two voices interrupted. The first was one she recognized. Ruby. she thought. The second was decidedly foreign. "Yeah, um my dude I am super not delicious. Meat's way too tough on this one," she shouted, fully knowing that it would help whoever that was find them.

What was it with these fucking underwater scenarios?? If Ruby was afraid of one real-world thing, it was being trapped underwater and drowning. The voice that came next raised the hair on the back of Ruby's neck. A low growl rolled in her chest. She didn't know the others were there yet, so she didn't know the message was meant for all of them. It temporarily pushed fear of the water from her head. "You might rethink that once you do." She said of being found.

Though the slight tremor in her voice said otherwise.

”Ooh, a player!” The splicer replied, spinning to the sound of Ruby’s voice, sprinting in her direction with a loose limbed ferocity. The hunt was on, and the splicer was so, so hungry. Everyone walking around here was an empty husk, but not her, not her! “Lay down your bets because you’re going to be mineeee!” He spotted her, pale and dark haired and pretty as a picture, and oh, he was going to fix that.

Essie knew the feeling as soon as she landed in one of these other pocket worlds. Her third one she hunkers down for a moment. Voices down a tunnel to her right, and one echoing over everything. Not wanting to be alone she hopes with all her might the people down to her right were people she knew, or at the very least friendly. She runs down the tunnel and finds a crowd of people, almost running right into the back of Maya. Her hands reaching out to steady herself. Eyes shifting over the crowd she spotted Ephram and his golf bag. What a life she lead that a golf bag was what comforted her the most.

Ephram spotted Essie and jerked his golf bag in her direction. "You still got your rifle?" he asked hopefully. "I mean I brought a couple this time but you should really start jes ... wearin' your rifle around town. God knows I'm strapped all the time now my own self." Hip holsters, shoulder holster, and the baseball bat he favoured.

"Wait," Maya said to Ephram, "You got another gun. I got my safety training when I was fifteen." She could hear the creature sprinting after someone else trapped in the grocery store. And she was pretty sure it was Ruby. Even now though she wasn't stupid enough to go after it emptyhanded.

The voice came again, and there was movement to accompany it. Ruby turned to see ... something... sprinting all long limbs and manic speed towards her. She knew better than to run. She /wouldn't/ run. Even if she had no idea what would happen if it caught her. But Ruby had her pistol, and the katana Dani had given her (that she'd also started carrying since all this shit started going down). There was no way she was risking a stray bullet with all this glass. Heart beating out of her chest, she pulled the sword from it's charmed sheath across her back - made to look smaller than it was - and when the creature was close enough, she let the blade arch towards it, spinning to the side as she aimed for something vital.

Ephram hauled one of the rifles out of his bag and handed it to Maya, passing her a fanny pack of ammo along with it. "Sorry bout the thing," he said, gesturing at the Glee fanny pack. "Was all I had handy when I was kitting out this here golf bag."

“Suit yourself,” Ciara replied to Ephram with a shrug, although in the back of her mind, she thought that she could have used a battery. “Why do you have weapons? Did you come to the grocery store for a fight?” The white gitturn then decided to jump out of its pouch, and scrabbled up Ciara’s sleeve to her neck with a strength she didn’t know these babies had, and snarled at the hall before burying itself in her hair. And then there were four of them. “Wait, no guns. Do you want to drown?”

Essie nodded digging in the pocket of the golf bag she remembered the ammunition being in. "Had to start carrying it after my second trip into these places." she admits. "Not that I had any ammo, just hoped the sight would distract something. Relying much more on dust." Her head bouncing up to look at the unfamiliar woman in the group then at Ephram, much more likely to listen to her boss than anyone else.

Maya took the gun from Ephram and the fanny pack too. It took her a second to even realize what he was even apologizing for. "Honestly, like, whatever. Ammo's ammo." With that, she ignored the subtle loyalty dynamics and headed towards the sound of the creature and possible a sword. She skidded to a halt at the end of the aisle and raised the weapon, ready to fire.

Ephram gave Ciara a considering look when she objected to the guns. "Reckon the survival situation at the moment calls for whatever weapons we got handy," he said coolly, all traces of his more obedient student persona gone. "Don't worry. I'm sure them other two are good shots." The implication, of course, being that there was no chance at /all/ that Ephram himself might cause a stray bullet to shatter the glass. He looked in the direction that Maya had headed off. "Was she tryin' to call that talkin' beast down on somebody just now?"

The Splicer: She wasn’t scared. How charming, it would leave her all tender inside nice and gooey and juices and precoated in salt and sass already. What a treat! The splicer charged without abandon, swing a wrench he had found in his best friend’s head (or maybe he had left it there, he was oh so forgetful, wasn’t it charming?). And then she sliced right through his arm, and it flopped on the floor for a second, up and down, like a fish gasping for air. “That wasn’t very nice, play fair and die already!” He sang, and leapt again.

As the creature popped back up, Maya fired. It was an easy shot, all things considered. Only after she fired though did Ciara's words fully sink in. /Did they want to drown?" They were underwater. She made a mental note of that so that she would be careful with any shots she made next.

Essie considers their surroundings and the fact she can't swim. She didn't trust her shot as much as the other two did, watching Maya charge recklessly away from the pack she reconsiders. She doesn't discard the rifle, simply swings it behind her onto her back. Dust had been here only hope the last time, so she figured why mess with it. She'd figured out exactly how useful her limited Glamour could be. The shot from down the tunnel had Essie turn and brace herself.

Oh, Ruby was scared all right. Terrified. But she wasn't about to get eaten by some fucking monster movie reject. So when the sword met heavy, wet flesh, followed by the spray of dark, thick blood and an equally wet, fleshy flopping sound, Ruby knew she'd made a hit. When the gunshot rang out as the creature righted itself, Ruby flinched, not expecting it. She spun, momentarily distracted, to see Maya standing there with a gun. "No fucking bullets!! We'll drown!" she yelled. But that was all she could say before the creature was screeching at her again and launching itself in the air. It was fast. And close. Ruby swung again, but she misjudged the distance and was sent sprawling through water, blood-soaked mess on the floor. She shoved a hand against the creatures' throat while the other scrabbled for the sword that had slid somewhere into the dark. "Fuck... off!" she grunted, giving up on the sword and swinging at the creature's jaw.

Ciara didn’t even raise an eyebrow as Maya and Essie deferred to Ephram, because he was he sherif and authority and all that and whatever, but she did at Ephram, sinking back into a cool, cruel persona that had served her all too well on a different battlefield. The gitturn by her ear tittered, staring at Ephram too. But then Maya was off, chasing a shadow, a half being at this point, barely a man at all. His skin was so pale it was nearly translucent, starved of sunlight here and ashy, so much his skin almost had a blue tinge to it. It bled, but it had no heartbeat, not one that one could survive on. Maybe she’d just leave it to the sherif, but a gun fired and Ciara didn’t doubt that Maya was a better shot than Ciara herself, except it echoed like a bullwhip, all the way up and down the tunnels and this hallowed hall. And when everything finished ringing, there were more voices. Giggles and yells and cries and screams. A figure appeared at the bottom of the hall. Ciara tore its throat out.

Magic, good or bad sort, worked within a certain spectrum of rules. Crazy, mostly unfair, seemingly unpredictable and somewhat bendable but still rules you could single out, analyze and utilize the way you see fit or the way whatever personal limits allow you to. There are very few exceptions to that. But once in a lifetime, there comes an agonizingly stubborn knucklehead whose persistence to butt into things he had no business, knowledge or brains enough to deal with that rules just take one good, scrutinizing glance at him and say fuck it, we give up. Give him a complimentary bag of peanuts and a one-way ticket to doomed as fuck then send him on his way, cause that's where he's headin' and there's no stopping him. 

Ryden's one way ticket had been for a month-long surf-around through places a less magically equipped supernatural should not step into. Well, the time-space parallel dimensions spin-dry he's been through told him it's been a couple of hours, not a month. He'll figure it out by piles of dust piled on top of old piles of dust he never cleaned on his floor in Rein's house. Right now, it felt like a couple of hours of beating through a beehive of abominations too ugly to love even if you were their momma. He was dragging one behind him by one of it's seven legs, two of which he'd pulled out himself, when the terrifying, toasty hell-like mood of the pocket universe he last rolled through turned into something Aquaman might call his secret, creepy hideout where he sometimes jacks off. "Fuck me runnin'..." He muttered, letting go of the creature he'd savagely murdered for threatening to do even worse things to him, and rounder a corner, not even trying to get the gooey, slimy liquid those things had instead of blood off himself. He was already drenched with it beyond spitting on your thumb and rubbing it off. By the commotion he was hearing ahead, he was pretty sure more nasty things awaited him. 

Not even registering what it was assaulting nor what it was exactly, Ryden approached the creature ahead of him, while it was unaware in its attempts to feed on very possibly someone who'd been thrust in here by chance just like he was. A large hand grabbed at its bald scull, digging into brittle bone and ash-grey skin. He picked it up easily and tossed it aside like a rag, off Ruby and a good few feet away from the group..

The Splicer laughed and laughed and laughed and he scrabbled for her, scratching her, gouging her, trying to bite her. He - It - writhed against her hand, struggling, squirming, too keen and too hungry to care as the life was squeezing out of him. But then something tore through him, hot and cold as liquid nitrogen. He fell, turned, faced the girl that had shot at him. “Ooooh eeh heee her. I likes you! You’re a cheater! Dirty filthy little cheater! You’re going to pay for it, that’s right, but-“ and then he died, because Maya was indeed a good shot.

Maya heard the giggling down the hallway. "Okay, no guns," she finally agreed. She picked up the nearest thing off the shelf, a can of beans and got ready to throw it. Luckily, it seemed to slump over less than a second before Ryden appeared and tossed it aside like a rag doll. She had to grin at him "Ryden," she said in little more than an exhale. She turned to the others, "I think we've got more company. Sorry about that."

Ephram returned Ciara's look for a moment, his own eyes narrowing slightly before he gave a terse nod and drew his revolvers. She pulled the throat out from one of the new throng of creatures between one breath and the other, and Ephram banged together the bases of his revolver grips, silver-green magic spiking through them into the barrels. He stayed with Ciara and her gitturn -- the little creature still watching him suspiciously from behind her hair -- and shot at the emerging creatures with their sick giggles, bullets of spinning green magic that unerringly found their targets. "You dropped into any of these weirdsmobile realities yet or is this your first?" he shouted to Ciara over the increasing din. "That's why I been carryin' round them weapons. They keep poppin' up all over town."

Ruby could feel the deep rends in her flesh where the creature gouged her open. Her blood mixed with the rest of the mess on the floor, steaming hot as it ran from her wounds. She dug her fingers into the soft flesh of the creatures neck, squeezing until she heard cartilage pop and break and grind, and then it just... stopped. It was gone, and Ruby could breath. She lay there for a brief second, grimacing at the deep rends in her shoulder and stomach, before seeing Ryden standing over her. "God save the fucking Queen am I glad to see you," she told him as she pushed to her feet.

"Maya? The fuck ya doin' 'ere?" She was someone he'd least expected here. Or anywhere. Looking beyond her, he saw more faces he could recognize. "What's going on?" Looking down, he saw that the person creature was trying to nibble on was actually Ruby. "Shit, you a'ight?" He reached down to pull her up, knowing that her werewolf healing would take care of the rest. Ahead, he glanced at the rush of staggering, giggling monstrosities advancing forth at them. "Can't it just, like, for once, be a land of sparkles, polite leprechauns and unicorns? Naw?"

Retrieving her sword and wiping the gore off on her jeans - not that it did much good - after Ryden helped her up, Ruby rolled her shoulder as it slowly started to heal. "Yeah. You know me. I can take a punch," she said to her friend. "You good?" She looked at Maya and asked the same thing. But then the sounds came, and Ruby's attention turned with the rest. "Always another fucking shit show..." Ruby moved with the others next to Ephram and Ciara, unsure if she should fire her gun or not. She was a good shot, but her bullets weren't spelled like Ephram's. She could miss and then... well, they'd drown.

"I needed groceries?," Maya replied. She looked back towards the others as far as an answer for what was going on. She had an ominous warning. One that was getting clearer by the minute, but didn't yet explain all this. She turned back when she heard Ryden asking Ruby if she was okay. It was a question she wanted to hear the answer to. "Not to be a complete asshole by the way," she added mostly to Ruby, "But I am like 85% sure I actually killed it, so that God save the Queen should be directed at me." She was about to answer Ruby's other question when the rest of their company's arrival drew her attention.

“Six of us, three entries. Let’s stay close.” Ciara ignored Maya’s apology, focused on nothing but the creaking floor and the creatures headed their way. “First,” was all she said to Ephram, as the gitturn chirped and drew her attention to her left, shattering a heart there. The nausea was coming back - Ephram was right about these Leys. The world was shrinking down to a fight, a need to win, and damn the consequences to her soul as she stained the water they were standing in red, dropping four bodies in quick concession. It didn’t matter. Again. There were dozens.

"Yeah but the point is to NOT let 'um punch ya. Yer just a bag for it then." Ryden snorted, stepping up with Ruby. "Where'd ya get the fuckin' kitchen knife ya got there? In an anime?" Raising an eyebrow at Maya, he couldn't skip on a challenge to be the better one even when it was pointless. "Ya squirted a metal ball at it. I bashed its brains in. Let's do the autopsy later. I'll give ya a cookie if it's your kill." Looking back at Ephram's gun out and aimed he cringed. "Should we have guns out here? Anyone smart enough to consider that's maybe a no, cause..." He waved his hand in a general direction of... everywhere.

Essie balled her fists from her spot beside Ephram. She wasn't as good a shot as the others but she could do her best to be useful. She threw a handful of dust towards an open tunnel entrance the dust caught fire at her glamour and she looks back at the others. "Can we maybe fight about kills LATER."

Ephram glanced down at the reddening pool at their feet, leaning hard into Ciara so he could mutter closely in her ear, "--I'm in good shape right now and me and Essie got healing abilities that work in these places. If you need blood that ain't fucked up like I'm guessin' is in these critters, you don't need to ask." But Ciara knew her own magic, so Ephram felt he only needed to make the offer once. He took note of Ruby and Ryden returning with Maya, not bothering to address the question of his guns and instead saying, "these fuckers seem a sight smarter'n the monsters Essie and me faced off in them other pocket worlds. Seems to me it might be best for us to split and stopper up wherever they might be streamin' in here from, unless we wanna end up as the cheese in the worst fuckin' game of Farmer in the Dell ever."

"True," Ruby said to Ryden. "And I'll tell ya later," she said of the sword. She managed a tiny smirk - which was more a grimace - towards Maya, but the crowd of creatures in the hallway was growing, and while Ephram and Ciara were making a dent, it was refilling over and over. One made it past, screeching and lurching towards them. Ruby took it's head off with her sword. Another broke through, fell in the water, and she crushed it's skull beneath her boot. "We're runnin' out of opttions," she said to everyone else. "Is there a way outta here?"

"How 'bout I stay back here and out of ya'lls way and fight o'er YER kills t'pass time cause it looks to me like yer all handlin' it well." Ryden said, as the advancing mob of zombies wobbled their way at them. He leaned against a glass wall, right over one of the cracks spreading like spiderweb over them. He was tired and he had somewhat figured out how this pocket world travel works here. Which means that they might get spit out somewhere else anytime now. If they didn't, he was ready, tired from his own previous quest as he was.

"I hope you mean the kind of cookie I think you mean," Maya shot back at Ryden with a shit eating grin. She turned though to look at all the new arrivals. There were too many. The water around their feet was already red with blood. She dropped the rifle in her hands. A second later, it landed with a dull splash. "Fuck," she muttered. She shook her head. "I'm out guys. I can make sure you all get out, but I'm fucking done," she confessed. It was like a switch turning off, something she couldn't explain.

Essie stared at them incredulously. "You're just done? Shit is trying to fucking eat us." she couldn't believe it. Throwing another handful of dust, this time onto an oncoming figure to then burst into flame.

Ruby glanced at Maya as she dropped the rifle. She didn't know if one could actually die in these places, but Ruby wasn't about to take that chance. "Get her," Ruby said to Ryden before turning back to the oncoming hoarde. "Split up where?" she asked Ephram. "If I shift, I might be able to lure most of them down another way...."

Ephram was embroiled in shooting at creatures who were crawling and scrabbling and leaping towards them, but Essie's comment made him guffaw out loud anyhow.

Ephram said to Ruby's idea, "Take Ryden with you. I dunno how much help Maya's gonna be, maybe leave her here for Essie to sort out." He wasn't sure what was up with Maya once she dropped the gun and started talking about making sure they'd all get out, but it didn't sound like she was coping well, whatever it was.

Not batting an eyelash when Ruby pointed out Maya's distress, he grabbed her by the arm, pulling her back. "Stay behind me, cupcake, and hold that cookie I promised." There was no way Ryden would willingly move himself up front where he'd be most effective for anyone, because he'd easily be in line of Ephram and Ciara's fire and the wicked fairy dust fireballs Esse was throwing. But for Maya and her safety, he was willing to risk friendly fire. "Fuck that, we ain't splittin' up. You even watch horror?" With sickening crack of bones and muscle, Ryden was doing that neat little werewolf party trick unique to him - muscles in his arms bulged and sharp claws sprouted out of his fingertips. He now had a jaw full of too many teeth for a human. He stepped out of the front line of shooters with a leap, claws aiming and shredding at random but efficiently.

“If it comes down to it, I won’t ask,” Ciara replied quietly. If it came to it, it would just be like the first time they had met. She’d sacrifice him at her altar with only barely a second thought. “Stopper them, then drown them. Some of the doors hermetically seal. Like a sub.” Her gaze flicked to Maya, and saw the deadness Ciara felt already.

Ephram lifted his guns as Ryden leapt in front of them, growling in aggravation, "I'm watchin' a fuckin' horror right now! Get the fuck out my way, Bolt!" But it was pretty damn obvious that wasn't going to happen, so Ephram swore a blue streak and told Ciara, "Fine, but watch my back and make sure these un's don't git shredded." The way that Ryden was dealing with the creeping pale people ahead of them. So Ephram used it to his advantage: with Ryden flinging ribbons of meat and blood, Ephram dodged and darted behind him as if the wolf was an ambulance, the two of them steadily making their way to one of the door seams where -- hopefully -- there'd be some sort of mechanism to seal the place.

Maya stumbled as Ryden pulled her backwards. "No" she started to argue. It didn't matter. Didn't they all understand it didn't matter? She swallowed a shout as Ryden jumped in front of everyone. Her heart thudded in her chest. There was a moment as she looked around at everyone else where something like life flickered in her eyes. It was gone almost as soon as it had appeared. They were still fighting. They were going to get hurt and all for nothing. With dead eyes, Maya picked up the rifle again. It was almost robotic the way she fired. Each shot hit with almost perfect precision as Ryden and Ephram advanced. But it wasn't Maya anymore, not really. It was a version of her that knew only how to survive. The moment the threat was no longer imminent, it would crumble like dust.

Essie had stopper and drown repeating in her head. She could potentially blow a bigger hole than a bullet hole with her dust she'd just need to be at the front when they found doors that could close. Not that the idea enticed her any. But she voiced this to anyone who could hear her as she followed down the tube, walking backwards to keep an eye behind them. "I can firecracker my dust, blow a hole when you get the doors closing."

Ryden was practically tossing the creatures out of the way, his breaking through forceful, messy and stomach-churning, elbows-deep into dead bodies and their insides, ripping limbs, organs and skin with bare, clawed hands. What he missed, others would easily take down as they drew closer to what might be their salvation.

Ruby wasn't keen on leaving Maya behind for her to 'maybe' be sorted out. So when Ryden pulled their shell shocked friend behind him, Ruby let out a breath. She knew Ryden would keep Maya safe above everything else. But that meant she couldn't be a decoy. So as Ryden did his shifting trick, Ruby heard Ciara over the din. "How do we get the doors to work?" Ruby asked. "If we kill enough of them, they'll block themselves in. At least for a bit." 

But then Ephram was already moving in behind Ryden, headed that way. That left Ruby and Ciara and Essie. Ruby's shoulder was starting to ache fiercely, her swings growing weaker. She needed to shift so she could heal, if nothing else. Or she was a liability. Trusting that she would retain enough of her human mind with a voluntary shift, Ruby shoved her sword into the duffel bag that lay nearby, striipping her boots and clothes in quick succession before she let the wolf have her. Bones cracked and limbs lengthened, dark hair turned white and blue eyes bled crimson until a huge white wolf had taken her place. It shook itself, still covered in the same blood as Ruby, and lifted it's nose into the air. She could smell The Other ahead of her, and more that were familiar. It didn't take long for her jaws to find flesh. One great shake and a spine snapped before being tossed aside.

Ephram heard the familiar flap of fairy wings behind him and Ryden, and when Essie voiced her plan he was intensely glad that she /had/ followed them. "Git ready, then," he barked back at her, to be heard through the schripping of Ryden's claws and the screams of the creatures. "Build up enough dust so's you can blow a hole big enough for a goddamn hearse to drive through, and I'll take care of findin' the sealing mechanism." Because she was right; his bullets were good against the creatures, but the kind of hole they'd need to blow required dust and plenty of it.

Maya twisted as something caught her shoulder. She didn't go down though. Instead, she used its own momentum against it. In complete survival mode, she found its head and yanked. A sickening snap echoed in her ears. She scrambled again to her feet, blood dripping from her shoulder. She glanced up at Essie and nodded. Whatever the fairy needed her to do to help, she was ready.

Essie spares a hand, reaching out and touching Mayas shoulder with just a hint of healing, she couldn't spare much but a little was worth something at least. But she lets her wings lift her up off the ground, concentrating on generating a mass of dust rather than focusing on not tripping over the carnage on the ground. She might not be taking anything dangerous out while they moved, but she was trying her best to provide as much use as she could.

They were reaching the door that was Ryden’s goal. Kind of like one of those round, hermetically sealed submarine passages. Ryden had tossed one of the zombified creatures right at it, where it was full-body slammed and had its spine broken. Ryden reached those doors right after it but there would be no good in breaking the hatch, which he could definitely do - they needed it closed after. "Little help 'ere??" He asked, speech impaired by the Cheshire grin of sharp teeth and protruding canines.

The wolf-Ruby pushed forwards when needed, pulling back when necessary only to surge towards the monsters again when there was an opening. The corridor was quicklly filling up, and anything not dead from Ryden's hands or otherwise, she crushed it's skull with her teeth, making sure it didnt' move again. Her muzzle and chest and legs were stained red with gore, but Ruby kept going with the others. Biting and crushing and smashing her way through.

A fighter, a healer, a maker, a leader, and... Wasn’t Ruby human?? Not anymore, it seemed, but it would still work, an idea in Ciara’s mind. They needed the door closed. They needed to reach the door. The floor was slick and slippy and covered in corpses - each time they killed they made their own progression harder. They were under the sea. Sea with currents and waves and movement, and blood had that all too. She had the consent of two. That would have to do. 

In six people at once, the back of their wrists split open, spilling blood into midair that flowed into Ciara’s hands like a current, flowing and twisting and pumping, a six fold circulatory system. Magic like this had a cost, and they would just have to find out what that was. Once they’d survived. The blood curled into crystals And then into one. Ciara twisted the threads of ley magic into a whole new shape, instinct and confidence pouring into one, something new and something old, and something that would have to do. Ciara carved it and sculpted it like wood on her bench, like clay, like ice, and found a word that suited. She dropped the crystal to the ground, and spoke. 

“Clot.” 

All that bloody water surged around her, up, up, up, like a wave, and left those that she wanted untouched - the blood she had taken from them made each immune to her spell. The water pulsed and pumped, and picked up each body in turn, splicer and dead alike. Except it wasn’t picking them up - they were becoming part of the wave, like blood pouring out of a split artery and picking part of the pulsing, pumping mass. It was imperfect - all new spells were - too many had been left unscathed as well, confused if not for long. But others were gluing up behind the door, struggling. They were platelets to a wound, and now they were sealing, like a scab. The ley was quickly draining, and so was her connection to it. This would not last.

Maya stood for half a second in awe. The thought of pain in her wrist didn't occur to her. But she knew magic. It shook her out of awe quickly. "The door!" she shouted, "Someone hit the door." But she was holding a gun. Even as she said it, Maya raised the rifle and aimed. She fired into the door's control panel in a very Han Solo move. It crackled and fizzled before sliding closed. Maya dropped the rifle again, breathing heavily.

Ciara didn’t see the door close. One dozen, two dozen of them left, at least one was making its way over to her. Ciara raised a hand to do something, and instead... dropped to the floor, as two gitturns squeaked.

Ephram had been half-expecting Ciara to dip into her blood magic, but he hadn't for a moment thought it would look like this. Bodies and not-quite-corpses being picked up and dancing like puppets in a pusing wave to clot and seal up the entranceway that he, Ryden, and Essie had been making their ways towards, and Ruby too, from the sound of it. But before they could reach and put their plan into action, there was a rifle shot from behind them. The panel exploded and the door shut, and that was that. Problem solved.

Ciara, though, collapsed into the bleeding water below her feet, so Ephram turned his attention from where it was no longer required and ran back to the witch, dropping down to pull her from the filthy puddle. The gitterns chittered, angry or scared or both.

"C'mon, git the gross blood lady up and git in. Go go go GO!" Ryden hurried them along, having pulled the door open after Maya shot at the panel.

Essie yelped in pain at the cut on the back of her wrist forming, tears in her eyes involuntarily at the pain. Maya raised her gun to shoot and Essie -who'd almost dropped her growing ball of dust- lurched forward in a moment of panic but the door was closed too quickly. So much for drowning them. She turns her attention to something else she could potentially do with it. "A healing touch?" she offers unsure whether it would do any good running to the unknown womans side.

Maya nodded towards Ryden. They should get out of here while they still could. She half turned to Essie at her offer, "Ciara." She nodded towards Ciara for Essie's benefit before she looked for Ruby. She needed to make sure that the wolf got out with them safely. She wiped her face, finding it wet with saltwater.

Ruby barely felt the slice in her own leg/wrist as Ciara worked her spell. All she knew was that the air hummed with blood and magic and gore. The wolf knew what magic felt like, when it was dangerous and malintended, but other than that, she knew only that whatever the blood witch had done, it seemed to have worked. The other were further up the tunnel than her, so Ruby turned back when the door shut under the rifle blast. She saw the witch collapse, saw Ephram run over, and saw the lurch of another creature nearby by. 

Growling and snapping, Ruby leapt at the creature, who screamed and railed at her, clawing and biting before Ruby could close her jaws around its slick flesh. There was a sickening crunch, and the creature went limp. Ruby shook her head, tearing thecreatures throat out for good measure. She turned to the others as Ryden called out, lingering in the back but following close as the others moved ahead. She didn't want to be left behind.

Ruby wuffled at the nearly unconscious witch as Ephram dragged her up, giving the chattering furries a passive glance but not caring enough about them to linger. ~GO.~ she thought to the others. ~GO NOW. They are coming.~

Ephram made sure to scoop the little gitturns up, not at the moment caring if they bit him or whatever; into his rescued golf bag they went, as he toted it and Ciara down the passageway. "If this is anythang like them other fucked-up mold places," he huffed as they hustled, "now that we squashed a bunch of them monsters it's like that we's gonna--" And that was as far as he got, this time. Suddenly, Ephram ran himself, Ciara, the gitturns, and his golf bag full of weapons into a stacked display of yum-yum pickles, knocking everything over in a resounding and vinegary crash over the floor of the regular world version of the supermarket.

Essie watched the sheriff vanish as he had done before and gave a firm nod. She'd seen this before. "Some of us are gonna vanish outta nowhe-" and there she went. That tugging in her gut and she overbalanced and landed on her ass in a pile of pickles. Blinking in the new electronic lighting of the market she looks shakes her head, getting up quick. She needed to get home ...covered head to tow in guts /again/.

[malfoii]

Hooked - Malfoy x Reader Pt 3

Description: Lonely, horny Draco + masturbation + justalotofsmut

Warning: Sososo much smut

Masterlist 

“(Y/n)” Hermione hisses, nudging her friend. “Look over there. Malfoy’s staring at you, again.”

It’s been three weeks since their study date in the library - two weeks since her potions test (which she passed with flying colors, thanks to him), and these little incidents with Draco had become regular occurrences. Whether it be at the Quiditch field, in class, or just passing through the corridors, (Y/n) could feel Draco’s smoke gray eyes trained on her every move. Occasionally, she’d catch him in the act, and he’d quickly look the other way, pretending to have never noticed her. Had it been anyone else, (Y/n) would have already dealt with it herself, and the boy in question would not so much dare as to breathe in her direction ever again.

But with Draco, things were different. She didn’t want to admit it, but every time she locked gaze with those eyes, her heart fluttered in its chest. And, what’s more, is that he caught her staring just as much as she did him. It couldn’t be helped - somehow, the smug slant of his face, the constant arrogance in his smile, the obnoxious bark of his laugh - traits she had found so repugnant not a month ago - had become the most attractive things in the world.

Despite all of this, though, she knew very well that nothing good could ever come out of it. Draco came from a family notorious for their subservience to You-Know-Who, and to make matters worse, rumors had begun to spread that their fifteen year old son is soon to receive his Death Mark. No, (Y/n) resolves to herself, she simply can’t allow herself to fall weak here. Dating him would do irreparable damage to both her family reputation, as well as her own personal image, and it was something that she couldn’t afford.

And so, she ignores his gaze, combined with a dramatic eye-roll at Hermione. “He’s not staring at me, Granger. He’s just … looking in this general direction. You’re imagining things.”

Hermione raises her eyebrows, shooting her a haughty look. “Really? Because it seems to me like he’s staring right at you.” It’s currently breakfast time at Hogwarts, and Draco’s gaze manages to extend across the dining hall, cutting through the thickets of bustling crowds, foods and messenger owls to land directly on his target. No, there’s no question about it – he’s definitely staring at her.

Today of all days is especially bad, and Draco knows it. His hair is matted in an unkempt disaster, dark bags hang below his eyes, and his already pale skin verges on being nearly transparent. He’s gotten worse and worse with every passing day, and he doesn’t understand why no one seems to notice. Some friends he has.

For the past three weeks, his dreams have been full of nothing but terrors: nightmares of dementors howling at his ear. Every morning he’s woken up in cold sweats, his heart thumping against his rib cage, lungs tight as if they’ve been smothered in coal.

This morning, however, is particularly bad. Because it wasn’t a nightmare that shook Draco Malfoy from sleep, but instead a rather pleasant dream. A rather pleasant dream concerning her.

He could still hear the sound of her pretty moans at the back of his head.

Upon waking, Draco was immediately aware of the wet mess in his pants and the excruciating pain accompanying it. He felt down to where his cock was fully hardened, swollen and throbbing beneath his sheets.

Cussing, Malfoy looked over to where his roommates were still sound asleep. The risk of them hearing him was too high, but it hurt so much that he couldn’t not take care of it.

Moving with great impatience, he slipped out of the bed and down the halls to the prefect bathroom. Hurriedly, he slammed the door shut behind him, bolting the locks frantically.

With no time to lose, he slumped down on the nearest toilet seat and began to shuffle off his pants.

As soon as the last piece of fabric was off, Malfoy’s fully erect dick sprang upwards, slapping angrily against his stomach. The tip was already slicked in precum, dripping slowly down his member.

Malfoy leaned his head backwards and shut his eyes.

With his right hand, he took hold of his prick, rubbing it gently between his thumb and index finger.

He imagined that it was her hand, the cool of her touch on his prick. In his dream, they were back in the library, lit by the warm glow of candlelight with no one else around. He was leaning against the shelves, and she was standing down the aisle, clad in her usual schoolgirl uniform.

She was smirking.

Taking her time, she began to pop open the buttons of her white blouse. “Is this what you want, Draco?” Her breasts spilled out, adorned in a lacy red bra that  forced Draco’s jaw to drop. He could only nod in response.

Draco runs a cold finger up the length of his dick, his breaths become shallow.

Next she lowered herself onto her knees, and he strode over to meet her. From this angle, she looked absolutely helpless, her face turned upwards towards him and her chest completely bare.

“What should I do with you?” Dream Draco murmured, reaching down to stroke her hair.

“Fuck me, Daddy,” she begged, planting a kiss against his growing bulge. “I promise I’ll be a good girl.”

Draco grunts, giving himself a sharp tug.

Dream Draco smirked. “I’m sure you will be, Kitten.” He reached a hand around to the back of her head and smothered her face into the heat of his crotch. “Now why don’t you help Daddy and swallow my cum for me?”

Eagerly, (Y/n) obeyed, unzipping his pants and tearing away his undergarments. No sooner did the open air hit him that she had his dick in her mouth, bobbing her head up and down.

Draco lets out a moan, jerking painfully at his member. She would be more gentle with him, he thinks.

(Y/n) swirled her tongue around his tip, slowly sucking on it, which elicits a low moan from Dream Draco. “Take it all, kitten,” he murmured, stroking her jaw. She quickly obliged, cramming him inside of her. Draco’s grip tightened on her hair, and she pulled off with a smack of her lips.

She smirked at him. “Does Daddy like that?”

“Very, very much, Kitten,” he grunts, forgetting that he’s alone in the bathroom. His dick twitches, and he knows he’s ready to cum.

But, no - It’s not supposed to happen like this.

Dream Draco wrapped his hand in (Y/n)’s hair, pulling her to her feet. She frowned, “Did I do something wrong?”

“Shh,” Draco hushed her, spinning her around in his arms. He pressed his lips against the groove of her neck, making her shudder. “Who do you belong to, (Y/n)?”

Slyly, he reached a hand beneath her skirt, sliding in a finger.

In way of response, she could only moan, her head lolling to the side.

Draco grunted in anger and yanked her hair backwards, giving him access to bite a love mark into her skin. “I said, who do you belong to?”

“You, baby,” she whimpered, leaning into him. “Only you.”

He pushed in a second finger, then a third. “Say my name, Kitten.” He pumped his fingers slowly up and down, until she was gasping for air. “Beg for it.”

Moaning out his name, she arched her back, burying her bum against his crotch. “Draco, baby, please, fuck me, fuck me hard, I need you inside of me,” she whispered, pushing herself forcefully onto his fingers.

Needing no further encouragement, Dream Draco pulled his fingers out and bent her over, rubbing his cock harshly against her wet folds.

Draco’s breath hitches in his throat, and he pumps his dick desperately, which is now burning in his hand. Eyes squeezed shut, he imagines the feeling of her skin on his, the warmth of her sex.

Dream Draco reached his arms around to trap her, taking a breast in either hand and slowly massaging them. Her nipples hardened beneath his grip, and she lets out a breathy moan.

“You ready, baby?” he said, lining up his cock to her entrance.

“Yes, daddy, yes,” she panted, trying to push herself onto his cock. “Fill me up with your massive dick, Draco,”

Dream Draco smirked and held her steady. He was in full control here.

Without warning, he rammed himself inside, groaning against her shoulder. With hands on either side, he gripped her hips so hard he’s sure it’ll leave bruises. “You like that, baby girl?” He growls against her ear. “You like taking Daddy’s cock, don’t you?”

“Yes, Daddy,” she moaned “You fill me up so good,”

Urgently, Draco began to move, thrusting forwards everything he had. She cried out, tears pouring down her face. “Faster, Draco, faster!”

Draco pounded in and out, mesmerized at how gorgeous her ass is as it swallows up his dick again and again. He wrenched her head back, biting hickies all over her bare shoulder. “No one else makes you feel this good, huh?” he grunted, snapping his hips forwards, “Does Parkinson ever fuck you like this, (Y/n)?”

When she only gasped instead of answering, he flicked her clit as way of punishment, making her jolt.

“No, Draco, no one else makes me feel this good,” she sobbed. “Just you. I belong to you, no one else.”

She hit her climax with a cry, and her walls clamped down on Draco’s dick.

Yelling out her name, Draco finishes himself off with a final frenzied yank. His cum shoots out in thick ropes, splattering over the bathroom walls, floor tiles, and sinks, staining his bed clothes and covering his thighs in sticky substance.

Sighing in contentment, Draco allows himself to rest there for a moment, his eyes now drowsy with sleep.

But before he can drift off, a furious pounding at the door snaps him back to reality. “Hurry up, arsehole!” it yells, “I need to take a shit!”

Draco wearily opens his eyes, taking in his surroundings. White liquid covers the entirety of the room’s interior.

He looks down at the mess on his legs, and it hits him that he’s all alone, sitting on the toilet, looking quite pathetic, his hands covered in his own stench. A wind passes through, and Draco shivers, feeling all so cold all of a sudden.

It takes him a while to clean the place up. By the time he finishes, the angry shit-needing intruder is nowhere to be seen, and his friends are calling him for breakfast. He obliges, and forgetting to wash his face or comb his hair, he leaves the bathroom to follow them down the hallway. 

Once at the dining hall, he catches sight of her across the room, sitting with the golden trio. Since when did she get so friendly with them?

Draco’s head is still fuzzy with sleep, and he knows that his staring is probably a bit too obvious. But he can’t help it. She’s just so perfect. His dream doesn’t do her justice.

She glances up at him, and he quickly looks away, hoping she doesn’t notice.

“Hey, (Y/n).” Harry Potter says between bites of his meal. “If Malfoy ever gives you any trouble, just let us know. We’ll sort him out.”

She sighs, eyeing the Slytherin boy with a hint of yearning. “Thanks, Harry. I’ll keep it in mind.”

@amnesiacompleta

[sundogsandrainbows]

After Dawn

Fandom: Dragon Age Pairing: Mahariel x Alistair, 2,4k words Genre: Fluff/Humor, Pre-Relationship awkwardness AO3 link: Here Description: Lenya Mahariel was all but a morning person, so Alistair didn't expect to see her to be up already. Then again, he didn't expect... many things regarding her. Belated Birthday gift for my dear @effelants

Alistair woke before dawn, in the hours were the camp and its surroundings were still covered in the hush of night. It was a habit acquired in his years of his templar training and even many months after leaving the Chantry, he couldn't break away from it. Especially not now, where nightmares of darkspawn and about... Ostagar added to the shortness of his sleeping hours.

After dressing in the warmest clothes he possessed, Alistair ducked out of his tent. He stood straight and stretched to rid himself from the last vestiges of sleep. He inhaled the brisk, dry mountain air, which bore a hint of smoke from the still smoldering embers. Shuddering, he stepped near to the smoking coals, the only source of warmth. The campfire needed tending, new tinder to last throughout the morning till they would break camp to advance further up the Frostback Mountain, toward the Gherlen Pass.

Somehow, the closer they came to Orzammar, the colder it seemed to get. Given how they were marching upwards, by now probably a thousand feet above ground, the immense temperature drop shouldn't surprise him. Nor that the grass underneath his boots was crusted in a thin layer of frosted morning dew. Not when the sun was still an hour or more away from rising.

He grabbed a few of the split branches from yesterday's pile and carefully fed the glowing cinder with a thin stick until it sparked a flame. Then he added another and bit by bit thicker branches, until the fire burned again as it did during his guard duty only a couple of hours ago. Warming his hands near the flames, his gaze wandered to the tent across of his own. Lenya had the last guard shift and naturally was still fast asleep. She generally didn't seem to be the type to rise early by choice, however. Every time where they had to set off at daybreak to manage their daily regiment of marching, she did so grousing and with little words. Then again, this also appeared to be her default mood regarding many, if not all, activities. And being stuck as one of the two Wardens in Ferelden during a Blight, Alistair couldn't exactly fault her for being grumpy.

Chuckling to himself, he retrieved an empty cooking pot near the campfire and set out to collect water from an ice-crusted stream nearby the camp. It were these little, mundane tasks which he enjoyed, for they gave him a sense of routine and normalcy. Especially in a time where everything was uncertain and chaotic.

****

An hour later, Alistair had settled down next to the campfire with a cup of warmed up rabbit stew, still slightly sweaty from his morning exercise. Leliana, another early riser, kept him silent company. From the trees enclosing both sides of their camp mountain birds twittered their song. The sunlight streaking through the weave of clouds roused more colors from their sleepy monochrome. Morning had broken, at last.

Alistair rolled his shoulders and barely suppressed a yawn. It would be yet again a long, tiring day on the road.

"Do you think we will reach Orzammar by nightfall?" Leliana asked all the sudden, as if being able to read his mind.

He looked up to her. While her chin-long, auburn hair was neatly combed, the dark circles under her eyes spoke of her tiredness. It had been an exhausting trip on an uneven, rocky terrain, going only further upward the mountain. Well maybe it had been not so for the golem or the Qunari, since they were more grousing about the group lagging behind than the cumbersome journey. Though Alistair decided people lasting twenty days without food and water in a cage and those made out of literal stone didn't get to complain about them needing more breaks in between. Warden stamina, or not.

"I hope so." He let out a sigh and shielded his eyes as he glanced up to the sky above. "If the weather holds and we are marching through, we could manage that. I mean, according to the map, once we have reached the Gherlen Pass, the entrance to Orzammar isn't far anymore."

Leliana's doubting look and a faint snort told him that his optimism wasn't exactly mutual. "Your lips to the Maker's ears, Alistair." She blew on her bowl of hot stew seated in her lap, to cool it down a bit. "You want to rouse the others? If we want to manage your ambitious goal, we should be breaking up camp soon."

"Ah, no." Alistair shook his head. "I like to be alive. So I won't risk losing my head in poking it into Morrigan's tent, nor Lenya's." He shuddered. "Especially not Morrigan's." The corners of his lip twitched upward. "Besides, I already made breakfast."

Leliana rolled her eyes. "More like you warmed up breakfast than made it."

He gave her a shrug. "Breakfast is breakfast. Besides, be glad that I didn't cook it. You would regret it."

She made a face. "Oh yeah. What was that... uniformly grey soup again you made for supper three days ago?"

"Oh that?" He smirked. "Ferelden Lamb and Pew Stew. Only with um, venison, I guess. Since lamb is hard to come by out here." Seeing her irked face, he already knew the answer to his question in advance, but asked in spite. "Why? Did you like it?"

"Liking would be too strong a word, Alistair. And I don't think the wrong meat in there was to blame for its blandness."

"Aww, you wound me. Me and my cooking skill." Ever since Leliana joined their rag-tag group, he couldn't help teasing her. Unlike with Morrigan, his banter with the bard lacked the sharpness or sting of deep-seated dislike. It was friendly, comfortable instead. "Skill as in singular, of course. As in I am only really good in burning food, when cooking. Or throwing everything in a pot." He paused for effect. "Oh wait, I lied then. These are already two skills."

"Maker, how did you survive in the wilderness all these weeks then?"

"A mystery to both of us, I'm sure." Alistair laughed out loud. "I appreciate how you and my fellow Warden are saving me from starvation, of course."

"Speaking of which..." Leliana nodded toward Lenya's tent, from which the elf had just surfaced. "Look who is up."

"Oh good morning, sunshine," he greeted her, well knowing it would be only draw her ire.

The Dalish only stared at him bleary-eyed for a moment and grunted into his general direction. Her wheat-blonde, long hair was unbound and mussy, and covering most of her pale, freckled face. Her over-sized, dark linen tunic hung loose over her hips and looked more like a mismatched dress than a shirt. Without a further word, she vanished behind the line of tall trees at the other side of camp. Trailing her slouchy and sleepy form till its disappearance, Alistair's grin widened.

Yep, she was definitely no morning person. Which was, in its very own way, endearing somehow.

Shaking his head as if needing to lose this trail of thought, his attention snapped back to the bard. "This leaves only Morrigan then. I wish you luck."

Leliana sighed out. "Fine. I'll go. But you better check the snares we laid out together around camp last night, before dealing with packing up your things. Maybe we caught a rabbit or two in it."

"Mmm, more rabbit stew, can't wait."

Putting her bowl aside, she glared at him for the useless comment. "I can always feed your portion to Revas, if you find it so terrible."

As if summoned by the mere combination of his name and the mentioning of food, the mabari darted out from Lenya's tent, knocking it half over in the process. Barking loudly and with his stump tail wagging, he steered directly toward Leliana. But instead of greeting her like she thought, he made a beeline for the bowl of stew she placed on the ground. The slobbering sound right after told Alistair that the mabari had no trouble finding it.

He could hardly contain his laughter. "Looks like you did this just now, Leliana."

"Ugh, so much for breakfast." She sighed again before standing up. "I better go then and wake Morrigan, if she hadn't turned into a bird and flown away overnight."

"Aww, please don't make promises you can't keep."

Her annoyed look was enough to let him refrain from further commentary. "You better think of checking the traps for game. Our rations are running low and I just want to be prepared in case we don't manage to reach Orzammar today."

Leliana was right, of course. Even worse than repeated rabbit stew for days on end was the prospect of only eating hardtack boiled into a mash. "Yes. I will be going - "Alistair noticed a snuffling snout aiming for his portion of his stew and put it out of Revas' reach. "-soon." He gave the hound a baleful look, but instead of being ashamed of his attempted theft, Revas sat down and whined. To strengthen his emotional manipulation, the dog canted his head and glanced up to Alistair with his sad, brown eyes. It would have worked if he hadn't grown up with mabari around him for years, and thus already knew all their tricks. "Nice try, but no," Alistair said, grinning down at him. "You already had your share. This is my breakfast."

Revas huffed out and walked off toward the Qunari to try his luck for more treats there.

****

Laying out traps was usually a task best suited for Lenya, the trained hunter in their group. Maybe even for Morrigan, as she was called witch of the wilds for a reason. Even Leliana was far more ably in that than he was. However due to duty rotation, Alistair was required to take over these tasks as well, however rarely. Collecting the game in the morning after, if there was any, was the easier duty of the two. Given one knew the places where they had been laid out before, of course. Luckily he'd accompanied the bard the evening before and thus could find them again without much difficulty.

However, four of the six traps turned out to be empty, while the bait was gone. Huh, maybe he should watch Lenya laying out traps instead to see how it was done, since her yielding always seemed to be better. With only two snares left to go, Alistair really hoped to find some less intelligent rodents in it, or it would be back to mushed up hardtack for supper.

Not relishing the thought, he shuddered as he steered toward the fifth trap left behind a line of trees. Alistair stopped in front of them without entering the clearing, because of a telltale hum buzzing in his head. His fellow Warden was still here and hadn't returned to camp yet like he prior thought. Since the stream was on the other side of camp, he wouldn't run into her bathing, or half-naked, at least. That would really be awkward for the approximately five minutes he then had still left to live after that.

Looking upwards to the treetops that appeared to be sky-high, he huffed out a nervous breath. Maker, that woman was indeed terrifying. Alistair was convinced she could make the archdemon leaving and go back to its old god slumber for another thousand years, simply by demanding it from the creature.

With that thought in mind, he entered the clearing, only to immediately halt again a few steps in. Alistair saw his fellow Warden hanging sideways from a sturdy, thick tree branch, her back turned to him. He rushed toward Lenya to help her, since she dangled about ten feet above ground -which was nearly twice her height. But then she pulled herself up with ease until her head was above the level of the branch, then went back to let herself hang for a moment. Right after, she repeated the motion, her legs held completely still as she pulled herself up again.

With the initial panic about her being in danger gone, Alistair also registered that Lenya had forgone her dark shirt, coldness in spite. Which left her wearing only her breastband, and him inappropriately staring at her toned back. The motion of her continued pullups did... interesting things to her back and arms, and... had she always been so lean-muscled? Was this normal for Dalish? The elves he had seen had all been much thinner, nearly scrawny in comparison. And why was he even still watching? He really, really should look away now, as long he still had the chance to somehow salvage this situation. He felt the heat burning in his cheeks, then it trailed further downwards to settle in his stomach. It was suddenly much, much warmer.

Averting his eyes at last, Alistair cleared his throat. It was as much to announce his presence as it was to cover up his own awkwardness. In his peripheral vision he noticed how she let go of the branch and landing gracefully on the ground with a crouch.

"Alistair?" She was walking up to him, sweaty and near half-naked. That fact confused his fight-or-flight reflex to the point of being rooted on the spot. "What are you doing here?"

"Y-you are not dressed," he blurted out, shielding his eyes with one hand.

Lenya let out a groan. "I am not naked either."

"P-please get dressed."

"Fine," she replied in the same annoyed tone and stepped away from him. Presumably to fetch her discarded tunic from the ground. Alistair wasn't looking to check that, though. "You shems and your weird concept of modesty. How you ever exercise with wearing that many layer of clothes?"

It is not weird, he thought, while trying to refrain from thinking of elves frolicking naked through the woods. Bad brain, baaad. "Are you not cold?" he asked instead.

"No. Not anymore." Alistair heard the rustle of fabric as she put her shirt back on. "Helps me to get awake on a shitty morning too."

"I see." He let his hand fall back to his side and opened his eyes again. Sweaty strands of her hair, now tucked up into a messy bun, were plastered to her tattooed forehead. She was breathing heavily and her otherwise fair skin was flushed, heated from the exercise. He blinked slowly, watching her expression shifting into a scowl due to his continued staring.

"I came here to check the snare we laid out," Alistair said then, too fast and out of place. "I -" He left the sentence hanging. Turning on his heels, he darted into the opposite direction, the trap long forgotten.

[jrazillashadowworks]

Victubia Fight Night

Just a one off. Pretty proud of this one actually. Really hope you enjoy it! ^,,^ 

Word count: 5537 

Warnings: Some blood. 

It had been a very long day with the mayor meeting happening that afternoon. All officers were on patrol, keeping watch around the carriage routes to the Mayor HQ and back to wherever the visiting mayor’s stayed that night. By the time all was finished, Ray was back at the precinct, the last of his energy quickly draining. Feeling his eyelids droop, his vision blurred as he simply waited for the night officer who was tardy to come in. Slumping in his chair, he muttered not much longer, repeatedly more so to keep himself awake.

He begun to daydream or did he fall asleep? He wasn’t sure but he was either imagining or dreaming of being in his warm bed with Felice before a loud thump startled him awake, almost knocking him from his chair. Straightening up and striking the slight dribble of drool from his chin, he focused on his captain standing before him. “Yes sir, sorry sir.”

The captain’s mustache bristled as he gave Ray a rather apologetic look, something the young officer was not used to. “I hate to do this to you,” he trailed off.

“Yes sir?”

“I know that you are supposed to be getting off as soon as relief comes in but we have a situation.”

Ray felt a slight but sharp pang of pain ricochet around inside his head. He was unable to disguise his immediate frown, garnering another apology from the captain. “Its fine, sir. What’s the situation?”

“Well, we had a report that a rather large gathering has seemingly turned into a street fight. A man came in all beat up and bloody, saying he was attacked as he happened by.”

Sighing, Ray rubbed his forehead. He wanted so badly to hand it off to the next officer but he was a man of duty and bound by that fact, he would act. Fighting through his sleepy stupor, he finally gave a nod and stood up. “I shall put an end to it.”

“You may be a first responder but if things get out of hand, use your whistle and others will come to your aid. Thank you again for this, Constable. The location is in the Lavender district, within the courtyard of the group of apartments being renovated.”

Strapping his gun to his waist, and putting his cap on, Ray headed outside into the warm night. He had a decent way to go but the fresh breeze helped staunch the clawing nag of sluggishness. With great need of haste, Ray reluctantly accepted to take a police steed. Taking it along would also bolster his image, showing how serious of an offense this all was.

Meeting with the horse, bridled with a purple police saddle outside, he gave it a blank stare for a moment before approaching. No matter how much training and how used to the beasts he became, he always had an underlying worry that the next ride could be the last. A silly notion considering by now he was a pro, according to Felice. Then again, his boyfriend was always overly optimistic.

Peering into the dark, yet twinkling eyes of the horse, Ray felt as if the beast could see into his very thoughts and it made him uneasy, almost as if it was judging his reluctance. Brows furrowing, he found his courage to mount, not wanting to look bad to a damn animal. Gripping the reins tightly, he gulped the quickly forming lump in his throat and turned the horse towards the street. Inhaling, he spurred onwards.

The streets of the capital were alive and yet, the constable had no trouble speeding down them, only garnering the turning of heads by a few onlookers. Wind lashed at his face, cooling and clearing his sinuses, giving him a burst of energy towards his mission. He still blew his whistle to warn he was in a hurry, more out of habit than actual need, piercing the night air with its shrill cry. Maybe another officer would hear it and join him, he thought but, that was wishful thinking. By the time he had reached the Lavender district, east of Iris, he had yet to see another officer. It was slightly unnerving to be honest. A stone of anxiousness dropped into the pit of his stomach. Hopefully he could handle this alone.

Galloping alongside the outlying street of Lavender, he eyed the blocks of high rising apartments, cordoned off for the safety of the public while being renovated. However, a couple of the small wooden blockades used to halt trespassers were moved aside, allowing a clear path into the complex. Now, within range of his destination, he heard voices playing on the wind, droning, growing louder as he got closer until it was practically ear splitting. He was able to discern only a few words among the collected babble, mostly curses.

Slowing his horse to a stop, Ray squinted, staring down the darkened pathway, a flicker of light melting shadowed forms against the wall adjacent. Inhaling a deep breath, he unmounted and tied the reins to one of the blockades, patting the beast’s neck, to thank it for not killing him. Still feeling the jitter of anxiousness, he slowly walked down, trying his best to gather his fleeting courage. It seemed there were indeed a lot of them and he was alone after all. Hopefully this could be done peacefully, however unlikely it seemed at the moment. Ray wasn’t defenseless by any means but, he did not see himself beating up a large group all at once and he most definitely did not want to shoot anyone. If things got to that point, maybe a shot in the air would be enough to scare them off.

Slithering, with his back up against the wall, he neared the corner, his ears ringing from the human roars coming from the courtyard. Closing his eyes, he tried to untangle his increasingly knotting nerves, heart beating madly, though his expression remained steeled. The only thing threatening to give him away was the cold sweat beginning to form on his forehead. I got this, he repeated to himself.

Huffing, and puffing out his chest, he trotted towards the courtyard, shared by the collection of buildings and upon reaching its maw, froze as he caught sight of the scene before him. There, between four, elaborate lamp posts, was a haphazardly crafted ring surrounded on three sides by wooden bleachers usually reserved for the construction workers on their breaks. Now, they were swarmed with the seediest collection of people Ray had ever laid eyes on.

From his initial scan, the officer was able to identify a few within the mob, past convicts of crimes, burglaries, assault and the like. Many of them were shirtless, bloodied and with swollen faces that made them barely recognizable. Something was off however. Despite that fact, they seemed utterly elated, drinking bottles of undiscernible liquid Ray could only assume was alcohol. A quick glance at crates scattered about, filled with much the same bottles, their sides labeled based on their contents assured his suspicion. Gin, whiskey, and rum, they had quite the assortment and amount for a random street fight. This all seemed pre organized.

Streams of curling fingers of smoke rose from various places in the bleachers, melding together in a low cloud that dispersed, only to be reformed instantly. Burning ash and slick blood was the most prevalent smells wrinkling Ray’s nose. The haphazard ring was empty at the moment, giving the constable the assumption things may well be over. Ray was beginning to doubt the sincerity of the citizen’s report. As things stood, this was still an unlawful assembly that need be disbanded. Taking a step into the light, he was about to blow his whistle when a familiar, yet disinterested voice called his name.

Nearly jumping out of surprise, Ray turned to see Hanya sitting at the end of the stands closest to him, a lit cig dangling from his lips. Blatantly exasperated and with a barrage of questions coming to mind, the constable stumbled over to the private investigator, mouthing unintelligible words.

“W-Wha-What are you doing here?” Ray finally managed, his tone brimming with confusion.

Hanya just smirked and scooted over, rudely pushing the man next to him over with his shoulder until a space was opened up. “Take a seat, Ray.”

Simply flabbergasted, he reflexively joined Hanya, staring at him as he sat down, as if his world had been turned upside down. “Hanya…what the hell are you doing here?”

Leaning back, Hanya smirked. “I’m watching the show.”

Ray’s jaw slacked. “Okay…what are you really doing here?”

“You don’t have to doubt everything I say, kid,” he griped, taking a long drag from his cigarette. “Just relax and watch.”

“This is an unlawful assembly Hanya, I don’t think…”

“Spare me the cop routine. Just chill a bit. Take in your surroundings. Listen to this old man.”

“You aren’t even forty yet,” Ray countered.

“Looks and feels are two different things,” he noted, flicking off the ash, and side eyeing Ray.

Speaking of feeling, there was definitely a prick of irritation forming within the constable, as word vomit, hot as scorching flames shot up his throat. His mouth forming a straight line, he gulped it down and unwillingly listened, giving a closer inspection of the people around him. It was then that his police instincts kicked in, his dark brown eyes scanning and profiling persons of interest with great attention to detail. Ray noticed something even stranger going on as he looked around. Though a police officer just showed up in their midst, not a single person batted an eyelash in his direction nor showed any sign of alarm, even those that usually ran at the first sight of one of his occupation.

Out of the crowd, many faces were unfamiliar, but a select few stuck out, like glimmering diamonds, among shoddy coal. The most obvious and absolutely stunningly gorgeous one was a light skinned woman, sitting pristinely atop the center bleachers on a gold tasseled, purple velvet cushion, like some deity of grace. Her face was elegant and nearly perfectly symmetrical, complexion absolutely flawless. Streams of wheat colored curls rolled down from her crown over her shoulders. Gold eye shadow glittered over large, deep brown eyes and long eyelashes that fluttered lightly. Thick, pursed lips were coated in a glossy, gold lipstick, her thin, manicured fingers, holding a long cigarette.

Her form was sultry and exposed, her breasts perking up from the tight, and expensively fancy corset, her long legs sweeping out from a lace skirt, crossed over one another, foot rolling side to side. From her exquisite and flowy movements, Ray could practically feel confidence emanating off of her. She leaned on the possibly middle-eastern male next to her who looked around the same age, dressed in a long white, hooded jacket with a black scarf, embroidered with a bizarre insignia of a bleeding eye. He like her, was very attractive, his expression cocky, pale blue eyes looking down on all below him as if they were ants. She playfully caressed his chest with her hand. Most likely a couple, Ray assumed.

Hanya followed the constable’s gaze and clicked his tongue. “That’s Queenie. Royalty among this rabble and her ‘boyfriend/boy toy’ Nazeem. She’s a mystery from Syd and He’s from a well to do family in Ekard but has broken off for some reason. He looks very untrustworthy.”

“I see. Simply visiting for this street fight perhaps?”

“Could be.”

Ray was not assured by Hanya’s reply. It was almost as if he was withholding information from him. Then again, this was common when dealing with the private investigator. It did not stop the constable from glaring at him however. Then, a hulk of a man, dressed in an obscure military jacket, clinging tightly to his large chest, approached and picked the guy up beside Hanya and tossed him like crumpled up paper before taking his seat. The wood whined under his muscular weight as he tipped his cap, respectfully to Ray, his thick, messy, dirty blonde hair forced into his chiseled, scruffy face. The bottle of alcohol in the man’s meaty grasp, sloshed violently as he took a swig. A drunkard?

“Gabriel,” Hanya said with as much enthusiasm Ray had ever heard from the man, still without looking to the new arrival.

“Enjoying the show so far?” The man known as Gabriel asked, his voice gruff and powerful.

“It’s a bit one sided,” Hanya snorted.

“Hah! Indeed! These chumps are no match for Rummy! And here we thought at least one of you capital babies would put up a decent fight!”

“Well with all the trash you guys collected, are you really surprised?”

“This is all we could get to answer our call. Seems your trash are the only ones with pride and courage!”

“Now only to become poor and beaten trash.”

“Least we are keeping them busy for a night so your city can get some form of break from their stupidity.” Gabriel looked more at Ray when saying this.

“Thanks,” Hanya scoffed. “Should wear them out for a bit.”

Ray was so confused by the whole situation. Things were much more complicated than he thought. He kept silent through their conversation until the crowds combined roaring came to its peak, startling him. Jerking his head back to the ring, a man walked to its center. A fighter through and through. Ray could only assume that this man was Rummy.

This fighter, Rummy was about five foot eleven inches. A fine piece of walking sinew. His form was wrapped in a torn, sleeveless hoodie, exposing his muscular, and powerful arms, and only half zipped to show off his extremely toned chest, and abs. He also wore boxing shorts but no shoes. Rummy was not as large as Gabriel but he was close. There were many thin scars cross hatching across his face and body. His hands were taped and stained red with blotches of dried blood.

Rummy brushed a hand through his spiked back, black hair and nodded, scanning over everyone with rather bright, almost glowing, blue eyes. Smiling brightly, Ray could make out a couple of missing teeth in the far back of his mouth. He was indeed a scrappy looking individual.

“I hope you lot are ready for more of a beat down!” Rummy blared out in a thick, British accent. “Comin to the capital, I expected some great fights but man have I been disappointed!” He flicked his nose and craned his neck. “Hope the next batch can actually lay a hit on me at least!” He thought for a second. “How bout this? If one of you can, I’ll consider that a win and give you all my winnings!”

Uproarious cheering exploded from the stands, nearly deafening the constable who reflexively stuck his fingers in his ears. More bottles were distributed among the viewers as a line of enthusiastic men stood ready, waiting for their chance against the street fighter. Ray was beginning to get nervous, a horrible feeling lurking in the pit of his stomach. Jittery, his knee begun to bounce when the first contestant from this new batch took his place in the ring.

There was a clang from a hidden bell that made the constable jump and then the fight was underway. The contestant came in arms swinging wildly and without tact. Rummy weaved through like a serpent and unleashed a blazing uppercut that resounded like a shooting bullet, sending the man on his back with a heavy thud. Immediate knockout. Ray’s eyes widened, utterly shocked by what just transpired. He was shaken out of it by Gabriel who blasted praise, lifting his drink in the air.

“Atta boy! Fuck em up! Haha!”

The first contender was dragged aside for another to take his place and once again, after one hit, they were knocked flat by a completely different, jaw quaking punch. Ray was beginning to feel almost reverence for his abilities as each fell to his fists without any trouble whatsoever. It was almost artful how Rummy moved and fought, despite its rough and wild street fighting appearance.

As an officer, he knew he should not be appreciating such a thing but he could not help it.  Rummy also did not go for more blood when they were down which was respectable and dare he say, honorable. During the fights, his expression became that of a focused tiger and once over, shifted to one absolutely carefree. Deep down, Ray was beginning to actually like him.

“He’s pretty skilled isn’t he?” Hanya queried, having noticed the slight ques and minute changes in the constable’s posture.

“He most definitely is,” Ray replied instantaneously, though he did not mean to. “For a street fighter,” he added.

Hanya chuckled lightly. “Do you think you could take him?”

Ray silenced. He knew damn well he could not take on someone like him. The constable looked for an out, so he veered, changing subject. “How long are we going to let this go on?”

“It’s almost over. We have it handled.”

“What do you mean, we? We haven’t done anything but sit here the entire time.”

“We are keeping watch and making sure things don’t get out of hand aren’t we? Also, you may not have noticed but the shadows are watching as well.”

The color drained from Ray’s face and he stared at Hanya then to each of the shadows that lurked around every corner, quivering. Though he could not tell if they were moving unnaturally, he could feel a ghastly gaze on him now that chilled his blood. “R-Raz is here too?” Raymond whispered. “Why?”

“No idea,” Hanya replied dully, taking another drag. “You are asking me to define the motives of the most mysterious person in Victubia. Not even I’m that sharp.”

“I suppose…” Side eyeing the shadows, he hesitantly turned his attention back to the final fighter to go against Rummy.

Upon seeing the tall, bald, troll of a man, Raymond immediately recognized him. Scowling, he recalled the man’s past, heinous crimes which mostly involved domestic violence against his wife. On more than a few occasions they had found his frail wife covered in bruised blotches and with a broken bone or two. However, unfortunately, they were unable to put him away because she refused to testify against him, out of fear no doubt. In that moment, Ray forgot all around him and a seething rage burned in his chest. He almost wished it was going to be him to fight the filthy bastard.  

“That’s that scum, Brandon Brunsten…”

“I know of him,” Hanya spat. “Maybe he’ll get what he deserves here. Didn’t think he would ever fight anyone that wasn’t defenseless.”

“I hope Rummy rearranges his cowardly face,” Ray let slip in a fit of disgust, clearing his throat immediately after to mask what he just said.

Brandon cracked his knuckles and sauntered up to Rummy who looked him up and down. “Evening, bigg’n. Seems your last up.”

“Immah break you down, boy.”

“Well come on then,” Rummy said, digging in his ear with his pinkie, then flicking it off afterward.

At the sound of the bell, the fight was underway. Immediately, Brandon stomped forward, jabbing sharply at Rummy, his bulbous arms nearing his face only to glance at air. After a failed first attempt, the lumbering mass of walking filth charged, swinging left and right in a chaotic flurry. Rummy side stepped and danced about, dodging everything, without once countering. Ray had not noticed but he was leaning forward, heart pounding in his chest, his breathing strained as he watched intently.

It was a full offensive by Brandon, Rummy simply keeping out of reach, all the while, letting the fists come within inches of his face. Something was different about this bout, usually it would be over by now but it seemed as if Rummy was toying with his opponent, deliberately. Ray felt his voice scorch up his throat, begging to release a barrage of inspiration for the street fighter all the while condemning his enemy.

The crowd was on fire, hurling all manner of words and curses. Ray’s own voice would surely be lost among the mad chorus so, he just sat there, fists clenched tight, nails biting into his palms. He was unable to blink, so worried he would miss a single second. Rummy continued to skid about, slithering just out of reach as Brandon continued to swing, his furious attacks growing more and more labored. Streams of sweat rolled off the big man, as he started to scream colorful language at his opponent, complaining about his lack of action, questioning his manhood. Then with one more gigantic swing, Rummy spun around him in a blur, his feet slicing across the ground until he was on the other side of Brandon.

Rearing his fist back, everything slowed to a crawl as Brandon, blundered around to gaze at Rummy as he jumped up. With the speed and ferociousness of a fired cannon ball, Rummy’s fist crashed into his face with a blood chilling crack that echoed past the stands. In that moment, Ray was sure he saw Brandon’s face cave in on itself, a spurt of blood lashing out, grotesquely.

With deft foot work, Rummy landed as his opponent wobbled about before tipping over, smashing hard against the ground. Then the cheers erupted from the stands, hands clapping in unison. Ray, a burst of screaming adrenaline coursing through his veins, nearly shot his arms up to the sky in victory. He stopped halfway when Rummy wrenched the downed man’s head up by the hair and started wailing on him savagely. Taken aback, he could only watch in horror as the street fighter pummeled Brandon’s face into a black and blue mess, surges of blood spilling all around, squirting on Rummy’s clothes in crude designs. Each punch reverberated, wet and loud.

In that moment, Ray’s police instincts took over yet again, tearing him from his stupor. If Rummy wasn’t stopped, he was no doubt going to kill him. Body reacting on its own, Ray dashed over towards the beat down and reached out to grab Rummy’s fist before he could land another punch. The officer was yanked by the immense force, nearly throwing him to the ground. Reacting, the street fighter whirled about and shot a fist directly at the constable’s face, lurching to a halt when his knuckle brushed his forehead. The intense burst of air that followed, made Ray’s eyes water and a sharp sensation scrape across his skin, blowing the cap from his head.

“Ah!” Rummy exclaimed, sincerely. “Sorry about that, mate.” The boiling rage that turned the fighters blue eyes into a furious sea, softened instantly when looking at Ray who was kneeling helplessly now, still trying to process what just happened.

Shaking madly, Ray tried to regain his footing and composure, his heart working in overdrive. Standing up as straight as he could muster, he cleared his throat. “I-I-I am placing you under arrest.”

Rummy smirked and shrugged, holding his dripping hands out, allowing him to cuff him. “If you say so officer.”

Ray was utterly shocked with how compliant he was. “Show’s over,” he called out, his tone wavering but demanding. He pulled out his serpent steel hand cuffs.

Just as he was about to clamp his hands, another, unfamiliar gloved pair hovered over Ray’s. Confused, Ray gazed at the olive skinned older woman now standing next to him, dressed in a full black suit, accented in silver designs, with a silk ascot, tucked in. One side of her hair was perfectly straight and gray, draping down in her face while the other was wavy and black. A cigar dangled through her thin lips and her piercing, dark eyes bore into the constable, almost threateningly. There was something very imposing and authoritative about her he could not quite place.

“I will handle this,” she stated dryly, lolling the cigar over to the other side of her mouth as she spoke. 

Ray was having none of it. “This is Victubia police business. I ask you to kindly step away and don’t impede me in my duty. I don’t want to have to take you in for obstruction of justice.”

Though she kept her hands where they were, he was still able to cuff Rummy. “Hanya, take care of everything else here. I’m taking him to the precinct.” There was no doubt the rest could be left to him, even if he didn’t want it to be, especially with Raz watching as well, there was nothing to worry about. Hanya blew out an ashy plume of smoke and nodded, clearly bothered by being ordered around. However, at this particular moment, Ray did not give a damn. 

The woman shared a non-verbal exchange with Rummy before secretly sliding something in his pocket, then backing off, without Ray being any the wiser. Angry boo’s resonated from the onlookers as Ray begun to walk off with Rummy, back out to the street where his horse had waited patiently. Unhooking the beast, Ray simply pulled it behind him, keeping his captive ahead as they walked.

Ray was to be honest, rather thankful to be out of there, feeling the nice breeze wash over his heated skin. They kept quiet along the way, save for the constable giving Rummy directions back to the precinct, leaving a trail of crimson droplets behind them. After a while of this, Rummy stretched as best he could, wearing the cuffs. “Sorry to bother you officer but, can you do something for me?”

Forehead creasing, Raymond simply acknowledged him with an, “hmm?”

“Can you reach into my pocket and pull out the money?”

Ray frowned. “Trying to bribe me are you?”

“Nah,” Rummy laughed heartily. “I was hoping you could give it to that man’s wife. You know, the one that he beats. Maybe with this money, she can escape that piece of shit.”

Once again, Raymond was taken aback by this man. “How did you know about that?”

“Sources,” he stated frankly. “I was just hoping to teach him a lesson by beating him to the brink of death, so he knew the fear he put into his wife. I did not intend to kill him despite that being what he deserved. There’s nothing worse than a man who beats on a woman. So, could you please do that for me? I’d be very grateful.”

Conflicted, the constable warily pulled out the thick wad of money, which was more than Ray had ever seen before at one time. Staring at it, he glanced between the two then sighed. “This isn’t stolen is it?”

“Of course not. I just won it back there with my own fists. My hands are clean,” he said, looking down at them. “So to speak.”  

“Fine.”

“Appreciate it, mate! You’re a good chap!”

Ray couldn’t admit it but, he really liked this man. Despite his rough appearance, and underhanded tactics, he had honor, respect, and possibly, a good heart. In the back of his mind, he was even playing with the idea of letting him go. However, his duty dictated otherwise and he shrugged off the notion.

Upon returning to the police station, he locked Rummy in a cell. “I’ll see you in the morning, Rummy.”

“Sure you will, mate! Have a good night. Oh, and thanks again.”

With a nod, Raymond left the street fighter and gave his report to the acting night shift captain. Exiting the station, he was hit with a tidal wave of debilitating exhaustion, his shoulders and head slumping. Feeling the bulge of cash in his pocket, he headed home where no doubt Felice would already be asleep.

Opening up the front door of their shared residence, he walked into the still lit hallway. Rounding the bend, he saw Felice, face planted on the kitchen table, breathing lightly. He must have waited as long as he could, Raymond thought to himself with a smile. Quietly, he turned off the lights until he reached his partner, before scooping him up and carrying him to their bedroom. Felice along the way, mumbled his name and subconsciously wrapped his arms around him.

Within their bedroom, he gently lay his boyfriend down and pulled the covers over him, lovingly. Finally changing out of his uniform, he was able to relax and breathe a sigh of relief. It was such an eventful day. Hopefully tomorrow would be more lax. Feeling his body weigh down like lead, he plopped into bed and splayed out. His eyelids grew heavy as he stared at the ceiling until he felt something warm press against him. Turning his head, he saw Felice scooting over to him, to rest his head on his shoulder.

“Goodnight, Felice.”

“Nyight Ruhmond…”

Smirking, he gave into sleep, nestled in with his partner.

~

The next morning, after having breakfast with Felice and explaining to him all that happened yesterday, he was back in uniform, the money still in his pocket. Returning to the precinct and going through the main doors, he immediately headed for the jail cells, to have a talk with Rummy with a clear and awake mind. Coming upon his cell, he was shocked to see that it was empty. Befuddled, he turned to find the Captain, who happened to have appeared right in front of him. Surprised, he took a step back before straightening up.

“Good morning sir. I was just going to look for you. What happened to the man that was in this cell?”

The captain’s mustache wiggled as it always did as he put his hands on his thick waist. “He was taken away by a woman earlier.”

Ray immediately imagined the lady in the black suit. “What justification did she have for taking him?” He asked rather bluntly and with a sting of ire.  

“Well,” the captain began. “That woman so happens to be Camilla Paxton, Chief Superintendent of Syd.”

The constable’s face paled, his blood icing over as he realized who he had disrespected last night. “Chief S-Superintendent you say?”

“Yes. Don’t worry,” he assured, waving his hands, to reassure him. “She had nothing but praises to say about you. But, she has taken over responsibility of him because he is a resident of Syd.”

“Oh…I guess that makes sense.”

“That’s that. However, I do have something to speak with you about pertaining to the incident. If you would please come with me to my office.”

“Yes sir.”

Back in the main room of the precinct, the man Rummy had beaten to a bloody pulp was leaning over the information desk, face a bulbous, discolored wreck. He spat at the officer behind the desk, demanding reparation for what was done to him by that man, his speech barely intelligible. Beside him, nearly folded inwardly on herself out of fear of her husband, was his thin wife. She kept her face down, as if she would be struck for holding her head at the same level of anyone else. As sad as it was, the situation was rather fortuitous. Once an officer went to transport the man to the complaints office, Brandon demanded his wife sit down and wait for him, practically spitting on her.

Ray waited for the disgusting bastard to be out of sight before stopping his captain. “One moment please sir. I need to speak to her.”

“It’s pointless, constable,” he complained with a sigh. “She won’t ever testify against him. I hate to say it but you are going to have to let that go.”

“It will only take a moment, sir.” Hurrying over, Ray asked her if he could take the seat beside her. She did not respond, hands quivering, clenching tight to her old and moth bitten purse. “Don’t worry. I’m not here to talk to you about that. I have something for you,” he whispered, sitting in a way that concealed his intentions from the others. He pulled the money out of his pocket, discreetly. “This is for you.”

Though her face was cloaked behind low hanging tresses of brown hair, she stared at the money. “Why?” she whimpered.

“It’s a gift. I hope that you can do better for yourself with it.”

After a moment of hesitation, she shakily took the money and whispered a weak but grateful thank you, shoving it into her purse. Ray tipped his hat to her and stood back up, going back to join the captain. As they continued to his office, he gave one last look back to her seat where she was no longer sitting and smiled, as genuine happiness flooded him. “Good luck,” he muttered.

Turning his attention back, he headed inside the office and took a seat before the captain’s desk. After a moment of silence, his captain leaned back in his squeaking chair, stroking his mustache. “Ray. Did you who this Rummy was?”

Taken aback by the line of questioning, he raised a brow. “No. Not at all. I just met him for the first time ever last night.”

An uncomfortable, curious silence ensued until the captain spoke again. “Well. His full name is Rummy Corvin Lowell.” He went quiet yet again as he waited for a reaction from Raymond who though thinking the last name sounded familiar, gave no reply. After another moment, the captain gravely slid a paper over for Ray to read. Glancing at his superior, he wondered where this was going, that was, until he glanced down.

Gasping, Ray’s eyes bulged as he read over the names on the file. Renau Lowell (Deceased), Rummy Lowell (Alive), Kale Lowell (Missing), Reina Lowell (Deceased), and Relix Lowell (Missing). Lifting the paper in his strained hands, he read over it repeatedly as if it would help the information sink in. Without looking up he mumbled weakly. “Rummy is relative to the family that started the second rebellion…”