#its was a great rabbit stew though!!

[herequeerexitentialfear]

this is the month of realizations that have been years/decades in the coming.

[gottawritesomething]

Chase me

Scene of Tav and Gale doing illusion magic for the tiefling kids

_______________________________________

Dust clogged the air as the patter of a dozen or more pairs of feet swept through the grotto. Gale stepped clear as the little tieflings almost swept him off his feet. Seemingly singularly focused on their chase, save for the hoots and yells that escaped their mouths as they scrambled up and down the rocks of the inner grotto. The installation of Karlach's improved heart required the utmost precision, so their troupe had remained at the Grove for the greater part of the day. Compared to the ongoing chaos that took place outside the green covered walls it had seemed almost mundane and so far, this had been the most interesting occurrence since their arrival.

Gale craned his neck to catch a glimpse of what had so enchanted the youths. From his vantage point he could see one of the tallest children had cornered what looked to be a small fox. Except for the simple fact most foxes’ fur did not spark with blue lightening. Small bolts danced from tuft to tuft as the children marveled at the curious creature. Suddenly with an audible pop, the fox became obscured by a shimmering cloud, the thick fog entirely obscuring the place the animal had just occupied. The children began to argue and encourage those closest to wade into the fog. Just as the tallest had seemed to gather their courage enough to take a step, an echoing cry shook the small audience. Faster than the eyes could track, the fog was pushed apart by the great wings of a translucent raven. With a single beat it soared over the heads of the children, once again rallying them to chase it. Gale watched the bird carefully as the tielfings split themselves into smaller groups, attempting a new strategy of capture. The raven tucked in its wings and hurtled towards the ground, moments before impact, opening its wings and a burst of feathers to transform into a glittering pink deer galloping about the cave. 

Gale allowed himself to be the slightest bit impressed; he’d always held a soft spot for illusion magic, but it rarely gathered accolades within wizarding academics. Every illusion produced was judged with the rigor of a professional art appraiser putting a piece of fine art up for auction. The illusions stemmed from one’s imagination and represented the creativity of the caster, so to put one on display was to share a part of yourself with an audience, hoping for an unshattered heart by the end. Perhaps sorcerers had no use for this mentality; he mused. Gale watched Tav’s fingers trace the air as though mixing paints on a pallet. Her eyes stayed on her conjured animal, which had recently become a unicorn with a great glowing horn, much to the children's delight. She had a fluidity and looseness in her movements that would never have been permitted while he attended school but it was hard to argue with the beauty of her work. Gale watched the Weave gather around her fingers like she was pulling it into her arms to sculpt, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth as she watched her beast burst into a dozen flaming butterflies. The genuineness of her enjoyment in this act of creation warmed him like a hearty stew as he felt a similar smile begin to spread onto his own face, when he heard a soft sniffle.

Gale peered around the rock outcrop to see the previously silent tiefling child Doni, his arms wrapped around his knees, watching the others run. A few tears peppered his face, but he seemed unharmed. Gale knelt to the boy’s level, much to the protestation of his knees. Doni did not appear fearful, only overwhelmed. In a bid to sooth the boy’s upset Gale recalled a spell he’d learned early in his training. Showing Doni his palms and indicating he mirror them. Doni looked curious but shook his head, failing to raise his hands from his lap. Gale hummed for a moment, waved his hand and then with a gentle pop, a velvety rabbit hopped to the ground. Doni looked stunned, reaching out a hand to pet the animal only to find his hand pass through its form. At the child's hesitation, Gale gave a second wave of the hand and the rabbit became three rabbits, then five. By this point Doni was on his feet. The sniffle was replaced by a beaming smile as he tested each rabbit for solidity, his fingers only finding the rocky ground beneath, causing him to giggle. He turned back to Gale, then pointed at Tav’s now rainbow-colored hawk. Doni watched, eyes wide, as the rabbits became swallowtails, their feathers a royal purple to match Gale’s robes. With rustle of feathers and the flapping of many wings, the birds appeared to land gracefully on Doni’s shoulders and waiting hands. Before Gale could say anything else, Doni was off towards the gaggle of other children.

The first two that spotted him ran full tilt at Doni, as he lifted the birds towards them. He beamed as the others joined into the semi-circle, mimicking petting each of the birds. There were hushed discussions of names and which was prettiest. Gale’s chest swelled with quiet pride as he caught Tav’s gaze on him. Her eyes met his, and their smiles matched. She gestured to his newly conjured birds, mouthing “beautiful”. He did a small performative bow, slightly in an effort to obscure his now pink tinted face and all too pleased smirk. 

As he rose from the bow, he watched her hand attempt to smother a smile. He watched her hands move to dismiss her own illusion; and something like loss stirred in him. With a careful gesture, his birds took flight from Doni’s shoulders, encircling her hawk before merging into a single bird. Its tail now filled with long, curling purple feathers, small sparks falling harmlessly from every wing beat. Gale looked to Tav, half encouraging, half imploring. She raised her hands as their birds began to dance across the air. They tumbled and wove, Tav’s favoring large swooping movements while Gale’s intricately dove through the turns. They chased each other across the sky, darting between the rocky terrain, twirling and twining like vines. The hawk's wings beat slowly as the grand purple bird rose to meet it in midair. The children had given up the chase while most of the Grove had stopped to watch their dance as the two birds rose in tandem, their wing tips brushing, the light between them now blinding. With a final musical cry, Tav’s dissolved into glittering snowflakes as Gale’s burst into falling stars. As the claps faded and they’d taken their appropriate bows, their eyes met once more, and his heart leaped to follow the path the birds had taken across the sky.

[chocodile]

I am curious about you're world-building seeing how their beef stew in this world would mean it comes from cows but there like furry people there as well so are there like anthro and feral furry or is there just a mess-up food chain in line lmao and would that mean herbivores can't eat alot of meat or else they get sick or not? Am just really curious so I hope you don't mind me asking all this!

Good question anon! There are indeed regular Earth-style animals in this setting (which I think will be referred to as "beasts"), and they exist alongside the "people" (furries).

As far as the relationship between people and beasts go, that depends. Some feel a sense of kinship with their animal cousins--they can read the animal's body language easier and tend to understand them a little better, so it's not uncommon to see, say, an equine equestrian for this reason.

Others find their beast counterparts to be rather "uncanny valley", similar to how some humans find monkeys creepy, and don't like to be reminded of the resemblance. This tends to be more common for those whose "species" comes packaged with negative stereotypes.

(Side note: @kwillow suggested that in the native language of this setting, there is a difference in how the animal's name and the furry species name is said/written. So someone can say the word "rat" and have zero ambiguity as to whether they're talking about Theo or the critters in his traps… unless they were intentionally trying to insult him, of course. As an English approximation, I figure "Rat" with a capital "R" would indicate a person, "rat" would indicate the animal.)

Back on topic… how strong the association is also varies between culture. In the Western Kingdom, where Hyden is from, the association between person and beast is weaker and it's fairly normal for a Rabbit to eat a rabbit. Maybe a little uncomfortable if they're weird about it, but generally accepted overall. Especially in the colder norther areas where food is more scarce, the idea of turning your nose up at an opportunity for a nutritious meal just because the animal it came from kinda looks like you would be seen as ridiculously wasteful.

That is absolutely not the case in the Eastern Kingdom. They have a HUGE taboo against eating "your own kind" and do view it as cannibalism-adjacent. This is something important to keep in mind when traveling between the two countries or meeting foreign delegates!

As for how a furry's species effects its dietary needs, they're all omnivorous to some degree, but tend to be happiest eating food their species is suited for. Usually.

Poorer classes such as peasants rarely got that much choice, though, and diet is also shaped by culture, so most people just make due with whatever food they have access to. Being a picky eater was a privilege reserved for the upper class. This is even more true in the "present" setting, after the apocalyptic magical "nuclear winter" renders the world far less hospitable… so this "present"-era dinner table with Ridge, Alex, Chicken Lady, and Hyden must have hit the jackpot to have a different type of fresh food available for each of them.

Phew, long writeup! I actually have even more thoughts on how cuisine differs across the different regions and between the "past" and "present" settings (been watching a lot of Tasting History with Max Miller lately and getting some great inspiration) and I will probably cover that topic more in another ask response. Hope that this answered your question, though! Thanks for the ask!

[coreene]

Longsaddle

The hamlet of Longsaddle is little more than a row of buildings on either side of the Long Road, halfway along the lengthy journey from Triboar to Mirabar. A path leaves the road here and winds to the Ivy Mansion, the great house of the wizards of the Harpell family. Since the Harpells founded the town more than four centuries ago, they have brooked little nonsense and less mayhem. Their own behaviour sometimes borders on the bizarre and can be disturbing - they once turned two rival sects of Malarites into rabbits for disturbing Longsaddle with their squabbles, leaving them at the mercy of the predators they had honoured - but they are one of the most potent gatherings of mages anywhere in the North.

The Harpells are a jovial, if insular, lot. All wizards, they tend to marry wizards as well, and the elder women of the family (by blood or marriage) set the course for the house and utterly rule matters within the Ivy Mansion. The family takes on a number of apprentice wizards, using them for menial tasks and for basic defence of Longsaddle. Some apprentices are often the inadvertent test subjects for an experimental spell, but such is the danger of apprenticing to the Harpells. It is likely this spirit of experimentation that caused the Harpells to found their town so far away from other settlements. Young wizards with oddly sized or shaped limbs, strange hair colour, or shifting forms are fairly common sights in Longsaddle, not surprising to locals though they might give visitors pause.

Given the Harpells' reputation as powerful wizards, and the sheer number of them, there is no shortage of folk poking around Longsaddle and the nearby lands hoping to discover caches of magic, hidden like children's treasures. Of course, few, if any, such bundles exist, but the locals draw no shortage of entertainment from sending would-be thieves on grand chases for wands, rings, and other magic trinkets that any prudent person would realize simply don't exist. After all, if the average trader in Longsaddle knew where powerful magic was located, he would be more likely, down the years, to try to claim it.

The primary business of Longsaddle is ranching, and the lands surrounding the village are dominated by hundreds of ranches and farms of every sort and size, from tiny horse farms to great fields of cattle. During those days that livestock are brought in for trading, Longsaddle is a dusty, noise-filled place, with the sounds of the animals competing with the shouts of farmers hoping to sell their goods.

At all other times, it's a quiet, almost sleepy hamlet, except when the booming reverberation of a Harpell-crafted spell breaks the silence. The family is constantly researching magic both old and new, and twisting spells and rituals into interesting (to them) innovations. This proclivity has prompted them to surround Ivy Mansion with as many magical wards as the family can muster, in order to protect the populace from an errant explosion, terrifying illusion, or the odd, galloping horse of lightning speeding by.

Several businesses designed to attract travellers stand in Longsaddle, if for no other reason than travel along the well-named Long Road can be tiresome. The first is the Gilded Horseshoe, an old inn to the west of the road that serves fine food and drink, offers comfortable beds, and is close enough to the Ivy Mansion that no one would dare disturb it or its guests. The owners have access to some of the choicest cuts of meat in Longsaddle, and as a result, their roasts and stews are exquisite.

Across the road, the Ostever family serves as the local slaughterer and butcher for folk wishing to take meat, rather than live animals, away from Longsaddle. Rumour holds that the sausages have much improved down the years but buyers are advised to "mind the tusks" by locals, a reference to an old joke that none remember. Folk willing to wait can have the able hands of the Ostevers perform a slaughter, hanging, dressing, and packing for them, though this process is likely to take days longer than most travellers can spare.

There is entertainment to be had at the Gambling Golem, where cheaters in the card or dice games are tossed out into the street, and a local marbles game known as scattershields is popular. Dry goods, candles, lanterns, saddles, rope, and wagon wheels are available from a number of other shops.

It can't be stressed enough that while the Harpells have little interest in the daily running of Longsaddle, it is undeniably their town. They rarely suffer insults, and never tolerate violence against themselves, their family, or the locals. A conflict involving the Harpetls is likely to end swiftly and bloodily, and (unless the offender is convincingly apologetic, unconscious, dead, or forgiven of the wrongdoing) will often draw additional Harpells to support their kin. Harpell supports Harpell in all public matters, and no one bothers to record the numbers and names of those that forgot that fact.

Aside from the Harpells, the dominant families of Longsaddle are ranchers: the Cadrasz, Emmert, Kromlor, Mammlar, Sharnshield, Suldivver, and Zelorrgosz families have ranched in or near Longsaddle for generations, and influence most of the daily life there. They set the market days, help resolve disputes among families, and broker purchases when a farmer or businessperson dies without an heir. They settle smaller matters and keep the peace as best they can, knowing full well that if the Harpells need to get involved in a dispute, there is always the possibility of an offender's being blasted into nothingness.

These families are also the ones most likely to hire outsiders to deal with matters on the ranches, whether an ore raid or the appearance of lycanthropes in the area (though it's rumoured that the latter creatures may be the descendants of one of the Harpells). The major ranching interests often hire adventurers not only to further their own aims or provide for defence, but to secretly hinder or harm one another and gain an advantage in their ongoing competition. Adventurers that go too far on such a mission can be explained away as foolish outlanders, and if they offend a Harpell and get blasted in the middle of the Low Road, there will be no one left to ask about the matter. My best advice is to be mindful of the scent of magic in the air and act accordingly.

source: Sword Coast Adventurer’s Guide pg. 48-49, map

[movedraptor5913]

Having gone through every unit and EGO's T4 that I could, this is what I've gathered:

Uptie 4 doesn't seem to be an across-the-board gamechanger, so if you were worried about needing to get there before, you can worry less about it now. Some IDs and EGOs won out more than others. Weaker units typically got better buffs than better units, but nothing immediately seems like it'll shake up the status quo. Only notable exception is W Don, who got a good buff despite being good already.

Liu probably got the best teamplay buff, gaining bonuses against enemies with Burn. Rosespanner got a similar set of buffs with Tremor, but theirs aren't as standardized.

N Corp teams got better. Some N Corp units got buffs based on you having other N Corp units on the field. N Sinclair, for example, gives N Corp units an attack buff when there's at least 4 other N Corp units in play. Most of N Corp can inflict Nails more effectively now, with some gaining further bonuses against enemies with decent stacks of Nails. (Related: Hex Nail can inflict Nails at T4. In retrospect, this should have been an obvious addition.)

If the unit had Poise/Charge, it probably gets more Poise/Charge more consistently now. They probably also got some kind of buff from having a large stack of Poise/Charge as well, if they didn't before. This includes W Don, who benefits from keeping charge now on top of being able to Rip Space.

Tanks get their Aggro values at T4. Special mention to Sloshing Ishmael for her Clash Lose mechanics that pair with a "failed to deal damage" mechanic. She can now fail upwards.

Zwei still doesn't seem great. Zwei Sinclair gets more Protection to throw around, but Rodya seems like she still needs time to get her Shield up unless you're running Poise gifts in the Mirror Dungeon. Better than before, but before wasn't good.

While the rest of R Corp got solid buffs (especially Ishmael, whose kit greatly improved), Rabbit Heathcliff got absolutely memed on. For 50 Egoshards and 150 thread, his evade gives charge and he can have 3 more bullets.

Shi Heathcliff's buff was quite nice, bringing him more in line with Shi Ishmael with Poise gain and his bonuses activating at 50% HP but also making him the second unit in the game with a built-in AoE (albeit only 2 slots and requiring him to be at 50% HP or less)

T4 for EGOs is typically good. "Good" doesn't necessarily equate to "Worthwhile" for some of these though.

For EGOs that aren't base: if it wasn't AoE before, it's probably AoE now. If it was AoE before, it's probably more AoE now. That makes up the majority of what's different besides buff/debuff number tweaks and Heads/Tails Hits just being On Hit.

It feels like some of base EGOs got done dirty. Faust's gives a whopping 2 extra SP per target. Ishmael's bursts tremor with no other changes. Not exactly worthwhile upgrades in my eyes.

For examples of good T4 bases, Meursault's lowers his self-debuffs, Heathcliff gives himself more attack power after combat and Ryoshu can inflict a second Fragile next turn on Heads Hit.

Egos don't feel like they have any special "must do" T4s, but Ardor Blossom Star, Sunshower (Yi Sang), Dimension Shredder (Hong Lu) and maybe Lifetime Stew (Sinclair) would be good picks to look at. If I had to recommend potential IDs for Uptie 4:

Yi Sang - Seven, Blade Lineage None of his are particularly great, but these two get the better buffs.

Faust - N Corp, W Corp

Don - W Corp, Cinq, Shi

Ryoshu - Kurokumo, Base

Meursault - Any but Base Rosespanner gets a special mention for its buffs vs enemies with Tremor.

Hong Lu - Any but Kurokumo or Base They're all good, but those two just don't feel like significant enough changes to me

Heathcliff - Any but Rabbit I'm not sure how N Corp's "+1 final power on ally death while 3 other living teammates are from N Corp" buff works exactly. If it persists and stacks, it might be worth it for larger teams. Otherwise, no.

Ishmael - Any but Base or Sloshing (unless you have a larger brain than I do, which is likely). LCCB is effectively an off tank.

Rodion - Rosespanner, N Corp, Kurokumo, Base

Sinclair - Blade Lineage, Mariachi, N Corp (if you run N Corp teams), Base

Outis - Any but Blade Lineage, but even that one's not bad. Seven probably got the best of it.

Gregor - Any, but Chef is only worth it if you have a Speed team with Bind/Bleed. Liu gets special mention for effectively doubling his Burn output on top of Liu's buff vs Burn stacks.

[mthollowell-writes]

Spark, Set Fire

When the need arises, anything can be used for kindling: leaves, tinder, oak, cloth, blood, fat, skin. The very breath of all living creatures provides fire the strength to feed.

But when the world burns–leaving nothing but the ash of everything that fed it–how else does fire satiate its hunger?

Cherry doesn’t remember life before The End. She hardly remembers anything worth remembering. Her life has been here, surrounded by skeleton trees and an ashen sky.

She searches the ground for twigs. Without fire there would be no food. The fire destroys. The fire provides. There is no shortage of bony branches. She uses her tiny fingers to dig in the dirt for leaves, but the ground is hard and unkind. The last rains came weeks ago and they stung. It strips more nourishment from the trees.

She scrapes the ground with her shovel. Back and forth. Chips of dirt and rocks blunting the rusted iron edge. Back and forth. Back and forth.

She throws the shovel away and takes up the handle of her ax. She marches up to the nearest tree and runs the blade up and down--stripping the tree of whatever bark it has left.

She starts a pile for kindling and once it reaches her ankle, she throws it in the bag. When she looks up again, the day has retreated to the west. Winking in and out with the passing clouds.

Time to head home.

Branch huddles by the fire. The fire licks his open palm but he doesn’t pull his hand away. He doesn’t move when Cherry closes the door behind her. His gaze is swallowed by orange light.

She set her bag down with the thud. Branch slowly turns to her, a smile splitting his chapped lips.

“You’re home.”

Cherry pulls out the twigs and bark she recovered and sets them before the flame.

Branch pats her head. “Good girl.”

He takes a number of twigs and snaps them in two.

“The fire destroys. The fire provides,” he intones.

He turns to her. “That rabbit should be cooking nice now. But it’ll be a wait still. Sit in my lap awhile.”

Cherry nods, then obeys. She lays back against his chest as he rests his chin on her crown. She could feel his beard pricking her forehead but she doesn’t mind it. He takes her hand into his, using his thumb to stroke the line of her palm.

“Your hands are so dirty, Cherry,” he says with a laugh. “You haven’t been digging in the dirt, have you?”

She doesn’t say anything. She can’t say anything. She stares at his hands covered with bandages, the exposed part of his skin red and tough with burns. They were so much more noticeable and raw than hers.

Dirt made a home on her skin. If she wasn’t told otherwise, she would’ve believed that she sprung fully formed from the dirt. A little nature child. But now the ground refused to take her back because it was too hard and she was too hard: unmoved and unfeeling.

Cherry didn’t always know Branch. He wandered into her life right before her parents were consumed by the great flame. He traveled so far a distance that his feet broke through his soles. He had nowhere to go because no place was worth heading.

Mom and Dad took pity because he was always sad back then. She remembers tiptoeing up to his bed when everyone else was asleep. Tears glistened in his eyes as he hugged the frayed blanket offered to him close.

He still cries when he thinks no one is looking. He still has that ratty old blanket that he presses to his nose. Lets it catch those stray tears.

They’re leaving.

Branch announces it over breakfast rabbit stew.

“Everything’s dead here. We need to move on.”

Cherry nods. What else could she do?

“We’ll need provisions. You up for it, Cherry?”

She looks down at her soup. He reaches across the table to hold her chin, smiling.

“Smile for me, Cherry Tree.”

She does though she never felt closer to tears.

It’s a loud ripping sound. The knife glides through the fabric as Branch works at disemboweling the mattress. He reaches in and yanks wads of cotton from the bedding. They’re not the soft fluffy clouds that Cherry used to imagine. Just dirty lumps weighed down by the ghosts of her life. Her baby self, her mom, her dad, Branch, and perhaps many others weighed down that stuffing.

Branch yanks and pulls. Yanks and pulls until the bed is nothing but metal springs.

Today is the day. Branch starts a gentle fire in the shadow of the trees. He feeds the might flame cotton, wood, straw, anything that could burn from the history of their lives. And it grows and grows. Hungrily. Greedily. Taking the skeleton trees, the dirt, the grass. Cherry’s world on fire.

Branch stands inches from the inferno. Wind and fire licking at his beard, his outstretched palms.

Cherry tugged on his coat. Pleading.

He looks down on her, smiling. “Don’t be afraid, Cherry Tree.”

He pats her on the head and points ahead of them. “The fire destroys. The fire provides. The path to life is forward."

They are so close. Her sweat feels like it’s boiling on her skin. She looks ahead and sees nothing but the tower of flame. At first. But in its erratic swaying, she sees ghosts dancing. Her parents twirling and dancing.

Tears roll down her burning cheeks.

Branch holds out his hand. “Trust me, Cherry Tree?”

She takes his hand slowly fitting each finger in between his. They stand together at the edge as the world burns around them.

I wrote this story back in 2019 in a bookstore’s cafe. It was inspired by The Western Den’s “Spark, Set Fire” which I played on repeat in the initial drafting phase.

The story has been wasting away in my hard drive ever since. Today I set it free.

Thanks for reading!

[dongtopus]

Lady of the Mists

People say it gets cold out on the island, deep in the forest of Oldwood. Unnaturally cold.

People say that on the full moon, they can hear the wailing of the Lady of the Mists. People say that they see her slipping through trees, that nought but dead animals are left in her wake as she travels then ancient woodland.

People say she takes the lives of any person hunting for riches in the remnants of the long dead town. They suffered the plague, until one night, the whole town died. All as one. So they say.

People say to avoid the island, that it’s haunted. A great Necropolis dwells somewhere deep in the forest, though nobody has ever found the entrance. Its high, arched walls go for miles or so it seems.

People said we should leave well enough alone, that too many fools have taken the journey to discover the place, to document its history. My daughter clung to my leg when I said my goodbyes, I told her I'll only be gone for two days, three at the most. She loves history. Stones and bones, that sort of thing. I told her I’ll be back in time for her birthday and I’ll tell her all about the area and what we find. I told her that if she was lucky, I might find some old coins or even some ancient bones. Apparently, there was a small group of money counterfeiters holed up in the forest back when the town had people in it.

A number of families got in touch with our agency, wanting to know what happened to their long lost relatives of Oldwood. Even if we cannot recover their bodies, they’ll still pay just for the closure. I think that’s reasonable enough. I never got to find out what happened to my father, and he never got to find out what happened to his father. My wife called it a family curse, but I don’t have a son, so I’ll be just fine.

Getting onto the island went well enough. The bridge creaked the entire way and some of the beams look like they’ve only got a few seasons left in them but we made it by travelling light.

Evening came quickly, though both myself and Vladislav felt that we were being watched. Petrov put it down to the way the trees loomed over and the way the wind whistled through. Maybe. As the sun set, an icy mist crept in. Very bizarre. All that tree cover did little to keep any heat from the day. At night we found a small clearing. We dug a little ditch and made a small fire, it took a long time for the sticks to ignite. Petrov got angry about it quicker than he usually would over such a thing and he muttered to himself the whole time but refused to repeat himself for us to hear. We ate some rabbit stew with gathered herbs and a handful of vegetables we brought with us. It was not filling, I went to bed hungrier than I felt before we stopped to eat.

A fitful night’s sleep. I dreamt of the lady of the mists. I saw us from above, as though carried around in the wind, our bodies twisted and far from each other. A blood stained forest floor. I woke up certain I could hear a woman’s voice, though I was groggy and couldn't make out the words. Vladislav and Petrov said they didn't hear anything but we all felt very cold, despite it being so humid before we crossed the bridge. The cold seemed to build over the night, we all woke up with our things crisp with a thin layer of ice. None of us could get the fire to light again, the wood was sodden.

We got up as the sun rose through the leaves, worse for wear and irritable. We pushed on. It’s a small island, really. Barely sixty miles across and about fourty up. The Necropolis isn’t quite in the middle, so we were told. A day and a half at most.

None of us really spoke to one another. Petrov grumbled over every pebble, every slippery bit of mud, every twig that seemed to come from nowhere.

Vladislav kept looking behind him, it wasn’t helping my growing paranoia. Every now and then I’d hear that voice again, close by but indiscernible in direction.

Evening came again. It grew much colder, much quicker than before. Vladislav and I split up to find firewood, and enough that we could keep it going all night. Petrov stayed in place, clanking his spoon on the pot so we could hear him. When the clangin stopped, I headed back with all the wood I could carry across the treacherous, freezing, slippery forest.

When I managed to find the camp, Petrov was gone. Only his clothes remained. They say that when you’re cold enough, you strip down and go mad. Vladislav agreed that it was cold, but not that cold. We wondered if he was playing a joke on us but he never returned. We managed to get the fire going and prepared some of our remaining food, leaving enough for a breakfast for two people. Bland but slightly more filling than the previous night.

Vladislav got up, muttering about his bodily functions and didn't return for some time.

The forest was strangely quiet, not when the wind made a sound. 

I pulled the fleece closer to my body and dragged a warm stone from the fire pit toward me.

I froze in place. 

A set of icy fingers lay on my shoulder, I felt that cold through four layers, right down to my bones. Never had I ever felt so cold.

Finally, I hear the voice with crystal clarity, like looking at the full, blazing moon on a clear winter’s night.

“This is no place for the living. You will not find your quarry.”

I couldn’t speak. I did not need to.

“They do not belong to you now, though you may belong to them.”

My shoulder felt weightless as the cold passed through. I watched as the fleece around me sank closer to my chest, then my body seemed to lean forward from the tree I was leaning against. A strong smell of iron, the taste of blood.

I never hit the forest floor, sat there as I was. Clearly it was a quick thing, though it felt like it went on for days. Worse still, It was so peaceful. It was painless.

[liquidstar]

What are the best Greek foods

first of all you cant go wrong w a classic gyro or souflaki (or souflaki with pita). you can forgo the tsatsiki sauce if its too much for you tho, personally im not huge on it either

also different kinds of pitas... tiropitakia and spanakopita are really good (though theyre mostly seen as side dishes) and tiropitakia/spanakopitakia make for a really good snack.

keftedakia are also really good especially with spaghetti. or if you want soup you can get them with youvarlakia

gemista are really good as far as rice goes imo, theres something really fun about just stuffing a veggie with the rice that its insides were used to make... full circle. also its its an eggplant it may be called papoutaskia (literally "little shoes" bc it looks like shoes lol)

another soup is avgolemono, its basically just lemon chicken soup with rice. personally i love it

pastitsio is great its like if lasagna was beefier and creamier imho

stifado is a good meat stew BUT PLEASE BE WARNED sometimes its made with rabbit and not all americans are okay with that so read what you order lol

tomatokeftedes and kolokithakia are really good. its fried tomato and fried pumpkin. i really like the latter

theres plenty of good seafood like spinialo, taramasalata (roe dip- not a meal), lakerda, fried marides, astakomakaronada (lobster pasta), ktapodi stin skara (grilled octopus), garides saganaki (shrimp), and mydia (muscles). i know i rattled those off pretty quickly but im not personally a huge seafood fan so i dont have much to say lol but DESPITE that i think id still eat most of them anyway

theres also kritharaki pasta which usually comes with lamb. theres also paidakia/grilled lambchops

for salads theres choriatiki which is sometimes just called greek salad

and for deserts my personal favorites are kokakia, theyre literally so good. theyre like if macaroons were better. but theres also the classic baklava, or halva (greek kind is made w semolina). galaktoboureko is also really good its literally SO creamy. and rizogalo which is just rice pudding w cinnamon. i also think portokalopita is really good bc its orange flavored and i love citrus. kourabiedes are also good but to be frank when i was a kid i just ate the powdered sugar off of them.

AND theres also some food typically only made for special occasions which is really good. tsoureki is a sweet bread usually made on easer or sometimes christmas, its similar to challah if youre familiar with jewish food, but its made with mahlepi spice so it has a slightly different taste. and vasilopita is a special cake only made on new years. whats cool about vasilopita is that theres a coin hidden inside of it and whoever gets the coin has good luck that year! its not taken super seriously but its a fun sort of game to play w the cake lol. also on any given outdoor celebration (easter or a panigiri) someone may cook a lamb on a spit which is usually pretty good imho, and i dont even like lamb.

[brightgnosis]

‘Purple Poppy Mallow’ or ‘Winecup’

Callirhoe Involucrata 

Malvaceae (Hibiscus / Hollyhock) family

Native to: AR, CO, IA, KS, LA, MN, MO, NE, NM, OK, TX, WY

Introduced and Possibly Naturalized into: AZ, FL, IL, IN, KN, MI, ND, OR, PA, VA, WI

Conservation Status: Not yet assessed

Wildlife and Livestock Use: Is a nectar source with special value for a large number of Native Bees; attractant for Nectar-Bees, Butterflies, Hoverflies, and Predatory Wasps. Minimal deer resistance; semi-evergreen leaves are a common late season food source for Rabbits and Groundhogs. Can also be used to bulk up forage and greens mixes for Livestock- especially during dry seasons.

Plays Larval Host for the Gray Hairstreak (Strymon Melinus), and is primary food source for the Checkered Skipper (Pyrgus Communis) Caterpillar in particular.

Ornamental Use: A showy ornamental that’s easily grown and long-blooming, it’s particularly valued for its color (Ka'igwu / Kiowa Tribe); blooms white, pink, or purple through Mar, Apr, May, and June (sometimes as late as Aug)- though primary color in the wild is a deep maroon to reddish purple; spreads roughly 3 feet from taproot and can be between 6 inches to a foot “tall”.

Makes an excellent groundcover alone or mixed in a grassy area. Great for border areas and rock gardens in particular. May also be planted in a hanging basket in which trailing stems cascade over the sides- though application is not recommended, as a taproot plant.

Full (complete) Sun to Partial (dappled) Shade. Dry to Moist soil- preferring well drained, acid based mediums such as Clay, Loam, and Sand. Medium water use but drought resistant due to taproot.

Culinary Use: Taproot can be harvested in late Summer and fall starting in Aug to Sep; tastes like Sweet Potato. Leaves can be used to thicken soups and stews, and other liquids (Ni Okašką / Osage Nation).

Medicinal Use: Crushed, dried roots are burned and the smoke inhaled for head colds. Aching limbs are also exposed to the smoke to reduce pain. Taproot decoction can be used as an additional pain killer; Tea made from the boiled root drunk for internal pains, and as bath for aching body parts (Dakȟóta / Dakota Tribe).

This is an aggregation of my own personal research into this herb. If you found this helpful or interesting, please consider Tipping or Leaving a Ko-Fi (being Disabled, even $1 helps); you can see my other "Original Content" here.

[rebrandedbard]

Good morning, I had an idea and I wanted to share (could be a prompt if you want): So, Jaskier definitely, absolutely wants to learn Geralts potions and which to give when. But they aren't labelled at all and you've got to discern by shapes and colours. I firmly believe Jaskier writes a little ditty for that and maybe it spreads or maybe Geralt wakes up after a hunt with vague memories of that song after Jaskier saved him...

Jessi you know exactly what to say to get a fic out of me. Invoke my musicality! Just for you, not one, but two songs Jaskier uses for Geralt's potions!

-

Witcher's Brew

wc - 2476

Geralt wakes up after a hunt gone wrong and finds himself patched up in bed. He waits for Jaskier to arrive and overhears him singing a strange song to himself as he fusses with Geralt's potion supplies.

-

Rabbit stew, warm and fresh from the pot. It was the first thing Geralt could remember upon waking. They’d had rabbit stew at midday, just before the hunt. He almost imagined he could taste it on his dry, cut lip, but the lingering bitter taste of White Raffard’s Decoction chased the last of the memory away. He could not recall taking any potions. In fact, he had trouble remembering what it was he’d been fighting. His head was vague, all the details swirling at the edges in a haze. Someone had been speaking to him, he thought. Was it the chanting of a kitchen maid, timing her baking with a prayer? Or was it a song?

A song.

Geralt sat up with a grunt. “Jaskier,” he called, voice rough and catching in his throat. He looked around the darkness of the room, but he was alone. He scented the air. Jaskier had been near in the last hour or so, his smell not yet faded. It tasted bitter on his tongue, like the decoction: bitter like the musk of fear. The tang of salt hung in the air as well. Tears. But there was more. From the table at his side came an earthy scent and he discovered a bowl of mushrooms upon it. Sewant mushrooms.

That’s right. They’d been in the caves. The vision of the beast rose to the forefront of his mind and he remembered that they’d been fighting not a wyvern as hired, but a slyzard. It had been a deadly miscalculation, for the beast could breathe fire over a great distance. Geralt felt the fresh burns on the back of his neck, smelled the poultice pasted there. He remembered pulling Jaskier behind cover. He’d not had the chance to see whether he’d been burned as well. There had been too much to distract him; he did not even know if he’d slain the beast.

There had been mushrooms in the cave. Someone had to have brought them. Jaskier would be foolish enough to return to the caves, even if the beast still lived. But for mushrooms? Geralt could not imagine why.

“Sewant from the sewer caves, crows’ eyes, fang of beasts; blood from all the nasty things, and myrtle pure as priests.”

Geralt turned to the sound of Jaskier’s singing beyond the door. It cracked open and there the bard stood, arms hidden beneath a mass of white flowers. He had, too, a leather pouch dangling from around his wrist. Unloading his burden upon the table, he flipped through the open bestiary, still singing under his breath. It was not his usual kind of song; it was lifeless, simple rhyme and meter without passion. He did not even glance Geralt’s way as he set to work, grinding ingredients together in a mortar.

“Mistletoe and mutagen, aloe leaf of wolf; green mold, han, and celandine, then in the flame engulf.”

Jaskier poured the concoction into a potion bottle and hurried to the fire. He bent to light it, cursing as the matches failed beneath his shaking hand. He cursed louder, his hand slipping again. His voice began to shake as he continued his chant.

“Remember Raffard’s recipe and count it by this rhyme; be ye neither quick nor slow to measure out the time. Once the brew has bubbled and its color turns to red, let cool and cork then brew again to raise him from—”

Jaskier’s voice caught in his throat as he failed to light the match once more. He gripped the potion bottle in his hand and wiped at his eyes, unable to finish the line. “To raise him—”

“From the dead,” Geralt concluded.

Jaskier whirled around, dropping the bottle upon the floor. It shattered, spilling its contents into the hearth and over his boots. But he didn’t pay it any mind. He ran to Geralt’s side and knelt before the bed. His hands were everywhere at once, prodding gently, examining him.

“Geralt,” he breathed. Then everything came out in one great rush, each new thought interrupting the last. “Oh fuck, I was—! You weren’t moving. You just dropped to the ground the minute your sword—! I had to carry you back, and you only had one vial left. I was so worried I wouldn’t be able to make more before …”

“One vial is enough,” Geralt said. He nodded toward the supplies on the table. “Is that White Raffard’s?” he asked, knowing it could be nothing else.

Jaskier nodded, silent.

“What was that song just now?”

Jaskier bit his lip, looking guilty. “I … didn’t meant to pry,” he murmured. “I promise never to share trade secrets but … I had to know how it was made. It’s one of your most important potions. If you couldn’t make one, and if we were ever in a situation where we couldn’t find a healer, I needed to know that I could save you. So I watched, and I wrote it to remember.”

“You wrote a song to remember how to brew a potion?” Geralt asked. He looked at the ingredients. They were all correct, and well-measured from the look of it. Jaskier had prepared three bottles, two still sat empty on the table. Before them, their ingredients lay in even piles, waiting to be ground in the mortar.

Jaskier took Geralt’s hand in his, pressing his forehead to it. “I can brew Raffard’s, White Honey, and Swallow. I know you need Swallow with Raffard’s, for the toxicity. And … if I ever brewed a faulty potion, I would have the Honey.”

“You know what potions to take,” Geralt said. It was less of a question, more an expression of awe. He’d never taught Jaskier about the potions, merely asking for them as needed if Jaskier were in reach to fetch them. And from that, Jaskier had learned what was needed when.

“I wrote a song for that, too. All of them: what they’re for, the ones to take before a battle, and the ones to take after.”

Geralt blinked.

“All of them?” he asked.

Jaskier looked up. He once more turned his head away in shame. Witchers’ potions were not for men to know, let alone theirs to brew. But he nodded. There was no denying it now.

“Sing it to me.”

The look on Jaskier’s face was nothing short of complete and total astonishment. Geralt never requested songs. “You … right now? You want me to sing the song?” Jaskier faltered.

When Geralt gestured toward the lute, Jaskier smiled.

“It hasn’t got music,” Jaskier said. “It isn’t meant to be sung, really. Not in that way at least.”

“But you could put it to music, I bet.”

Jaskier flushed. There was a bit of praise in there somewhere—an admission of skill. At Geralt’s request, he stood and fetched the lute. “You seem to be doing much better,” he said, sitting at his side on the bed.

“Raffard,” Geralt replied. “Are you in tune?”

Jaskier strummed the lute slowly, emphasizing each open note with pride. “Always am.”

“Sing, then.”

It only took a minute of experimental plucking before Jaskier had a set of chords prepared. He strummed them twice in succession, then began his song:

Before one fights vampiric beasts

Drink Black Blood down to spoil their feasts

And if there’s acid on the rise

First taking Bindweed would be wise

When fighting something swift and cruel

Down Blizzard quick before the duel

And if the brawl takes place at night

Take Cat to see in dimmest light

Geralt watched with open admiration as he listened. Jaskier had learned it all on his own. He’d made a careful study of the potions without any help, and what Geralt heard was thus far correct. There were trainees who’d not kept such simple things in order, even with proper instruction.

When fighting wraiths one cannot spy

De Vries’ Extract evolves the eye

And wolves will howl in perfect tune

When given life by the Full Moon

At the play on wolves, Geralt rolled his eyes. Even so, he was impressed. He’d only encountered two wraiths with Jaskier at his side. He would’ve had to pay very close attention to remember De Vries’ Extract’s purpose.

The bit about the wolves did not escape his notice either. There was a little crook in the corner of Jaskier’s mouth as he sang the words. Of course the potion made for jokes among the witchers of the school of the wolf, but they weren’t the only ones who used them.

But if one’s poisoned first, let’s say

Oriole takes the sting away

And when one bleeds, to stop the aches

A simple Kiss is all it takes

If long the task you must endure

Then take a dose of Maribor

And if one’s signs aren’t up to snuff

Then Petri’s Philter is the stuff

If one cannot avoid a hit

The vengeful Shrike takes care of it

And if you’ve time while under cover

Swallow aids a slow recover

If the battle leaves you tired

Tawny Owl may be required

And while weak one cannot parry

Thunderbolt will make foes wary

When hope is lost and at its end

White Raffard’s revives your friend

And if while brawling stunned you be

Then Willow is the remedy

For power in your every blow

Take Wolf to strike against your foe

And though it makes one wobble blind

With Wolverine their fate is signed

Remember this what else you do

White Gull is base for every brew

And when the potions start to strain

White Honey lets you start again

“You ended with White Honey,” Geralt remarked.

Jaskier lay a hand over the strings of his lute, quieting them. “It lets you start again, does it not? Once you swallow a dose of White Honey, it nullifies the effects of all potions,” he said in his most academic voice. “I thought it would be fitting to end the song there; it certainly helps to remember the purpose.”

“And you know how to brew it.”

“I find it ironic that there’s not a trace of honey in it whatsoever. In fact, far too many of your potions involve the use of vinegar, the very opposite of honey. Would it ruin the potions beyond use if I were to add a bit? A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down, they say.”

Geralt smiled. He waved his hand, gesturing for Jaskier to come closer. He put a hand on his shoulder, whispering in his ear. “I think whatever potions you brew for me in the future will be made sweet enough by that sentiment,” he said. “So don’t fuck up my recipes, bard.”

Jaskier stammered, then laughed and batted Geralt’s face. “You cheeky thing! For a moment, I thought you actually intended to compliment me.”

“Didn’t you hear me the first time?” Geralt asked. “I did.”

“Not a compliment if you insult my cooking right after. Or—well, eh—brewing, as it were.”

“Alchemy.”

“Oh, yes, that’s much more flattering. Assistant Alchemist! I do like the sound of it.”

Geralt chuckled. “You’re my assistant now, are you?”

“But of course,” Jaskier replied, waving a dramatic arm in the air. “Always have been. I only needed a proper title.

“Then tell me, assistant: what became of the slyzard?”

Jaskier grinned and leaned over to grab the leather pouch from the table. He tossed it for show and caught it with one hand before emptying its contents. A collection of sharp, bloody teeth fell onto the sheets, some with bits of pink gum still attached to the yellow base.

“I believe Raffard’s called for fang of beasts in the list of ingredients,” he said. “And there was no other beast nearby to take from. Your sword was still lodged in its back; all I had to do was give it one last thrust through the heart.”

Jaskier winked and produced another bag from his doublet, heavy with coin. “Needed proof anyway,” he said, setting it alongside the teeth. “I needed some distraction while you were out, so I checked off the list: put you on the mend, finish the hunt, get the pay, replenish supplies.”

For a moment, his cocky expression faltered. “I was just finishing up when I got a little …” he trailed, bundling up the teeth once more. “Well, it’s easier to get lost in worrisome thoughts when doing quiet tasks like foraging. But you woke up, and now there’s nothing left to fear. I’ll have a new set of potions ready for you by the time you’re well enough to get out of bed.”

“… You … killed the slyzard?” Geralt said.

“You did most of it. I just gave it the last push. It barely twitched. Honestly, its innards made more of a fuss when I went to bottle them. I think you’ll be well stocked for some time.”

Jaskier killed the slyzard. He stooped to rummaging in its bleeding corpse for the most vile and disgusting of ingredients. For his potions. Which Jaskier brewed. Which he knew how to brew by merely observing, putting it all together in simple songs to remember. And still he’d found time to collect his pay.

“Fuck me,” Geralt said in wonder.

“Maybe once you’re healed,” Jaskier laughed, ears a touch pink.

“Then kiss me,” Geralt amended. He lay his hand over Jaskier’s arm, leaning forward, enraptured. It was a simple revelation and he wondered just how long the idea had been bubbling in the back of his brain. “Kiss me,” he said. “I think I’m in love with you.”

Jaskier blinked twice, his cheeks flushing as he took in the seriousness of Geralt’s tone. “Did … you put too much White Gull in that last batch of Raffard’s?”

Geralt shook his head, his eyes never leaving Jaskier’s. “Will you kiss me?” he asked again.

“I …”

“You killed a slyzard for me.”

“Yes.”

“And you memorized my potions. In case I needed them.”

Jaskier nodded.

“You love me,” Geralt concluded. His heart gave a leap at the notion. Yes. Yes, this was something he never knew he wanted. No, not wanted—this was something he needed. If all that didn’t add up to love, he didn’t know what would. It was such a simple thing, and he was a very simple man in every meaning of the word.

“Love me, Jaskier,” he said. “Love me and kiss me, please.”

But Jaskier already did. And before the final plea could escape Geralt’s lips, Jaskier did.

I’m going to take care of you, Geralt thought. He would take care of Jaskier just as Jaskier had always taken care of him. Good care.

“I do love you,” Geralt corrected.

Jaskier chuckled. “Don’t need to think about it?”

“I don’t think I ever really did.”

[tastesoftamriel]

Recently found out about thermopolia, places in ancient rome where you could buy quick and easy take-out food or the roman version of fastfood. And I can't help but wonder what each of the Scrolls races would sell at their own thermopolia.

I'm of the opinion that Tamriel would grind to a halt without quick foods to keep us going. Every Province of course has its own specialties, but these are some of the most popular snacks you have to try!

Altmer

Eating on the go is difficult to manage in Summerset. After all, eating with your hands is uncouth, so what is one to do? Ricepaper-wrapped salads are a staple for healthy eating when pressed for time, and can contain any number of ingredients one likes. Common fillings for these ricepaper rolls include lettuce, shredded carrots and cucumber, sweet shrimp, cold roast chicken, and tahini.

Argonians

While Argonians prefer to sit down for a meal with friends and family, sometimes it's necessary to grab a bite before heading into the swamp. Saltrice steamed in banana leaf packages with tasty ingredients on the side makes the ideal portable meal. Each package is water-tight and contains just enough for a single meal, while the banana leaf imparts a great aroma on the saltrice. For something similar, why not try my Blackwood Stuffed Banana Leaves?

Bosmer

Out of all the races, the Wood Elves have truly mastered the art of quick and easy foods to eat on the road. While it's less appetising than other snacks, pemmican, a type of dried meat and tallow patty, is great for filling your belly when you don't have the time for a meal. It can be eaten as is, or is sometimes pre-fried to make a crunchy, meaty snack. More interesting than jerky, and quite nutritious too!

Bretons

High Rock is renowned for its excellent inns, and many of them cater to travellers needing a quick bite to eat. Hot pies and pasties are a Provincial favourite, and they are usually filled with meat and vegetables, though plenty of other variants exist. When I'm in High Rock, I spend a lot of time eating my favourite steak, cheese and onion pasties, or a good steak pie with mushy peas on the side.

Dunmer

Dunmeri traders and travellers for centuries swear by wickwheat rolls, which are soft rolls that are a bit like a cross between puff pastry and rye bread. These rolls are baked with fillings and are easy to bring around with you, and taste great regardless of their temperature. One of the most common variants is a chunky mix of scuttle, hackle-lo leaf, and nix-hound meat paste, which is seasoned with a good amount of herbs and spices. It's meaty and creamy, and sure to keep you sated for some time.

Imperials

There are so many types of snack foods in Cyrodiil that it would take a day and a half to list all of them, but out of all of them, fried bread sandwiches are probably the most common and popular due to their versatility. These aren't sandwiches per se, but are pockets of bread that are flash fried in olive oil after being stuffed with ingredients like cured meats, cheese, tomatoes, and peppers. They are usually served with a topping of fresh salad and shaved pecorino.

Khajiit

Rice rolls, rice rolls, we love rice rolls! These wonderful snacks are easily portable, making them the ideal meal on the go, and they taste great hot or cold too. Fresh fish, vegetables, pickled spicy cabbage, and grilled meat are among the fillings you'll find tightly wrapped in a sizeable tube of seasoned brown rice, which is wrapped again in nori to hold the tube together. Filling and delicious!

Nords

There's nothing better than a fresh hot waffle on a cold day...except for a freshly grilled horker sausage or rabbit meatballs wrapped in a waffle, with a good spoonful of crispy fried onions, juniper berry relish, and strong wholegrain mustard. Eating these gracefully is an impossible task, so remember to pack napkins!

Orcs

Most Orcs prefer sitting down to a meal than a quick lunch on the go, but if you're heading out the door, it doesn't hurt to pack a potato croquette or two. Mashed potato is patted around meat and diced radishes, rolled in panko breadcrumbs, and deep fried until crispy. These greasy treats stay warm for ages when packed in metal lunchboxes, so they're ideal for travellers.

Redguards

The Redguards use folded cactus skins to make takeaway boxes, and their watertight properties mean that it's possible to pack soups quickly and easily for eating on the go. A goat meatball stew drizzled with yoghurt and honey is a nomad's favourite dish as it contains all the nutrition you need to stay alive in the inhospitable Alik'r for extended periods of time. The lid also acts as a way to eat your soup without sand getting in- just slurp it through a straw! You can also try my Pack Guar Pide for a Hammerfell-style street food favourite!

[istumpysk]

Operation Stumpy Re-Read

ACOK: Arya III (Chapter 9)

"I bet he's that traitor's bastard," Lommy said one night, in a hushed voice so Gendry would not hear. "The wolf lord, the one they nicked on Baelor's steps."

Close!

+.+

One day she came across a rabbit, purely by happenstance. It was brown and fat, with long ears and a twitchy nose. Rabbits ran faster than cats, but they couldn't climb trees half so well. She whacked it with her stick and grabbed it by its ears, and Yoren stewed it with some mushrooms and wild onions. Arya was given a whole leg, since it was her rabbit. She shared it with Gendry. The rest of them each got a spoonful, even the three in manacles. Jaqen H'ghar thanked her politely for the treat, and Biter licked the grease off his dirty fingers with a blissful look, but Rorge, the noseless one, only laughed and said, "There's a hunter now. Lumpyface Lumpyhead Rabbitkiller."

Arya the Rabbitkiller finds killing rabbit much easier than killing Cat.

The queen of the rabbits must not be wed without her floppy ears. - Daenerys VI, ADWD

+.+

"Either this road went and turned again, or that sun's setting in the north."     

x

As the world darkened, the fire seemed to grow brighter and brighter, until it looked as though the whole north was ablaze.

x

By dawn the fire had burned itself out, but none of them slept very well that night.    

The sun is setting in the north, and soon Winterfell will be ablaze, but have faith my friends -- dawn will come.

+.+

Riding out in front of the wagons on her horse, Arya saw burnt bodies impaled on sharpened stakes atop the walls, their hands drawn up tight in front of their faces as if to fight off the flames that had consumed them.

Every chapter I laugh a little harder at the Arya x Daenerys bestie brigade.

+.+

Then he'd go off to polish his helm. It was a beautiful helm, rounded and curved, with a slit visor and two great metal bull's horns. Arya would watch him polish the metal with an oilcloth, shining it so bright you could see the flames of the cookfire reflected in the steel. Yet he never actually put it on his head.

x

"Yoren said wait." Gendry's voice sounded hollow. When Arya turned to look, she saw that he was wearing his helm, all shiny steel and great curving horns.    

Well that was anticlimactic.

+.+

She remembered a story Old Nan had told once, about a man imprisoned in a dark castle by evil giants. He was very brave and smart and he tricked the giants and escaped . . . but no sooner was he outside the castle than the Others took him, and drank his hot red blood. 

Okay??

I’m not even going to try to find a deeper meaning to that.

+.+

She was making water, her clothing tangled about her ankles, when she heard rustling from under the trees. Hot Pie, she thought in panic, he followed me. Then she saw the eyes shining out from the wood, bright with reflected moonlight. Her belly clenched tight as she grabbed for Needle, not caring if she pissed herself, counting eyes, two four eight twelve, a whole pack . . .

One of them came padding out from under the trees. He stared at her, and bared his teeth, and all she could think was how stupid she'd been and how Hot Pie would gloat when they found her half-eaten body the next morning. But the wolf turned and raced back into the darkness, and quick as that the eyes were gone.

I’ve always found it entertaining that Nymeria never attempts to return to Arya, despite having ample opportunity. Why would she? She has a new pack now.

Just saying!

+.+

"Wolves," she whispered hoarsely. "In the woods."                 

"Aye. They would be." He never looked at her.

"They scared me."                 

"Did they?" He spat. "Seems to me your kind was fond o' wolves."

God, Arya. Are you even Northern?

+.+

Arya thought it tasted wonderful, but Yoren was too angry to eat. A cloud seemed to hang over him, ragged and black as his cloak. He paced about the camp restlessly, muttering to himself.

x

The sourleaf had turned his spit red, so it looked like his mouth was bleeding.

I’m starting to worry about this Yoren fellow.

+.+

The one-armed woman died at evenfall. Gendry and Cutjack dug her grave on a hillside beneath a weeping willow. When the wind blew, Arya thought she could hear the long trailing branches whispering, "Please. Please. Please."

x

Yet as she lay under her thin blanket, she could hear the wolves howling . . . and another sound, fainter, no more than a whisper on the wind, that might have been screams.    

Is this Bran? No, probably not, but when the trees start talking, I become irrationally paranoid.

+.+

"Been bringing men to the Wall for close on thirty years." Froth shone on Yoren's lips, like bubbles of blood. "All that time, I only lost three. Old man died of a fever, city boy got snakebit taking a shit, and one fool tried to kill me in my sleep and got a red smile for his trouble." He drew the dirk across his throat, to show her. "Three in thirty years." He spat out the old sourleaf. "A ship now, might have been wiser. No chance o' finding more men on the way, but still . . . clever man, he'd go by ship, but me . . . thirty years I been taking this kingsroad."

This whole series is just people wishing they had got on a ship...

...

...

...

Final thoughts:

In AGOT, Arya’s chapters were almost as hard to interpret as Bran’s. Now they’re relatively straightforward.

I suppose you don’t play games when depicting the horrors of war.

-> return to menu <-

[sweet-by-and-by]

Baptized In Your Name - Arthur Morgan x Charlotte Balfour

summary: The rugged stranger who found her at her lowest turns back up on Charlotte Balfour’s doorstep, offering help as she navigates her new life in the remote wilderness. Determined as hell, she lets him teach her a thing or two about guns, and finds herself offering her own help in turn. But as questions of his past bubble to the surface, will she find the man she believes him to be, or will she learn of a darker side? word count: 3819 pairing: Arthur Morgan x Charlotte Balfour

AO3

The Northern air had always been healing. Arthur took a deep breath in, the fresh air from the Northern Kamasana River calming and crisp.

He had travelled across the Eastern Grizzlies after his ride with Rains Falls. He decided to take the long way back to camp, needing some time away after all his talk of ghosts. Away from Dutch, from John, from everyone who reminded him of everything he had lost.

The painful memories played in his mind as he rode through the mountains. He rode down into Roanoake Ridge, stopping as he approached the fork in the road at Doverhill. He chuckled at the memory of the mad scientist there, a frown settling across his face as he recalled another life lost. He wondered if he was cursed, if to meet him was to meet the angel of death itself.

It had been a few days since he found the widow of Willard’s Rest, Arthur thought to himself as he hesitated at the crossing of pathways. He eyed the road to his right, the one that would take him back to camp. His frown deepened at the thought of seeing Dutch just yet, and he spurred his horse Eastward.

It didn’t take long before he was turning off the main path towards Charlotte’s cabin. He savoured the beautiful scenery, idly watching a buck stand guard over his family as they sipped from the river’s edge.

He startled at the sound of gunfire, his attention drawing towards the sound. He reached for his holster, ice running through his veins as he realized the gunshots were coming from Willard’s Rest.

He dug his heels into his horse’s side, the loyal beast sensing his panic and darting off towards the cabin. Visions of robbers and bandits danced across his mind, fearing what he would see when he rounded the bend up towards the cabin.

He pulled his horse to a stop as he crossed through the gate, eyes scanning the homestead to assess the situation. His brows furrowed in confusion when he saw that Charlotte was alone, and he quickly holstered his weapon before she could take notice.

“Oh, it’s you!” she exclaimed as he swung out of the saddle. His worries drained away at the tone in her voice and the beaming smile she wore as she turned to greet him.

He took in the state of her, his confusion only deepening at the rifle in her hands. He tried to focus as she thanked him again for the rabbit, doing his best to keep his concern off of his face. He had only just met the woman, but he found himself worrying for her already.

He listened as she told him of her plan to shoot at some bottles, his heart lifting at the excitement in her eyes.

He offered his tips, his heart racing as he leaned in close to her. He shuffled slightly as he adjusted her stance, begging his hands to stay steady as he pointed down the barrel to guide her aim.

They worked together to improve her shooting, and by the end of their session Arthur was impressed. She may not be taking on Annie Oakley anytime soon, but he could see she took pride in her gained skills and her determination was infectious.

“Thank you for everything,” she smiled, her melodic voice drowning out his thoughts. “Would you join me for a meal? It’s the least I can do.”

Arthur nodded, not daring to speak as his chest tightened. His heart hammered at the invitation, hammering against his ribs. He followed her into the cabin and glanced around her home. The solid wood logs were familiar to him, but the decorative touches screamed of rich inhabitants. Arthur felt starkly out of place against the backdrop of luxury. He awkwardly took a seat in the ornate dining chair at Charlotte’s prompting.

He looked around and took in the rest of the cabin, and could practically hear Hosea scolding him for his gawking. Her home was full of beautiful items, the likes of which Arthur had never seen in a cabin in the woods.

He whipped his head around at the sound of the stew pot slamming down on the table, Charlotte’s hiss at the heat drawing his eyes to her. He smiled politely as she dished up his dinner, passing it to him with a “bon appetit”.

“Huh?” he slipped out before he could stop himself, and he quickly cursed his muddled response. Charlotte spoke of Aristotle with grace that would have Dutch draped at her feet, and here Arthur was sounding like some back country hick in Murfree territory.

“Please, enjoy,” she said, her eyes casting downwards in embarrassment. Arthur felt himself flush at the realization he thought it was cute, casting his own gaze down to a spoonful of stew. “And thank you again, for everything. I really am grateful.”

“Ah, it was nothing,” he dismissed, scraping his spoon against the porcelain bowl to keep himself busy.

“You’re a good man,” Charlotte said decidedly, turning away before she could see him react. He was taken aback by her conviction.

“Oh, you don’t really know me,” he murmured, his conscience heavy with the weight of misleading a poor widow. He thought of his deeds, of the list he could give her to prove his case.

“I know enough,” she retorted, busying herself around the kitchen.”There’s always more to find in ourselves, you helped me to see that.”

“My husband Cal was such an optimist,” she said fondly as she took her seat across the table from him, “I found that to be quite contagious. We were both born with the silver spoon...banquets, butlers, valets,” she trailed off.

“Sounds awful,” Arthur chuckled, a cough working its way through his chest. His ears rang and his vision wavered as he tried to suppress it. He blinked to clear his eyes, listening pointedly as Charlotte told him of her father and her fear of being crushed by the wilderness.

“Well, I reckon you’re gonna be just fine,” he coughed, struggling against his labouring breath.

“Are you alright?” Charlotte asked, her worry evident. His coughing worsened but he waved her off, rising to his feet.

“I’m fine,” he stammered, rising to his feet. The spell he was under broke, and he realized the risk he was putting her at by having come in for dinner. He rushed to get himself out the door, out of her home and away from her with his disease. The angel of death had forgotten his place, let himself enjoy Charlotte’s company and foolishly put her in danger.

“Thank you for this,” he struggled, staggering forward as the room spun around him. He forced himself to keep going, splatters of blood peppering his fist as he coughed even harder. “I think,” he wheezed, “it’s best if I just-”

And he was down on his knees.

He heard Charlotte rush towards him as he collapsed to the floor, trying to keep her back as his body shook. His lungs burned and his abdomen ached, rendering him helpless as he curled into himself.

“Stay right there,” he faintly heard, “it’s going to be okay.”

The melodic promise carried him away as darkness swallowed him.

--

He startled awake, another cough bringing him back to life. This one was less debilitating, just the usual tickle through his chest and throat.

He propped himself onto his elbows, looking around to register his surroundings. He forced himself to roll onto his side, pushing himself to a seat with a groan. He shook his head and ran his hand down his face, stopping to wipe blood from the corner of his mouth. He glanced around again and noticed a note at his bedside, ignoring the pain in his ribs as he leaned forward to reach for it.

“My Dear Arthur,” he read, blinking at the words before him. His face sunk as he recalled his letter from Mary just a few days before, the same greeting pulling at his heartstrings.

He smiled as he read the rest of the letter, fought through the confusion from the sleep-addled fog that still clouded his mind. He admired her penmanship, her decorative sprawl surely a result of her higher education.

He scowled at her words about the money in the jewelry box. He knew she had plenty, but his stomach turned at the idea she thought his visits were for some kind of payout. He tucked the letter away, reaching around the jewelry box for his hat. He stood, glaring at the box that stashed the bills as he pushed past the door and into the main room.

True to her letter, Charlotte was out hunting. He took another chance to gaze around the room, no memory of Hosea’s reprimanding stopping him this time. A fire roared in the great stone hearth, warming the cabin from the slight chill in the morning air. This far North the chill lingered late into Summer, and Arthur was grateful as a shiver crept down his spine.

Though he wasn’t sure the cold was to blame for that.

He looked at the fine furniture, wondering to himself how much they had brought from Chicago. He was sure it wasn’t purchased around here, though he supposed it could have been shipped up through Annesburg.

He looked at the pictures in their frames, photographs and paintings decorating the dark wooden walls. He was struck with a longing to stay, to hang his own photos alongside her relatives.

His heart ached as he continued to look around the cabin. He imagined a life here, of coffee brewed on cold mornings and conversation shared over breakfasts. The fancy furniture would take some getting used to, but he could easily see himself settling into it. Could even imagine the patter of small feet running across the floors, the chime of a child’s laugh bouncing off the walls.

He shook his head to clear that thought, the echo of ghosts rattling in his skull. He turned to the door, walking towards it as he left those images behind. There was no point in pining for something so intangible. All just hopelessly romantic dreams of a life he stopped deserving long ago.

He pushed the front door open and stepped out onto the porch. His eyes adjusted to the brightness of the sun, and he faintly wondered how long he’d been out for. A misty fog hung low in the air, the weather seeming to reflect his somber thoughts.

Arthur sighed and stepped down from the porch, greeting his horse from across the homestead. He strolled down the path at a leisurely pace, trying to savour the last few moments before mounting up and heading back to camp. He approached his steed with a pat on the neck, wiping away some dirt from their journey. Arthur noticed the horse’s trepidation to his touch, his own hair rising on the back of his neck. He was suddenly overwhelmed by an encroaching feeling of being watched.

He reached into his saddle compartment and pulled out his rifle, gripping it tightly as he checked the chamber. He looked for cover, but found nothing useful in sight.

“Well look who decided to make an appearance!” a voice cried out from the woods. Two men on horseback emerged from the thicket, guns already drawn and aimed.

Bounty hunters.

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” Arthur warned, “payday ain’t worth the risk you’re about to take.”

“I dunno,” the other one snickered, “they really seem to want you. I reckon we could get ‘em to ten thousand if we brought in that lovely lady of yours too, I bet she’s got all kinds of things to say.”

The first man hummed, his eyes darkening, “If we even hand her over,” he smirked devilishly.

Arthur growled, his fists clenching around the cool metal of the rifle. His lips cured up in a snarl as rage rushed through his veins. Before he could think, his barrel was pointed between the man’s eyes and a bullet ripped through the air. Arthur quickly dispatched the other one, whose bolt was still half-cocked in loading when his body slumped down the side of his horse.

Arthur heaved as his rage coursed through him, snorting furiously and spitting at his feet. He fought back another cough, not willing to let his victory be spoiled by another fit.

He watched as their horses took off, throwing their heads back and whinnying as they galloped away. He sighed and shook his head, slinging his rifle across his back as he went to get rid of the bodies.

He whistled for his horse, who met him dutifully as he hoisted the first bounty hunter up. He slung the body over the horse’s rear, the man’s arms and legs dangling morbidly as he hung from the beast. He reached down to lift the other hunter over his shoulder, and he whistled again for his horse to follow him.

They walked the bodies down to the water, stashing them behind a rocky coverhang at the base of the waterfall. He quickly washed the blood from his coat in the pool of the river, hoping it wouldn’t stain. He wasn’t sure how much laundry the girls were doing anymore, not that he would be in camp long enough to have it washed anyway. His stops there were getting shorter and shorter between Dutch’s errands, the state of the camp only adding to his souring temperament.

Once he was satisfied with his cleaning, deciding it wouldn't get much better than this, he walked back up the hill to Willard's Rest. He wanted to make sure there was no trace of the bounty hunters left, get their horses good and gone before Charlotte returned from hunting. He held back another cough, frustrated by the ache in his lungs. He had barely done any heavy lifting, nothing that would even have him breaking a sweat a few months ago, but now he could feel himself on the edge of exhaustion.

He passed under the wooden arch and paled when he spotted Charlotte standing on the front porch. She held a hat and a pistol in her hands, remnants he had missed from the bounty hunter’s corpse. He sighed and cast his gaze down to his feet, keeping his eyes hidden beneath the brim of his hat as he approached her.

She turned to look up at him, her confusion evident as he drew nearer. Her mouth opened as if she was going to speak, but no words came.

"Mrs. Balfour," Arthur murmured, stopping when he reached the steps of the porch. He kept his head dipped, resting his hands on his gunbelt and waited for her to speak.

"Please, it’s Charlotte" she said, looking between him and the hat in her hand, "is everything alright? I found this by the gate, a-and there was blood in the dirt…"

Arthur said nothing, just refused to meet her gaze.

"Did something happen? Are you alright?" she asked, her tone more insistent. Arthur heard worry in her voice, foolishly hoping she was afraid for him, not of him.

"I'm fine," he muttered, "some...some men came lookin up here, tryin' to find somethin'."

"Oh my," she gasped, "did you chase them away? What on earth would they be looking for up here? Perhaps it was Cal's relatives, I wrote to them regarding his...incident."

Arthur almost smiled at the innocence in her eyes, but the weight of the situation kept him serious.

“No,” he drawled, shifting uncomfortably where he stood, “they-uh. They were lookin’ for me. Bounty hunters,” he admitted after a long pause.

He watched Charlotte’s expression shift as she realized what he was saying. He waited for the moment she kicked him off of her porch, shooed him away like the mangy dog he was.

“You’re a criminal,” Charlotte said simply. Her tone was dangerously even.

“I told you, you don’t really know me,” he warned, “I’m not a good man.”

He cringed as Charlotte unconsciously took a step away from him. The action cut through him, made his shame swell and his chest ache. He knew he deserved it and so much more..

The two of them stood there for a moment, tension hanging thick in the morning air. Arthur turned away, clenching his hands into fists at his side and hung his head as he walked away from the cabin. “You don’t want me,” he said forcibly. “I’ll leave. You won’t have to worry about seein’ me no more.”

“What kind of outlaw would just leave?” Charlotte called out, and Arthur froze at her words.

“What?” he gaped. He turned to face her, finally looking up.

“Should I expect to go in and find that you’ve robbed me blind?” she asked.

“No,” Arthur said slowly.

“And will you turn your gun on me and force me to lie with you?”

“No!” Arthur sputtered, appalled that she would even suggest it.

“Well, I’m not sure you’re quite the bad man you seem to think yourself,” she said, her face set with that same determination that he admired so much. She stepped down from the porch and walked slowly towards him. “In the city, everything is painted so black and white. But out here,” she gestured to the forest that surrounded them, “I see clearly now that there are so many shades of grey.”

She closed the last of the distance between them and reached out to rest her hand on his arm. He felt himself relax at her touch, noticing the sweet scent of her perfume that mingled with sweat from her hunt.

She placed her other hand under his chin, dragging his gaze up to meet hers. “You’re a good man,” she said, the steadiness of her voice and the fire in her eyes almost too convincing, “I can feel it in you.”

Arthur didn’t dare to move, barely dared to breathe. Worried that at any moment he would wake to see the waxed canvas of his tent and find that all of this was just some far-fetched dream. His eyes searched Charlotte’s, looking for some kind of trickery or deceit. All he could see was kindness, and he found himself leaning forward against his better judgment.

He startled when his lips pressed against hers, surprised by their softness. It had been some time, but he didn’t remember it feeling this easy in the past. Not even Mary, whose secret, stolen kisses always gave him such a rush.

He was shocked to feel Charlotte return his affections; kept waiting for her to push him away. Instead, she met him with a soft passion that entranced him, made him unable to stop himself from running his tongue along her bottom lip and deepening the kiss.

She opened to him willingly, wrapped her arms around him and pulled him in close. Their tongues danced, the taste of coffee on her lips swirling around the cigarette smoke that lingered on his. Nothing else existed in that moment; not bounty hunters or wolves or even Dutch and his plans. Nothing mattered but the taste of her on his tongue, the soft fabric of her shirt beneath his fingertips.

She pulled away after what felt like eternity, leaning her forehead against his. He ducked his head to steal one more chaste kiss in case this was the last chance he had.

He drew back when he felt a teardrop against his cheek. He opened his eyes to see Charlotte’s brimming with tears, silently crying as she squeezed her lids tightly. Arthur reached up to cup her cheek, wiping away the falling teardrops gently with his thumb.

“I-I’m sorry,” he said lowly, his voice all whisky and honey, “I shouldn’t’a- I mean I-” he stammered, returning to his senses. He stepped back and pulled his hand away like it had been burned.

“No,” she choked, “it’s not that. I wanted it- I do want it. I just...,” she hesitated, hiding her face in her hands as more tears flowed, “it’s Cal.”

Arthur’s stomach dropped, a wave of guilt and shame washing over him at the reminder. Widow or not, Charlotte was a married woman. And here he was, stepping right over her husband’s grave to make his move.

His mouth tasted bitter, no longer of coffee and cigarette smoke or the underlying hint of her. He stepped back farther, putting even more distance between them.

Not knowing what to say, he stood aside as Charlotte cried. He forced himself not to reach out to comfort her. He didn’t trust himself not to take, not to hold her in his arms and will everything else to fade away again.

“I make a terrible widow,” she laughed humourlessly, “my husband is barely ten minutes into the grave and I’ve already fallen for the first handsome stranger that crosses my threshold,” she shook her head, her voice catching in her throat.

She smoothed her skirts and wiped away her tears, straightening herself to try and regain composure. She looked to the sky and smiled sadly.

“I think it’s best if I go,” Arthur said, adjusting his hat.

“I wish I could say that I didn’t agree,” Charlotte replied, “but just for now. I’d like to see you back soon, though perhaps without the bounty hunters next time.”

Arthur frowned as the guilt returned. Charlotte stepped forward to place a kiss on his cheek, resting her hand on the other side of his face to draw him in.

“I don’t care what you are,” she whispered against his skin.

“I ain’t got long,” he replied, his head swimming with thoughts of bounty posters and doctors and Pinkertons.

“Once a widow, always a widow,” she joked, “at least now I come with some experience on the matter.”

Arthur laughed, wondering how such a fine society lady could have such humour. Before he could think on it for too long, she was backing away to return to her porch.

“Goodbye, Arthur,” she said, “Arthur Whoever-You-Are.”

“Morgan,” he said, “but, uh, don’t go lookin’ it up. Please.”

She nodded in understanding. He took in the sight of her one last time, trying to memorize each detail of her for his journal. He stared as she reached for the door handle, opening the heavy wooden door and disappearing into the cabin.

Arthur sighed and whistled for his horse, swinging himself into the saddle as he prepared to ride away. He turned back to look at the cabin, his mind racing. He tried not to let himself hope, but he felt lighter than he had in years. So maybe, just for now, he could let himself believe that things would work out. That he could find something he needed at Willard’s Rest, and he could be something in return to the widow that lived there.

[foulserpent]

heres a mostly complete draft of a lorebook for a mod. its about the food of northern skyrim (the pale and winterhold)

A Culinary Sampling of Skyrim's Frozen North

by Svenvar Wide-Mouth

The Pale and Winter-holds of northern Skyrim are notable for their bitter cold and long winters. The northernmost cities experience only a brief summer, perpetually chilled by the frigid Sea of Ghosts and their nearby glacial masses. Compared to the southern holds (especially my oft-mild and sunny homeland of Falkreath), very little can grow here. The crops and livestock that can thrive here must be almost as tough and hardy as the people themselves.

As such, one from warmer climes may question how these people here even survive their brutal winters. And as a cook by trade and passion, I was particularly curious about their food. How does this inhospitable environment shape the culinary landscape? What is most commonly consumed? Here, dear reader, is but a brief sampling of what I have learned.

---

What is perhaps most bountiful in this clime is fish. Herring, pike, lake trout, whitefish, sturgeon and salmon are particularly abundant, and supply the majority of the diet. Fish is often brined, pickled, or fermented to aid in preservation, but is just as often smoked, or boiled fresh as a hot meal. Eggs are harvested from the largest of fish, with caviar being an expensive but worthwhile treat, difficult to find fresh anywhere else. Herring is a particular regional favorite, overflowing the fish markets and prepared in every way one can imagine.

Large, ugly sharks are occasionally caught along the coast. Their meat appears to be somewhat poisonous without processing, but this is of little obstacle to those with the characteristic stubbornness fostered by this region. The great fish are first buried for months on end, then hung and dried for months more. Dear reader, I pride my palate on being quite sophisticated and open to novel flavor profiles, but I found this dish particularly difficult to stomach. The fisherman who procured me a sampling seemed to find my distress quite amusing, and advised me to simply plug my nose and try to swallow.

The shores of Skyrim's northern coast bustle with horkers. These moody beasts are covered in a thick slab of blubber, and are slaughtered for their exceptionally hearty meat. They are hunted with harpoons when they come to shore to bask and mate. Their smaller, white-furred cousins are mostly found on Solstheim, but sometimes stray far enough south to be captured among the ice floes to the far north. Horker meat is ideal for the traveler, being quite filling and providing much-needed fat for a long and cold trek.

The richness and utility of their meat is surpassed only by that of the whales that are occasionally harpooned and hauled out of the icy seas by skilled whalers. Both horker and whale fat is valuable for its numerous other uses, primarily being made into soaps, or as fuel for the regions horker or whale oil lamps.

Wild game is sought after as well, with elk, moose, deer, rabbit, goat, ptarmigan and snow geese providing sustenance to those outside of the larger towns and cities. Children are often sent to brave angry snow geese for their eggs, which can be quite abundant during their breeding season.

Notably, bear is sometimes hunted and consumed, predominantly the cave bear. In spite of their intimidating fangs and claws, these beasts partake in a largely herbivorous diet, with their meat lacking the acrid taste that their more carnivorous kin may possess. Though they make easy targets during their winterly hibernation, it is heavily taboo among these nords to hunt a sleeping bear.

The explanation I usually receive is that it is simply an inglorious kill. But it seems that in some traditions, these animals are under Kyne's protection during their winter slumbers. To kill one is to invoke her wrath- in the form of a storm, or something greater. One tale claimed that a hunter who made such a kill was found later reduced to merely a splatter of blood and viscera in the snow, surrounded by prints bearlike in form and manlike in gait. Whatever the case, surely their meat is far preferable in the summer and autumn, when they have grown fat on a diet of berries, forage, and the occasional salmon.

Cattle, sheep, goats, horses, (and for a few very brave, or very foolhardy farmers; mammoths) provide meat, hides, and dairy to the northern holds. Every autumn, livestock is butchered and preserved for the lean months ahead. Meat is dried, or buried and fermented, or simply left outside during the winter and thusly frozen. The blood and offal are used to produce a variety of blood-sausages, while meat invariably ends up in the household stew pots. These 'skause' stews are kept cooking in perpetuity and consumed daily, with fresh meat, potatoes, carrots, and cabbage being continually added as needed.

In spite of the common insult that I and many others must acclimate to in our travels, milk and dairy products are an important staple to the diet across Skyrim, and the north is no exception. Milk is preserved in the form of cheeses and butters, creams and curds, and heavily salted for better preservation overwinter. Mammoth cheese is particularly rich and filling, though it has a strange odor and foul aftertaste that may wrinkle the nose of more sensitive palates.

Wheat is too delicate for the bitter cold of this region, with barley, oats, and rye being more suited. Most breads are made with these hardy grains, as well as porridges and other foodstuffs. Common ales are produced likewise, with meads being a luxury good obtainable largely from the more temperate southern holds. As well as these grains, some hardy breeds of potato, cabbage, carrot, and onion manage to thrive in the short growing season.

One will be hard pressed to find much of anything sweet in these regions; too cold for bees and their honey, much less the variety of fruits to the south. Snowberries are the only berries hardy enough to survive the northernmost regions in great numbers. They are known for having warming properties, and are widely cultivated and foraged to be used in tea, porridge, jam, bread, yoghurts, cheese, soups, wines or simply eaten by the mouthful. They are somewhat tart, but with an underlying sweetness that blossoms forth when allowed to sufficiently overripen.

---

[adsosfraser]

The Stone’s Toll - Chapter Ten

Read on AO3

“We can’t stay here.” 

 “No, we can’t.” Jamie pulled his wife onto his bare chest. “And wee Hamish has sent a letter, requesting his cousin’s aide. Though he was vague on which, I’m sure he wasna comfortable writing Jamie Fraser on something the English could see.” 

 “So we go to Leoch with Fergus?” 

“I willna put ye in danger, the travel there will be treacherous now wi’ the English on our throats everywhere.” 

 “Well, I’m certainly not leaving you, James Fraser. Have you forgotten I’m wanted too? We go together. And, with us gone, Lallybroch will be safer, we’ll be safer for a while. But…” 

 “What is it Sassenach?” 

 “I know you and the sea aren’t close friends, but ports shouldn’t be as monitored as they were right after Culloden. The islands will be safer, Charles even fled to the Isle of Skye to go to France. In the future, some islands are even able to retain some of their culture, their tartan. We can always go there, it would be safer while we wait… for a pardon.” 

 “A pardon?” He was shocked. 

 “Yes. When I returned I placed three letters in the post at Inverness. Copies of historical letters I assume. They may give us the freedom we want.” 

 A sharp breath escaped his lips and he slumped back on the chair. “Christ, a pardon. You know how well that went the last time.” 

 “But this time there’s no more war, we’re done with that horror.” 

 “Aye, we’ll seek Hamish, then if we canna stay, we’ll bide on one of the wee islands.”

 “What’s this about ye up and leaving Jamie Fraser! And dinna think I’m not cross wi’ ye too Claire!”

 “Jenny,” Claire took her hand, “you know it isn’t safe for us to stay here. We got lucky the last time.” 

 “And I’ll no’ have my wife sleeping in a cave.”

 “Well, ye two eejits could at least wait ‘til yer goddaughter is christened! Ye dinna ha’ to leave wi’ yer tails tucked between yer legs so soon.” 

 “Goddaughter.” Her heart warmed and she squeezed Jenny’s arm.

 “I ken yer already her aunt, but ye’d make a fine goddaughter to the lass. I suppose that would make yer daft husband her godfather. Puir lass.” She feigned pity for the tiny girl in her arms. “Would the both o’ ye wait, jes’ one more day?” 

 Claire looked back at Jamie but already knew their answer. “Of course.” 

 The ceremony was brief, the priest wasn’t prepared to perform it so soon. Caitlin gurgled up at Claire in her arms. The holy water was sprinkled over her tiny forehead in the small kirk near Lallybroch. Other than the slight cry from the chill of water, Caitlin was a perfect baby. The Frasers and Murrays all joined back together to Lallybroch to celebrate. They enjoyed a small stew of rabbit and potato, the most filling one in weeks. Father Ross had the death certificate for Fergus ready to sign, but on seeing the boy alive and healthy, he walked towards the fire in the Great Room. 

 “Wait,” Claire shouted to his back. “Don’t burn it. Jenny, will you sign that?” 

 “He’s clearly no’ deid Claire, are ye off yer heid?” 

 “No, it’s just, it’s important that the document isn’t destroyed. I can’t explain how.” 

 “Verra weel.” She plucked it out of the Father’s hands and went off to the study. She mumbled, knowing long ago not to question her sister's strange nature. 

 Claire had ripped through the fabric of her dresses and the contents of her leather bag to pull out every piece of gold, silver, and jewellery that was left during the hours waiting for Father Ross. It was little less than three years’ salary in her time, but now it would support Lallybroch for years to come. She dumped it all out on the dining and the jewels, gold, and silver scattered and clattered against the wood surface. She had put away some for her and Jamie of course, enough to be comfortable on their journey, but even with the small dent into the funds on the table, it was still an astounding sum. Jamie spied her wedding ring on a chain within the pile and raised a brow to her, but she shrugged her shoulders in reply. 

 “A christening gift.” 

 Everyone at the table stared dumbfounded at the treasure disorganised on the table. A ‘Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ’ was supplied by her son. 

 “How Claire?” Ian piped up. 

 “I didn’t steal it if that’s what you're asking.”

 “Well, how on earth did ye find so much?” Jenny yelled, exasperated. 

 “It was my inheritance from my parents and uncle. And the man whose advances I turned down…gave some of it to me.” 

 “Jesus, Mary, and Bride, ye’ve been hiding this away all this time?” 

 “No, I’ve just recently acquired it myself. But now, it can be put to good use instead of rotting in some bank. Take it, Jenny, use it to save Lallybroch from the famine, clearances, and drought to come.”

 Jenny planted a sloppy kiss onto Claire’s cheek and handed Caitlin over to Ian. She grabbed her arms and began jumping excitedly. Claire even thought she heard a squeal from the small woman. Displays of affection from the woman were rare, and Claire felt so happy and touched that she included her in it. 

 “Claire ye have no idea how this will help us.” 

 “I have some idea.” 

 Their packing was done, and the horses were all lined up for the journey. Jenny embraced Claire, and she was reminded of the parting before Culloden all over again. 

 “Ye come back to us sister,” she raised her voice to a shout so Jamie could hear, “I dinna care much if this oaf does.” 

 “I love ye too Janet.” He pulled her from Claire into a giant hug. 

 “Och, ye ken I love ye too, a bràithair. Now, try to come back to us as quick as ye can. Lallybroch will be missing her Laird.”  

 A plant along the trail made Claire pause. It was a forget me not, and though it was only the beginning of March, it was blooming brilliantly against the grass of the glen. It couldn’t have been a coincidence that they were so close to the standing stones when she found it. She knew they needed to go back together, for closure. So she jumped off her horse and scooped her hands into the dirt. 

 “Jamie I want to go to Craigh na Dun before we stop into Inverness.” 

 Jamie pulled back on the reins of his horse and stalled in the middle of the path before Claire. He looked down at his wife and the flowers in her hands.

 “If you don’t want to that’s fine, I just wanted to plant these there, and we might never get another chance to do so.” 

 “Aye, we’ll go.”

 He dismounted his horse in one swift move. Carefully, Jamie helped Claire back up to her horse without crushing the delicate flowers in the process. Jamie passed the reins of his own horse to his son and climbed up behind his wife on her mare. 

 “Fergus, be a good lad and find a place to shelter in Inverness. Something not too in the open, or conspicuous either.” Jamie pulled out the bag of coins and tossed it to him. 

 “Oui, milord. I shall not fail you.” 

 Milord and papa, milady and maman, had become as interchangeable to Fergus as Jamie’s Sassenach, mo gràidh, mo nighean donn, and the countless other affectionate names he could come up with for his wife. 

 “Now off wi’ ye son, we’ll be shortly after.” 

 They held tight to each other, not able to bear even a second of lost connection. Fog clung to the air surrounding the tall monoliths and blocked the vision to the moor below. 

 “I wish I could punch it. But it won’t even let me do that.” 

 “How about this one to the side. Not too much danger of falling in fer yer wee hand.”

 She pulled slightly apart from him for the first time since they created the hi together. Her arm trembled as she reached out to lightly touch the stone closest to the centre one. Though it had become an unwitting victim of its brother’s actions, it would have to do. Lining up her arm, she delivered the first blow that jolted from the cold surface to the bones of her arm and shoulders 

 “Fuck you!” She screamed a gut-wrenching cry as she slammed her fist into the rock. “Fuck you! Fuck!”

 Her breath hitched and Jamie gathered her once again in his arms. He kissed her skinned knuckles. Giving her a few minutes to calm her racing heart and heaving lungs, Jamie cradled her tight to his chest, one arm under her knees and the other supporting her back. How many more tears would she cry, for something that was only the size of a blueberry? She knew she’d never lose the feeling of grief, but it would become more manageable most days. With her husband there to bear it with her, she knew it would be a certainty. 

 “I’m ready.” She patted his chest. “Are you?” 

 “Aye.” 

 “Do you want to punch it too?” 

 “No, that bastard stone’s taken too much from us. I won’t give it the satisfaction of flesh and blood from my hands as weel.” 

 She wanted to reach out and cradle the voice she had once heard to her chest, protect her against the violence of the stones. But it seemed it was her daughter instead who protected her. Digging the small hole into the ground by the outer stones, she smiled tearfully. Jamie’s strong hands were right beside hers, guiding the dirt away. Together they scooped the small plant into their hands, a mismatch of Jamie’s on top of Claire’s and then Claire’s on top of Jamie’s. They patted the dirt mound and encased the stems in the nutrients. With the task finished, Claire fell into Jamie’s lap and began to weep. She stroked his shirt with dirtied hands and left stains on the white linen. He rubbed the fabric on her back and Claire felt the moisture fall onto her hair and slowly down to her scalp. She offered him her sgian dubh and he etched into the centre stone with sharp angles, leaving the blade there as a gift.  Baby Fraser.  Claire’s hand trembled in his grip and she was almost consoled by the fact that she could feel his shaking too; he didn’t hide how it affected him as well. “I trust yer grandsire and grandmam are keeping ye out o’ trouble  a leannan . I love you. Tell Faith I love her too, and I ken she protects ye up there, but jes’ because she’s older doesna mean ye canna protect her as weel. Jes’ like I do fer yer auntie. Ye mind what yer family says, and we’ll meet again soon enough.” 

 Claire knelt down and gently cradled the small flower in her hand. “I love you, my baby girl. We love you so much.” 

 Jamie ripped off a strip from his sark and wrapped it around her bloodied knuckles with a kiss. They stayed to talk to the stone for a while. Jamie laughed with Claire after sharing an incident from his boyhood about a goat, some string, a bucket of shite, and his sister. Claire pulled out the photos from within her pockets and shared her child-self to their daughters, and the interesting marvels of the future. Jamie was proud he recognised the ‘airyplane’ from when Claire brought out the black and white pictures in the cave. He was bewildered of course at first, cursing the strange magic, but once he saw the brilliant smile of his Sassenach he knew the depiction couldn’t hold any evil. He especially liked seeing her as a bairn, with pigtails and a pink frilly dress and how the photos showed the change from cute baby to mature woman. She set one into the plastic wrap, a photo of her, her parents, and her uncle and buried it beneath the earth. 

 “Your family is with you always, my darling girl.” 

 With one last glance, they rode back to Inverness holding each other on the saddle. 

 Their short stay in Inverness was that: short. After the first night of full bellies and a warm fire, the innkeeper alerted the travellers to the presence of redcoats fifteen miles away. It gave them time to prepare themselves, instead of another hasty retreat to Leoch. 

 It was not nearly as strong of a fortress as it had once been. 

 Claire was put to use straight away, mending flesh and bone. Jamie was spirited away as well to advise his cousin in the Laird’s Tower. The only bright spot was the wonderful Mrs. Fitz. Fergus spent much of his time messing around the surgery and playing with the medicines, much to Claire’s annoyance. No matter how many times he insisted it would not happen again, his nimble little fingers were constantly filching items off of shelves and tables. So she sent him off to the kitchens.

 The ledgers had become impossible, and Leoch was close to ruin from partially funding the Jacobite cause. They felt the sharp absence of those who had fought bravely alongside them. None were left. Most of the men residing in the lands were either too old, too young, or too crippled to fight. There was talk of taking up a deal with the British, to leave Leoch and settle somewhere comfortable in America. Hamish was inclined to that option more and more each day. The Lairdship was not an easy thing for a twelve-year-old, let alone under such stress of a post-war climate. So, it was decided that the MacKenzies would sell Leoch to the British for land somewhere deep in Virginia. As much as it pained them to leave their culture and homeland in the hands of those bastards, they had no other choice. The lands produced nothing, the woodlands sparse, and their supplies pilfered by roaming soldiers. Claire felt guilty for the small amount of gold tucked into her dresses, but she told herself the amount she was left with couldn’t save them all. They stayed in constant communication with Jenny through letters and informed her of their impending move. Jenny wrote back to her cousins,  Alexander and Elizabeth Malcolm , just as often, if not more eager to know they were safe. 

 In the blistering heat of the summer, Claire, Jamie, and Fergus travelled in the safety of the band of MacKenzies. Virtually no redcoats bothered them on their way, patriot to king and country as the Laird most certainly was in their eyes. 

 At Ullapool, they said their last goodbyes as they split to different destinations. Jamie couldn’t possibly survive a month-long journey across the water. They purchased passage on the  Serendipity  and waited. 

 Jamie wretched off the side of the gangway as the ship made port. Stornoway, and from there they would hopefully find somewhere to settle down. A croft, north of Stornoway soon came to their attention. Most of their money went to purchase the land outright, they weren't too keen to rent one out as other crofters did, knowing the clearances would hit Scotland hard. So, Alexander Malcolm, his wife, and his son, began to build a home out of the small abandoned cottage. They hoped it would be temporary but would be fine if it wasn’t, for they had all they needed already: each other.

[stop-breaking-my-heart-telltale]

[against all odds, your hand is in mine] [1/4]

Seasons change, and with each comes a different story. In a world where the dead roam around, romantic companionship seems unlikely. Yet Ericson stands, and within it are four couples who are proof that it's possible.

Spring: Briolet | flowers, picnics, blueberries, running river

Read on AO3

Notes: Sometimes I get the urge to write four oneshots over the course of two days. This is the first of those oneshots. It’s briolet in spring, but be careful: there is so much hand holding and some smooches. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. 

[screenshot used is from the lovely @pi-creates]

---

Brody pricks her finger again. It's easy to avoid that, but she doesn't have a thimble, and her hands refuse to stop trembling.

No blood, and really, it didn’t even hurt. It more startled her, a bit of panic sparking in her gut at the idea of staining the martial and ruining her project. She stops her work to rest her hands and the fabric in her lap, closes her eyes, and sucks in a deep breath. It does little to calm her nerves or her impatience.

“Don’t rush,” she mumbles to herself, readjusting her position on the bed. She crosses her legs and notices a long strand of thick, pale blue thread stuck to her pants. Great, she needed that color an hour ago to finish one of the flowers.

Doesn’t matter now, the floral design is complete and all she has left is to sew the pieces together. If she can finish soon, there’ll be more than enough time to clean up, gather the basket she made up the night before, and head down to the greenhouse. Violet should still be there.

Brody smiles, setting down her needle and holding the handmade eyepatch in her hands. She rubs a thumb over one of the little white flowers. She embroidered them just this morning, a final touch to the overall design. That feeling strikes her gut again, exciting her nerves.

The idea came to her one night after Violet found her in the common room. It was late at night, and the two shared a blanket on the couch and drank tea. Violet's ruined eye was covered with bandages despite being healed over. No one was able to find her an actual eye patch. The best they found was a plastic one used for a children’s pirate costume, so she kept it bandaged.

Violet never complains about it. She considers the bandages her patch, even though they're not the most comfortable to wear every day.

Brody decided at that moment that she would make her one. She tore through her closet the next morning, sorting through old shirts until she found one she never wore. Taupe in color, a thicker material, something she could easily work with.

Though she had no idea how eyepatches were made, figuring those things out came easy to Brody. She made several patterns, testing each one out on scraps until one worked. From there, it was all about creating a design should could see Violet wearing. It wasn't difficult- sewing and embroidery work came easy to her.

A family thing that stuck, she assumes.

Her grams used to do embroidery and cross-stitching work. She made a living off sewing intricate designs, all more beautiful than any painting. If Brody closes her eyes, she can still see the doorway into her gram’s cabin. The framed design of a flowery cottage with a stone path, rural trees and a cloudless sky hung up on the wall. Her gram’s final masterpiece. She worked on it for months, pouring every ounce of love she had into each stitch. It was something Brody admired every time she walked through that doorway.

She learned to hunt and skin animals from her dad and uncles, and sewing from her grams. Best of both worlds, she supposes. Two skills that became handier than she would’ve ever thought at the time.

Though her flowers weren’t as flawless as her gram’s once were, she still put her heart into each stitch just as she did. She hopes that when Violet sees it, she’ll feel the unspoken words Brody threaded through the fabric.

Purple, white, and blue flowers of all sizes, each with a yellow french knot in the center, standing bright against the muted taupe. She sewed a thicker piece beneath it, used a tiny bit of stuffing from an old, ripped pillow to give it some comfortable cushion. A piece of a silky shirt lines the inside so Violet’s skin won’t get agitated while wearing it.

After weeks of work, all she has left to sew is the straps she made. She had no way to measure the fit for Violet’s head since she wanted this to be a surprise, so she figured she could make them extra long enough to tie comfortably while wearing. If she needed to adjust anything, she could do that later.

Brody picks her needle back up.

It doesn’t take long to finish, even with her forcing herself to take her time.

With triumph, Brody sticks her needle back into its rightful container and hops off her bed, singing, “Ta-daah~ !”

Her mind is all over the place. Wrap up the patch-- does she have a box or even a bag?-- and hide it at the bottom of the woven basket she found in the basement, stuff the blanket in as much as she can so the two cups don’t clank together, and start boiling water for tea-- where the hell did she put the jar of blueberries?

She flicks a match to light the heater she borrowed from Clementine, letting the water come to a slow boil as she searches around for the mason jar. It’s right under her nose, of course, sitting in plain sight on her shelf.

With the greenhouse running smoothly and the trading they’ve done with the traveling caravan that comes around, they're able to plant seeds for several different fruits and vegetables. This week, they finally got their first bunch of blueberries in. She managed to pick a bunch and seal them away in a jar yesterday without Violet noticing. She thought they’d make for a refreshing picnic snack to pair with tea.

Brody’s been planning this picnic for a while now, all while she was working and spring came to chase the cold away. Her favorite time of year where it’s finally warm, but cool enough to not overheat everything. Grass grows greener, flowers bloom all over the place, the river flows, and the sun shines bright in the sky most days. Other days, like yesterday, it rains. She was worried it would rain today as well, but there isn’t a cloud in the sky today.

She lets the tea steep in a large mug and squeezes what she can from an old container of mostly crystallized honey. When it’s cooled down enough, she pours it slow and steady into an empty water bottle. Sure, they can’t have iced tea given they have no way to actually make ice once winter ends, but lukewarm tea would be just as good.

Basket in hand, Brody looks out her window one last time before leaving the dorms. With every step she takes, she grows closer to the greenhouse and her heart thumps gaily against her ribs.

Outside, everyone is out and about, enjoying the warm weather. AJ and Tenn color together at the table while Mitch works on sharpening his favorite knife. Willy sulks on the couch beside him with Ruby attending to his bleeding knee. She's going on about him needing to be more careful.

Clementine and Louis sit on the steps leading into the admin building. She sits a step lower, leaning back into his chest as the two talk. Brody waves at them as she passes, and Louis gives her a knowing grin when he eyes the basket.

It’s not a long walk to the greenhouse from there. She stops when she notices the wildflowers growing by the fence of the rabbit coop. Bees buzz around the white flowers, landing in their yellow centers. She hates to disturb them, but these flowers were part of her inspiration when designing Violet’s eyepatch. They're too perfect not to pick. She shoos away a fat bumblebee with pollen sticking to its little black legs, and gathers eight of the flowers, leaving plenty for the rest.

A simple bouquet, if she could even call it that, but it works.

Once inside, the fresh scent of wet soil and leafy greens hits her. Not as refreshing as the sweet air outside, but still, it fills her lungs with warmth. Or perhaps that sensation is from seeing Violet standing beside Omar, watering what Brody believes are the potatoes.

Most of her hair pulls back into a hair tie, apart from the bangs that fall over her forehead and bandages. She hasn’t had a haircut in a while, letting it grow long enough past her shoulders. A surprise, actually. Violet hasn’t had long hair since they were kids.

Not that Brody was complaining- she likes it very much.

Violet breaks her attention from the potatoes to meet her gaze. She grins, and yes, that warmth is definitely from her. Omar continues on about some sort of new stew he wants to try making, only stopping when he notices he’s lost Violet’s attention.

“Everything doin’ okay in here?” Brody asks.

Violet gives a shrug. She sticks her hand out to run along the wooden planter to steady herself. She meets Brody halfway, replying with, “Eh, nothing too exciting. Willy biffed it while watering the rabbits this morning, but other than that...”

“He about crushed one of the babies,” Omar adds with a shake of his head. “More upset about that than he was about his skinned knee.”

“Aw, poor little guy,” Brody laughs. “That why he looked so miserable when I passed him?”

“Probably. He tried to catch it to apologize, but it was too quick even for him, and Ruby didn’t want him getting a bunch of muck all over him with an open wound, so…”

Apologizing to a baby bunny that they’re eventually going to eat? Sounds like Willy, Brody thinks. But never mind that, she has more important things than rabbits.

She reaches out to grab Violet’s free hand, her lips involuntarily curling into a bright smile as she asks, “Are you almost finished ?”

“Yeah,” Violet says, raising a questioning brow. “Why?”

“We’re going on a picnic!”

Violet pauses, only now noticing the basket in Brody’s grasp.

“We are?”

“We are!”

“That’s news to me.”

Brody lets go of her hand to present her with the flowers. Violet stares at them for a moment as her skin flushes, starting at her neck and blooming along her cheeks. If Omar weren’t standing over there, Brody would lean over and kiss that lovely blush.

“And where exactly would we have a picnic?”

“By the river. Already got a spot in mind.”

Violet holds the flowers close to her chest and clears her throat. She glances back at Omar, and says, “Uh, I don’t-”

“Go ahead,” he interrupts with a wave of his hand. “I can take care of the rest. Go have your picnic, be careful. And Brody,” he points to her, putting on a stern voice, “have her home by eight, and don’t have too much fun.”

Brody laughs.

“Yes, sir!”

Violet shakes her head, but her smile betrays her amusement.

“Well, okay, I guess we’re going on a picnic. There better be peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in there... that's what people eat on picnics, right?”

“Yeah, but no. Close, though.”

Locking their hands together once more, Brody leads Violet out of the greenhouse and through the gates. Soon, they’re outside the walls of Ericson. Heading down the path, she makes sure to keep watch out for any obstacles to warn Violet about.

Brody knows that Violet’s other eye works perfectly well, but given that her depth perception isn’t what it used to be, she can’t help but be extra careful. She used that excuse to hold Violet’s hand before they were together, both still recovering from their respective injuries. Better safe than sorry, use the buddy system, and that system requires hand-holding. Brody didn’t make the rules.

“Never been on a picnic before,” Violet breaks the silence.

“No? Not even before?”

“No.”

“We used to go out on picnics to eat and play games all the time. Me, my grandma, my daddy and uncles, cousins- if it was warm out, we were out.”

“That sounds nice.”

“Most times it was,” Brody says, giving Violet’s hand a squeeze. “ Just because those days are gone doesn’t mean we can’t do that kinda stuff now, y’know?”

“Yeah, I guess so. Though there are more walkers around than there were back then.”

“True, but that shouldn’t be a big issue today,” Brody smiles. “I asked James to check the area and he collected the walkers he found. The river should be clear.”

Even without looking at her, she can sense her surprise. Violet’s quiet for a moment, turning her head to peer around them before saying, “You planned this.”

It’s not a question, but more of a realization.

“I thought this was a spur of the moment thing,” Violet admits. “I, uh…”

When she doesn’t continue, Brody says, “ Not many opportunities to take you out on a date,” the word makes Violet blush and repress a smile, “and when one does arise, you bet your bottom dollar I’m gonna take it .”

Violet says nothing more, but her grip on Brody’s hand tightens.

They make it to the river without spotting a single walker. She kept her knife handy in case, but James was thorough, it seems. Brody makes a note to thank him again for helping her out.

The running water is soothing and the grass colors with golden dandelions. It’s nice to be down here without the intention of working up a sweat while fishing, she thinks. They find a flat piece of grass, kicking rocks, sticks, and pinecones out of the way to lay the blanket down. Together they sit side by side with the basket between them.

Rubbing her hands together, Brody digs in to pull everything out. Except for the eyepatch. It remains, wrapped in a pillowcase she found. Hopefully Louis won’t notice she snuck it from his horde of pillows.

“Alright, we got tea and blueberries,” Brody says, handing one mug to Violet and opening the mason jar of berries. Their sweet scent escapes into the air, making her mouth water.

“How’d you manage to sneak these past Omar?” Violet asks, popping a blueberry into her mouth. Her face twists at the taste, and for a moment Brody worries they might be sour, but Violet shakes her head. “They’re good, just not used to that.”

By now the tea is completely cooled, and while not cold, still delightful to sip on.

“Open wide,” Violet says, holding up a blueberry. It misses Brody’s mouth, bouncing off her chin. Violet laughs. “Pfft, c’mon.”

“Okay, okay, I’m ready, try again.”

Another miss.

“Aww, nope!”

“Well, let's see you try!”

Brody throws up a berry, and Violet misses it completely.

“Damn depth perception,” she grins, grabbing the berry and tossing it up herself. It hits her cheek, lost to the grass. “Damn it!”

Violet’s laugh, while rare, is as bewitching as it is infectious. It’s been so long since Brody heard her laugh like this, and to know that they’re here together, comfortable together…

Emotion builds in her throat, and she has to eat berries to suppress it. She aims the blueberry just right, and Violet catches it this time. As she chews, they both let out victorious giggles.

Once the laughter dies down, Violet brings her knees to her chest as she watches the river.

“Think we’re missing out on a fish haul?” she asks.

“Nah,” Brody pulls the basket closer to look inside, biting her lip as she runs her fingers over the covered patch. “And if we are, I’m sure the traps’ll make up for it.”

Should she do it now? They did just get here, did she want to surprise her early, or…?

Brody grabs a flower instead, bringing it up to her nose to inhale the soft scent. An idea occurs to her as she admires the girl before. Scooping up the flowers, Brody breaks off most of the stems. The flower slips in through Violet’s hair, right where the hair tie is.

Violet jerks her head around to look back, but Brody says, “Don’t move.”

“What are you-?”

She doesn’t need to answer the question, she merely secures a few more flowers within the light strands of hair before leaning back to admire her work. She even tucks one behind her own ear so they match.

Violet remains quiet, but lays her hand on Brody's. A silent, content thank you.

Brody doesn’t know how long they sat there watching the river, sipping tea, and listening to the birds chirp from the trees . A small butterfly flutters by them, and for a moment, Brody forgets the world around them. Forgets the walkers, forgets Ericson, too swept up in the way the warm air blew against her skin, in how Violet’s hand felt in hers, and the strange sense of wonder, a desire to kick off her shoes and run through the river.

It took Violet kissing the back of her hand to break her out of it.

Violet grew sheepish, glancing away as if she needed to come up with an explanation for the kiss, and that was it.

“Vi,” she started, pulling her around to face her. “I have- I made ya somethin’.”

The nervous pounding in her chest thumps in her ears as she reached back into the basket, pulling out the pillowcase.

“Aw, from Lou’s stash,” Violet grins, amused. “You shouldn’t have.”

“No, no, not the pillowcase,” Brody fidgets with it until she finds what she’s looking for. Her thumb brushes over the flowers beneath the thin material. With a deep breath, she goes for it. “Listen, I’ve been thinkin’ a lot about you. Us... just everything, and- Remember that night we stayed up in the common room talkin’? I thought… well, I wanted to do this for you.”

Brody hands her the pillowcase. Not once does she take her eyes off Violet’s face, noting the curiosity and confusion playing in her features as she accepts the gift.

The eyepatch is finally brought out into the sunlight, laying in Violet’s palm.

Neither of them speaks. Violet’s lips part, eye widening.

Brody lets the air out of her lungs slow, and then the words spill from her lips before she can stop them.

“We couldn’t find you anything to wear other than that stupid costume patch, and I know you said you didn’t mind the bandages but then I got to thinkin’ ‘bout how bandages might not always be the comfiest-”

“Brody…” Violet’s voice is quiet, trembling as it breaks.

“-and I want you to be comfortable in somethin’ that you like, so I made this for you- the whole thing, hand sewed it myself. I- but y’know, if it’s maybe too much- I wasn’t sure if it might bring too much attention and you wouldn’t like that-”

She’s cut off when Violet practically throws herself at her, burying her face in the crook of Brody’s neck and holding her tight. Brody doesn’t hesitate. She embraces her back, pressing a hand to cradle her head.

“I… don’t know what to say,” Violet's voice quivers.

“You like it?”

“Yes.”

“Then that’s enough.”

Violet pulls back, and without warning, her hands cup Brody’s face. She presses their lips together in a way that’s anything but gentle. It’s firm, purposeful, and loving. All tension from her body melts away, and Brody truly believes she could kiss her all day and that tingle? The one that coursed through her veins, the butterflies that fluttered in her belly? It would never go away. It wouldn't even lessen.

They break apart, and Violet’s staring down at the eyepatch in her hands.

“Holy shit. It’s… I don’t-” she tries again. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“I wanted to,” Brody assures her, brushing the bangs that fell over her face.

“No one’s ever made me anything like this before. I mean, not a patch, just … you know.”

“Want to try it on?”

Violet nods, and Brody’s undoing the bandages with ease. Her eye's healed from the damage the raiders inflicted, leaving only angry scars. The patch is a perfect size, covering everything.

“Does it feel okay?”

“Yeah, it’s… nice. Soft.”

“Does this feel tight enough? Like it won’t fall off, but not too tight?”

“Yeah, it feels good.”

“Couldn’t figure out a good way to clasp it together, so it ties. If ya want me to change it or anything, I can make adjustments... There!”

Violet turns back around, avoiding her gaze. Brody studies her face, the way the colors of the embroidered flowers make the green in her other eye vibrant, how the taupe of the fabric flatters her.

“Beautiful.”

Violet scoffs, ducking her head to hide the flustered smile that betrays her lips. This gives Brody the perfect excuse to place a quick kiss on her forehead.

“You’re so mushy,” Violet says, embarrassed but trying to force a playful tone. “Y’know that?”

Well, to be fair, Brody could be mushier, so she replies with an over-the-top, sweet, “Only with you.”

Violet groans and they laugh once more.

They know their little picnic will wrap up soon, so together they sit close and enjoy the comfort of nature for a few minutes longer.

“Thank you, Brody… really.”

Brody responds with another kiss.

Yeah, she thinks. She could kiss Violet all day.