#learnin how to shade shit | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

concussed-to-pieces · 4 years

Text

Whether It Works Out Or Not Part One

Fandom: Red Dead Redemption 2

Pairing: Eventual Arthur Morgan/Named OFC

Rating: Holy shit M.

AN: You guys wanna' join me in yeehell? I don't know what's happened to me. I'm from New England. I shouldn't find this cowboy chicanery appealing, and yet here I am with eighty something hours in the game. So! I've only just gotten to Chapter Three and I have avoided spoilers thus far. Enjoy!

[Spoiler warning for the first three chapters of the game!]

Tag List: @huliabitch @cookiethewriter @pedrosbigdorkenergy @thirstworldproblemss @anonymouscosmos @culturalrebel @karmezii @teaofpeach @crookedmoonsaultpunk @zombiexbody @nelba @gabrielle1776 @toxiicpop @mstgsmy

[!TRIGGER WARNING!: This installment contains gore/graphic depictions of violence, historical inaccuracies and general peril. Stay safe!]

Irene Craft had lived as a man for six months when she first met him.

Six glorious, difficult, yet somehow simultaneously carefree months.

The fateful night she had decided to leave her husband and make her own way in the world had been a long time coming. Every book, every treatise, every pamphlet she could get her hands on, she had devoured. She had no finances to speak of, everything was in her husband's name, so she knew that her struggle would be long and fraught with peril. But she refused to endure the abuse any longer, especially once he made an idle comment about pregnancy and how it would 'bind her to him forever.'

His bone-chilling chuckle afterwards had stiffened her resolve to steel. She left as the moon waned, her mount's saddlebags full of food and the mended clothes she would need for her new life.

In the city of Saint Denis, she sold her hair. Once her mother's pride and joy; when brushed out it reached the young woman's hips. The curls were unruly and dull russet in shade, but her mother had sworn up and down they bore auburn tones if the sun hit just right. Irene wondered briefly what her mother would say about her doing this, going to be shorn like a sheep, but she quickly put the thought out of her head. Her mother had been dead for nearly five years at that point, and her father in the ground for two. He had lived long enough to see her married off to the man he deemed a suitable match, and then the good Doctor Craft had passed on.

The barber, at the very least, was sober and much more kind than she had anticipated. He didn't begrudge her the few tears she did let fall, and he gave her a fair price for her locks.

With that business settled, Irene acquired supplies with her newfound wealth and headed up into the mountains. If her luck held, no one would come looking for such a delicate, fragile lady in the dangerous climes. She would take her chances, regardless.

…

The first few months were...challenging.

There was a massive difference between having the knowledge from books and having the experience that one could only garner out in the field. Bitter cold and hunger were excellent teachers though, and she had always been a quick study. Her mistakes were not often repeated.

Irene learned how to fletch her own arrows, learned how to snare small game and how to track large prey, how to build her shelters in the lee of bluffs to fend off the howling winds that whipped through the mountains. She made her living by hunting deer and other game to sell for their hides and meat in the nearby town of Valentine. No one would look for a woman if all they saw was a man, so she kept bundled up and pitched her voice into a low rasp when she needed to interact with other folks.

Irene had decided, in a fit of petulance, that she would call herself Frank. Franklin had been her father's name, and no doubt if he had been blessed with a son, the child would have been plagued by it as well. Doctor Craft loathed it when folk called him Frank, always correcting them with a belligerent harumph. Saints preserve them if they dared to call him Frankie.

So Frank Craft she became, the soft-spoken hunter who lived alone in the hills.

It was peaceful, but more importantly she was free.

Until the day she stumbled into a trap.

...

Again, she had been living in the mountains for around six months when this particular disaster struck. It had been a long day spent tracking a bull elk, which she had managed to fell just as night blanketed the landscape. Had it still been daylight out, she doubted she would have found herself in such a precarious position.

As it was, she had debated making camp right there, but ultimately decided to lash the hulking beast to her horse and forge her way back to her previous site.

She had been leading her horse through the fresh powder, not wanting to tax the weary animal, and didn't see the bear trap before her boot landed squarely in the middle of it. A mistake that would have cost her the whole leg, had she not been wearing these particular heavy furred boots. The trap also seemed worn, not crushing her foot outright as she had feared but simply gripping her ankle like a vise.

Though admittedly, it mattered very little. She was stuck. Her horse, a skittish, ghostly pale thing by the name of Bluster, immediately panicked at the sound of the trap snapping shut and fled. Irene swore at the damn animal until her voice threatened to give out, calling him every unkind name in the book while she tried to pry the jaws of the trap open to no avail.

She sat down awkwardly in the snow, bracing her free foot and then straining backwards in an attempt to unseat the tree that the trap's chain was secured to. Unfortunately for her, it held just fine. Then, she tried hobbling over to the tree and seeing if she could shim the chain off with a wedge, but that also proved futile.

Irene growled more obscenities under her breath, flopping onto her back and hammering her fists into the snow at her sides. "Shit." She sighed, the reality of her situation dawning slowly. She was trapped in a device that would no doubt cut off the circulation to her foot. There was a high probability of her losing the foot if that occurred. If, of course, she didn't perish from the cold or lack of food first.

Irene pressed her hands to her eyes, sucking in a lungful of the crisp, pine-scented air while she tried to assure herself that she would manage to escape this mess just like all the others. She wouldn't just give up, absolutely not!

As she sat there wracking her brain and trying to see whether she could muscle the trap apart enough for her to at least wiggle her foot out of her boot, she heard the distinct sound of a horse bumbling through the undergrowth. "Bluster!" She shouted, her voice a strange combination of husky and ragged. "You bastard, runnin' off at the first sign of trouble!"

But the horse that greeted her eyes first was not, in fact, Bluster. It was an appaloosa, still shaggy with its winter coat. On its back was a man in a heavy blue jacket, shearling peeking out at the collar. And in his hands were the reins for the sheepish-looking Bluster, who peered around the appaloosa and whinnied guiltily at her.

"Howdy mister." The man shook Bluster's reins. "I reckon this fine specimen is yours?"

Irene had never been more thankful to see a huge, imposing man in all her life. "Yessir, yes he is. I know we've only just met, but I don't suppose you'd be willing to offer me a helping hand?" She gruffed out, indicating her trapped foot with a grimace.

The man's face was in shadow from his hat, the moonlight overhead throwing everything into stark contrast. She caught a brief flash of teeth when he smiled. "Oh sure." He drawled, dismounting and securing Bluster to a nearby tree. His own horse he simply left the reins to trail, no doubt trusting the creature to behave itself. That done, he sauntered over to her, crouched down and with one low grunt, easily forced the jaws of the trap apart. "There. Simple enough. You weren't in there for very long, were you?" He asked, sounding a bit worried while she vigorously rubbed the circulation back into her leg. With any luck, she would escape with nothing but some bruising.

"My sincerest thanks." Irene said gratefully, "no, it's hardly been an hour." She cocked her head curiously. "May I know the name of my rescuer, sir?"

"Uh, Arthur." He replied, shaking her proffered hand. "You sound like you've got some learnin' under your belt there, Mister…?"

"Frank Craft, Mister Arthur, and I don't know what fate would have befallen me had you not stumbled across the," Irene paused, raising her voice pointedly at Bluster, "titanic coward that is my loyal steed. I'm in your debt, my friend." She waved a hand at Bluster, indicating his heavy burden. "As you can see, I had a relatively successful hunt before this misfortune befell me. Normally I'd head into town with it at daybreak, but seeing as you've saved my life and all, it's only fair that you should have it."

"Whoa now, I ain't helped you to get your hunt." Arthur protested, tipping his head to the side and permitting the moon's illumination to reach beneath the brim of his hat. Irene was momentarily struck dumb by just how blue his eyes were, nearly missing when he continued, "too many folk in this world only help other people on account of gettin' somethin' in return. If I was caught in a trap and I ain't had nothin' to give you for freein' me aside from gratitude, would you leave me?"

"What? No, that's barbaric." Irene almost forgot to adjust her voice, wincing when it cracked awkwardly.

Arthur chuckled, getting to his feet and offering her a hand up. She stumbled, her foot still numb, and the man kept a firm hand on her elbow until she regained her balance. "Now, that noble hogwash bein' said, I do got a lot of mouths to feed. So if the offer still stands, Mister Frank, I'd be mighty grateful."

"Absolutely! As long as you'll put it to use." And really, what was one day's worth of work to her? She could always find another creature to stalk and harvest. Bluster whickered nervously when she approached, the horse's ears flicking back and forth to catch the sound of her voice when she grumbled about his cowardice. "Kneel, Bluster." The horse clumsily obeyed and Irene untied the elk from his back, rolling it off onto the snow.

"Huh, that's a neat trick. I wouldn't have thought of that." Arthur remarked. "Teachin' a horse his dancin' steps and such."

"How else would I have gotten it up onto him?" Irene asked, grinning when Arthur chuckled again. "Of course, seeing as you muscled that trap open like it was nothing, I doubt you've ever had to worry about that sort of problem."

As if to prove her point, Arthur shouldered the elk up from the ground and neatly deposited it onto his own horse. The sturdy beast didn't so much as nicker, obviously used to this treatment. "You're more than welcome back at my camp, Mister Frank." He offered. "I reckon there's enough on this big bastard to warrant you gettin' a bowl of stew in the bargain."

Irene was already shaking her head before he could finish, politely declining his invitation. "I'm afraid I'm not suitable for most company, Mister Arthur. Been out here alone for too long. Maybe once the thaw hits, I'll suss out human companionship again."

Arthur chewed thoughtfully for a moment, then spat off to the side. "Well, I am mighty grateful all the same, Mister Frank. I know the others will appreciate this. Adios until we meet again, then?"

He touched the brim of his hat and Irene returned the gesture with a smile. "Adieu, Mister Arthur."

…

Two months went by before their paths crossed once more.

Irene had located a dense thicket of blackberry bushes down in the lowlands and spent almost two entire days stripping the branches of their fruit. A house was coming together just outside of Valentine, and that meant soon enough there would be a gathering for the last push of assembly. As she daydreamed about the most recent time she had been to a party (a dreary affair for her husband's birthday, full of ah the stately beauty and oh isn't she a catch despite her age), she failed to notice Bluster growing severely agitated about something.

Now granted, the horse's name was Bluster for a reason; he was always in a twist about one thing or another. So Irene paid him very little mind. By the time she noticed the problem, Bluster had snapped his tether line and taken off like a shot.

A bear, it was a bear, oh sweet Lord. Irene froze, a handful of berries halfway to her mouth while the beast scratched at the ground not fifteen feet away from her. It hasn't spotted me, she realized, trying desperately to recall what she had read about black bears. Was she supposed to run? Was she supposed to back away slowly? Wave her arms and yell?

Shit.

The bear grumbled, glancing around and sampling the air suspiciously. It appeared to notice her and reared up on its hind legs, unleashing a deafening roar. She was frozen, her knees shaking as the creature lumbered forward. She couldn't even open her mouth to scream. It rushed her with what seemed to be the devastating speed of a locomotive and she was knocked prone, her hand darting to her side, draw your knife idiot!

Her head flew back from the momentum of the assault and struck the ground hard when she landed, the blow sending sparking wheels of color across her vision and fading everything out for what felt like a lifetime. She had assumed she was dead, but someone shaking her shoulder roughly roused her back to consciousness. Irene groaned in pain, stirring.

"Alright, he lives! Wasn't sure for a little bit there." That voice. She knew that voice. "You comin' 'round, Mister Frank?"

Frank. Frank. Right, that was her. She was Frank. And that voice… "Arthur?" She rasped blearily.

He was on one knee over her, blocking out the sun with his large form. He inclined his head, drawling, "in the flesh, Mister Frank! Looks like you hit your head real hard when you landed. Put your own lights out."

Irene grimaced, moving to sit up. "Shit," she swore, touching the back of her head and feeling her fingers grow sticky with blood. The bear. She looked around frantically, spotting the creature slumped beside her with an arrow clean through its eye socket.

Arthur seemed to notice her distress, placing a well-meaning hand on her shoulder. "Easy now, boah. It's okay. You were lucky today, I s'pose." That hand traveled up the back of her neck, the man indelicately tipping her head forward and then whistling as he examined the wound on the back of it. "Damn, you'll have a hell of a scar. Looks like it's already stopped bleedin', though."

"How did you...where did you even come from?" Irene asked in confusion.

The man nodded in the direction of a large, grassy knoll to the west of their current location, adjusting himself absentmindedly in his pants when he settled back onto his haunches. Irene still had yet to maneuver that particular tic into her 'masculine' repertoire. She struggled enough with the spitting in public, and the last thing she wanted was to be labeled a pervert or a degenerate simply on account of her adjustments being 'less than organic'. "I didn't notice you was down here until the bear did, I'm pretty sure." He remarked. "Think you startled him as much as he startled you. You foragin' for berries?"

"Yes, I...I was thinking about treats and parties and I'm afraid I wasn't paying attention." Irene admitted, her face going a little red. Whether from the frank thoughts of adjusting or the shame of being caught unawares, she was uncertain.

"Blackberry pie, right?" Arthur hummed, obviously sympathizing with her distraction. "Means summer's really here. You bake things like that?" He rummaged in his satchel without waiting for a reply, pulling out a bandanna and two bottles. One bottle she recognized as whiskey, but the other was much smaller and made of a greenish glass. "You're gonna' want this to take the edge off." Arthur informed her calmly, pressing the bottle of whiskey into her hand and then uncorking the small bottle with his teeth.

"Edge?" She asked, wary now.

"Eeyup. Take a swig and I'll get started on this."

This was, apparently, cleaning and dressing the wound on the back of her head. Which, incidentally, the lone slug of whiskey she drank did nothing for. She didn't dare consume any more than that, however. Wine in the drawing room was one thing, but whiskey out in the berry patch was a horse of a different color. Arthur was at least capable, if a little more ruthless than the average physician. She had endured worse.

"You're a real lucky boah, Frank. Ain't deep enough to need stitchin'."

"I do feel immensely lucky today." Irene replied dryly, "a dead bear at my feet, a stomach full of fresh blackberries and a bottle of whiskey in my hand. Tell me, how could my life get any better than this?" She cringed in pain but the sensation quickly dulled in the wake of Arthur's gravelly chuckle.

"Gotta' say, you did a damn fine job of distractin' that bear. Let me get the easiest shot I've ever taken." He remarked conversationally after several minutes of silence.

"Mister Arthur, should I ask what it is that you're daubing all over the back of my head? Or is that a fool's errand?"

"What, this? Some uh…" he paused, flipping the bottle over and squinting at the label. "Ginseng and yarrow. Ol' Hosea swears by it and he's been alive longer n' most."

Irene relaxed slightly. The combination didn't sound too sinister, though she was unfamiliar with herbal medicine that wasn't refined tinctures. This was more of a paste than anything, Arthur constantly stopping to coax a bit more of it down the neck of the bottle. "Well, I'm very grateful, Mister Arthur. You don't have to-"

"I know." Arthur interrupted her. "You ain't beholden to me or anythin', don't fret. Though if you'd like to stick around an' help me butcher up that bear, I wouldn't say no."

"Are you still hunting for a small army?"

Arthur sounded rueful when he replied, "feels like there's more of 'em every damn day. I'll be takin' this kill into town. The women want the essentials, their flour and sugar and such." He grumbled, "dunno' why they need so damn much flour."

"Well, how else will they make pies?" Irene pointed out.

"Huh. S'pose you're right." Arthur said after a moment, seeming surprised. "Guess I never grew out the phase of thinkin' pies an' cakes just show up fresh on windowsills."

Cleanly skinning and butchering the good-sized bear was a long and arduous process, even with two sets of hands working on the task. Bluster had reemerged from the woods after a time and now grazed peacefully alongside Arthur's mare, that appaloosa from before who had since shed her winter coat.

Arthur finally sat back on his haunches, wiping the sweat off his forehead and accidentally leaving a rusty red trail of blood in its wake. "Welp, I dunno' about you, Mister Frank. But I could certainly do with a wash-up and a meal." He had taken his hat off while they worked, his tawny, sun-streaked hair curling around his ears and sticking out at odd angles from the sweat. "Join me for supper, won't you?" He requested, hooking a thumb over his shoulder at the stream that flowed in a gully past the knoll. "Ain't nobody can chide me about takin' the best bits of the critter if nobody knows." He continued with a smirk. "Can I trust you not to rat me out, Frank?"

Irene hesitated. She was hungry and tired from the long day. Arthur didn't seem all that dangerous. Or rather, he obviously was, but in a way that was honest and blunt. "Absolutely." She replied firmly. "Your secret is safe with me, Mister Arthur."

"Now, I am gonna' ask for a handful or two of them berries you got." Arthur carried on as he got to his feet, extending a hand to help her up. "As rec...recompense and such."

Irene sighed dramatically. "Ah, I should have known no good deed goes unpunished. And here I thought that offering myself up as unwitting bait was more than enough to justify a mouthful or two of meat."

Arthur's laugh was raucous, the large man clapping her on the back hard enough to make her stumble. "You're a good man, Frank."

"Nowhere near as good as you, Arthur." She retorted with a grin, confused by the way his face darkened.

"'Fraid I'd never be able to claim that title, Frank." Arthur said quietly, the mirth gone from his expression. "Beardless youth like yourself ain't oughta' cast me in any sort of decent light. I ain't a good person."

"Hey, what was it you said when you freed me up from that trap? 'Too many folk in this world only help other people on account of gettin' somethin' in return', right?" Irene reminded him, trying to mimic his deep, honeyed drawl. She must have done a poor job, because Arthur cracked a reluctant smile. "You've helped me twice, now! Surely that warrants a smattering of decent light, wouldn't you agree?"

"Aw hell, Frank, I just don't want you developin' any lofty notions about my character is all! Don't want you gettin' your hopes dashed." Arthur protested. "I ain't no saint or role model or anythin' like that."

"Don't worry about my preconceptions, Mister Arthur. I don't view you as a role model at all." Irene wanted to laugh at how crestfallen he looked, despite his big talk. She splashed water on her hands, scrubbing at the blood on them with some of the sand from the riverbed. "I view you as a friend. A friend with flaws and drawbacks just like myself. Just like all human beings have." She elaborated, startled when Arthur crouched beside her on the riverbank and put a hand on her shoulder.

"Thank you." The man said sincerely, his blue eyes warm and bright. "That means a whole lot to me, Mister Frank. I'd like to count you as a friend myself, if I could."

Irene forgot her tongue for a moment, ensnared by the blatantly hopeful look he was giving her. He must have any woman within fifty miles of here falling head over heels for him! "You'll have a remarkably difficult time trying to get rid of me, Mister Arthur. I'm very persistent." She finally managed to respond. "Like a mangy mutt once you feed it some table scraps."

"I reckon it's settled then." Arthur's smile had returned, and Irene found herself oddly pleased that she had been the one to bring it back.

...

They camped there under the stars that night.

Arthur planned to head into town the following day, where he would sell off the bear and then assist in the last few steps of the house building. But for now, he occupied himself with creating a roast fit for a king. Irene watched curiously as he studded the whole cut with herbs, finally daring to ask him a few questions about cooking. He obliged her with answers graciously and freely. Despite his opinionated stance on baking, he obviously had no such reservations when it came to cooking.

"I'm always afraid my ignorance of plants will get me into serious trouble. Lord only knows how many poisonous things I could consume if left to my own devices." Irene admitted, certain that he must think her foolish.

Arthur rummaged around in his satchel and pulled out a worn leather-bound journal. He tossed her the notebook, chuckling lowly when she nearly fumbled it. "I sketch a fair amount, look at the last pages. Check the margins for whether it's edible or not."

When she tugged loose the strap that held the journal closed and obediently cracked it open to the last few pages, Irene was flabbergasted. Sprawled across the pages were both detailed drawings and fleeting sketches of various plants and animals. "Arthur," she said, her voice breaking as she nearly forgot to pitch it lower. The older man glanced up at her, his brow furrowed. "These are incredible."

"What is?" Arthur asked in confusion. It abruptly seemed to dawn on him and he grinned sheepishly, shaking his head. "Oh, my l'il drawin's? They're just somethin' to pass the time, mostly. Done 'em ever since I was a kid."

"They're amazing!" Irene praised, making sure her hands were clean and free of grease before she even dared to hover her fingertips over the sketched snout of a border collie. "You actually capture the motion of the creature, which is a rare talent. I've seen a lot of art in my day, Mister Arthur, but few pieces have the same amount of life in them that your work displays."

"Aw shucks Frank, you're layin' it on pretty thick ain't ya'?" Arthur protested, and his face might not have been pink from just the heat of the fire. "It's nothin' special."

"Oh it absolutely is. These are...I mean all the plants are so detailed. Easily identifiable. Can you draw people and structures as well?"

Arthur took the journal back and carefully flipped through it to a few different pages, showing her that his skill extended to more than just plants and animals. An oil derrick sketched proud and tall against the blank-page sky, a blind man who he had come across in his travels, a two-page spread of a small camp titled Horseshoe Overlook... "Like I said, though, ain't nothin' special." He finished firmly, tucking the sketchbook back into his satchel.

"You ought to make a book!" Irene suggested. "For those of us ingrates that wouldn't know oregano from our elbow."

"Me? A book?" Arthur scoffed at the idea. "Last thing I want is more attention."

"Well...you could do it under a pseudonym!"

"A what? Listen here, Frank, I ain't no good Christian man, but I ain't about to pseudo...seedo...look, I ain't doin' nothin' to nobody's nims, alright?" Arthur sounded absolutely scandalised.

"Arthur, a pseudonym is just a fake name." Irene explained.

"Oh. Oh. Shit. Well I knew that." Arthur blustered at her, huffing out a breath. "Just...makin' sure you knew, is all!"

"Of course." Irene got to her feet, dusting herself off. "So. He can cook, he can draw, he can hunt…" she trailed off, doing her best to keep her tone light as Arthur continued to mumble in a flustered manner and fidget with the brim of his hat. "Is there anything you can't do, Mister Arthur?"

His laugh in reply was devoid of humor, a bitter noise. "Sure. Can't seem to stay out of trouble. More accurately though, can't seem to avoid gettin' dragged into trouble."

Irene squatted beside him next to the fire, debating giving his shoulder a rough shove of comradery. But the concern of accidentally knocking him over into the embers was enough to make her gentle her touch to a light pat. "I'm sorry to hear that, Arthur." She said quietly.

"Ah, don't pay me no mind, Frank. I'm just bellyachin'." Arthur placed his hand over hers absently, like it was an instinctive response. "You're a good kid. Don't get yourself tangled up in someone else's woes like I have, you understand me?" He admonished her sternly.

"I'm hardly a child, Mister Arthur." Irene protested. "I am nearly twenty-seven."

"What, without a lick of facial hair and your voice still shatterin'?" He teased, grazing her bare jaw with a large hand. "Naw, you ain't. But it's okay, your secret's safe with me."

"Arthur." Irene grabbed his hand, staring him down. She wasn't sure why this of all things was what she was caught up on. Maybe it was the notion that he believed she, or rather, Frank, was some fool stripling that had just been lucky so far. "I'm not a child."

Arthur stared at her, and for a split-second Irene was certain she had sold herself out. But then the older man abruptly guffawed, clapping her on the back. "No, I s'pose you ain't. You got old steel in them eyes of yours, Frank. Seen too much for your time on this earth, I imagine."

...

The final day had come at long last.

Irene hurried to help finish the last few clapboards for the outside of the house, nearly crushing her thumb with the hammer in her haste.

Various men and women from Valentine proper had already started to gather in the yard. Tables were being shuffled together, delicious smells coming from the freshly-christened firepit. Spirits were high and laughter was loud in the sunshine of midday, and Irene couldn't help her smile as she looked around.

It was truly a marvelous thing to be a part of a community that willingly accepted anyone who would help, regardless of their past transgressions. She felt utterly at peace here, even in the midst of such organized chaos.

A heavy arm landed around her shoulders and she felt a hand nearly shove the hat clean off her head. "There he is!" Arthur announced gladly, making her laugh. "It's finally time for the fun! You gonna' be stickin' around this evenin'?"

"Maybe." Irene allowed, letting him haul her into his side with his grip on her shoulders. Arthur didn't seem to actually know just how strong he was, which strangely enough made her feel safer around him. "And you, Arthur?"

"I wouldn't miss it!" The man replied, his voice bright with excitement. "Been too long since there was a reason to celebrate. Was a hard winter. Folks need this shit."

"Absolutely." Irene ducked out from beneath his arm and straightened her hat. "I'll see you later, Arthur. Gotta' go get washed up!"

Valentine was barely a five minute walk down the road, but impatience ate away at her and she broke into a jog. She'd hatched a plan for tonight. A foolhardy, stupid plan. She still had no clear idea why she was doing this, even as she sauntered up the steps to the Valentine hotel.

Irene slapped her money down on the counter, paying up front for a bath and a room for the night. Her spurs rattled loudly while she made her way up the stairs, nerves building in her throat like frantic bird wings beating away just beneath the skin.

It had been a short eternity since she had even seen herself in a looking glass, much less worn a dress.

The dress itself was nothing like the elaborate ones she had worn during her marriage. It was a plain fawn-brown color, lacking in lace trim or cumbersome whale bone buttons. A dress for this new life she had made, one that she could don and doff unaided.

Once she had scrubbed herself pink with the provided tub of hot bathwater and lye soap that threatened to be iris-scented, of all things, Irene stepped into the dress and slowly buttoned the tiny buttons that ran the length of the front. Thankfully, the cut was modest enough that she wouldn't need a fichu to cover up with.

She had been avoiding looking at herself in the mirror until she absolutely had to, and when she finally did gather her courage she was shocked by what met her gaze. She looked older, of course, a bit more weathered, but she looked alive. She had haunted her husband's house like a ghost, gaunt and battered and seen not heard. Now though, her eyes were clear and her cheeks were pink even without pinching, a byproduct of the fresh outdoor air. Her shoulders were freckled liberally as well, though the dress hid them well enough with its high neckline and long sleeves. Her mother had always tried to dull her freckles out with those blasted rose tea treatments and lemon, but the spots had stubbornly persisted.

Her hair though…

She grimaced, raking her fingers through the sun-lightened corkscrews that bounced and sprang back around her ears. It seemed that, as usual, her hair would be hopelessly unmanageable. Mercifully, since she always wore a hat, at least her hair wouldn't be the thing to give her away. Wonder of all wonders, it did appear that there was some auburn mixed in with the brown.

Irene emerged from her room, locking the door securely behind her and tucking the key into her pocket. She paused to straighten out her skirts, smiling a little dumbly downwards at the pleats while she swished back and forth in a brief moment of indulgence. However, no sooner had she stopped to do so than a large body in a hurry nearly toppled her over. She heard a startled grunt as the person managed to catch her, and then a familiar voice apologized, "sorry ma'am! 'Fraid I'm like a bull in a china shop sometimes."

Arthur, it was Arthur. Oh Lord. Irene stared at his boots in an effort to buy herself time to collect her thoughts, noticing dimly that he too had bathed and clearly attempted to tidy himself up. Did she come clean right now? Confess that she wasn't Frank at all, but Irene? Lord, this whole plan was stupid! What had she been thinking?! "Oh no sir, I should be the one apologizing. I was so excited for the festivities I appear to have forgotten my sensibilities." Her voice was soft and she looked up at him through her lashes, wondering whether he would even recognize her without a layer of grime on her face. "Forgive my inattention, won't you?"

Arthur, for some reason, swallowed hard. "Well, ain't you just as pleasant as punch! You must be from outta' town. My name's Arthur, ma'am, and it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance." He gave her a little half-bow and Irene barely contained her relief at his blatant unfamiliarity with her. Obviously she needn't have worried.

"My name is Irene, Mister Arthur, and trust me, the pleasure is all mine." She replied, automatically accepting the hand he offered. "Are you looking forward to the party as well?"

"Oh sure, Miss Irene." That drawl lingered sinfully on the syllables of her Christian name and Irene felt herself blush. "It's a rough life out here, only makes sense for folks to take what joy they can find where they can find it." Arthur glanced down at her, his smile a bit melancholy. "House raisin's hard work, but it's less tedious if we all know there's somethin' lighthearted waitin' at the end. Good food, good company…" He trailed off, clearing his throat.

"Of that, I'm certain!" Irene dared to continue holding his arm once they reached the street, and Arthur made no move to dislodge her. "Do you think there will be dancing, Mister Arthur?"

He chuckled at her obvious excitement. "I s'pose there might be. I'm not much one for dancin', though."

"Well," Irene said boldly, "I would be just delighted if I could steal a dance with you at some point this evening."

Arthur's eyebrows shot up to his golden-brown hairline. "You sure you got the right feller, ma'am?"

"Of course! Please Arthur, won't you save me a dance?" She implored sweetly.

Arthur sighed, shaking his head. "Alright, which one of 'em put you up to this? It was Karen, weren't it. Woman won't stop interferin' in my personal affairs." He growled, "I ain't lookin' for pity, Miss Irene."

"What?" Irene asked in confusion. "No, I haven't been put up to anything. I...I simply wanted a dance. Have I offended you, Mister Arthur?" This could be an irreparable blunder! Her plan might be in shambles.

"Aw hell, now I feel like a fool." Arthur rubbed a hand over the back of his neck sheepishly. "Pardon my suspicion, Miss Irene. I'm used to bein' passed over is all." He mumbled.

"What?" Irene gasped theatrically, loving the way his laughter rumbled in his chest. "A fine man such as yourself, passed over? That's deplorable, Mister Arthur!"

"Shucks ma'am, I'm passable decent, but I don't know if I'd ever call myself fine." Arthur smiled, his face a bright, endearing pink. Oh, complimenting him elicited the sweetest results! Irene was enraptured.

"Would you accompany me along the path to the festivities, Mister Arthur? I'm afraid I have no chaperone this evening." She implored. It was so strange, sliding easily back into being able to make polite conversation or clinging to an arm with rapt attention while a man spoke. She supposed all those etiquette lessons had done her some good. At least with Arthur she didn't have to feign her attention.

He nodded, swallowing hard again. "Sure, I can do that, Miss Irene."

"Oh!" Irene said suddenly like a thought had just occurred to her, the young woman making a move to pull away. "I apologize, Mister Arthur. It is so presumptive of me to monopolize your time. Did I interrupt you on your way to the Mrs. Arthur? Or perhaps a tryst with your beloved? I'm afraid I've always been rather self-absorbed, do forgive me."

He chuckled sadly, shaking his head. "Ma'am, there's no need for all that." He said, patting her arm in a way that he probably believed was soothing. Irene barely refrained from laughing at the knowledge that he calmed people like he calmed his horse. "All I'm headin' for tonight is some merriment with the local folk." He paused, still patting her hand absently. "Y'know, I think you'd get on real well with a friend of mine by the name of Frank." Arthur remarked, appearing oblivious to the way she froze. "He's got some real hellfirin' opinions and a noble heart. Nothin' like me at all, a genuine, sweet boah. Outspoken, but kinda' shy 'round lots of folks. If we stumble across him, I'll introduce you."

"Oh I very much doubt that we'll see him tonight." Irene muttered under her breath to herself, a little puffed up by the praise Arthur had inadvertently lavished upon her.

…

There was indeed food and drink, and Irene found herself in the midst of conversation more often than not. It was incredibly amusing to know that all she needed to do was wash the dirt off her face and don a dress to make 'Frank' disappear into the ether. But again, that had been the whole point.

The musicians were tuning up when she noticed something odd. There was an unmanned violin (or fiddle, perhaps), sitting forlorn and silent on the front steps. Irene straightened out her dress and made her way carefully over to the stairs. "Pardon me, sirs," she called cheerfully. "but where is your violinist?"

"Ah, I'm sorry ma'am, but ol' Jefferson died durin' the winter." The guitarist informed her, looking a touch morose. "Figured we'd bring out his Hyde so it could at least listen to all the hubbub. Be a shame to leave it to gather dust."

"My deepest condolences." Irene murmured, going to turn away and then biting her lip as she paused. "Sirs, I...perhaps I could be of assistance? I have...some prior experience with violin." Nobody needed to know about the years spent learning, and the few bright moments in her marriage being her improvising quick, jaunty tunes alone in the drawing room. Leaving the instrument behind had been like leaving a piece of her heart, but it was so delicate and fragile…

"Well if you think you can keep up, you're more n' welcome to rosin the bow ma'am." The man smiled, gesturing at the fiddle. "It would do it some good to be played again, I'll wager."

Irene was scooping up the instrument almost before he had finished speaking, immensely pleased to find out that it was relatively in tune. The man that she assumed would be the step caller graciously handed her a handkerchief to pad her cheek when she tucked the violin into place, and Irene spent several minutes hurriedly tightening and rosining up the bow.

The first draw emitted a note that was clear, if a bit flat. Irene grinned sheepishly, fidgeting with the tuning pegs and then trying again. Ah, there it was. The instrument had a beautifully rich voice, no doubt facilitated by the stockier body it bore.

"Ladies and gentlemen, finish up your food! It's time for the real fun to begin!" The caller announced over the buzz of the populace. Tables began to move out of the way, clearing the front yard.

"I see you're the fiddler this evenin'?" Irene started at the sound of Arthur's voice. She had lost track of him shortly after arriving to the party, the man apologizing to her even while he was getting dragged off by a dark-haired woman in a beautiful green dress. Now, he reclined against the railing, his eyes troubled but smile firmly in place.

"Hopefully, if the good Lord is merciful. It has been quite a while." Irene admitted. "I'd still very much like that dance, Arthur, if your other beaus don't keep you occupied." She jibed. Perhaps it was a bit bold for a woman to comment on an older man's pursuits, but she did feel that she could get away with a touch of good-natured ribbing.

"Welp," Arthur drawled, doffing his hat. "I s'pose we'll just have to see how the night goes, Miss Irene. I wouldn't call 'em beaus though. Just folks that want somethin' from me."

Irene tilted her head to the side, but Arthur managed to avoid her gaze. Following his line of sight, she noticed he appeared to be watching the dark-haired woman from earlier. "Who is your friend? I must know her seamstress, Mister Arthur, because that dress is lovely."

"Mary." Arthur muttered, the name sounding like it was dragged out of him. "Uh, that is, the widow Linton."

"Oh no, the poor thing." Irene said sadly, meaning every word. There had been a time in her life where she had been utterly devoted to her fiance, believing that she had truly loved him. She could not begrudge anyone their own happiness, as wary as she had been made from her past experience. As the saying went, 'see how the bear behaves in its den before you decide to live with it.'

"Eeyup, real shame. Pneumonia got him." Arthur informed her curtly.

Irene was sure her sympathy was evident on her face, because Arthur's sharp blue eyes had softened slightly when he looked back at her. Pneumonia was so sinister in its onset, the way it settled into the chest and by the time most patients realized it wasn't a cold, they were too far gone to help. "You should ask her to dance! Get her mind off of things." She suggested.

Arthur chuffed out a breath in a manner that was so similar to his horse Irene had to chew her lower lip to stave off her laughter. "Nope." He said firmly. "Mary shall not dance with me, Miss Irene. Not if I have anythin' to say about it. I doubt I'll dance much at all, honestly."

…

Arthur appeared to be sticking to his word throughout the night. He was indeed not much for dancing, but as he drank he got progressively more mobile. It was like his body loosened up, he smiled more, laughed louder…

He seemed absolutely thrilled when she found him later that evening, saying plainly, "There she is! I figured you forgot about me!"

Irene shook her head, smiling up at him. She had politely declined her way across nearly the entire yard in order to reach him. "I don't think I ever could, Mister Arthur. May I ask for a dance?"

"Obliged to oblige, ma'am." Arthur extended a hand, drawing her in almost indecently close. "That was some fine music you played earlier." He drawled after a moment.

Irene simply let herself be swayed back and forth, one hand on his shoulder and the other still entwined with his own. "Thank you." She replied softly. "It has been a while since I was able to indulge myself."

"Fiddlin' ain't a vice, ma'am." Arthur protested.

Irene chuckled. "Some might disagree, Mister Arthur."

"Well, they're wrong. How the hell could music be bad for someone?" He removed his hand from her hip to wave over at the group of men who were still currently playing away. "Music's good for the soul. Makes everythin' lighter. What miserable fools have you had to deal with?" Arthur grumbled.

Irene rolled her eyes comically. "Lord, you don't know the half of it!"

Arthur pressed her even tighter to his body, his breath hot over her ear when he murmured, "well Irene, they're dead wrong."

"Mister Arthur…" Irene went bright red at his proximity, at the heat that flooded her. What a strange sensation! Even back when she had been newly betrothed, before she had known her then-fiancé's cruelty, she had never experienced such a fierce reaction from a simple close whisper. Was it only to be chalked up to the newness of the experience? Or was it because it was Arthur doing it?

"Irene, I hope I ain't bein' too forward when I...would you like to…" Arthur trailed off, clearing his throat. "I mean, I ain't got anythin' to offer you aside from a good time," he continued to hem and haw. "You seem like a genuine lady and I...someone like me ain't never really been allowed to touch that sort of person. I sleep under the stars and drink too much for anyone's good, never mind my own." His eyes met her own and a slow, almost forlorn smile played across his mouth.

Despite the ribald impropriety of his words he looked so utterly tender, his hat slightly tilted and his eyes drowsily gentle. Irene found herself nodding before he even managed to actually ask her. "I have a room for the night, Mister Arthur. I am…" she hesitated. "Not...very experienced, but not inexperienced."

"Thank God." Arthur replied, surprising her. "You wouldn't want someone like me for somethin' like your first time."

"Oh?" Clearly, they had careened past the point of polite or appropriate conversation. But now, she was curious. "Why is that, Mister Arthur?"

He coughed, fidgeting with the brim of his hat. "I'm just...I'm not...fit for that sorta' thing. Not worth it. Fine ladies deserve a proper gentleman an' I ain't that." He stated.

"Arthur…" Irene took his hands and tugged on them, leading him out of the yard and towards the roadside. "You're more of a gentleman than most, I can promise you that." She insisted.

"Miss Irene, wait!" The sound of her name being yelled made her pause, and Irene found herself abruptly confronted with the step caller as he thrust the fiddle's sturdy case at her. "Me and the boys, we got to talkin'. We figure you ought to keep the old Hyde, as a thank you of sorts." He said, sweeping his hat off his head. "Besides, if you leave it here it'll never be played. And there's nothin' worse than an unplayed fiddle. Believe me, I would know!"

"I…" Irene wanted to burst into tears. This was so unexpected and kind. The case settled into her arms, like an old friend already. "B-But I have no way to-"

"Not for money ma'am. Simply for liftin' folks' spirits tonight. You take that Hyde and you spread that gift of yours around."

"Thank you." Irene said sincerely, "I...you have no idea how much this means to me, sir."

"Mighty kind of you fellers." Arthur added, his grin a little sheepish when the caller turned his attention on him to express his thanks for Arthur's help in acquiring the remaining lumber for the house. He tried to wave off the praise to no avail, looking increasingly awkward the longer he was subjected to the step caller's enthusiasm.

The woman from earlier (Irene wracked her brain for a moment before remembering Mary, Mary) approached on Arthur's opposite side while he was preoccupied with the step caller. However, she didn't miss the way Arthur's posture went tight as he noticed Mary standing there expectantly. Arthur suddenly seized Irene's hand, muttered a curt, "obliged," to the step caller and set off at a brisk pace down the road.

"Don't forget that you promised, Arthur Morgan!" The widow Linton called after him, her voice sharp. Arthur just waved a dismissive hand in her general direction.

Irene struggled to keep up even after Arthur scooped the case out of her arms, the man's longer legs easily outstripping her own. "Arthur, can you slow down?" She implored, a little fearful now. He looked like he was stewing, his shoulders squared against some invisible adversary.

Arthur obliged her in silence. He maintained that silence until they reached the outskirts of town, where he clarified, "you had a room, right?"

"Yes, I...yes. For the night." Irene answered softly. Arthur just nodded in reply. "Arthur, you don't-"

"I ain't gonna' hurt you." He cut her off. "You have my word, Miss Irene. Ain't got nothin' to fear from me."

Irene was still more than a touch anxious as they ascended the stairs, and she almost dropped the key, fumbling to get it into the lock. Arthur hummed low in his throat, that comforting horse pat landing on her arm again and soothing her enough that she managed to get the door open.

Arthur carefully set the case against the wall, and then he was on her. He kissed hungrily, his whole body pressed to hers before the door was even fully shut behind them. His tongue plunged into her mouth without so much as a warning or a by your leave. Irene had only read about this kind of kissing and experiencing it firsthand was composure-shattering. She found herself weak at the knees, grateful for the weight of Arthur's large form to anchor herself as he boldly coaxed her tongue to reply.

Irene shyly licked into his mouth, making a soft noise that had Arthur shuddering and offering his own groan in response. He pulled away, slow, like he was being dragged, and struggled to bring her with him.

The man sat down hard on the bed, urging her close in between his spread legs. Then, Arthur grabbed two handfuls of the back of her dress and rested his forehead on the spot directly beneath her breasts.

Irene froze, confused until she felt his shoulders tremble.

He was crying, like his heart was fit to break. Deep, shuddering sobs that came from somewhere by the floorboards and ravaged his entire body on the way up. Hesitantly, Irene carded her fingers through his hair, cradling the back of his head. She could feel the tears seeping into the fabric of her dress, slowly dampening the material.

"It's just never enough." Arthur finally said thickly. He stayed where he was, wearily slurring into her abdomen, "I give an' I give an' I do an' it's just...never enough to make folks happy."

"Arthur..." Irene whispered. She felt silly for not noticing sooner than something was very wrong, guilt rushing her as she realized that she had been so caught up in him giving her attention that she must have missed the signs.

"It's never enough that I'm just there, still alive, still willin', even though I'm a damn fool. Never enough." He mumbled, "God, I'm a fool."

"No you're not." Irene said firmly. Arthur looked up at her. "You're brave, you're loyal and you're kind, Arthur. It's not your fault that the people around you seem to have taken those traits for granted."

"We was plannin' to be married, y'know. Me an'...me an' Mary." He confessed abruptly, not that he needed to. "Or maybe it was just me plannin'. She...I just don't know."

"What happened? Did she call it off?"

"Her daddy, he didn't approve of me. I didn't have...enough," Arthur explained, his words stilted as he recounted probably more than he meant to. "I was orphaned pretty early on and I...well shit, I hung around with folks bad and good an' to Mr. Gillis, that was worth a condemnation. Forbade it. Said I was filthy, that I'd c'rupt...corrupt her. Ruin her. Break her with these turrible hands of mine." The hands in question gripped Irene's dress even tighter and he fought back a sob. "So I...I had to let her go. Watched her fall in love with some rich feller and it made me wonder, made me scared that she ain't never loved me at all. And then tonight..." He shook his head.

"What about tonight, Arthur?" Irene prompted him gently.

"She come to me askin' for a damn favor. After everythin' that's happened, she still had the damn gall to ask me for shit. Her little brother's gone off to shack up with some cult ." Arthur cleared his throat. "So I'm too rough to marry, but I'm sure as hell good enough to ask to rescue her precious baby brother. She said she thinks of me often and I just...dammit, it ain't right for her to tell me that!" He erupted, hiccupping out yet another sob. "It ain't right, I finally thought I was--I mean I was doin' okay, I was better, an' now…"

"It feels like you just hit a patch of shale and slid your way back down into the bottom of the gorge you were crawling out of."

Arthur sniffled. "Well, yeah. Kinda'. H-How'd you know?"

"You think you're the only person in the world to have troubles with people you were trying to recover from?" Irene's laugh was soft and sad. "My situation is a bit different, but no less weighty for it, Mister Arthur."

Arthur huffed out a breath, rubbing his forehead back and forth on her stomach. "I just hate myself. Can't hate her, all I can do is hate m'self." He sighed.

"Don't." Irene admonished him, trawling her fingers through his thick hair and dragging his head back with the motion. Arthur groaned again, this time lower, his eyes half-lidding as he appeared to enjoy being ministered to. "Don't hate yourself for being kind, Arthur, and don't let the world beat that kindness out of you. There are people, so many people who will love you for it. Hell, there's probably some that already do."

Blue eyes blinked open sluggishly, still glassy with tears as he looked up at her. Liquor-honest words tumbled from his lips, "why the hell are you bein' so nice to me? Led you up here for a reason an' now I'm all a mess about another woman." He shook his head, not waiting for a response before continuing, "I just wanna' sleep. Forget about all of this. I...lay down with me? I need...I need...somethin' to hang onto." He mumbled, tugging at the back of her skirt. "Clothes on is fine. Just need to hold you. Few minutes, even." He pleaded.

Irene bit her lip uncertainly. Laying down fully-clothed? It seemed a bit strange. But she didn't have on a corset, so at least she wouldn't be uncomfortable… "Alright." She agreed softly after a moment, reaching down to unlace her boots. Hopefully Arthur was too inebriated to notice that 'her' boots were also Frank's boots. He seemed more than a few sheets to the wind, if his weeping was anything to judge by.

Arthur clumsily kicked off his own boots and laid on his side, catching her arm to guide her down with her back to his chest. It was somewhat awkward at first; Irene had never actually been held in such a manner and the bed was incredibly small. She knew she was probably too stiff, and slowly urged her shoulders to loosen a bit. Arthur draped his arm over her hips, not even holding her so much as he was simply laying his hand on her stomach.

"Thank you." He mumbled into the back of her neck, still sniffling a little.

Irene tentatively placed her hand over his own, lacing her fingers through his. "Shh, sleep. You'll feel better in the morning, Arthur." She whispered. Then, so quiet she wasn't sure he would even hear her, "thank you, Arthur. For everything."

Part Two: Friends

58 notes · View notes

firstlastlovemusic · 4 years

Video

#tgif @nas feat. @hitboy - Ultra Black - We goin' ultra black, I gotta toast to that We don't fold or crack (We goin') Occasion, we rose to that, fuck goin' postal (Uh) We goin' ultra black Watchin' the global change, hop in the coldest Range Hit-Boy on the beat, this shit 'posed to slap We goin' ultra black, we goin' (We goin') We goin' (We goin') uh Rhythm and blues, pop, rock to soul to jazz 'Til my toes are tagged (Uh) How I look being told I'm not supposed to brag? Nobody fault, I tell the truth, I know it's facts, we ultra black Grace Jones skin tone, but multi that Multiple colors, we come in all shades, mocha black Accept where I'm at and not fight me on it (Uh) Emotional stares like I might be wanted (Yeah) Pitch black like the night, I'm ultra black Sanford and Son reruns, jokes are black (Ha) Oh yes, oh yes, God bless success We goin' ultra black, like the Essence Fest Talk with a mask on, the freshest breath African black, so caress the flesh Superfly, The Mack, sittin' fly in the 'Lac Take the boat on the water, history talks with my daughter (Dest') My son'll be my resurrection (Knight) Constantly learnin' lessons, I never die, you get the message? I hope you be better than I, life's precious (Precious) Two steppin' Sometimes I'm over-black, even my clothes are black Cash Money with the white tee and the soldier rag We goin' ultra black, unapologetically black The opposite of Doja Cat, Michael Blackson black #music #firstlastlovemusic #FLLM #nowplaying #nas #hitboy #so #pp • • • • • #musikk #musique #queens #newyork #rap #rapper #hiphop #tumblr #newmusic #songoftheday (ved Queens, New York) https://www.instagram.com/p/CD3VUWkpw1M/?igshid=15ml2k18wcxtv

#tgif #music #firstlastlovemusic #fllm #nowplaying #nas #hitboy #so #pp #musikk #musique #queens #newyork #rap #rapper #hiphop #tumblr #newmusic #songoftheday

1 note · View note

tilltheendwilliwrite · 5 years

Text

Of Blood and Roses

Chapter Twenty-Four

Master List | Loki Laufeyson Master List

Previous Chapter

Pairing: Loki x Lauren | Word Count: 5233 Warnings: none

Lauren took Sif by the wrist and gave her arm a tug. “Don't fuss. You look wonderful.” The woman had been plucking at her skirt since they'd left the room.

“It tickles,” Sif muttered. “And clings. How does one make the material so thin and floaty?”

“Well, it is magic made fabric. I’m sure Loki can make it do whatever he wants it to,” Lauren shrugged.

The dress he’d created for Sif had a bodice like a gold filigree breastplate upon the deep plum fabric, which fell around her hips, gradually fading into a burnt orange at her thigh and a paler version of the same colour at her ankles. Swirls of plum and gold swooped and looped through the skirt, while patterns of abstract flowers were pressed here and there. Her arms were bare, but the back and neckline were high, and though the fabric swept around her legs in flutters and rustles, Sif walked with a sure stride.

The twins had curled and combed and teased her dark locks into a beautiful updo they’d added small pins with golden roses on the ends to keep the style in place. Sif’s eyes had been darkened, her lips brushed with colour, and Anneke had produced a small bottle of scent completely different from Lauren’s.

Sif now smelled of lavender and gardenias with a little citrus mixed in. It was heady, sweet, and just the slightest bit tart. It reminded Lauren of the woman herself and made her grin broadly when the twins added a few drops to a fresh bottle of oil and proceeded to cover Sif’s hands and arms and throat in the gleaming confection. They’d even added a touch to the oil they’d used to smooth the small amount of frizz in Sif’s hair.

When Sif looked at herself for the first time, Lauren almost cried. She looked stunned by her appearance and near to tears. Excitement burned in her eyes, while nerves coloured her cheeks.

Still, Sif wore more weapons hidden on her person than anyone else Lauren had ever known, besides Bucky. It was a wonder she didn’t clink as she walked for the sheer number of daggers strapped to her thigh. Lauren had, of course, returned her single silver blade to hers beneath the shimmering golden gown.

Loki, she knew, would be ecstatic with the twins choice for the evening. The dress was a strapless sheath of pale gold fabric overlaid in a loose, transparent cloth. It flowed out around and her, shimmering and shining like golden fire every time it caught the light. A large bow whispered against her bare back, but when the twins had offered jewelry for the night, Lauren had declined, choosing only the earrings Loki had bought for her at the market in addition to her torque. With how bright her dress was, Lauren didn’t feel the need for further embellishments.

Anitra had worked her hair up into a series of twists, knots, and braids, and added the gleaming oils to Lauren’s skin and hair. It was a decadent pleasure, being attended to in such a way.

“Do you think… Thor will like it?” Sif murmured, running her hand down her bodice for the sixth time.

“I think he’ll love it. It’s you, but with an added pop of colour. You look perfect, Sif. I swear.” Before she could ask again, or fiddle with her skirt, Lauren plopped her kitten down in Sif’s arm. “Here. Have a kitten to calm your nerves.”

Sif chuckled when Socks began to purr with his big motor. “How does that work so well?”

“Cats are magic,” Lauren smiled. “Felix, my cat at home, can always tell when I’m feelin’ a little blue. He’ll come crawl on me and purr his heart out.”

“Maybe I should get one,” Sif chuckled and rubbed Socks’ ears.

“Or you could wait a while, and I’ll just get you one.”

She shot Lauren a frown. “Why would you… oh!”

Red flushed Sif’s cheeks as Lauren laughed. “It’s only fittin’ as Thor got me mine after my marriage to Loki.”

“You’re so certain this will all work out. I’m terrified we’ll fail.”

“If it didn’t matter, Sif, you wouldn’t be so scared. But it does matter. Be honest with Thor. Speak your worries to him. Communication is key in a good relationship.”

“You clearly communicate with Loki which is strange to see. He always kept everything to himself, or brushed off concern for his well-being with a laugh and a snide remark.”

“Sometimes I wish we’d found each other sooner so that he wouldn’t have been so alone. He’s got a gentle heart beneath all the bluster,” Lauren murmured, her strides slowing as they walked into the feast hall.

The table was empty of all but Fandral and Volstagg.

“It appears we are either early or they are late,” Sif murmured, leading the way through the hall.

Before they’d gone more than a dozen steps, three women rose to block their way. All of them dropped deep curtsies. “Princess Lauren. I’m Lady Haddy, and these are the ladies Marisa and Anna. We were wondering if you would be opening space for your ladies soon? We’d love the opportunity to attend you and help you learn the ways of Asgard.”

Slightly taken aback, Lauren didn’t let it show when she smiled kindly to all three. “I’m afraid I’m not certain yet. Between the combat trainin’ and the seiðr lessons, along with the ridin’ lessons I’ll be givin’, it may take me some time to get my schedule sorted out.”

“Combat training?” said Haddy.

“Seiðr lessons?” said the second.

“You’re giving riding lessons?” asked the third.

“Her Highness is a very accomplished rider,” Sif interjected. “Volstagg’s daughter will benefit from that talent.”

“I have a daughter roughly her age,” the third one - Anna, Lauren thought - said. “Utterly besotted with the beasts. But my husband has no love for them, I know nothing about horses, and we’ve found no one willing to teach her. By chance might we impose to add another to your class?”

“If she’s truly interested, I don’t see the harm,” Lauren tilted her head in agreement. “Tomorrow, after lunch, you may bring her to the barns, and we’ll get the two of them sorted. Baron the stablehand will also be learnin’.”

She blinked her brown eyes rapidly. “A… stablehand? In the same class as my daughter?”

“He’s of the same age and needs the practice.” Lauren eyed her carefully, beginning to doubt the validity of the woman’s words. “Along with proper equitation, your daughter will be required to muck out her horse’s stall, groom, and saddle her mount, and care for it properly after the lesson.”

“Muck?” Anna squeaked.

“If she wants to ride, she must also learn the responsibilities which come with havin’ a horse. That includes shovelin’ the shit.”

All three women gasped.

“Your Highness! You can’t be serious?” Haddy exclaimed.

Lauren waved a dismissive hand. “I shovelled stalls for three months before Teddy let me anywhere near the back of a horse. “Ridin’ is a privilege earned through hard work and proper care,” he told me, and I’ve never forgotten it. If y’alls kids want lessons with me, you can bet they’ll be given a shovel, and a brush, and a comb to deal with the not so fun parts.”

“Here, here!”

Lauren turned and smiled at Daven, Volstagg’s wife. “Lady Daven.”

“Princess Lauren.” She lowered into a quick curtsey. “I for one have no concerns with you insisting Hedda care for the less tenable responsibilities of having a horse.”

“And havin’ my stablehand join her in the ring?”

“The more, the merrier,” Daven stated. “She has been quite full of herself since you offered to teach her. If the lesson is not a private one as she assumes, it might bring her back to earth.”

“Excellent!” Lauren clapped her hands. “She may join me in the barns tomorrow after her lunch then.”

Daven swept her another curtsey and nodded to the three ladies and Sif before gliding off to make her way to the table in the center of the room.

“If you find your daughter is still interested, Lady Anna, you know where I’ll be.” Lauren nodded her head and walked away, leaving them gaping behind her.

“That was very well done,” Sif snickered.

“Hm,” Lauren snorted. “It was the same test I used to give the parents of people who’d stop me at competitions. If they balked at horse care, they would likely be nothin’ but trouble.”

“Understandable,” Sif agreed.

A blur of blue arrived in their path when Nesper, son of Ulf, bowed deeply. The royal blue overcoat was heavily embroidered in threads of gold depicting leaves which reminded Lauren of those from a ginkgo plant. A short tunic in a lighter shade allowed the front of his pants to be seen, highlighting the elaborate codpiece when he rose from his bow. Some kind of bird had been emblazoned there, complete with sparkling gems and fancy stitching.

Lauren gave an inelegant snort and covered her mouth with her hand as she looked toward the ceiling to keep from laughing in his face.

“Your Highness. How pleasant it is to see you again. Have you perhaps had a chance to look over my book?”

She swallowed hard and promised herself she would not let her eyes drift below his neck. “I’m afraid not, Lord Nesper.”

“It is Sir Nesper. His father, Ulf, is the Lord,” Sif murmured.

“Ah, of course. Forgive me my blunder,” Lauren nodded. “I hear Lord Ulf is goin’ to assist in the mediation between the Morinian and the Zendally.”

“He is?” Nesper mumbled before pasting on a smile. “Of course he is. Father is quite adept at negotiating. I’m certain the King will sorely miss his counsel. But about my book…”

“I’m afraid another was recommended in its place, Sir Nesper. Perhaps when I have more time to waste.” Lauren dismissed him with a nod and walked around him.

“And just who was so kind as to suggest an alternative?” Nesper asked between gritted teeth.

“I was.” Joran arrived from behind Nesper and lowered into a deep bow, his helm held beneath his arm. “Princess. Lady Sif.”

“Joran,” Sif nodded.

“Commander,” Lauren smiled. “Perhaps you’d be ever so kind as to escort us to our table. It seems the night to be waylaid.”

“I’d be honoured, my lady.” He rose from his bow and turned to lead the way, his hand settling on the hilt of his sword Lauren assumed was a warning to keep anyone else from trying to stop them.

Lauren hooked her arm through Sif’s and followed after Joran, smiling and nodding when people offered quiet greetings. No others rose to block their passage, and soon Joran arrived at the foot of the stairs. “Lady Sif. Your Highness. Have a pleasant evening.”

“Thank you, Commander Joran,” Lauren smiled. “You’ve been most kind.”

“An honour, my lady.” He offered her a final bow and walked off.

“I think Joran has a crush on you,” Sif whispered in Lauren’s ear.

“What? No!” Lauren gasped. “That’s in no way a smart idea.”

“He won’t do anything about it,” Sif murmured, leading the way up the stairs. “Just pine and create poetry full of suffering.”

Lauren frowned. “You’re puttin’ me on!”

Sif’s eyes gleamed with playful amusement. “I assure you I’m not.”

“What are you teasing our fair princess about?” Fandral asked, rising when they approached the table.

“Joran’s smitten with her, but he’s too much honour to ever do or say anything about it,” Sif teased.

“It would go nowhere even if he did!” Lauren squeaked. “Why is it everytime I turn around, someone’s gotta tell me about someone else's feelin’s?”

“Are you one of those women who can never see the attention they acquire, Princess Lauren?” Daven asked, hiding her smile behind her cup.

“Oh, well, if you were to ask Loki he’d likely tell you yes,” she blushed and reached for her wine glass. The deep red liquid pleased her nose, and the taste sang when it touched her tongue. “That’s lovely,” she sighed and shot a look at Fandral. “This isn’t one of your concoctions is it?”

“No, fair princess,” he chuckled. “That is Xandarian Blood wine. For the colour, highness. They do not put blood in it.”

“Good,” she sighed in relief. “It’s very nice, but I’m not sure I could drink it if they did.”

“You’d be surprised,” Volstagg chuckled. “Blood sausage is delicious.”

Lauren’s nose wrinkled in disgust, but she hid it in her glass.

“I don’t like it either,” Sif whispered near her ear.

Socks leapt from the arm of Sif’s chair to Lauren’s lap and placed his front paws on the table. He gave a soft meow and looked at her quizzically.

“I think he’s learned he can mooch from the table,” Lauren giggled. “But it looks like we’re early tonight, so you’re just gonna have to wait.” She scratched his soft ears.

“Nesper seems quite intent on having you read his book,” Sif smirked.

“Don’t remind me.” Lauren rolled her eyes. “First the library, now here. The man can’t seem to take a hint. My gran would call him slicker than owl shit and tell him he could kiss her go-to-hell.” Sif burst out laughing as Lauren’s fingers flew to her mouth. “It seems the wine is rather potent.”

“I’m so happy you’re Loki’s Ástvinur, Lauren,” Sif giggled. “There is no one like you in all the realms.”

Lauren blushed at the praise but looked up when the sound of flapping wings preceded the two ravens. One landed on the back of her chair, the other the empty chair beside her.

“Eat?” croaked Muninn

“Hungry,” added Hugin who leaned over the back of her chair to gently pluck at Lauren’s hair.

“Y’all are just gonna have to wait till the others get her,” she scolded the two greedy birds.

“Actually,” Fandral smirked. “You can begin the feast, princess as only one member of the royal family must be in attendance to call for the food.”

She blinked at him. “I… I have no idea how,” Lauren admitted, looking down from the high table to all the eyes watching her expectantly.

“Stand up, hold up your hands for quiet, and call out, “Bring on the feast!’” Volstagg said, his grin wide as he rubbed his hands over his considerable girth.

“Nice and loud, Lauren,” Sif said as Lauren lifted Socks to the table and stood on shaking legs. “You can do it,” Sif encouraged.

Lauren took a deep breath and lifted her hands, causing the hall to plunge into silence. “Bring on the feast!” she shouted. The sound carried, and the room erupted into cheers. She blushed, but smiled and sat down swiftly.

“Well done, Highness,” Daven beamed.

“Very commanding,” Fandral grinned.

“Indeed. She has lungs like Thor,” Volstagg teased.

“Oh, hush,” Lauren mumbled into her glass, equal measures pleased and embarrassed.

Sif leaned closer and nudged her elbow. “You did that perfectly.”

“Thank you, Sif,” Lauren smiled. “This is so much easier with you here.”

“What are friends for, Lauren?” Sif smirked and refilled Lauren’s wine glass.

“Question?” Lauren asked, blushing a little harder.

“As you're the colour of a summer rose, may I assume it's a scandalous query you're about to voice," Fandral asked, leaning closer.

“Um, well… I just noticed Nesper and his… uh, colourful addition to his pants.” She felt her face burn. “Is that somethin’ y'all do or…” Lauren gulped from her glass when Fandral's grin turned wicked.

“The fancy codpiece caught your eye did it? He and his friends are trying to bring it forth as a new fashionable trend. Personally, I do not think I need to call further attention to my manhood when his reputation preceeds me, but to each their own. Why? Did you find it to your liking, princess?”

“Lord no!” Lauren burst out in giggles, shifting a little when the servants arrive to set platter after platter on the table. “That was a fashion on Earth back in the middle ages. I nearly bust a gut tryin’ to keep from barkin’ a laugh in his face.”

Volstagg snorted as he snagged a platter of meat from a passing server and plopped it down in front of him. “Pompous windbag. His father is a great man. Unfortunately, Nesper didn’t inherit Ulf's good sense.”

“I will happily run him off for you, Highness, if that's your wish?” Fandral offered, half rising from his seat.

Lauren waved him down. “I'm perfectly capable of runnin’ him off myself if necessary.”

“And Joran seems to pop up whenever you need assistance,” Sif teased.

“Hush, you!” Lauren squeaked. “Loki growled at him in the library already. Don't be goin' and makin’ things worse when there's nothin’ there!”

The table as a whole laughed, and Sif patted her hand. “I'm just teasing. We all know you, and Loki only have eyes for each other.”

Lauren shook her head, a wry smile on her lips. “Well, just remember who my husband is. He's more likely to stab first and clarify things second,” she reminded them as she began to fill her plate, offering meat to the ravens, her kitten, and when the brush of fur came to her knees, she tore the legs off the cooked fowl before her, and gave them to the two wolves beneath the table.

***

The feast was underway when Thor, Odin, and Loki arrived, causing the three of them to exchange an intrigued look.

“She grows more comfortable in her position every day,” Thor smiled.

“Sif’s encouragement has been invaluable,” Loki murmured, his eyes on the table in the center of the hall. He could see her hair, but not what she was wearing from this angle. He found everytime she changed her clothes it gave him a thrill for she was so incredibly beautiful in her Asgardian garb.

Then, as if she could sense him, she looked toward the door, and a sweet smile broke upon her lips. Loki’s strides lengthened until he’d left his father and Thor behind and climbed the stairs two at a time.

She rose to meet him and took his breath for it appeared flames of gold rippled through her gown. “Loki! There you are. I started dinner,” she giggled, reaching up to hug him.

Her lips were right there, so Loki took them in a gentle kiss which transferred the flavour of the wine on her lips to his. “I see that, my heart,” he grinned, sliding his fingers across her bare shoulders. “And you’ve been enjoying the Xandarian wine.”

“It’s lovely.” She fluttered her lashes, pressed up on her toes to peck him another kiss, then pulled back to sit in her seat. “Everythin’ tastes so good, and I was just starvin’!” she giggled.

“A combination of training and lessons, I’m sure,” he said, nodding to the table when they bid him welcome. He shooed Hugin out of his seat, the raven fluttering off to sit on the back of his father’s looking fat and happy. There were crumbs on his chair, ones he vanished, understanding why Hugin appeared so smug, and why Muninn was dozing on the back of Lauren's. They were quite the spoiled pair, it seemed. The brush of fur against his shins only proved the wolves had already been begging at her feet as well but returned to his father's side when Odin took his seat.

She leaned closer, a glass of wine in her fingers, and whispered against his ear, “Among other kinds of exertion.”

The dim light did nothing to diminish the flush on her cheeks or the sparkle of naughtiness in her eyes. “My sweet,” Loki purred, leaning closer. “You’re a little bit drunk I think.”

“Am I?” she grinned. “Maybe that’s why I feel so soft and floaty. But I’ve only had two glasses,” she pouted. “I don’t think I’m that drunk.”

Sif held up three fingers when Lauren wasn’t looking.

He plucked Lauren’s glass from her fingers and drank the rest of her wine himself before placing a water goblet back in her hand. “You look lovely, pet. Like a shiny gold wrapped sweet in the candy store window. I want to unwrap your bow,” he whispered against her cheek.

“Tell me what you found out, and I’ll let you,” she hummed, a teasing smile on her lips.

“Many things, darling. I spoke with Father about you.”

A frown furrowed her brow. “Why do you look annoyed?”

He sighed and shook his head. “We argued. There is nothing new in that.”

“About?”

She was most persistent for someone who was a little bit tipsy. “Why he kept my background from me. It’s not something I wish to discuss here, darling. Please.”

Her glass went to the table; then her hands lifted to frame his face. Eyes big and green and gorgeous peered into his. “I’m sorry, elskan min. Sorry that he hurt you.”

“He had his reasons,” Loki sighed, resting his forehead against hers. “Good or bad, it doesn’t matter any longer.”

“It does matter. It matters because it hurt you. It matters because it’s still hurtin’ you.”

He closed his eyes; the feel of her emotions heavy in his chest. “I think it won’t matter what answers come. I’m not sure I will ever stop hurting. I want only to put it in the past. His approval and his affection are but teardrops in the ocean when it comes to yours. They matter little. Your love and faith are all I need.”

“You have it, peaches. Always,” Lauren whispered and kissed him softly, pouring all her love into it, warming the ache from his heart stone.

When he released her lips, he sat back to take her in. Ethereal and shimmering gold, she glowed with love and beauty. He couldn’t help himself. “Darling… I feel the overwhelming desire to give you a gift.”

“Loki,” she scolded, but he shook his head.

“No, no.” He held up his hand, drawing the eyes of everyone at the table. “It can’t be helped. You’re simply too precious for words.” A flick of his wrist produced a small box in dark green and gold paper, tied in a shiny black bow on the table before her.

She huffed a little breath, a blush of pink filling her cheeks, but she plucked and pulled at the bow until it came loose. Her kitten immediately dragged the ribbon from the table into her lap where Socks batted it around.

Lauren worked the lid off the top, gently removed the soft fabric covering his gift, and gasped in amazement, “Oh, my stars!”

“I noticed you lack an ornament for your hair tonight, my love,” Loki said when she gently picked up the glass flower from within the box.

“Loki, it’s beautiful!”

“Gorgeous,” Sif murmured in agreement, eyeing the ornament covetously.

Loki shot a hard glance at Thor who was watching the proceedings closely, then took the ornament from her and inserted the long pins into her hair behind her ear. He flicked his fingers to be assured what he said next would not carry beyond the table. “Such a beautiful woman should have a crowning adornment. Especially one who appears to be on her way to becoming an Earth Mother.”

The faces around the table lit up in excitement.

“How wonderful!” Daven exclaimed. “An Earth Mother!”

“Well, that makes much sense,” Fandral agreed. “No wonder the creatures of Asgard find you fascinating.”

“It quite suits you, Lauren,” Sif agreed.

“I'm afraid I don't know what that means,” Lauren said, looking at Loki.

It means, my love, that you're tied to the earth and nature. You'll have specific and unique duties to perform like the changing of the seasons.”

“I get to do what now?”

He chuckled softly. “Change the seasons. Four times a year you and I will ride out across Asgard so you may pull the veil of the season along with you. Spring will warm to summer. Summer will blaze into fall. Fall shall close around us in blankets of white. And in the spring, you'll ride out to melt the snows and return the flowers.”

She stared at him with her mouth open. “Al… alright.”

“You'll feel the ebb and flow of nature through the nine realms. Occasionally, we may even have other worlds ask for your aid in ending a drought or stopping a flood. You'll be quite beloved of all the people, my darling when the news is announced. For now, it's best to keep such things within our close circle. Until you are more comfortable in your nature.” He cast a glance around, receiving understanding nods from the others.

“That sounds like a pretty big responsibility, Loki,” Lauren murmured, fidgeting the ribbon in her lap and driving her kitten wild.

“It is a gift to our world and our people. An Earth Mother is rare and beautiful. Your kind are adored for your abilities, guaranteeing prosperity for our people. A blessing from an Earth Mother is something highly sought after. There will be many people who will seek your aid.”

“It is good she is also a truth speaker,” Thor added. “You will know who to help and when thanks to that gift.”

“How do you say no to someone seekin’ help for a drought-ridden crop?” Lauren asked.

“You listen, and you discuss it with me. We travel to the world and see the damage first hand. And you connect to the place through Yggdrasil. There will be times the world will speak to you, and you will be required to let what is happening happen,” Loki said.

She sighed and shook her head. “I feel very dense, Loki. I don't understand.”

He hummed softly as he thought how best to explain it. “There are forests on Midgard which must burn to renew themselves, are there not?” She frowned but nodded. “And if you stepped in and hindered the flame with rain, you would be doing more damage than good, yes?”

“Oh, I see,” she nodded thoughtfully. “And you're sayin’ I'm gonna know when to help and when not to?”

“Yes, my heart. It will be part of your gifts.” He tilted her chin up and dropped a soft kiss to her lips. “You'll be glorious at it. Already you make the land bloom.”

“I do, don't I?” she giggled.

“Oh, yes, my darling. You certainly do.” She would be a wonder.

***

Amazement filled him watching Loki with Lauren. Thor wondered if he'd ever be able to turn a phrase so perfect to make Sif blush in such a way.

She looked stunning tonight with her hair upswept leaving her long neck bare. Thor wanted to place his lips there, feel the beat of her pulse as it quickened. He wanted to take the golden roses from her hair one by one until the mass of it was spread out over his pillows. He wanted to see her in all her glory, soft and warm against his sheets. He just wanted her.

He wanted her at his side always, where he could speak his troubles and rest in her embrace. Where they could work together toward the betterment of Asgard. He wanted to rule with her by his side, and raise their children up to be the next King or Queen of Asgard.

She looked up from her place beside Lauren and pink washed into her cheeks when he didn't look away. He hoped his appreciation of her gown and her appearance showed in his eyes.

His brother and father had been most explicit in their insistence he not give Sif a weapon as his first courting gift, but he wasn't stupid. Weapons were easy. He could give them without revealing his true feelings. Now, though, he no longer had to hide those from her and had the perfect present in mind. One difficult to acquire, but he wasn't about to fail, and he wouldn't demean the gift by asking Loki to create it for him.

“Loki,” Thor murmured, drawing his brother's attention. “I will need you to take my place tomorrow to see petitioners.”

Loki arched a brow. “And just what will you be doing, brother dear, that will keep you from such a chore?”

“I have a journey to make and will be leaving in the morning to go to Vanheim.”

“My king, I shall meet you at the Bifröst at sunrise,” Sif said, Fandral and Volstagg nodding their agreement.

“Not this time,” Thor murmured. “I will ask you to stand in support of Loki. Hogun has gone ahead to see his wife and family and will meet me there.”

The three looked surprised and slightly hurt, but nodded their agreement.

Loki only smirked his wicked grin, having figured it out. “Gladly, Thor.”

At the far end of the table, Daven began regaling them with a tale of Aggie, her youngest, drawing the attention of everyone, but Thor found his gaze drifting back to Sif. He knew her face, knew every curve and angle. Tonight, though, he found her lovelier than ever with her eyes darkened and her lips and cheeks brushed with colour. Beneath the scents of food and the one which he’d learned was distinctly Lauren, he could smell the sweet, tart scent of something new.

It spread an ache in his stomach the likes of which he had not suffered from since he was a youth feeling the first blush of desire. When Loki’s foot connected with his shin, Thor grunted and shot him a glare.

Loki leaned closer, and a flick of fingers preceded the sound of the rest of the room cutting out. “If you keep staring at her like she is a sweet you wish to devour, you will give yourself and her away.”

“I can’t help it,” Thor muttered, shifting toward his brother. “She looks incredible.”

“Make sure you tell her so when you ask her to dance,” Loki smirked. “Are you heading to Vanheim for what I think you are?”

Thor grinned into his ale. “Maybe.”

“An excellent choice for a first gift.”

“I hope so. I’ve wanted to get her one for some time, but…”

“It is a very telling gift,” Loki agreed.

Thor sipped from his cup before asking, “You don’t mind seeing the petitioners?”

“A triviality of ruling I have no love for, but as long as I am not called upon to do so often,” he shrugged, “I will step into your role for a day.”

“Good. Perhaps Lauren would like to sit in?”

“And be bored out of her mind? Are you trying to see I never have sex again?” Loki scoffed and rolled his eyes.

Thor chuckled at him. “It is not that terrible.”

“It is mind-numbingly boring,” Loki groaned. “But if it secures Sif as your Queen, I will suffer through it.”

“I’ve never dared let myself hope…”

“Seize the dream, brother,” Loki murmured as he sat back. “It’s within your grasp as long as you don’t screw it up.”

The smirk on his face had Thor rolling his eyes as the noise of the hall rushed back in.

Next Chapter

#of blood and roses #loki laufeyson #loki laufeyson fanfiction #loki and lauren #god of mischief #god of mischief fanfiction #asgard au #southern belle #avengers au

256 notes · View notes

stormdancer · 5 years

Text

Shiva, Roan, and the Intake Manifold

(( Completely unrelated to the Hill Warband story, just a slice of life short, inspired by the IC fact that Traikill is taking care of one of her soldier’s (very) young cubs, while the warband is on patrol. ))

“Alright, you monsters, come on, let’s go. Fall in line.”

One of the monsters in question looked up at her uncomprehendingly, while the other continued chewing on the tail of the first.

This was about what Traikill had expected.

She sighed, and pushed back from her desk. Standing, she took a moment to stretch, rubbing firmly at the broad scar on her right flank. Sitting still for too long always made it tighten up, and forge knows she’d been sitting too long!

“Shiva! Roan! On yer paws! C’mon cubs, we’re moving,” she growled, finally getting the younger male’s attention. He stood up, and was immediately pounced by his older sister, tumbling him to the iron decking of her floor again.

She sighed, shaking her head, and reached down to pick them both up. “Come on, you two,” she muttered, as she cradled the twin cubs in her arms. “We’re gonna go poke some folks on th’ heavy deck. See why th’ blazes Heft ain’t got their supply yet. Don’t that sound fun?”

Shiva’s response was a curious babble, while Roan tried to remove a rivet from the leather padding on her armor. Traikill rolled her eyes, then walked out into the hall, leaving the door to her small office open. “Alright you two, I’m not gonna carry you,” she muttered, setting them both down and starting off down the hall. The two cubs scampered after eagerly, shifting carelessly from two legs to four and back again.

“Goin’ to th’ Heavy deck,” she said to the assistant, who sat behind his own desk, in front of the short hall. He had already lifted both feet and his tail out of range of the cubs, which made her grin. “Yer learnin’!” she chuckled. “I’mma get chow an’ come back after, want anything?”

“No ma’am, thanks. I’ll tell anybody comes calling to take a hike around the ahh! No, don’t...” he protested, pulling Roan off the pull-handle of the desk’s drawers, which the cub was industriously using as a ladder.

“Cubs! Move out!” Traikill barked, and started out again, with the two youngsters scrambling after, as often chasing her tail as each other, but still managing to stay close.

The afternoon sun beat down on the iron decking of the repair bay, encouraging detours through the shade provided by the towering war machines that were scattered through the space. Some were in for repair, others under construction.

She paused, looking up at one of the tanks. The shrouding and armor had been removed from a portion of the engine bay, a few pieces already removed and stacked on the tread. “Ain’t she a beaut?” she said to the cubs, chuckling as they stared up at the great weapon of destruction, and then immediately began attempting to scale it, clambering rapidly over bogey suspension and drive gear, and into the engine compartment.

“Yah, tha’s perty much how I was about ‘em,” she agreed, leaning on the heavy frame rail, watching as Shiva worked her way up along a suspension arm. With the firebox cold and weapons safed, she knew there was no real danger, short of the potential for pinched tails. “C’mon, I got shit t’ do, though...”

There was a flash of movement that made her glance down just in time to see Roan’s tail vanish into darkness. “What th’… shit, cub! Get outta...” she growled, lifting herself up onto the tread and reaching toward the pipe just as Shiva followed, darting into the darkness, chasing after the echoing giggle of her vanished brother.

Traikill knew these engines well, and she exhaled slowly. “Slag take it...” she muttered, and leaned over, reaching an arm up into the intake manifold. “Come out, dang ya!”

The answering babble and giggle was a sound she knew far too well – there was no way either of the two hellions was coming out any time soon. She leaned over and peered into the darkness – a pair of bright eyes glittering back at her. The intake pipe for the manifold had been a snug fit for cubs, but the airbox was a cozy den for the moment.

She flatted her ears back, then climbed down out of the engine. She took a deep breath, her tail lashing, then bellowed “Repair deck CHIEF!”

A young Charr appeared almost instantly, peering around the back end of the machine. It took just a quick glance at her demeanor to keep him pinned right where he was. “Uh, can I help you?”

“Get the chief here,” she said, in tones that made it clear she expected immediate results.

Wisely, the youngster vanished, a “Yes’m!” wafting in his wake.

She leaned against the tank, and sighed. “If yer mother dies in th’ desert an’ leaves me stuck with you two, I’mma go down there an’ murder her all over again,” she growled, at the soot-caked pipe. “You little shits gonna come out, or am I comin’ in after?”

The only answer was a clank of something against the insides of the machine, and an excited squabbling babble. “Ai’ght,” she growled, then pushed off as the yard chief came trotting forward.

“Centurion,” he said, giving a quick salute as he came to a halt. “How can I help you, ma’am?”

“Assemble the work group responsible for this engine,” she growled.

He opened his muzzle, clearly considering protest or questions.

She held up a paw to forestall them. “It’s a learnin’ opportunity,” she said, with careful calm.

“Ah,” he said, flatting his ears back and looking over the work, searching for what fool thing some apprentice engineer had screwed up. “Slag. Yes ma’am. It’ll take a few minutes, they’re on break...”

“I kinda gathered as much! What with them not bein’ here!” she snarled. “And they still ain’t here so why th’ blazes are you?”

It was indeed a few minutes before the group was assembled, standing in what she supposed they thought was supposed to resemble a line. Three males, two females. One of them was still doing his best to chew and swallow a too-large piece of meat. So she stood, patiently, and waited, staring pointedly at him. He at least had the decency to look embarrassed, and also avoided choking when he swallowed. The yard chief stood some distance away, watching apprehensively.

“This is yer work?” she asked, pointing at the engine.

Heads bobbled in agreement. One of them recognized the irritated tilt of her ears, and spoke up “Yes ma’am!”

Mollified slightly, she nodded. “And so you are familiar with basic protocol, yes?”

This time there was a nervous chorus of “Yes ma’am”.

She stalked over to the tool rack stationed near the work area. “What is this?” she asked, holding up a wrench.

“A wrench, ma’am. Number 18, used in removing standard armor plating, along with certain portions of the drive system.”

She nodded, pleased. “And this?” As she held up the conical, folded-metal shape, she saw the yard chief’s ears flat back and eyes narrow. He knew.

One of the males twitched his ears back as well. “Airway and exhaust baffle ma’am.”

“And when would regulations require this be in place?”

There were a couple of uncomfortable swallows. “When a machine is in for refit, repair, service, or general storage,” spoke up one of the females. Every one of the line were trying their hardest not to look at the dark void of the manifold where the baffle was clearly not located.

“Tha’s correct. You,” she growled, pointing at the largest one in the group. “C’mere.” When he stepped forward, she gestured encouragingly, and moved to the engine. “Give a listen here. Tell me whatcha hear.” Inside, the two cubs were babbling and muttering to eachother, and she could hear the tell-tale thunk of the blower cage being shoved.

The male leaned forward, ducking his head and hunching his head slightly as if expecting a blow. His ears perked, and he tilted his head. “Ah… sounds like… a cub ma’am. Two, I guess.” He grimaced unhappily, and stood at something she suspected he thought would pass for attention.

“Not my cubs,” Traikill pointed out. “B’long t’ one of mah soldiers, deployed south. If th’ mother of those cubs was here right now, at least one of you lot would be in th’ infirmary by now.”

“I could reach up in there, and get them out?”

She smiled. “Why tha’s a fine plan. You got good long arms. How ‘bout you do that?”

He did so. “Ah, gotcha,” he said. “Okay, come on… ah… hey… hey hey, no, let go! Ow, no, just… OW!” He yelped and withdrew his soot-streaked arm, giving a shake of his hand that sent blood in a graceful arc. To his considerable regret, some of that arc included Traikill.

“We can disassemble the manifold ma’am!” called one of the younger of the group.

“What you slag suckin’ idiots is gonna do, is yer gonna stand...” She frowned, searching for a spot that was certain to remain in full sun for the next half hour. “There.” She gave a nod toward the older Charr, still watching. “Chief, could I trouble you fer a cart, please?’

“Yes ma’am, comin’ right to you.” He trotted off quickly, and returned shortly with a broad wheeled cart, which he pushed into place.

“Thankee. Go find shade. Don’t lemme keep ya from yer work.”

“Not a worry ma’am, I look forward to seeing how this works out.” There was a malicious gleam in his eye that she found she approved of heartily.

Setting to work, she quickly worked through the removal of pipes and supports that would block removal of the manifold, then set about the unbolting of the multi-piece cast iron itself. Each item was carefully set on the cart, with the nuts, bolts and fasteners involved either set alongside them or partially screwed into the hole they came from. Her own teachers and mentors would have been pleased.

Some half an hour later she heaved the final piece out, revealing the ducts and blower fan, and two cubs. Now soot-black, they were curled up together, fast asleep. She put the duct on the cart with the rest, then picked the two cubs up and snuggled them in her grease, rust, and soot-streaked arms.

She stood there for a long moment, glaring at the somewhat bewildered and considerably uncomfortable engineers. Then she turned her head to their instructor. “Have you told them the rat story?” she wondered.

“Not often enough, apparently,” he growled. “Thank you Centurion. For not maiming any of them, I mean.” Unsaid, but made clear by the upward tilt of his head, the baring of his throat, was his inclusion of himself in that list.

“I got shit needs gettin’ done. Tell ‘em again,” she growled, then stalked off in search of one of her Legionnaires – he had better provide a good explanation why his supply caravan wasn’t under way yet. And then there was the matter of cleaning up.

#gw2 #charr #story #charr cubs are a bucket of trouble!#but also adorable

8 notes · View notes

everyonesomething · 6 years

Text

Session 21e

Edith Runekill: "So."

"Guess... guess we still got no idea where we are in this maze, huh." Grim: "Sure we do. We're in the corn." Edith Runekill laughs in delight; Grim told her a joke.

In this session, Grim and Edith get trapped in a metaphor.

The set-up: Still at the roadside farmer’s market, Grim and Edith find time to have a chat.

The Game: In the parking lot, Edith is juggling groceries, supplies, the keys to the camper, and a growing sense of unease she’s developing every time she looks at the nearby field of corn. She is somewhat distracted, which is why she ends up launching the keys into the cornfield with Mage Hand when Grim startles her.

Grim has been sitting in the shade of the camper for about an hour while everyone else perused the farmer's market, as uncannily still as a lizard on a rock and quite easily overlooked. She only moves when Edith gets close enough to talk, turning her head to take her in.

Grim: "Runekill."

Edith Runekill , intent on the complicated applied mathematics of loading the camper in the most efficient way possible, jumps and starts. The keys fly high up into the air, in violation of all the laws of Newtonian motion. Grim blinks and her eyes follow the keys, and then she looks back at Edith with a faintly puzzled expression, as if to say why did you do that? Edith Runekill watches the keys majestically arc through the air; in a perfect parabola they fall to earth and land somewhere among the corn. Edith Runekill: "Oh, dang." "Um." "Hi, Grim." Grim: "That's a hell of a wizard trick." Grim still isn't sure if Edith is going to wave her hands and bring them back. Edith Runekill casts a sidelong glance towards the corn field. "I... really messed up, didn't I?" Grim: "You?" Grim sounds mildly incredulous, still not really focused on the keys. Edith Runekill: "Well, um, the... the keys, I mean. You gotta concentrate on mage hand, but I was trying to do too much at once, and... well..." "I guess I oughta... go... get 'em back."

Grim offers to get the keys instead—she instinctively feels Edith would take all day tracking something down in a maze of corn whereas getting lost isn’t an issue for her. Of course, Edith doesn’t want someone else to fix her mistakes so after some back and forth, they decide to go in together.

But things are never so easy when corn’s involved.

Nora R. | A staff member steps out to block Grim's path. She's wearing a pointed wizard hat styled in after an ear of corn. Nora R.: "Halt, ye travellers! Dare you enter my devious CORN LABYRINTH? Dost thou possess the courage to find the TRUE PATH? Art though strong enough to best the TERRIFYING BEAST which lurks in the heart of the Labyrinth?" Edith Runekill cringes. Grim stares at the wizard, then moves to brush past her Grim: "Gettin' our keys." Nora R.: "Um... only the pure of heart may pass! Er, which you can prove by... um, please pay the fifty silver admission?" Grim: "Lady, we're goin' in, pickin' up our trailer keys, and comin' back out. Save it." Nora R.: "P-please! I'm in deep trouble if they find anyone in there without a hand stamp!" Grim makes a noise of animal level irritation and digs in her pocket, then shoves a gold piece at the wizard Grim: "Find yourself a better job." Nora R. | The corn wizard, in a low voice, says. "Lady, you think I'd be here if I could get literally anything better than this?" She irritably stamps Grim's hand. Grim: "Yes." Nora R. | All business again, she brandishes her stamp. "And now, your sweetheart?" She means Edith. Oh, God. A nightmare. Grim grunts and just keeps walking Edith Runekill meekly allows her hand to get stamped without making eye contact. There but for the grace of Auril goes she, etc. Edith Runekill slinks after Grim.

Grim is all business once they’re inside, letting Edith talk about corn density, hybrids, and maze layouts. The corn rustles around them. The pair finds a dead end and Edith stops Grim just before she can start cutting her way through the maze. As frustrating as it is, they can’t just start hacking apart someone’s source of income.

They turn around to retrace their steps, but find the previous path is now blocked with a new entrance off to the side. The maze has been changing as they go.

Magic!

They’re both confident they won’t get permanently lost in corn hell. Grim’s sense of direction is too good and Edith points out the amount of corn is a constant so there must be new open paths for every closed one.

Edith Runekill: "I guess the amount of corn in the field's a constant, so whenever a passage closes, another one's gotta open somewhere..."

Grim: "How th'hell d'you keep so many thoughts in your head all the time?" Edith Runekill: "Well, I specifically went to a school that specialized in agricultural magic. It wasn't what I ended up majoring in, but I picked up a bit anyway. It was kinda inescapable." Nora R. | The path behind them closes, and a new one opens up to their left, in addition to the path forward they'd been following. Grim shakes her head, eyeballing the new path and then turning along it Grim: "Nah, I know you got learnin'. I mean somethin' else. You always got a lot happening in your head, a lotta tracks, a lotta voices. Seems exhausting." Edith Runekill: "Oh, I... well, sometimes it is. Sometimes it's hard to concentrate on one thing when I got six others I'm worried about." Grim nods and glances back at her Grim: "S'what I'm thinkin'. Ain't nothin' ever clear that way, I'd imagine." Edith Runekill: "Sometimes trying to think of all the angles at once means you see something you woulda missed otherwise, though. See how one thing connects to the other. Realize that now's the time for something you had in your back pocket. That sorta thing." Grim: "You gotta hold it all in your head for that?" She regards her curiously. "Don't you never just ..feel it's the time?" Edith Runekill: "I... uh. Not... really? When I act impulsively like that it tends to not go so well for me." Grim falls silent and takes a drag on her cigarette, watching the way ahead

Grim hears some heavy footsteps in a nearby part of the maze and more cautiously follows Edith as the latter spots something shiny in the dirt. Rather than the keys, it’s a token for the maze: a coin with an ear of corn on one side and "CORN LABYRINTH FUNBUX" on the obverse. In smaller writing beneath it: "You've found some of King Corn's hoard! Redeem your coins at the exit for a fun prize!"

Things are going super.

Grim lets out a low steady exhalation It's fine. This is fine.

Grim: "Runekill, if you're enjoyin' this we're gonna wind up havin' words." Edith Runekill: "I'm absolutely not enjoying this." "I hate this." Edith Runekill flips the coin away Auril knows where. Edith Runekill | There's a muffled grunt. Grim: "Makes two of us. Alright, let's keep moving." Edith Runekill: "Yeah." Grim closes her eyes for a moment as they walk, struggling to keep her bearings in this ocean of corn. It's not a comfortable feeling.

Edith comments out loud that she thinks she’s had dreams where she was lost in a corn maze. Grim can’t relate, she hasn’t had dreams since she was a kid. She thinks maybe dreams are connected to magic, but Edith tells her no, hers are just anxiety. Grim relates even less to this concept, the only dreams she remembers from her childhood were about fire. Edith apologizes, but when Grim asks what the apology’s for, she stumbles over her words and says it’s sympathy for Grim’s past experiences.

Edith changes the subject back to the lost keys. Grim tries to get a sense of where they are relative to the entrance, but is eerily at a loss. All the while, a rustling sound is in the background of the maze. They focus their attention back to finding the keys and getting out.

Helia (GM): The stalks of corn part.

Corncob Head walks on to the path. Edith Runekill: "Oh no! It's Corncob Head!" "What's he doing this far east?" Grim has literally no idea what's going on or what Edith is saying suddenly Grim wonders if this is what dreaming is like Grim is so out of her depth Edith Runekill: "I... wait, Corncob Head... is real...?" Edith Runekill: "Is this... am I hallucinating...?" Grim is like the most twin peaks character in this group and this is too much even for her Grim: "Shit, if you are I hope you ain't seein' what I'm seein'." Edith Runekill sidesteps a little closer to Grim. "A nightmare man with corn for a head?" Edith Runekill: "'Cause that's what I'm seeing." Grim: "Well." "Hell." Grim raises her rifle and takes a step back Edith Runekill: "It's something we told stories about back home... but I figured it was just folklore, y'know. A cautionary tale about coming home again if you leave." Corncob Head talks a step forward. Grim: "Runekill, tell me 'bout this thing. Is it a ghast, undead? A construct?" Edith Runekill: "It's just something outta tall tales! Things they say about Corncob Head ain't exactly magizoologically consistent, y'know? He's... he's a representation of something primal to Plaguewrought Land. A punishment for anyone who leaves and tries to come back." "Could be something that goes back to the Spellplague, maybe?" "Hm." "Um I'll get back to you when I'm not COMPLETELY TERRIFIED." Corncob Head reaches for Edith. The groan continues. Edith Runekill: "It— it's me he wants, Grim." Grim narrows her eyes a little Grim: "Well he ain't gettin' you."

Grim uses her rifle to fire a few magic bullets into the ground in front of Corncob Head. They’re enchanted to shoot up at anything that gets within 30 feet of them.

Yeah!

Corncob Head isn’t sure what to make of this and backs off. Grim and Edith try to figure out what he even is and why a Plaguewrought spirit would be so far west. Does he know when a Plaguewrought Lander is going back home? Does he just manifest in corn fields? Edith tries to Dispel Magic on him, but nothing happens.

Having had enough of magic mystery solving for one afternoon, Grim and Edith back off from Corncob Head and head to an alternate path. Corncob Head, too, backs off and retreats into the corn wall behind him.

Rattled by the experience, the pair is even worse off looking for keys or an exit.

Edith Runekill: "Let's just keep moving. This was built for tourists, right? Obviously Corncob Head isn't typical but there's gotta be a way out..." "...I was always kinda afraid things would turn out like this for me. Like it's a dream I had..." "Like I got this sense of deja vu in here. Even though I been in lots of corn fields but only a corn maze once before." Grim: "Keep it together. Keep on movin', like you said." Grim eyes the corn walls suspiciously, watching for any sign of Corncob Head returning Grim: "Whatever dreams you had about this never had me in 'em." Edith Runekill: "Yeah... yeah! That's a good point. The worst thing about all the dreams I had like this is that feeling of being alone, of having nowhere to turn, noone to help you. But you're here!" Grim: "You got a lot of folks at your back. But you got grit, too. Between us, we'll figure this out."

Corncob Head is a mighty adversary, but he’s only strengthened their resolve.

Mercifully, they find the keys up ahead. It doesn’t help them find the exit, but one thing at a time. Grim picks a path at random, leading them to the east—though the magic at work is messing with the natural shadows, making it hard to tell which way true east is.

They relax some as they put distance between them and Corncob Head.

Grim: "Sorry I ain't much more'n a gun in the end."

Edith Runekill: "Y-you're a lot more'n that, Grim." Grim: "You know what I mean." Edith Runekill: "Not... not really? You're tough as nails, brave as hell, you got a lot of experience with things I never even thought about, and... and a friend." Grim gives Edith an odd look, then frowns back at the corn stalks Grim: "You got a lot of charity in you, Runekill. Can't help but be glad of that" Edith Runekill smiles slightly. "And I can't help but be glad you got our back through all this." Edith Runekill: "Even when occasionally I been a bit... inconsiderate...?" Grim gives her another odd look Grim: "Hell are you talkin' about? Reckon you're about the only one've us who considers." Edith Runekill: "Well... I Knocked." "Pretty rude of me, in retrospect." Grim snorts and looks ahead again Grim: "Retrospect my ass. You ought've known better all the while than to go listenin' to Pepper." Edith Runekill: "Sometimes I lose my head a bit and don't think things through. Sometimes."

Grim then apologizes for what she said to Edith the other night. Edith accepts it, it was upsetting to hear Grim talk that way but knows she wasn’t really herself that night. Grim corrects her to say it is a part of her, just one she didn’t want Edith to see. Edith is supportive of her regardless, and it’s only natural the group would have some friction from the close quarters.

Grim then stresses to Edith she’s not a good person, even if Edith disagrees. She feels like Edith is holding her to a higher standard than she should—it’s just going to get her hurt when Grim doesn’t live up to it.

Edith takes her words to heart and admits she was putting Grim on a pedestal at the start, but doesn’t agree that Grim isn’t a good person. She’s risking everything to stop Szass Tam, and for Edith that speaks for itself.

Grim: "Takin' down a predator ain't morals. It's survival." She eyeballs the cornstalks around them as she says this, like it's as much for corncob head's benefit if he's listening. Edith Runekill takes one last drag on her cigarette and extinguishes it with prestidigitation. "Protecting people vulnerable to predators who can't fight 'em off alone is morals, if you ask me. It's the basic stuff of decency, of civilization. Mutual aid and the like." Grim gives a low grunt, but it sounds more thoughtful than dismissive. She can't really argue. Edith Runekill: "It ain't easy, doing what we're doing. Or... it isn't for me, anyway." Grim huffs on her cigarette for a moment, then speaks bluntly Grim: "You an' Mal, you got a lot've other paths you could be taking. You got good things ahead, an' all around you the way you was livin' back home." "You got a lot on the line, an' I respect that. Respect you equally if you come down to packin' up and headin' home before this goes all the way to hell." Edith Runekill peers out across the swaying corn, silent for a while, framing her thoughts. Edith Runekill: "I know enough about Tam to say I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I packed it in before I saw this through." Grim: "Y'might not get to live with yourself or your man if you don't. You at peace with that?" Edith Runekill , without hesitation: "Yeah." Edith Runekill: "I mean. I'd prefer if it didn't come to that. I know I got things I'd like do ahead of me. But, if it's gotta be that way, well... that's how it is." Grim looks back at Edith and regards her levelly, then nods.

More at ease now, Grim and Edith can clearly focus on the maze—Grim comments she’s beginning to see why Edith would want to leave endless fields of corn. She asks if she’s been east of Plaguewrought, out towards Thay. Edith hasn’t, Thay doesn’t care for outsider archaeologists digging around in the area. Grim suggests maybe she and Edith can see the sights in Thay before they all have to face Szass Tam and Edith smiles at the invite.

Grim: "B'sides, you and I ain't had a chance to raise hell. Ain't gonna let Pep 'n Malkas have all the fun, are you?" Edith Runekill comes emerges a bit from her grave, solemn look, and flashes Grim a crooked smile. Edith Runekill: "Been a while since I did anything that could be called hell-raising." Grim: "I know you got it in you. Country girl, ain't a doubt." Edith Runekill: "I used to be the kinda girl who jumped outta moving cars on a dare, so... well. Probably." Grim: "Kinda girl who leaves everythin' she knows for the city, then does it again to hunt a lich. I reckon you got a real good impulse for livin', when you let it out." Edith Runekill nods. "Yeah. But I don't think a lotta people notice that. They see the way I look, the way I talk, and figure they got me pegged." Grim: "People are dumb." "Most folks're better at holdin' down assumptions than they are at gettin' the measure of a person, but don't nobody like to admit it." "Learn that real quick livin' a month from one washroom to the next." Edith Runekill nods. "Even my own folks looked at me and saw somebody I ain't really. Which... probably explains a lot about how things turned out with them." Grim: "Long as you know who you are, fuck the rest've 'em." Edith Runekill: "Yeah! You know what? Fuck 'em!" Edith Runekill looks chagrinned Edith Runekill: "Um... fudge... them...?" [infernal] fuck

Grim tells Edith that Mal’s more nervous to see her folks than he’s letting on. Edith is torn—she knows it’s unfair to drag him there, but she’s worried it might be the last time she ever sees her family. Grim says that neither Edith nor Mal is wrong for feeling about her folks the way they are, but it’s something to keep in mind. Mal’s sacrificing a lot to go with her and Edith knows it. Grim tells her they’re lucky to have each other and that she hope their relationship stays strong.

And with the last of the tension resolved, Grim and Edith manage to hatch a plan on how to leave the maze.

Edith Runekill: "It's getting late. The others are probably worried about us..." Grim grunts and rubs her eyes Grim: "You wanna try flyin' yourself on outta here, I won't be sore." Grim is not doing that though lmao Edith Runekill: "I'm not gonna leave you in here." Grim: "Hell you ain't, never stayed lost and ain't about to try it now." Grim blinks and then rounds on Edith Grim points at her own eyes and then at Edith's. There's another brief electric tinge to the air. Grim casts Hunter's Mark on Edith Grim: "Get yourself on back to the camper. I may not know corn, but I sure as hell know how to find a quarry." Edith Runekill: "Oh! 'Cause you'll be able to fix on my location and triangulate with that." "That's... that's really good thinkin'." Grim nods, giving a slight smile Grim: "Got my moments." "Go on, now. Gimme somethin' to head towards." Edith Runekill: "Maybe more often than you give yourself credit for." "See you soon." Edith Runekill casts Fly, and gently wafts away on the air current until she gains some altitude; she swoops out of sight, towards the camper. Grim watches her go, squinting from under her hat Edith Runekill gently lands on the roof of the camper. Grim gives Edith a minute to reach ground level again, then sets her hat, shoulders her rifle, and sets to navigating the fucking maze at last Edith Runekill tries to catch sight of Grim in the field from the height of the roof, but to no avail. Grim makes pretty short work of the maze once she's able to keep her bearings, maybe ten minutes behind Edith by the time she finds her way back to the entrance.

Once she’s out, Grim finds Edith taking her frustration out on the worker running the maze who maintains flying out of the maze is against the rules. If they had wanted to leave, they were supposed to flag down one of the workers in the watchtower—a worker Edith says disappeared, leaving them alone with Corncob Head.

Corncob Head exits the maze. Edith Runekill: "Sometimes I feel like my whole life is getting out of a corn maOH AURIL WHAT" Corncob Head 's Corn Face is pulled up and a normal human's face is visible under it, like a helmet. Corncob Head looks sweaty and uncomfortable and frankly terrified. Edith Runekill: "...i "...i'm going to die of embarrassment." Corncob Head stands and lights a cigarette under a wooden standee that says "Challenge our spooky corn maze! Dare you face the horror of Cornboy?" Corncob Head 's wooden standee version stands menacingly over the maze. Edith Runekill: "...maybe I shoulda done a bit more vetting in my haste to go get the keys back."

Malkas comes out of the restrooms, adjusting his pants. Malkas: "Oh hey, you made it." Grim eyeballs corncob head Grim doesn't give a fuck how natural or otherwise that thing was, she's still consumed by the desire to punch it Edith Runekill: "This really seems like an irresponsible use of potent folkloric images, if you ask me!" Malkas turns and looks at Corn Boy. Malkas has vague recollections of kids dressing up as "evil tiefling" for halloween and thinks Edith might be overreacting a little. Edith Runekill: "Do they think Corncob Head's a joke? Do they think the darkest stories they tell on the coldest nights in my homeland are just toys they can play around with??" Grim: "Gonna wait in the car." Grim leaves Malkas: "I left half a baked salami in it." Malkas calls after Grim. Grim values that information AND Mal's acquaintance

Resolution!

#summary #previously on #neverwinter 1933

4 notes · View notes