#or maybe like a much shallower pouch

[sodo-fr]

thinking I might draw capsule gene less literally and more like a dewlap

[ladymortimer]

Anyway I told my classmate everything that's bothering me with her in one long message and I didn't feel anything, she also wrote a long reply back but tbh I don't feel like putting any more time and effort into this so called friendship

[pencildragons]

hyping myself up writing chapter 7 of glory be (codywan timetravel but sideways and back) by posting a snippet for you all :] have 500 words of cody being very autistic in his consideration of language <333 (i didnt even write him as autistic on purpose i just had a Realisation that he super super is. because i am projecting how i am autistic in my consideration of language)

“Hey, Cody,” Jon says. Cody, seated upright in his bed, turns towards her. Face white-and-gold and blank as ever, she holds one of the glowing things, a little slimmer than what he reads his holobooks on. The pain in his head is sharp and ugly, and it makes him feel sharp and ugly in places that there is no logical reason for such feelings to be. “Yes,” he acknowledges. Jon bobs her head to the side, flesh appendages flicking in brief amusement. No—they have a name. He read somewhere that they have a name. It is a thin word, fitting like a block of real-wood under the hands of his mind, tucking in beneath his chin and sitting comfortably around his glands. He knows the shape of it, the feel, but the word itself—escapes him. This makes him feel the sharp-ugly feeling in different ways, ways that are not pain. The name of them fits the same shape as cherry blossoms do—he read a holonovel about a cherry blossom gardener, and had found the idea so interesting that he borrowed an encyclopaedia all about the genus as soon as he had finished the series—but it does not reside in quite the same place. Still it evades him. (Stubbornly, the only thing that remains undeveloped is his command of speech. The alt-comm augment is difficult to use, and the amount of language it contains is overwhelming. Cody does not know where to start. And even though they are nearly healed and unburdened by bandages, his hands are clumsy and uncoordinated in a way that fills him with—an emotion. Anger, maybe. He is not certain. He is not certain. In his holobooks, hot, tense feelings are ascribed to anger. (He does not know yet if he likes ascribed. Master Vergu said it once, and it was a thin and papery word between his lips. He does not know. It is not as hideous as alright, but—it is still a disdainful word.) Cody does not feel hot and tense; instead, there is terrible pressure beneath his eyes and in the hollows beneath his cheekbones, curling down to swell resentfully in the soft pouches of the glands beneath his chin. He thinks it is anger. He does not know what else it could be.) Jon is silent in the way he has learnt means that it is his turn to speak, which means he did not hear what she said. The terrible pressure mixes with the sharp-ugliness, intensifies, takes a bitter edge. Xahx. (He thinks this word is something like fuck in his holobooks, but he has only ever heard Jon say it, and only twice at that, sharp and harsh and not meant for him to hear. Fuck is—boring, a character in a holobook would say, and he finds it a dull-round, thin-flat and shallow word, like a machine-pressed circle of metal. Xahx, punchy like the sharp, thick needle in the back of his hand that drip-feeds him analgesics, is much better.) He shifts, flicks the glowing thing containing his holobooks on and off again, bright, dark, bright, dark, and looks at Jon in a way that he hopes will convey his ignorance. The silence continues. It feels—thick. Awkward, if he was a holobook character.

(reblogs appreciated!)

[evolutionsvoid]

I must say that animals are quite the architects sometimes. I feel like it doesn't get acknowledged enough. Us sapient species like to pretend that we are the only ones who do it, that no simple creature could ever achieve such a thing. But look at the intricate nests of birds, the incredible spires of the Mountain Makers and the gorgeous weaving of spiders! How can we pretend these are inferior? Each are so beautiful in their own right, and impressive in their design and complexities! I would say that there are many animals out there that earn the title of "builder" and "architect." In the case of the Mason Maw Carcolh, it is right in the name!

Mason Maw Carcolhs are certainly a member of the Carcolh family, being large shelled mollusks who are known for their impressive size, appetite and adaptations. The Mason Maw is one that shares a similar range with the regular Lou Carcolh, though they tend for rockier areas, but there is no way you would ever get the two confused! First off is that blazing orange color they have! Quite gorgeous and eye catching! Then comes their shell, or what stands in place of their shell. Mason Maws do have shells like the majority of their family, but you rarely ever see them because they are always buried beneath these odd stone constructions. In fact, a whole lot of the Mason Maw is covered in these rocky plates and growths! What's the deal? Do they carve stone and wear it like armor? Not really! The secret behind these structures can be found with the Mason Maws.....well....maw.

These carcolhs have a noticeable pouch formed around their radula, and here the snail produces copious amounts of a gray sticky substance. This paste-like gunk is referred to as "mortar," and the carcolh fills this pouch with as much as it can carry! Maybe that should tell you about the origins of their name, eh? Obviously, though, mortar in the mouth doesn't explain how they have all this stuff on their shell and back. To figure out how that happens, just look to their oral tendrils. Unlike the Lou Carcolh, these aren't nearly as hairy or sticky, and they have special structures on their ends. Any builder or mason would recognize these shapes in an instant! They are the tools the carcolh uses to scoop mortar out of its mouth and spread it onto whatever surface it wants, be it the earth or its own body! Once the mortar is removed from its moist radula pouch, it will begin to dry and harden at a rapid rate. It can turn rock-like in only a few minutes, which means the Mason Maw must work fast! But once it does finish drying out, it can be just as tough as stone! Quite useful, and for a variety of reasons!

Just like its other brethren, the Mason Maw likes to take its prey by surprise. At the speed these snails move, you can certainly rule out the tactic of pursuit. These ones use their stony exterior to blend in with surrounding rocks and landscape, remaining perfectly still as it waits for food. How it catches prey can vary depending on the situation. In most cases, the Mason Maw vomits out a whole bunch of mortar onto its victim when they get close, and the paste sticks fast to fur and hide. The weight and stickiness alone can slow food down enough for the tendrils to grab hold and reel them in. Even if they run, it won't take long for the stuck on mortar to harden. Victims will find themselves slowly petrifying, as their limbs get locked up from the hardening mortar and the weight becomes too much to carry. In minutes, they will be rendered a partial statue, trapped in this stony cocoon as the Mason Maw slowly follows their trail. I can't imagine how terrifying it would be, being stuck in these stone shoes as you watch your painful demise creep towards you inch by inch.

In other cases, the Mason Maw may set a trap. They can either find a shallow hole in the environment or dig one out with their tendrils. Whichever is the case, they then fill the hole with mortar til it is almost level with the rest of the earth. They will then apply a special mucus coating to this pit of gunk, which forms a layer that prevents it from hardening too fast. This mucus is used on their body in places they don't want the mortar to form, that way they don't get bogged down or trap their own movements. The Mason Maw may cover this layered puddle with loose vegetation or dirt, or they may leave it as is. With the mucus layer on top, it gives the reflective look of a pool of water. They then wait, and hope that prey trundles by and steps on this spot. When they do, their limbs will punch right through the disguise and moistening mucus, and straight into the sticky mortar. They will suddenly find themselves in a makeshift tar pit, struggling to get free. This is usually enough for the carcolh to slink out of its hiding place and take them down. No matter how you are caught, death by shredding against their razor toothed radula is certain. 

This mortar sure is handy for making traps and catching prey, but what else can it do? Just look to its shell and see the answer! It is great for defense, creating stone hard plates and rocky armor. The Mason Maw layers its back with mortar to create this intricate armor, which protects it from predators. This prevents the Mason Maw from retracting into its shell, but it seems to work just as good! And speaking of shell, that impressive mass of sculpted mortar is their masterpiece! All Mason Maws use their mortar and tendrils to build upon their shells and create unique pieces of art! While it certainly works great for defense, it is also believed to show off strength, health and win over mates! I have to imagine there is a bit of pride in it too! While they certainly use mortar for the majority of their construction, they also like to add extra bits to it. Shiny rocks, leftovers from prey, random pieces of pretty junk, and even old armor and weapons! Infamous Mason Maws tend to have the armor and blades of knights and slayers built into their shell spires, carried like trophies of previous battles.

Some stories claim that the Mason Maw may trap live prey within these constructs as well! It seems improbable, but they do have paralytic venom and the mortar cures pretty quick. It is probably a rare scenario, but certainly a horrifying one! Imagine being carried around like a piece of jewelry, waiting to be freed by either heroes or death! Pretty freaky! Mason Maws work on these shell sculptures their entire lives, always adding to it or repairing it when needed. In some cases, the carcolh may be so old and intent on making its sculpture bigger that it can trap itself under its own weight! Making a shell too heavy to even carry! If this happens, the carcolh is kind of doomed unless something breaks enough chunks off to lighten the load, or if enough prey is dumb enough to walk right in front of the trapped snail.

Now you may be wondering what society thinks of these strange snails and their intricate sculptures. They are still flesh eating mollusks who won't hesitate to go after any meat in front of them, but do these ones differ in any way? Why yes they do! In fact, humans worship these incredible snails! Take another look at that shell and the mortar creations. Look familiar? Why, it looks like a castle! And humans build castles too! You seeing the link here? Indeed, humanity learned all they know about masonry and rock stacking from these incredible snails, whose unique adaptations ignited a whole new era for humanity. They saw the wondrous mortar and witnessed its use in building great spires and binding one rock to another. From there they were inspired, and they wound up creating the very castles and walls you see to this very day! Why, it is hard to imagine what would have happened to man if they never met a Mason Maw! Would they have ever stumbled upon the secret technique of sticking two bricks together? Well, I think....that I am totally messing with you.

No, humans did not learn how to build stone structures from Mason Maws, I was just being a goof. It is mainly because I keep reading about stuff where some people love to attribute great creations to anyone and anything save for the people who actually made them. They love their fantastical ideas of knowledge from the gods or secret magics lost to time, all while the folk that put in the time and effort to actually construct these things get ignored. Kind of awful, if you ask me. So that is why I did the whole "humans couldn't have possibly built castles on their own thing." Wait, should I be explaining the joke? Probably not, but it wasn't the greatest one to begin with...

So what do people actually think of Mason Maws? They think they are impressive and intriguing when they are a good distance away and not ambushing travelers or livestock. Their shells are admired for their incredible structure and arrangement of random pieces, to the point where empty ones are displayed like art. Some folk even hunt Mason Maws to get the goods that are buried inside all that hardened mortar. I recall a tale where a jewel thief was escaping the law with a whole sack full of goodies when they fell into a Mason Maw trap and were devoured. The stolen stash was then added to the snail's personal artwork, suddenly making it priceless! A whole number of slayers, knights and folk eager for lots of money went running after that unwary snail! The poor thing! It was probably so confused why it was suddenly the most "popular" carcolh around! Sadly, I don't think these people came to admire its craftsmanship!     

Chlora Myron

Dryad Natural Historian

---------------------------------------------------

Hey, since its August, that means its Smaugust! So that means I am going to aim to be posting dragons! So here's one! Another snail dragon! Though it isn't exactly called that. And yes carcolhs aren't dragons. Certainly not True Dragons! Look do you want the snail or not?!

[blackcherryvelvet0909]

Seashell Seashore (Ortho & GN!Reader)

Note: This one-shot with Ortho is strictly platonic

You sighed as you stretched out on your towel. Your sunglasses protected your eyes from the bright rays of sunlight that shone down on the beach. They would certainly get you bone dry before long; you could already feel the sea moisture evaporating from your hair. It’d been a nice swim, exactly what you needed on a hot day like this. The fact the beach was less crowded today was just the syrup on the snow cone. As you rested your arms above your head you closed your eyes, determined to spend the rest of your time relaxing in the sun. 

The sound of splashing took you out of the haze your mind was slowly fading into. Whether out of curiosity or the disturbance of your impending slumber, you opened your eyes and craned your neck forward to look out at the shoreline. Through the shade of your sunglasses you saw Ortho standing ankle-deep in the water, hands reached out in search of…something. Did he drop something into the sea by accident? You worried it might be something vital to his waterproof body. Though your body screamed in protest, you got up from your spot on the towel and trotted over to Ortho. 

“Do you need any help?” you asked as you looked down at the robotic boy. 

Ortho looked up to meet your eye and smiled. “Oh, hello [Y/n]! If you would like to help, I would be very grateful.” 

“What’re you looking for?” Your eyes scanned the shallow water, now cloudy from your footsteps and Ortho’s searching. “Did you drop something?” 

“Oh, no, I did not drop anything.” You sighed in relief - no crisis to be concerned about. “I am looking for seashells.” 

“Seashells?” When you took a closer look at the boy, you realized he had a fanny pack across his chest. The bottom was slightly damp - that must be where he kept them. 

“Mhm!” Ortho nodded. He took one of his hands out of the water and held up a pink one for you to see. “Yesterday, Vil taught me how to make jewelry with them.” He unzipped his pouch, put the little shell inside, then zipped it back up again before he went back to his search. “I want to make one for my brother! He hasn’t come out much since Kingscholar dunked him into the pool the other day.” 

Oh yeah, you remembered that…poor guy. He looked like he almost had a heart attack, not that Leona was too remorseful. At least he got quite the reprimand from Trein for it. You smiled as you rolled up the sleeves of your kimono cover. “Let me help you out with that. I’ll help you make the jewelry once you have enough.” 

“Thank you!” Ortho was practically beaming now. While you could not see the smile under his mask, you could envision it by the way his eyes crinkled with joy. “I believe I have collected enough to make a bracelet. I want to make myself one, too; maybe I can make even more if we gather enough.”

“Well, let’s get to it then!” You knelt down in the water so you could dig further into the sand. “We can look tomorrow, too, if we don’t get enough for a few.”

Ortho seemed excited by the prospect for the way he quickly set to work beside you. The two chatted idly about nothing in particular as you went along long into the day. Sometimes you talked of what either of you had been doing during the trip, while other times you spoke about what you looked forward to doing in the days to come. Before you knew it, the sun had begun to set behind the ways, which cast your surroundings in a light orange hue. You looked up from your current search spot, a few feet from where you’d first begun, to scan your surroundings. It seemed you both were the last two on the beach - everyone else had gone elsewhere. 

“It’s getting late,” you commented. Water dripped from your kimono and swimsuit as you stood. “We should head back to the resort to wash off - it’ll be dinner time soon.” 

“Yes, I think that is a good idea,” Ortho said as he zipped up his fanny back. “Brother will be wondering where I am; I do not want him to worry.” 

“Give me a minute to grab my stuff,” you said as you began to walk back to shore. “I’ll walk back with you.” 

“That is a good idea, too.” Ortho began to hover over the water as he followed after you. “It is best to travel in groups, just in case trouble should ari-”

“Ow!” Your painful cry stopped Ortho mid-sentence. Your foot had hit something hard beneath the sand. You didn’t think you were bleeding, but it sure did hurt! 

“Are you alright?!” Ortho asked, now at your side as his eyes searched you for injuries. “Do you need medical attention?” 

“N-No, I think I’m fine.” You grunted as you lifted your foot out of the water. You bent your leg up and across your other leg to get a better look at your foot. Nope, no cut in sight. It didn’t look like it would bruise, either. You smiled and showed Ortho to reassure him before you put your foot down. 

“See? Just bumped my foot against something.” Your forehead creased as your brows furrowed as you focused on where your foot had been. The water was murky from when you shifted your foot, but you could make out something poking out of the sand. You reached down to grab it, then carefully pulled it out. Both you and Ortho gazed in awe at the object in your hand: a conch shell! 

“Wow!” Ortho’s yellow orbs seemed to swirl with stars as he ogled the large shell. “It’s so pretty! That is a conch, isn’t it?” 

“Yeah!” You couldn’t help but beam yourself as you brought the shell up for a closer look. “These are really hard to find, especially in this condition. This would cost a ton at a gift shop!” 

“It seems to be fully intact as well,” Ortho observed as he circled you to get a full look at the shell. “That is a very good find, [Y/n]!” 

You nodded as you continued to stare at the shell. Its body was a soft pink color that faded to white at the lower and upper tips. You saw that the inside was white as well - smooth, too. You tipped the shell over and shook it gently to get any remaining sand out of it, then put it up to your ear. You smiled as you listened. 

“What are you doing?” Ortho asked as he curiously tilted his head. 

“I’m listening,” you replied as you removed the conch from your ear. “If you press your ear against the opening of a conch, you can hear the sea.”

Ortho raised an eyebrow in confusion. “That is impossible, even if you are on the beach. The sea is not inside the shell; how can you hear it if you are far away?”

You giggled, “It’s just a traditional fantasy, Ortho. You can’t really hear the sea - but the way the air circulates from your ear to the shell sounds like it.” You offered the conch to him. “Here, try it!”

Ortho showed no hesitance as he took the conch and pressed it to his ear. You watched as his eyes widened as he listened. Your smile grew into a grin as Ortho took the conch away from his ear and practically jumped up and down at the discovery. “It does sound like the sea! We must have my brother listen, too!”

“Yeah, we should!” You began to walk again, and Ortho followed close to your side. “I’m sure he’ll think it’s cool.” 

Idia, indeed, thought it was cool - at least that’s what he said for his brother’s sake. You spent a good time in Idia and Ortho’s condo that night as you helped Ortho make little shell necklaces and bracelets. Before you could leave when bedtime came, however, Ortho gave you the conch you’d found. While you protested at first, Ortho insisted that you keep it. 

“I can hear the sea whenever I want to - I just have to load up an audio file.” He gently pushed the conch into your arms. “But you may not be able to one day. When that day comes, you can listen to the conch and remember the time you spent here - the time we found it.” 

Ortho was right. In the future, whenever you grew lonely, you picked up that conch and placed your ear against its crevice to listen to the sea. To relive those memories at the beach with your friends, and the little boy you helped collect seashells for his brother.

[riddlercore]

Huge fan of your Cardassian redesigns, they're my favorite I've seen in the fandom, and I've seen quite a lot of them. I had a quick question about one of the details, pointing to the throat with caption "eggs go here :) dad" -- do they carry their eggs in some sort of throat pouch?

aw, thanks so much for reaching out, that means a lot! and yep, they do! cardassians are hermaphrodites that are known to change gender depending on all sorts of environmental or hormonal stressors, and all genders have throat pouches for traveling with their eggs!

i think that maybe in the early days of cardassian culture that it was typical for them to build hidden nests in the sand for the eggs and spend 90% of their time away from their clutch, but as for “modern” cardassians it’s much more common to keep the eggs in the throat pouch all the time. there is quite literally nowhere safer. not all throat pouches are created equal though!! some cardassians have particularly shallow ones, like garak’s mother, mila! let me dig up my designs…

apologies for quality, uploading from mobile rather than desktop :”)

[artemistorm]

Sky whump?? :D Consider me excited!!

Oh yes my friend. If I'm lucky, I'll have it up by the end of the week. If I'm not, then I won't! Until then (whenever then is), have a snippet:

******

This was the absolute worst place for Sky to be.

Like clockwork, his breath caught in his throat and the minor weight on his chest that had been his constant companion for days now grew, his chest tightening and the severe shortness of breath hit him like a moblin club.

Without delay, Sky pulled his last remaining air potion from his pouch and chugged the remaining quarter of it, hoping against the odds that it would stop this attack in its tracks, but knowing there was no way it would. After a minute or two, he felt the beginnings of that wonderful cold feeling in his throat and chest as it started to work, and hope bloomed in his heart that maybe it actually would work. But then a minute later, his lungs rebelled, clenching tighter and overpowering what little effect the potion had.

It felt like someone was sitting on his chest and cinching down a belt across it as tight as they could. His lungs felt small and compressed, every breath shallow and unsatisfying. He sucked in as much air as he could with an audible wheeze but it was like inhaling through a wet pillow or a straw. At the end of every inhale was that panic-inducing second where his brain screamed that that wasn’t enough air and demanded more than his body could supply.

Sky’s heart pounded. He was having an asthma attack somewhere he couldn’t escape the trigger nor did he have any potion left to stop it. And based on how he felt—terrible and getting worse—this was going to be a bad one. Maybe the worst attack he’d ever had. This wasn’t the time to play around, to be a selfless hero and try to hide it. Sky knew he was in trouble.

He grabbed Time’s arm, pulling him around to face him.

“Wh—Sky?” Time asked, surprised at first, but seeing Sky’s distress, his face darkening with concern. “What’s wrong?!”

Sky opened his mouth but he found he didn’t have any breath to speak with. Instead, he gripped the front of his tunic and forced himself to exhale as much as he could and then inhaled as deeply as possible. “Can’t… breath!” Sky managed to utter between noisy breaths. Beginning to feel light-headed with the effort, he sat down cross-legged on the muddy road.

“It’s your asthma isn’t it?” Time asked kneeling down. Sky nodded. “Do you have any more—” Already knowing what he was getting at, Sky held up the empty potion bottle.

“How bad is it? Do you think you can—” Sky cut him off again, shaking his head. He grabbed Time’s hand and pulled it against his heaving chest.

“Its… bad!” Sky said barely more than a whisper.

[spainkitty]

The Lavellan Clan's Fate

tw: grief and death

Lanil's Pieces Masterlist

Ambassador Montilyet,

I regret that my help for your Dalish allies came too late to be of use. By the time my forces arrived in the area, the Dalish had been scattered or killed, and there seems little left of their clan.

I understand your Inquisitor must be feeling the loss of her clan. Please accept these gifts and my promise of future help whenever it is necessary.

Yours,

Duke Antoine of Wycome

One hundred gold.

It sat in a pouch with the duke's wax crest sealing it closed. One hundred gold in exchange for however many dozens of lives that had made up Clan Lavellan. 

The paper in Lavellan's hand trembled. Crinkled as she tried not to curl her fingers into a fist. Tried desperately not to scream. To light it on fire. To throw it on the ground and shred it beneath her boot.

All of them. People she would never see again. People she couldn't even remember. A Keeper that had called her da'len and asked for her help.

She had failed them. She failed them all. Because she'd decided to play politics. She should've sent Leliana's spies to slit their throats while they slept. Sent Cullen's troops to grind them beneath the Inquisition's heel and leave their pieces for the wolves.

The room around her was too silent, but she wasn't alone. They were staring at her, or maybe staring at their hands, but she felt the weight of their attention. What would their tame Dalish mage do now? Lavellan slammed the missive on the table.

"Tell him whatever you want and sign my name if you must," she hissed between her teeth.

"And the gold--" Josephine began, halting and quiet. Too fucking quiet.

Lavallen raised her head to meet those soft, beautiful eyes filled with sympathy and pity.

"Keep it yourself. Throw it down a hole. Melt it into nothing. Shove it down someone's throat. Preferably the duke's," Lavallen snarled. Josephine winced. "I don't care. I don't want to see it or hear about it. I definitely don't want anything to do with that simpering moron's money. My People are not worth one hundred pieces of his useless fucking gold!"

She spun on her heel and stormed out. Stay any longer and she'd lash out harder, tear into Josephine until the guiltless, kind woman either cried or despised her. Fuck, she probably already did. Blaming the duke for being useless? She was useless. She failed them and she couldn’t even--

She strode through the hall. People called out, bowed, whispered her titles. She thought she heard Varric, his concerned call of "Shortie" at her back. But she didn't so much as slow. She walked faster. Faster. Plowed past the crowd that milled at the gates. The guards bowed to her there, too.

The minute her boots crunched in snow, she ran. Ran so fast, her shoulders hit tree trunks and pine needles whipped at her face. Her eyes stung and her breath heaved past her quivering lips. Finally, when she couldn't run anymore, she fell against a tree, gripped it tight as if it could hold her back, and screamed into the rough bark that scraped her face.

The scream broke off into sobs. Rocking her whole body with them. She slid down, uncaring that her nice silk tunic snagged, that the thin skin near her eye was probably bleeding and full of stinging sap.

They were dead. All of them dead. She didn't even know their names. Their faces. Most of her grief was for herself, because she didn't have enough of them inside her to grieve. She was empty. Shallow. A blank slate. And her only connection to them was a couple pieces of paper saying how proud those faceless strangers were of her. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair to her, but it wasn't fair to them more. How could she mourn them, avenge them, make them proud? She didn't even love them, not truly, not with her entire heart, not as her family.

All she had left was anger while she grieved an idea of people and a home it was more and more likely she'd never remember.

It took a long time for the wailing to end. To run out of tears and breath and selfish guilt. She curled under the tree with her back to the trunk, knees up to her chin, arms tight around her shins, and shuddered and shook her way into control. She couldn't go back until she could apologize for her outburst, then tell Josephine that she hadn't deserved to be at the other end of that tirade. Could Josephine forgive her for the slip?

Just a few more minutes, a few more deep breaths.

...

In the war room, the door had swung shut behind Lavellan's back and all three of them winced. Josephine dropped her tablet and pressed her hands to her face.

"This is my fault! She is right to be so angry! I shouldn't have pressed her--"

"She made the choice and we all agreed on it. It seemed like a good idea at the time," Leliana interrupted. Josephine shook her head.

"I failed her. I failed the Herald. I must take accountability for what I've done," Josephine whispered, voice shaking.

"The only one who failed was this Duke of Wycome," Cullen disagreed, harsh and furious. He punched the table and the map markers rattled. "How well connected to the Inquisition is he?"

"Not... well. Formalities, a few encouraging missives, donations of... of gold." Josephine inhaled unsteadily and they all stared at the pouch on the table.

"Then, we must investigate those so-called bandits. If they're smart, they will be long gone, but my people are smarter. They'll find a trail," Leliana said fiercely.

"The question is why. Why would bandits destroy an entire clan? What do they gain? How was it even possible?" Cullen exclaimed. "I know how Dalish fight and they were on their territory, defending their own. It doesn't make sense."

"All excellent points both of you made weeks ago that I encouraged Her Worship to ignore. I put her trust in a stranger who obviously did not have their best interests at heart," Josephine said, finally finding a sliver of anger in the midst of her guilt. At herself, at the Duke. It didn't matter. It stiffened her resolve and her eyes flashed. "I will do anything to help. I must fix what I can, even if it is only getting justice for them."

"Josie, you must not let this be personal," Leliana warned.

"Of course it is personal! Her entire clan is dead! Massacred in their home!" Josephine cried. "Duke Antoine is obviously a simpering moron, but I have other contacts that I trust wholeheartedly, who have proven themselves to us. I will see to it."

"I will make sure my people get their part done as well. As quickly and ruthlessly as possible. Whoever is behind this, they will not get away with it," Leliana vowed.

"Lavellan..." Cullen said quietly. The women glanced at him. "She should not be told. Not until we know more of what is happening in Wycome. I don't want her to..." He trailed off awkwardly.

"Of course, Commander. We three will see it done. When we have answers for her, then the Herald will know."

"It won't bring them back, but perhaps she will find peace in the answers," Cullen agreed heavily. He looked up at Leliana. "I will tell our troops near Wycome to stand ready. I don't think the bloodshed is over."

"Neither do I."

"We must make sure to protect as many as we can," Josephine said.

Silence fell again. All three were drawn to the pouch still on the table.

"I personally liked the idea of shoving it down the duke's throat," Leliana said at last.

"It seems the most poetic," Josephine said. Then, sighed. "Unfortunately, we have no proof yet that he isn't just incompetent."

"Throw it down a hole." Cullen's lip curled in distaste and he left the room.

"I'll find a hole, I suppose," Josephine said. Leliana laid a hand on her arm, squeezed gently, then followed after Cullen. Josephine grimaced lightly and picked up the pouch with the very tips of two fingers.

...

The guards at the gates bowed again when Lavellan returned. She lifted a hand, actually acknowledging them, but made sure to keep her face in shadow. It was well and truly dark now, not a trace of sunset left, a few torches guttering in their sconces to light the passage, so it wasn't difficult.

"Commander left orders to make sure the gates stayed open until you returned, Your Worship. Should we close them for the night or will you leave again?" one guard asked.

Something squeezed in her chest at the idea of Cullen coming down here to make the order himself, maybe looking out to see if she was already on her way back. But he'd probably only sent a message. He had more important things to do than worry over a grown woman who'd thrown a temper tantrum like a child.

"I won't be going back out. And... um," she inhaled and tried to smile. "Thank you."

Both guards bowed again, somehow even more upright and square-shouldered than before.

"Of course, Your Worship."

She walked... more like trudged forward as the porcullis rattled downward. Hopefully Josephine was in just as concerned a mood as Cullen. Apologies were not Lavellan's forte and her tongue was already in knots.

"Lethallan."

"Shortie!"

She glanced up, startled, as Varric and Solas rushed towards her. Even worse, Cassandra and Dorian were right behind them. All of them had matching worried expressions, and Cassandra looked downright disheveled. Some random courtier behind her looked even more disheveled and a little terrified.

Lavellan forced that smile back on her face.

"What's this? Roughing up poor strangers just because I went on a walk?"

"A walk? Shortie, you've been gone the entire day," Varric said. Lavellan grimaced. So he had seen her leave the hall that morning.

"Lane, you didn't even wear a coat and you're soaked to your waist," Dorian added.

She glanced down and realized how filthy and damp and rough her clothes were. And yes, her breeches were all but soaked through.

"There was... snow." She suddenly shivered. She hadn't felt cold at all until Dorian had pointed it out.

"Really, Inquisitor, you must take care of yourself," Cassandra scolded.

Cool, smooth fingers under her chin lifted her face and she met Solas' dark grey eyes. He frowned, his gaze flicking to the side of her face.

"Did you also walk into a tree?" he asked gently. "Perhaps several trees."

"Ha. Funny. As a matter of fact, yes. It's dark at night, you see, and I didn't see them."

"You didn't see the trees... as you walked straight into them? Several times?" Varric reiterated slowly.

"Yes. It was dark."

"Darling, that is the worst lie I've ever heard."

"I can do better. How about I saw a tree and decided it'd be really fun to run headfirst into it. Or I punched a tree and it decided to punch back."

"Or you tell us why you're lying at all?" Varric interrupted as she was getting going. She grimaced.

Blessedly cool magic stroked the side of her face and she tried to jerk away. Solas merely reeled her back in with one hand and kept his other hand on her face. She flushed in embarrassment. She felt like a naughty child all over again.

"It's just a scratch--"

"It's several scratches and they're filthy. So hold still while I do this," Solas admonished. Lavellan scowled. "Stop doing that with your face. That's moving, lethallan."

She scowled harder and he sighed.

"Must you keep us in suspense like this? Surely you can allow us to help you," Cassandra demanded.

Lavellan tried to shake her head; Solas tsked loudly.

"I will tie your head still if I must."

"Perhaps not in the middle of a crowd of people. Oh, look at that, more people are coming to see the fuss. Perhaps the gossip will no longer involve you and I, darling."

"Fine. Fine! We can... we can go somewhere... somewhere private. You'll find out anyway," Lavellan muttered. The icy balm ebbed away.

"We can go to the Rotunda. It has a small measure of privacy," Solas offered. His fingertips tapped her skin. "You made it difficult, but I finished here."

"Because it was a scratch. A few scratches." She shivered again as wind blew through the passageway. Funnily enough, she was warmer while Solas was using his chill-touched magic.

"All right, Shortie. Let's get you outta the wind." Varric set a hand on her elbow and guided her forward. The heat of his big hand warmed her through the thin silk and tension leaked slowly from her.

It was them. It would be all right.

Dorian, with all his charming pomp, called for tea the moment they entered the hall. Solas had barely settled a threadbare coat around her shivering shoulders when an elf woman appeared, arms laden with a tray filled with much more than tea. Biscuits, a platter of fruit and cheese, several scones glittering with sugar, and a very large pot of tea crowded for space on the tray that was probably heavier than the woman carrying it. Lavallen blinked at the tray, then at the woman, utterly speechless.

"The Herald means thank you. Absolutely lovely assortment. Thank you, my dear." The elven woman blushed, bowed, and hurried from the room. Dorian poured Lavellan the tea himself, adding a generous helping of sugar, before setting it into her numb hands. "Sugar helps get through bad news, darling."

"It's definitely bad news if you went out and got into fights with trees," Varric said, pulling up one of Solas' few chairs.

Lavellan sipped at the tea, trying not to grimace at how sweet it was, but sipped again. Sugar really was helping, even if she hated it.

"Elves. They have... we have some sort of..." Lavellan tightened her grip around the cup, letting the tea burn her palms through the delicate porcelain. "Prayers, a ritual... for the dead. Don't we? I... don't remember." She closed her eyes and pressed her lips together.

Her four friends exchanged heavy glances.

"Yes. I could help you remember it," Solas offered finally.

"Shortie, who died?" Varric asked, that large, warm hand on her arm again.

"Varric, that is... there must've been a kinder way to--" Cassandra stumbled over her words, offended at his lack of tact.

Lavellan laughed, harsh and cracked. "Kinder way to ask? In what world is there a kinder way to ask? It's still the same answer." She got to her feet, stared down at the tea, and then dropped it carelessly to the table. It rattled and rocked and dark liquid spilled over its rim to drip sluggishly to the floor. "Everyone. Every single Lavellan clan member is dead. And if they aren't dead, they're scattered like leaves thousands of leagues away. And I'm here! I should have gone home. I should have been there."

She panted, chest shuddering unevenly with each breath, hands curled into fists.

"Da'len--"

"No! Don't." She skittered away before Solas could touch her. She pressed her knuckles to her mouth and stared at the slowly growing puddle. Inhale. Exhale. Control. "The Keeper. They called me... I don't even know if they're a man or a woman, I don't remember them. But they called me da'len, so just... just not today. Not now."

"I understand."

He sounded so... so patient. Her eyes shuttered closed.

"What do you need, Lavellan? Is there anything that we can do?" Cassandra asked. So gently. That blunt kindness that was so particular to her.

"We can be there, when Chuckles here helps you...?" Varric offered.

Lavellan nodded. "But not today."

The idea of letting go of this grief, this rage, in any way; she wasn't ready for that. She wasn't ready to say good-bye. She didn't know how she'd get through it, how much she'd be able to hold down, hold back, while they stood with her. While Solas spoke words she should know to help their spirits travel to the Beyond without her. When the screaming in her head stopped, she'd be ready. But not yet.

"Maybe... we could talk about something else. Anything else," Lavellan suggested quietly.

There was an awkward shifting. And then,

"I'm thinking about naming your story, The Worst Misadventures of Thedas and the Unlucky Son of Bitch that Survived Them."

"Oh, Varric," Cassandra groaned. "I thought you said you weren't writing it?"

"Isn't Worst Misadventures rather redundant?" Solas asked.

"Everyone's a critic. And Seeker, I just said you wouldn't be in it."

Lavellan chuckled. The coat she'd dropped fell around her shoulders. She looked up, and found Dorian smiling gently down at her. The other three bickered over Varric's book title and doled out some food while he wrapped the coat more tightly.

"You were shivering again."

"Oh." She glanced towards the puddle of tea. "I made a mess."

"Solas will survive."

"I yelled at Josephine."

"She most likely already understands."

"I should apologize."

"Apologize? You? Darling, all of Thedas will feel the earth shift. The mountains will crumble and the oceans will boil."

"I'm not that bad." She scowled at him.

"No, but it's nice to have that familiar face back."

She scowled harder, but her lips twitched. He made to move away, his arm so casually slung around her about to leave.

"You could--" He stilled, an eyebrow rising. "We could stand. Like this. For a minute." Her fingers kneaded at linen as she stared at Dorian's chin, face heating.

"Yes, we could." His arm tucked a little more firmly around her.

Slowly, hesitating for every incremental inch, Lavellan lowered her head to his shoulder. It was the lightest pressure, her whole body stiff and ready to flee, until he squeezed her reassuringly. She slumped against his side and watched Cassandra, Solas, and Varric heatedly argue about tea. She was pretty sure Varric was only agreeing with Solas as eloquently as he was to fluster Cassandra. She smiled.

[mzkora]

Laundry Day Shenanigans

PROMPT: SAXX

PAIRING: Solo!Dean (Wincest/weirdcest undertones)

WORD COUNT: 1,699

RATING: Explicit

TAGS: Masturbation, SAXX Underwear, Scent Kink, Come Eating

SUMMARY: Dean gets left behind to do the laundry which he hates! He finds an unexpected way to enjoy himself.

WARNINGS: incest undertones

WRITTEN FOR: @spnkinkevents

Dean pouted, walking into Sam’s bedroom with the kidney bean–shaped laundry basket he preferred to use held in front of him so he could cross the threshold. The second he was in the room and had the space, his basket was back on his hip out of the way, the few dirty boxers and socks he already had in there swishing with the movement. They’d had a light week hunting-wise, which meant a light load for the laundry, which should’ve meant they could skip a week so Dean could watch the game or something and leave all their dirties for Sam’s turn. But no! Here he was about to waste water and soap while Sam got to have all the fun going into town on a supply run.

Yanking his phone out of his pocket, Dean unlocked it and opened his text message conversation with Sam. As per his last text Sam had arrived in town and hit the liquor store. A whoosh from his phone and he got another update: Heading to grocery store.

Get pie! Dean replied. He typed out a second message quick: I want apple!

I know! Sam sent back with one of those eye-rolling emoji things. Dean pursed his lips and huffed through his nose. “Smart ass,” he mumbled, stuffing his phone back into his pocket. He stepped over to Sam’s hamper in the corner and shook his head at the mess of clothes just left on the floor in a careless pile. “Fucking brat.”

Annoyed and muttering under his breath, Dean stooped over and jerked his brother’s dirty whites up off the floor leaving the rest for later because apparently there would also be a later. “How does he have so much freaking laundry?” he asked the empty room. “Where’s he going?”

Dean grunted and shook his head some more. “Guess Mister Brainiac can’t be bothered to wear underwear more than once,” he groused, snatching a black pair of boxer briefs off the floor. The white brand name SAXX stood out bright and clean from the waistband and Dean snorted. “Not even stained.”

He brought the pair of his brother’s specially ordered, specially designed briefs to his nose and sniffed the crotch. They smelled good! They smelled like Sam…and musk, but not overwhelmingly so, not why-did-I-let-it-go-this-long bad. “Clean freak,” he disparaged, flipping them over to check the back. He didn’t catch a whiff of anything but that good manly Sammy smell.

He sniffed the crotch again. Just to be sure! His nose pressed into the soft polyester fabric that Sam insisted on having. He breathed in deep, taking a lungful of that Sammy smell that was still so fresh. “Must’ve worn them just this morning, Mister Too Good For Off The Rack,” he muttered to nobody. He eyed the special front pouch thing that they paid extra for because Sam ‘needed it’ or whatever. “Probably doesn’t even fill out all that extra space in there.”

Dean’s dick twitched, slowly getting hard in his jeans without him even noticing. He brought the SAXX underwear to his face again and this time gently sucked at the crotch where his little brother’s cock would go. “Not even a piss stain on it,” he spat. His cock throbbed and Dean glanced down at his own two legs, spotting his erection as a hard line along his thigh. “Huh…”

Lifting his head Dean stared at the SAXX brand embroidered boldly on the waistband wondering why he was hard and why Sam demanded special underwear and why he cared. “Maybe,” he murmured, his breathing shallow. Was his little Sammy really packing? He blushed just thinking those words, his cock so hard he could barely breathe.

“No way,” he said with the hint of a smile curling one side of his mouth. Sam was big all over so it made sense, but it couldn’t be right. It was just so unfair! Bad enough Sammy was taller than him but also maybe bigger? Dean just couldn’t wrap his head around it. It was like a cruel joke!

“Sonofabitch,” Dean whispered, realization hitting him in the chest where his heart was thump-thump-thumping like a wild animal caught in a trap. Dean dropped his laundry basket to the floor, not even hearing it clatter against the stone as he stuffed his face into his little brother’s underwear.

I have to do something, he mused, not aware of anything but that wonderful Sammy stink. He moaned at the softness of the fabric against his face, the silky glide. His dick throbbed. Dean palmed his aching hard-on through his jeans and an idea hit him hard and fast. He lowered the SAXX briefs and smirked at them. His phone dinged in his pocket. Without even looking at the text he knew it was his brother. “Don’t worry, Sammy,” he said, staring at the underwear in his hands. “I’ll clean this bad boy right up.”

Not waiting a second to think about what he was doing, Dean unbuckled his belt and unzipped his pants single-handedly. He shoved his boxers down and winced as he tugged his very hard cock up out of confinement. He stroked the shaft absently, almost dizzy, his eyes stuck on that pristine white thread that spelled out SAXX. “Oh,” he muttered, taking a few shaky steps back as he got the reference.

“SAXX, like sacks,” he declared to the empty air. “Like ball sa—“

Dean swore as he tripped over his own feet and toppled onto Sam’s shoddily made bed. He sprang partly upright, one hand bunching his brother’s underwear while the other clutched at Sam’s sheets that were exactly like his own. He glimpsed his hard cock jutting out from between his legs and collapsed into the firm, memory-foamed mattress.

Panting, he raised the hand holding the SAXX briefs up over himself like they were a thing he had just discovered. His cock throbbed while he crumpled that soft meshy black fabric between his fingers. “I get it, Sammy,” he announced like his brother might actually hear him. “I really do.”

Without thinking he all but slammed the ball of polyester into his face and grabbed his cock at the same time. He closed his eyes and inhaled that Sammy scent like it was the sweetest perfume, stroking his cock fast and rough. He mouthed at the mesh trying to get a taste of his Sam, the warm and alive and stinky-smelly Sammy that had worn these briefs just a couple hours before. In his sleep. While he made breakfast. On his run!

Dean groaned, already so close…

Moaning, Dean rolled onto his side and let the SAXX briefs drop onto the sheets. He unfurled that black crumpled ball and wriggled his hips to get higher up on the bed so that he could get his cock on that silky smooth fabric. He shivered, dragging the tip of his cock around his brother’s briefs and gasped, feeling those SAXX-spelling threads on his shaft. He fucked Sam’s special pouch once, twice and then grunted, breathless and shaking. He came all over his brother’s underwear, staining that barely worn black with thick globs of white. Dean whimpered, forcing his eyes open so he could watch his come coat the mesh and start soaking into it.

Or not…?

“Shit!” Dean shuddered, flushed and out of breath, wiping the leaking head of his cock into the briefs. He huffed and puffed, holding himself upright on one trembling arm as he waited and watched his jizz slowly cooling on the surface of his little brother’s SAXX.

There was little to no absorption.

“Sonofabitch,” he growled.

Ding!

Dean nearly jumped out of his skin at the loud chime of his phone. Another text. Using his slightly comey hand, Dean gingerly pulled his phone out of his pocket and read Sam’s text: All done. Got the pie. On my way back.

Heart racing, Dean tossed his phone into his laundry basket without thinking and sat up on the bed, grabbing the stained briefs and holding them up in the air. His come followed the pull of gravity, sliding down the slick surface, and Dean whined in annoyance. His perfect little prank was ruined! He couldn’t leave these for Sam to find later in his drawer all pressed but reeking of jizz! The evidence was too obvious! And currently dripping!

In a rush, Dean stuffed the briefs into his face, getting come on his cheeks and chin as he sucked up what he could. He almost gagged on the strong, salty flavor and the thick mucusy texture but he got down as much as he could suction up. His prank could still work!

He held the briefs away from his burning-red face. Strings of jizz still stood out on the dark mesh. He hurriedly scrubbed the material against his jeans until he got everything out. That done he vaulted over to Sam’s dresser and tugged on the briefs to stretch them as flat as possible before stuffing them into his brother’s underwear drawer.

Prank accomplished!

In a blur, Dean shoved his still semi-hard cock back into his pants and did them up tight. He rushed to his brother’s hamper and nabbed the remaining clothes off the floor, throwing them all into his basket to be sorted later. Next he dumped Sam’s hamper in too, though the basket overflowed. He set the thing back down into position and then clutched the stragglers to his chest, heaving the basket off the floor before making a run for the Bunker’s laundry room.

He nearly slammed himself into Sam’s doorframe on the way out, hissing as he stubbed a couple fingers, but he kept going like a trooper with that post-nut flush still high on his slightly sticky cheeks. As he turned into the laundry room, he found himself smiling, excitement bubbling in his gut. He couldn’t wait for Sam to find the dirty briefs. God! He might even put them on before realizing anything was off! Dean chuckled to himself. Not his Sammy. His Sammy would know right away. He smirked, already imagining the fury and disbelief in his brother’s voice once he discovered Dean’s dirty deed. He couldn’t wait!

[randomlurkerblog]

Gifts

this is for the wayfarer anniversary giveaway with the prompt "gifts". i wanted this to be longer but never got around to writing the rest of this fic so i've just got the final scene here.

~700 words

Aeran doesn’t wait for her, bounding past the landing, which suits Sterris just fine. This ancient section of the Spire exposes its watery allasar foundations, which peek out behind moss and dust and worn stone brick in silvery ripples. When she’s sure he won’t hear her over his own chatter, she bends and wheezes, clutching a stitch at her side. Damned elves and their damnably long legs.

Still gasping, she steps onto a parapet as a final beam of sunlight emerges as the sun sets behind the Frostfall Mountains. A dying forest juts defiantly out of the valleys below, crowned in ginger and chestnut against the coming chill. The air is surprisingly warm, and Sterris nudges Aeran towards the view with her hip.

“Took you long enough. What-?”

In the clear autumn gloaming, the snow-tipped mountains and frosty clouds stretch the sun’s rays further, and the whole world looks like it’s caught aflame. For Sterris, Nesactium was an endless blare of danger and uncertainty - nothing like this.

Aeran comes and rests his arms on the outer wall, and exhales slowly, mindlessly turning a piece of rubble round in both hands. His time on the streets was shorter than hers, but she wonders if he feels it anyway.

The sun’s rays are so weak Sterris can stare near directly into the dying sun unchastised. She’s enthralled, and as she holds out her hand to him, she feels an odd kinship with the singing fervour a paper-moth must feel as it dives directly into torch-light.

Aeran gives her the rock without hesitation.

The lowering sun darkens the entire landscape by contrast, and black squirms inwards from the edges of the sky as the air gets cooler.

Sterris brings out a blunt pocket-knife with a small flourish. She scratches two words into it as evenly as she can, while Aeran sits atop the outer wall and watches the night seep in.

“It’s just a rock,” Aeran cocks his head to the side and grins at her concentration. “would you like me to get you rocks? Do you need a rock guy?”

Despite herself, Sterris scoffs, “Shut up,” and her guilt returns with a vengeance.

“Thanks,” she amends. Now Aeran just looks confused. She exhales. “I meant for bringing me here.” She doesn’t meet his gaze. “You were right before. I needed to get out of my own head, and it’s really nice here, and I shouldn’t have been so…huffy.”

Sterris meets his gaze for a moment. She looks away, so she hands him a rock with their names etched crudely onto it.

“Will you keep it?”

He smiles and takes the rubble. Aeran runs his thumbs across its shallow grooves just as the sun sinks below the watery horizon. The last traces of amber sunlight seep out of the sky. Like life heat dissipating from a corpse.

Sterris wonders if she’s been too sincere. Is it too soon for friendship rocks? Is it too early in the friendship timeline to drag your maybe-friend around the whole castle and show her the sunset? Aeran puts it into his belt-pouch, and now it’s Sterris’ turn to smile. She bumps her shoulder with his side, more affectionately this time.

“We should form a partnership. We can set up a carved rock stall next time Master Varyn takes us out for bartering.”

Aeran swings around to face her and leans against the rich night sky, propped up by nothing but his hands, and Sterris has never been so terrified in her life.

“We should.”

“excellent. I’ll tell Master Varyn-”

“the partnership thing, not the rock stall,” he clarifies. “That’s dumb. I meant you’re not as much of a goody two shoes as I thought.”

Sterris balks. “Goody two shoes? Did you forget the entire trip here? If Cenric told you to hurl yourself off that wagon, you’d be halfway back to Trost before you could say, ‘Yes, sir!’”

“Master Cenric.”

“Not helping your case.”

An evening chill turns through the Spire’s towers, bringing a shiver Sterris cannot suppress. Aeran drops from his perch to stand next to her and conclusively spreads out his arms to the heavens.

“Time to go inside, I think.”

“Yeah.”

They leave the whispering night-scape, black and bejewelled, behind them.

[therealrpalmas]

Recording

"Recon mission, planet Vrish. Day three, 5250320, 120228 CST." A weak cough. Her chest hurt, too. Had rocks landed there on their way down? Had she bounced off something? Or was it a precursor to another episode? Oh yes, that would just be perfect, given her present situation.

"Trapped under a boulder after a landslide on my way out of the cordoned zone. Can't move. Can't reach autodoc to assess damage." Her belt, with all the pouches, was pinned under the boulder as well. "Tried to push the boulder off. Doesn't give. Maybe during a next tremor. Provided a next one won't bring the rest of the hillside down." Another cough. Stars, she was thirsty. "Can't reach water bottle either. But maybe… wait. Pause recording."

There was one in her backpack. Where was her backpack?

She found it, half under her, what she first had mistaken for another piece of rock. Getting it out from under her proved to be an exhausting ordeal. She could barely move, but at least her arms were free. Tugging, pulling, whispering curses, she nearly passed out because of the effort it took… but eventually it came free.

The backpack had suffered, too, one strap was sliced clean through, but the other one had held. She closed her eyes for a few moments, taking a few slow, shallow breaths, then mustered what strength she had and fumbled at the clasp which held the backpack closed. It opened after a few tries. Water bottle, oh yes. She held it between badly trembling hands, opened the nipple with her teeth and sucked. Slowly, slowly… She still coughed, spluttering precious water, and stars merciful stars it hurt.

She released the nipple and set the bottle down.

"Resume recording. At least I'm lying at the right side of the hill. Not in full sight of the watchtowers. Or… is it the right side? I could signal for help if I was on the other side. Will be in trouble then, having to explain what I did here, but might be better than this…"

She closed her eyes again. Talking hurt too. Everything hurt. First an episode, and now this. Today was not a good day.

"Tried hailing Nightstar again. Or anyone. No response. Not even Ciadan. No surprise there. I wonder how she managed to reach me in the first place. Did she send me here? Why? 'Instabilities' she said." Another cough. "Well, this place's instable alright. Pause recording."

She struggled to move again, tried to sit up, but that attempt was as succesful as the previous ones. In other words, not at all. Lifting her head did work, after a fashion. With a few tries she managed to shove the backpack under her head, turning it into a lumpy pillow. It was far from ideal, but at least she could look around now. More or less.

Hills, hills, hills… the boulder obstructed her view, but she doubted the landscape behind it differed much from what she could see. Certainly nothing had stood out the last time she had studied it, before she fell.

"Resume… recording. Oh, merciful stars, it hurts. Thinking is hard. Gotta be a way out of this. Gotta be. If I could only think…"

Her hand crept up, searching for the small bulge under her shirt. It was still there. She reached higher, fumbled for the chain on which the crystal star hung, pulled it out, closer her hand around the star. The fall hadn't broken that. It would take a lot more than a fall to break it. Welcome warmth flowed through her, blunted the edge of the pain, gave her some room to think again.

She could translate herself. It would take a lot of energy, would drain the star and herself, maybe to the point of triggering another episode, at the very least making a next one a lot more likely. But at least she would be free. And it would have to be soon. The longer she was trapped under that rock, the more damage it would do to her. She was by no means a healer, but she had heard enough stories, had seen enough herself during earlier trainings to know the risks.

Translate. But to where? Everything here seemed as unstable as the spot she was lying on. The very fact of her translation could trigger another landslide, one which would drag her along with it.

No. Wait. There. To her left and above her. The landslide which had brought her here had unearthed a bare patch of the hill itself, bare, smooth rock. A jagged scar indicated that something had broken off there and slid down. Maybe the very boulder which was the cause of her current predicament. If she could make it to there…

"Resume recording. One chance to get out of this situation. Have to try it. Please, please, let it work…"

She focused on the spot. Envisioned the place where she wanted to appear. Reached out to it with her mind. Concentrated on herself, allowing herself to feel everything, all the pain, all the broken pieces.

Her hand tightened around the star. More energy, burning hot, flooding her, drowning out all sensations in a white haze…

and then darkness.

(To be continued.)

[castle-dominion]

1x6 always buy retail

Voodoo voudu vodun idk much of anything but whatever it is it's p cool & there are actually some branches which I think are forms of folk catholicism. Haitian Vodou is the one I know, well, nothing about & idk how correct I am but not /nothing/ nothing. From what I know, it is a french voodoo that formed in the americas in the caribbean (yk where p much all the natives were killed & then the europeans sent a ton of african ppl there as slaves, I think this all had smth to do with chocolate, possibly sugar tho) & it is a syncretism with catholicism, originally started out as an ATR. That's probs why the individual at the beginning sounds almost like they are speaking french. My french is rusty tho & I'm hard of hearing & the captions are empty.

My q is, what's up with the fellow's eye? OH WAIT OH GOSH OH WOW THIS IS A LOT lmao I like how he says "yeah why did we ever get divorced except for the reason we got divorced" & then kisses her again. They say your tattoo artist know what you sound like in bed: I can't tell if rick is in pain thinking about meredith or if she has her mouth somewhere.

I'd like to see an episode where they think someone is african-american & then they find out this person is australian. I think that would be nice.

RC, once beckett snaps him out of it: I had sex with my ex-wife this morning. Everyone: ... (this is a murder scene. they kind of stop & look at each other & castle & just... that was random) RC: My first ex-wife, Meredith. Alexis's mom. (girl idk if ppl want to hear) (special hell: for ppl who talk at the theater. Oh firefly.) RC: The hell of a deep-fried Twinkie. KR: A deep-fried Twinkie?? RC: Yeah. The guilty pleasure that you know is bad for you, so you only do it once, maybe twice a year for the novelty. *The boys nod & gesture their understanding.* But a deep-fried Twinkie every day is...

KB: Crime scene. Dead body. A little respect here. RC: I don't think he can hear me. I mean he's right. Once I'm dead y'all can't hear me so yk chill out. idrc. If I die, I'm dead.

Doesn't rigor mortis take two hours to set in & then ages to leave? Would it be hard to move the body then? bc that's one reason zombies can't exist, to move they would need to rip apart their muscles & then they would no longer be able to move.

JE: Vodun? What is that, some kind of Star Trek thing? *smiles at ryan like he cracked a funny joke* KR: No, dude, it's a religion. Practiced primarily in West Africa. *ppl look at him.* What? I read, too.

See? Beckett got Ryan into Castle novels.

KB Have CSU run the pouch. Have an M.E. test the blood. And let's get his fingerprints in the system, see if there's an ID. This ritual - I assume that it was done for a specific purpose? JE That's only if you're assuming that the guy doing this was rational. RC No, no. She's right. It might not make sense to you or me, but, uh, if we found out why he did this, we might find your killer. JE ("duh") Yeah, that's kinda how we do it. *him & ryan smile at him like :| like yeah bro. yeah. sarcastic I think.*

Just reading out loud to her. paris... like new york or did she take alexis to france? Castle is right about crazy ppl & sex. KB: how shallow are you? RC: Very

Obv she's going to be a practitioner. Um, it's fiction? I feel bad. He probably wrote vodun as scary evil bad for derrick storm when she told him a ton of rly cool stuff. Ooh, hardcore nigerian, now that's fun. See? Saints. I love how beckett reacts when Michelle says she is a practitioner. Girl, shut up. See michelle knows what's up. Cow's foot has plenty of gelatin, we used veal knucklebones for stock my first week of culinary school. Braised for a long time or simmered, the connective tissue in the meat would really soften up. I think cow's foot soup sounds delish. Plus, they obviously cleaned it! I like how she is a practitioner & also owns a cool restaurant. I wonder how much research the show producers & writers & ppl actually did for this episode.

Yeah. There are people who do bad things in every religion & lack of religion. Hold the reins on your racism & religious prejudice (which tbh is racially informed too).

Ryan is a first name, why is it his last name?

Sounds like ryan said "his" name is Darcy Cho. Darcy is technically a unisex name, originally a men's name, but then she's a woman. Neat, the cops from the other side of the city called these folks. Cool how we get a murder that's far away today.

Lol ryan really is a castle fan now. But he remembers what chapter that was? I can't even remember what BOOK something is from. (Ryan also looks normal now, the first few episodes they were really floundering to get all the characters down. At least they figured it out by now.)

Mom? I like how alexis is playing along in front of simmons. Fine but promise we're not leaving the city.

RC: There's a lawyer joke there somewhere, I just can't think of it.

Things are coming together <3 eeheehee

Remember japan? penthouse suite 14 floors up? walked it? yeah. Good times. West side story vibes. Just watched "america" bc of that. Good times. Woah gun out already? acab. These boys have the right idea. Keep ur mouth shut.

Ooh a mysteries "he" Yeah. Sounds about right. Weird. I feel like u should be able to be a citizen easier. I mean like. You're living here ain't u? Can anyone do that or do u need to be a priest?

Love the "yo yo" lol. Also I swear ryan has worn espt's exact outfit & esposito has worn ryan's exact outfit. Just a couple episodes ago.

Meredith: Richard! Over here! JE: Deep-fried Twinkie? Ryan just watching w that slight frickin smile RC, eyes closed as if he's getting a headache: 'Fraid so. Oh look at that, Ryan has a castle book. The way the three are standing stacked up like that Kitten? (rysposito laugh) RC: I had this dream once, only I was naked and far less embarrassed. Oh no she's going to end up helping. RC: what'd she do? (I think. my lipreading skills aren't good yet.) AC: shopping.

You got it boss. I love boss. I should call ppl boss more often.

I wish they would actually get a sketch artist to do it when they describe ppl to them. idk if they just get sketches of the actors to make it look accurate but I think it would be cool to see. I got an ai art account back when I saw it as just another tool, a medium for people to use, before I realized that AI need to learn & so it's essentially art theft, but anyway I just put in some prompts & it spat out a few options, one of them looked a little bit like a cartoon version of the person I was trying to get. They had writing on their forehead but other than that... & then I tried to evolve it a few times & at some point it spat out realistic-ish images & none of them looked close.

KB: Someone on Canal Street's got to know this guy. KR: Mmm. KR, eyes moving: Where's Castle? KB: He went home. KR: Deep-fried Twinkie, huh? KB: I didn't ask. KR: *smiles watching leave*

RC: I wonder if she could get arrested in New York. I know people now.

Castle listening graciously to his mom. Apparently Susan Sullivan (MR) was actually a broadway actress & so playing her on TV is kind of like she's playing herself. idrk. I think it's good that they got a theater actor to play the theater mom. She is kinda like martha. Red hair, fiery temper, kinda reckless (getting her kid out of school), tbh probs kinda,, worldly ; ) & also an actor.

Lol who tf cares. RC: You ladies picking out something pretty for yourselves? Alright fine just cut your way in! That's nice! /s Lol the bolt cutters just falling Ooh neat little sigils on the ground

Yeah lol smuggling. KB: Castle? Castle! RC: I'm on TV. KB: Are you having a breakdown? RC: Not a breakdown. A breakthrough. And I really am ruggedly handsome, aren't I? XD XD XD. Apparently NF gets ppl coming up to him on the street saying this line. Castle only says it once & Ryan says it once too, but it was in the intro so ppl heard it every time.

Castle & this guy. I like how this guy knows oni, or at least says hi.

Lady. this is an electronics store. I got cameras all over this place.

I like the way espt says his own name. not espozido, but esposito. Their little handshake uwu

Don't say Azi is willing to testify! Let him keep his identity hidden!

Love ryan's green shirt btw, it's been there for a while I just haven't mentioned it. Why does he walk like that tho? He walks from side to side, very... idk. movey. He just sways a lot, but it is a little bit less fluid than a sway. Like he has hip problems almost.

Why is castle taking off his jac-- OH YES THIS SCENE! SO EXCITED! dhkjshfajks bc he's not police, but might as well have a vest! tbh when I first started watching the show, actually when my mom showed me a clip where he was speaking chinese & mentioned a show he used to love (firefly reference? that's y she showed me) I thought that the cops had given him this. Apparently he got it himself lol.

Bro should be careful. If they see him sneaking around behind them he might get shot. Oh no I remember how this goes. I always have my phone on vibrate, & half the time I have it on low-power mode, so it prevents vibrations, so my phone is straight up silent. Except when I get phone calls, then it still vibrates I think, but idk bc I don't usually get calls. Regardless, I always have my phone on vibrate & so should you, at least if you're in a tactical thing like this. Oh no I don't want to hear it I don't want to watch this scene. *watches regardless*

DAD DAD DAD! DAD DAD DAD! DAD DAD DAD! (good ringtone) They just all have their guns pointing at him & somehow they were all silent as they turned to look at him. *just leaves thru the side door* GIRL HE WAS IN A SITUATION! Wow houseing rly is expensive in ny, as bad as toronto. yk the canadian housing crisis is actually worse than the usa even tho we have more space & less ppl here. Co-sign...? *sees the nigerian drug lord* Girl take a pic?

RC: Uh, black. Uh, dark blue. Uh... It's very hard being a witness. I don't know how you guys ever get a conviction. I'm usually really good with the detailed stuff. I just... I got distracted. KB: Yeah. You're rolling calls during a TAC strike. JE: Hmm. Interesting. RC: He was supposed to be inside the building! KR: What about the color of your shirt? What is that right now? Is it black or blue? I couldn't quite tell. The sun was in my eyes.

KR: Hey. Vodun guy's a yoga nut. Drug dealers can have HOBBIES ms panizzon!

Weird mouse.

RC: You ever try doing a half moon pose cranked up on caffeine? Completely throws off your chi. Trust me, she bought her coffee after class.

Don't leave the door open man's gonna come in. I was right. Just having a shootout in her house. Ew broken glass ew broken glass ew broken glass. What if they just give him the passport?

Mirror? Oh, Phone. Hey castle's actually p clever! Casually takes a swig

Casually grabs a glass XD Your first gun battle but you were held at gunpoint recently. Oh that's the s4 reference! This is the champagne bottle! We all know it's implied to be sex but then he just "never EVER call me kitten."

Aww I love rick & alexis. RC: Yeah. That's what moms do. Me & my mom: ilysm

WOAH POOR MARTHA. AC: Raising one parent's hard enough. I don't know what I'd do if I had to raise two. My mom & me: *eyes emoji*

so sweet

I love eveything sm. Surprisingly there was not a lot of a plot b plot relation here.

[breath-of-eternity]

Chapter 5

After filling the water skins, Amaia took out the knife and carved wavy lines into the tree bark and an arrow showing her direction. If only she had the time to walk along the riverbank in search of messages from her people, maybe cross to the other side of the river and search there. But the sun was sinking towards the horizon. She needed to get somewhere safe.

She headed back to the caves she spotted, hungry, tired, sticky with sap. They were far from ideal, and she could imagine hiding in one only to get pinned down by a hungry monster. The first one she checked was shallow, damp but free of any animal sign. Every other living creature new to avoid it, so she would as well.

The next seemed the same at first glance, but when she sniffed she caught the heavy scent of droppings. She crawled under the overhang and found no trace of animals, but the smell was far too fresh. She stretched her arm up and felt along the ceiling until she felt an opening, almost a cave within a cave. Or at least its ceiling.

She felt into the opening and her hand squelched, but revulsion was easy to shove away. She threw her pouch up and heard several squeaks that indicated bats made the place their home.

“Sorry, guys,” Amaia said. “I’m staying with you tonight. No way they’re going to smell me in there.”

She jumped up and grabbed the edge of the opening, then ignored the pain under her arms as she yanked herself up. More squeaks in the darkness, disgruntled protests, and light, warm wings brushed against her.

It was so narrow, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to breathe, but after scraping her stomach raw, it opened up enough for her to expand her lungs. The squeaks, amplified by the cave, grew deafening, and more wings flapped into her face. Sharp pain pierced her shoulder, and Amaia bit down on her tongue. She didn’t want a scream to scare them into attacking further.

She tucked her pouch under her head and reached in to pull out some of the nuts, tossing a few shards out in case the bats were interested. She ate until the bag felt deflated under her head, too much really, but it was such an exhausting day. All she wanted to do was…

She wasn’t sure when exactly it turned over to sleep, but she did know she woke up when the bats evacuated for their nighttime hunt for insects. There was just enough room for her to turn over, though her knees scraped against the ceiling as she did. Warm liquid dribbled down her hip, and she did not want to think about what part of the bat it came from.

Father used to warn her away from bats, not because they were only out at night but because grandparents told him they used to carry sickness.

“What kind of sickness?” she asked.

“I don’t quite know,” Father said. “I did as I was told in this case. Trust the grandparents when they tell you something is bad for you.”

“They might not have the sickness anymore,” Amaia said.

“It’s better to be careful. We don’t have much in the way of medicine.” Father bent down to check a snare, but found it empty. He placed it closer to some clover and covered it with grass. “One grandmother told me the ancestors had amazing medicines. They could destroy all manner of sickness.”

“Yes, I’ve heard that story. Cures for wasting illness, and stuffed nose, sore throat, blocked ear…”

“It was more than that,” Father said. “The ancestors knew more about disease than we do. There’s not just one illness that causes wasting, there are many. They had amazing healers who could find the sickness and the right medicine to destroy it.”

Amaia kicked a rock, watching its arc into the bushes. “We lost everything.”

“More like it was taken from us,” Father said. “But you know those stories, too.”

Then and now, Amaia wondered about the illnesses bats were supposed to spread, and if they still existed. Illness was almost a living thing, one day a man would have it, the next his child, then another child, then a grandmother. They usually popped up after gatherings, and someone might not be sure if they were throwing up because they were having a baby or because they were sick.

Amaia jerked awake, only able to see gray. It was not a night she would want to go through again, but when she crawled out—the bats squawking at yet another disturbance—she at least felt like she was alive.

In the sunlight, she found she was covered in white goo, and she went to the river to scrape it off and wash until her skin was tinged red. A cold wind wrapped around her and bumps rose up across her arms as the hair stood up on end. The chill would be gone before halfway to midday and likely linger after sunset, but it was a reminder that she had to move.

She made her way back along the shore until she spotted the rocks she ripped her fingers on dragging herself to shore. The tent and raft were where she had left them, the rope binding them still damp, and she shut her eyes to keep the tears from leaking out. At least if they were gone, it would have been a sign someone else was still there.

She carved another message in the pine tree, marking her path, then she retied the raft and the tent to make it easier to drag along. Following the river would be impossible. She’d never be able to get both items over the rocks, and she was not prepared to leave them behind. So into the forest she went, hacking away at the branches when they got too thick, occasionally leaving the items so she could make sure she was still following the path of the river.

Her sense of direction was honed by years of following her father as he laid snares. There were times when even he became lost among the endless browns and greens, and he showed Amaia how some pieces of metal could be made to give direction. When she lost track of the river, she dug a hollow in the dirt and tipped her waterskin to fill it. As for a piece of metal, the knife she had wouldn’t do. “If it doesn’t rust, it won’t work,” Father had said once, and besides, she didn’t want to damage the knife. But oftentimes people would leave the needles they used to make tents inside the seams until they were next needed. She sat with the item in her lap and ran her fingers over the patches of skin, rabbits, rats, weasels, whatever else they could get their hands on.

Metal poked into her skin. Slowly, she slid it out of the skins and held it up to her eye. A roughly hewn sliver scraped from some old ancestor relic. Amaia licked her lips. It certainly looked like the right kind of metal.

She plucked a leaf off a tree and laid it in the water, then put the needle in the leaf. It lazily spun, wobbled a few times, and fixed on the north-south line. She picked up the needle and stuck it firmly back in the tent, and then got back to walking.

Her feet crunched over leaves raining down from trees, yellowed from a dry spell. There was bound to be a cold snap soon, lasting a day or two before the heat returned, then a longer cold spell, more heat, and then it would be chilly all the time with the occasional warm front. She hadn’t thought to pick up any skins besides the one making up the tent—perhaps it would be better to dismantle it. She could keep a couple of the poles to use as oars and if she needed to rebuild the tent to shield a fire. The way the middle of her back ached, she wished she had done so sooner.

It didn’t seem like long before the sun was sinking, nearly at eye level, and she had to find a hiding place. She headed back towards the river, her chest tightening when she couldn’t hear its roar. She didn’t have the time to check the direction again. She had to get there now.

Her breaths came in shorter pulls, and it was all she could do to stop herself from dropping the rope and running, and if she ran, she would never stop.

One foot in front of the other. Nothing else mattered. She finally heard the river. It was nothing but blood pounding through her ears.

The world tinted blue, the shadows reaching out for her. Never in her life had Amaia been away from safety this close to sunset. It was stupid, and Father did not raise stupid children. She had flint. She could start a fire…

And it could go wild while she was sleeping because there was no one around to keep an eye on it—or keep it from going out.

A strangled cry escaped her. Sweat poured down her face, surprising since her insides were clammy and cold. She took in a gasp of air and couldn’t loosen her chest enough to exhale.

It will be all right. I’ll be all right. I’ll find the others, I’ll find Father, and I’ll be safe again. So many have died, but we’ll go on.

Her body relaxed enough to let her breathe. Now she was sure, it wasn’t just her pounding heart she heard, but the rabble of the river. She reached a clearing of yellowed grass, expecting the river but not seeing anything but trees. Still, the sounds of water grew louder and louder until the ground dropped away and she was looking down a cliff at least ten times her height.

“Oh…”

She hadn’t realized the river was this far below the land. Usually, her band cut through the woods, and if they needed water, they found a creek. It was only now she understood the reason why.

Her water skins were empty, but that was all right. She could last until tomorrow. Food she could check later. It wasn’t like she hadn’t been hungry before. She had to find a place to hid. Somewhere safe. Safe-safe-safe.

No meltdowns! If you lose focus, you will die!

How expected that the voice in her head sounded like Father.

In spite of the shadows, she headed back to the woods, pausing every other step to listen for pursuing hunters. There was a hole she wouldn’t be able to fit her head into. Trees with no branches low enough for her to climb. Her foot came down on a shadow and she flailed her arms and kept herself from falling over, even if there was a twinge. A burrow too small for her foot to go all the way inside.

The sun no longer shone through the trees. Though it wasn’t cold, Amaia began to shiver.

Her foot slammed into something hard enough to make her drop the rope to grab the injured limb and suck in a gasp of air. Once the throbbing died down, she felt around for what she bumped into, and between the darkness of the bushes was a trunk half as high as her. The night she spent squeezed under a fallen tree came back to her. She survived then. She would now.

As night closed around her, she swept away leaves and pulled out dead branches, then used a stick to widen the space underneath the tree. She hefted the raft over the other side and leaned it against the opening, then wedged herself inside. Curled up in the hollow she fit, but it took five breaths before she wanted to stretch out her legs. She went back to digging, the wind rustling through the tree branches. A harsh rasp floated to her and she jerked upright, only to realize it was her own breathing.

Her eyelids were drooping. She crawled into the hollow and hugged the pouch to her chest, then pulled in the tent to block the other opening. Safe.

She reached into the pouch, but there were only a few handfuls of nuts left, so that was what she would be doing tomorrow. Her stomach rumbled, her mouth was tacky, but when she shut her eyes, she felt herself drop right off.

When she jerked awake, her head slammed into the tree and she hissed and wriggled around to check for damage. Her heart pounded, and every muscle in her body had gone electric.

Something was very, very wrong.

A low growl rippled between the trees. Heavy thuds banged closer and closer, crunching every branch.

No!

Amaia’s body began to shake. As slowly as she could, she peered out from behind the raft. The nearly full moon bathed the forest in a silver glow. And the thuds—the footsteps—grew ever closer.

There, between the trees, was a flash of bone white.

A monster strode through the forest, its clawed hand slamming the ground not ten feet from Amaia’s head.

[chemicalcindercat]

The thief had snuck in through the window to the small inn room in the middle of the night, looking for his pouch of gold. Had Jaskier been a heavier sleepier, maybe he would’ve had the luxury of sleeping through his mugging, waking hours later to find himself broke. However, as luck would have it, he just had to wake up with the urge to pee right as the man with the dagger was crossing the room in front of him. 

No sooner did Jaskier blink away the sleep in his eyes, than the weapon was lodged into his stomach. It had been a shallow stab, obviously meant as more of a warning than anything else. The man had told him to keep himself quiet, and he wouldn’t be hurt any more than he already was, but he was Jaskier.

He had never been good at keeping his mouth shut in the first place.

The bard’s first instinct was to scream. Geralt was two doors down- they had finally saved up a small fortune, enough to rent more than one room for the night, and Geralt had tired of Jaskiers noise- and would be quick to the musician’s rescue, surely.

As soon as Jaskier opened his mouth, the man clamped a stinky, sweaty hand over his mouth, and dug the knife in deeper with his other hand.

“Hnng-!” Jaskier groaned in pain as the dagger dug deeper into his skin, trying to quiet himself. He weakly pushed against his attacker, in a pitiful attempt to make the pain stop, but his efforts were met with more pain as his arm was twisted painfully behind his back. He cried out, before biting his lip hard to cut off the noise.

“Like I said, keep quiet, brat,” The man hissed roughly in his ear. “No need to bother the witcher, aye? Else it’ll be him bleeding out here next to ya.”

Jaskier whimpered softly, but kept his mouth shut even as the man removed his hand. Perhaps it was the blood loss, but the more Jaskier thought about it, the easier it was to stay quiet. He didn’t want to bother Geralt, after all. The witcher already had to put up with his noise constantly, he wouldn’t be happy about being woken up to something like this. 

Jaskier nodded slightly, to himself. There was no point in waking the witcher, he needed his sleep. The world was already fuzzy on the edges of his vision; it would be so easy to simply close his eyes and never open them again. Geralt would wake up and realize that his annoyance was finally gone, and he would be very happy. It was much better this way. In fact, Jaskier thought as his eyelids fluttered shut, it would be much more work to keep his eyes open at this point than it would be to close them.

There was a loud bang from down the hall, followed by strangely familiar heavy footsteps. Another bang sounded, this one much closer and louder than the last, and that was finally enough to make Jaskier open his eyes again.

“Let him go,” The witcher growled, his golden eyes dangerously furious.

‘Oh no,’ Jaskier thought in his delirium, ‘He looks really mad at me…’

The man holding the knife into Jaskier was so scared, his  trembling hand let go of the bard’s hands, causing Jaskier to slump over limply across the bed. A moment later, Geralt was kneeling next to Jaskier, some blood splattered onto his night clothes. There was a deep emotion in the witcher’s eyes, and for the first time since they had met, Jaskier thought he looked rather scary.

“I…’m s-sorry…” He groaned out weakly, clenching his hand in a fistful of Geralt’s shirt. “T-tried… not t-to… w… wake you...” 

The last thing Jaskier saw was Geralt’s golden eyes going wide in horror, as the world went dark.

[foulserpent]

a yotici teenager carrying an egg pouch of their herd's many garden sharks (one of whom swims nearby, hoping for attention). a small school of larval yotlings instinctively swim under their older relative for protection, while a bed of yotici polyps filterfeeds below.

while most other morphoid pseudovertebrate's sessile polyps are protected by venom (functionally behaving like anenomes), the polyps of yotici and their kin are defenseless and instead protected by parental care in the form of these carefully maintained gardens. yotici specialized so heavily in this behavior that they are now key ecosystem engineers, with their "gardens" functioning as uniquely sheltered and maintained reefs that provide habitats for thousands of other species- so long as they do not harm their precious polyps or sapient yotici (however, yotlings are generally fair game).

because of this, literal hundreds of organisms have partly or fully domesticated themselves in yotici gardens, most with very little active intervention on the part of the yotici that live there.

garden sharks are a domesticated species of heterodontiform shark, and one of the most important and actively managed domesticated species to yotici. they found a niche feeding on small invertebrates that most commonly threaten yotici polyps and laying their egg pouches in the sheltered gardens. yotici in return have been building special nests for the shark's eggs for millenia, far more reliably protecting the eggs from predation or being dislodged than the sharks can accomplish on their own.

garden sharks are distinct from their wild ancestors in being heavily neotenous. while their ancestors would only dwell permanently in shallow waters as pups (migrating between shallow and deeper waters seasonally as adults), modern garden sharks have been selected for staying shallow lifelong. this has unintentionally selected for other puplike traits as well, such as their brighter coloration and patterning (often unique to the population of each garden). the shark's dorsal spines have also been greatly reduced in most domesticated populations.

no yotici culture has ever created any form of currency (universal sharing of resources is a necessity that only breaks down in times of great environmental strife), but the eggs of these sharks are somewhat of an exception. as many gardens have entirely unique color morphs and even breeds, these sharks are often a point of local pride for each herd, and there is great demand for trade. as such many gardens have designated 'egg-runners' (often older adults in dispersal phase) who travel between gardens to trade in shark eggs and coordinate breeding projects.

a visiting egg-runner is a cause of great excitement in the gardens, especially for the children most commonly tasked with pet care. one can expect to be regaled by many a youngling who has dragged over their favorite shark to show it off, (look how pretty her stripes are, have you ever seen a prettier shark than her? and yesterday she chased off a mean grouper, even though it was so much bigger than her. youre so lucky to get one of her eggs, maybe it will be a shark almost as pretty as her...)

[jordanstrophe]

Could,,, you write more flower whumper? 👉👈

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CW: Kidnapped, held captive, possessive soft whumper, fear/angst 

“Please help! Someone, anyone!! I’m begging you, ple-ase!” Whumpee shouted at the top of their lungs. Their voice became hoarse as they clung to their throat with a shallow inhale.

The whole time, whumper sat on the pouch cross legged; tea in one hand, newspaper in the other. They were unbothered by their screaming captive. In fact, they were letting shout all they wanted to prove a small, simple point:

No one could hear them. 

They designed the entire back yard for this; three tall walls against the sideyard blocking off the outside. As dreary as that may sound, the yard itself was flourishing: vines grew up the wall, flowers blossomed wherever the eye could see, rows and rows of plants and herbs. 

Whumpee slammed their fists against the heavy wall sobbing. They angrily wiped their tears and stormed up to their captor like a dark cloud was brewed over their head.  

“Why?... Why are you d-doing this?” Whumpee huffed. Whumper smiled and set their tea down, waving at them to take the seat across from them. 

“I’m not s-sitting with you...” Whumper growled and crossed their arms. 

“Calm yourself, little flower.” Whumper hummed, standing up and scooting it closer. “You’ve had a rough day. I’ll get you a drink, but when I come back-” They turned around and eyed them with a long hard stare.  “-I want you nicely put in this chair.” They said, roughly tapping it twice before walking inside.

Whumpee breathed a shaken exhale. Their arm changed from crossed to holding themselves as they hesitantly settled in the chair. They felt their pulse beating rapidly in their head, they brought their hand to their chest, feeling their heartbeat wasn’t much calmer.

Where were they? They could hardly see any treetops from the porch and yet... something about it seemed so familiar. There wasn’t a single flower that wasn’t in their own garden back home.

“Ah, perfect already. Glad to see you can follow simple requests.” Whumper cooed, placing a glass of iced water in front of them. 

“I wouldn’t call that a request... I would like t-to go home, please.” Whumpee quietly pleaded through their teeth. They felt every muscle tense when whumper cheerfully laughed. A gentle laugh, not malicious or cruel. 

“So polite even after all that poor treatment. I really do apologies, I’ll make it up to you.”  They sat next to them uncomfortably close, whumpee tried not to look them in the eye, but they could see whumper’s gaze fixated on their bruised wrists like a magnet. 

“What do you want from me? I’ve of-offered you all I have... If you’ve been following me, then you know I d-don’t have much.” They said, doing their best to look somewhat collected, but they were afraid their body language screamed it all. 

All that fear, collected in one small place. 

“Oh, no no, I knew that already.” Whumper snapped in an annoyed tone. “This is all rather simple; I inherited a home, some extra cash, and all my spoiled so called friends and family flocked to it like bloody vultures at a clearance shop.” Whumper spat.  

Whumpee bit their lip and shrunk at their tone. Whumper noticed and cleared their throat, quietly apologizing under their breath. “The simple part is... Well, it’s quite large. Lonely, is maybe a better way to describe it. I couldn’t find a single person who was kind, welcoming, .... who wasn’t ungreedy filth.” Their tone switched back to a disgusted hiss. 

“-Until...” 

Whumpee saw whumper’s shadow, their hand reaching across the table to stroke a single finger through their hair, following the curve of their ear. 

“You. And a single flower”

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alliecat5594  @cicatrix-energy  @pretty-little-whump  @chaoticdreamers-world  xo-sofo4ka