#quartermaster. reflection

[foxsoulcourt]

Hello! I just wanted to let you know that I've uploaded your fic for Fandom Trumps Hate - do you have an AO3 account for me to gift it to? Hope you like it!

Awwww, THANK YOU SO MUCH! It’s G O R G E O US!!!! I read it when it first came out and literally G A S P E D at how BEAUTIFULLY you responded to the prompt we discussed. Haven’t commented yet because I, FOOLISHLY, am determined to craft a comment which matches the sublime work. (I know, I know, but ::shrugs in embarrassment of riches::) THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU for such a beautiful gift! My AO3 account is under FoxsoulCourt.

FRIENDS, please take some time to enjoy the wonder which is The Golden Crown that Makes a Man King by kyaticlikestea. To summarise it by saying it’s a reflection on gender and masculinity is to undersell the experience of reading it, but that’s a start.

[fanaticsnail]

Straw-Hat Masterlist

Navigation Masterlist Here

Art link.

Monkey D. Luffy:

Bachata (Dance Series) (one-shot)

Gyrating, thrusting, swaying and grinding. Where did the straw-hat captain learn to dance in this way? The crew, holding many a whispered conversation regarding the captain's sultry movements, finally is approached head-on by the quartermaster of the Going Merry. Flushed cheeks, gasped breaths and soft smiles ensue as the captain aims to teach her a few of his moves.

Run Away With Me (one-shot)

After being left after a night of passion by her marine lover, sorrow eclipsed the hardening heart of the owner of the library. The librarian, after swearing off sea-baring men, is physically swept off her feet by a mischievous, straw-hat wearing captain who woos her with his undivided support of her dreams of romance.

Australian Luffy (HC Drabbles)

Just some silly dialogue with Aussie slang from Monkey D "Loz"

Ravenous (NSFW one-shot)

Luffy is hungry, and he will stop at nothing to get what he wants. He doesn’t care where it happens, how it happens, or what exactly happens - all he cares about is the who and when. The who is you, and the when is right now and until his hunger is fully satisfied.

Roronoa Zoro:

Blade Song(Dance Series) (one-shot)

The Straw-Hat pirate crew finds themselves amongst a fire-side, sea-front celebration. Swaying, gyrating and twirling occurs with all but one of the crew. The swordsman, never truly learning how to dance in such a way, regrets his miseducation as soon as he sees the object of his pining dancing within the arms of the blonde chef.

Flowers (one-shot)

Men are known to only receive flowers once in their lifetimes, and they are not even able to see them. The Straw-Hat botanist desires to rectify this for one member of the Straw-Hat pirates, the tri-sword wielding First Mate.

Gua-Sha (one-shot)

Slightly fixated by the dragging of the smooth rock against his crewmen's cheeks and jaw, Zoro immediately pipes up and welcomes the opportunity to have his face massaged to relieve any built up tension and pressure behind it. Pining always from afar, Zoro hopes this small moment would bring the two closer together.

Something Like That (request) (one-shot)

A traveler finds themselves accidentally crashing an exclusive event at Baratie, celebrating a foreign holiday with unusual customs. Pulling you away from your evening meal, your eyes met with the hazelnut gaze of a green-haired swordsman. A sprig of emerald leaves, pearls of flowers and a ribbon hung above your heads - what is this? why is he leaning down to press his lips atop your own?

You Deserve Better (Pollen!One-Shot NSFW)

Zoro has inhaled pollen while lost and away from his crew. His crew return from a day of celebration and tease him for is senseless navigational skills. But you notice something's wrong with him. He's hot. So, so hot. And he needs your help to combat his illness. You want to help him so badly, why won't he let you get Chopper? And why was he holding you like that?

I Don't Sound Like That (request) (one-shot)

You and Zoro have grown closer over the past few weeks. Being invited to rest and study beside him in his hammock, you reflect on your journey travelling with your crew aboard the Going Merry.

Close To You (One-Shot)

Blackleg Sanji:

Zoro has been wanting to train with you in hand to hand combat far more often than usual. You begin to suspect that there is more behind his intentions than meets the eye.

Shy Chronicler’s Journal (One-Shot)

After a heated moment in the midst of a large battle had you feeling less than, you took to your job to notate exactly what occurred within the fight. Finding it hard to concentrate on not using biassed language, you let it out verbally while unaware of the ears hanging on your every word.

Bar Shift (4/4 Series)

An all-rounder, front of house manager finally acquires the first day off she's had in a very long time. Sanji, the ever faithful "work-husband" makes her breakfast just in time for Patty to break the news to her that her peaceful day off is to come to an end. Covering the bar shift for one of her staff members, shenanigans and mutual pining ensues.

Waltz (Dance Series) (one-shot)

The chief negotiator and relations expert of the Straw-Hat pirates attempts to teach her captain how to perform a waltz to woo the upper class in a formal setting. She finds joy in movement, but Luffy himself was found to be truly incapable of performing the dance to an adequate level. At lunch, she notices how Sanji holds himself; his posture strong and rigid as he effortlessly glides around the table. She asks him to dance, and he truly surprises her.

3, 2, 1 (request) (3/3 Series)

Sanji notices some interesting etchings against the Going Merry's Chronicler's Journal. Questioning her, she informs him the 'x's and numbers are indicating his amount of cigarette breaks per day and the duration they are taken.Brainstorming ideas on how to achieve the same rush of adrenaline, endorphins and breath control in a healthier way than nicatine addiction; the chronicler, in her genius, suggests they share kisses and bold embraces for the duration of his many breaks: all kept under the strict limit of the egg-shaped timer.

"Someone. Someone Help Me" (NSFW Pollen!Drabble)

"Thank You" (NSFW Pollen!One-Shot)

Sanji has inhaled pollen. There is nobody around to help him and he is a desperate, pleading, subby mess.

Your Flirty Chef (one-shot)

Sanji has been working hard lately, your flirty chef no longer as present as you’d like him to be. You both have some unspoken flirtation between you, hopefully something to shatter by moulding him beneath the touch of your hands.

Kiss the Cook (one-shot)

Sanji was gifted an apron from Nami after returning back from town. Every member of the crew aside from Zoro and you have followed the embroidered instructions written on his chest, and he wasn't happy about the lack of kisses from you. You finally relent and give him what he wants.

By feel (one-shot)

You challenge Sanji to demonstrate his impressive knife skills for you by chopping up vegetables while blindfolded. He becomes flustered by the amount of attention you give to him.

Chef's Cure Gone Wrong (drabble)

A small anecdote about Sanji's ailment at Baratie. Chafing is a chef's worst nightmare.

Food Preferences (drabble)

Sanji caters to suit your personal food preferences, and it hurts him to learn of how truly picky you were with your food. He lives to serve, but his background as a great cook leaves him with a bruised ego to dull down his extravagant meals. (Tw: eating disorder hinted)

Limits (One-Shot)

Baratie has been overbooked, and the tension in the kitchen has been overwhelming. Being a hard-working kitchen hand, you have been covering far too many shifts. Sensing the overwhelm, your coworker attempts to aid you through your emotions.

Ease the tension (NSFW One-Shot)

After an extremely long stint at sea, tensions were at an all time high aboard the Thousand Sunny. The one person that never seemed to let it impact the important work needing doing aboard was the ships cook, Sanji. Deciding he must be as pent up as the rest of the crew, you offer to help him ease it. What you didn't expect was how truly dominant being tense would make him.

Sanji x Reader x Zoro:

Eyes Meeting (NSFW part 1)

Lips Brushing (NSFW part 2)

Sanji is in a relationship with the ships chronicler. Zoro accidentally stumbles across them engaging together in intimacy. As soon as his eyes meet with the chronicler's, he is enchanted by their beauty in their bliss.

Soul King Brook:

Parts You Left Behind (one-shot)

You are the ship’s counselor aboard the Polar Tang. Giving your captain the permission he desires to behave idiotically with the two Nakama captains, you give yourself permission to behave with similar unbridled stupidity. The Soul-King Brook has your romantic attention: you love his energy and decide to reciprocate his flirtations, no matter how crass and distasteful they come across.

Misc and Multiples:

Get Well Soon (Drabble one-shot)

You're sick, and they do their best to support you through it. Zoro, Sanji, Mihawk

Mistletoe (one-shot) (Straw-Hat holiday special)

The botanist aboard the Going Merry shares a cultural tradition with her crew; introducing them and reeducating them on the importance of mistletoe and the mischievousness of her playful lips. Every single member receives a kiss from the botanist; all welcome to her sharing her culture with them.

The Selkie and the Sailor: Mini Fic Drabble (One-Shot)

A mythical creature has rescued the captain of the straw-hat pirates from drowning in the sea. As her eyes meet with the crew, she is immediately taken with one of the sailors: Zoro, Sanji, Luffy

Kiss their cheek (Drabble one-shot)

It was a simple reaction, an impulse you felt organic and out of your control. Their cheek was right there, and the swell in your chest and spike of adrenaline prompted you to lunge forward and capture their cheek beneath your lips. How do they react to such a soft touch? Do they shy away, or do they respond in kind? Sanji, Zoro, Luffy, Law, Kid

Recovery (one-shot)

You are in a recovery cot in a hospital willing to accommodate you, resting as your body heals from your latest battle. Expecting to recover alone, you are pleasantly surprised to find yourself within the company of the person you craved the most. Zoro, Sanji

Competency, Stupidity, Duality (One-Shot)

They can't help what attracted them to you. No matter what you did, they simply couldn't get enough of you. Their emotions finally catch up with them, and they confess their adoration for you. Kid, Zoro, Killer.

Zosan / Acesan Drabble (anon ask)

Angst, pining, grieving

[alexjcrowley]

Yesterday night I felt sick with my stomach and stayed awake all night making audio recordings to my best friend about watching Quantum of Solace for the first time (I am still finishing it) and then I started randomly talking about 00q and accidentally opened up the Pandora Box of my memories but I instantly remembered everything I ever knew about 00q like when it got adopted by the BBC Sherlock fandom or the Paddington is the new Quartermaster stuff or when everybody was obsessed with the fucking Téméraire and it was EVERYWHERE and everybody made the joke "It's a ship!!!" and the age difference discourse between James and Q and Q being called Quentin and Mycroft and Sherlock being Q older brothers and disapproving of his relationship with James Bond and the fucking tea mugs and so many cats and everybody talking about Q's jumpers and making up OC minions for him and every fanfiction in which James retires to be with Q because he was the only one he ever loved aside from Vesper and Q feeling insecure because of her and all then Madeleine Sawnn came along and everybody was distraught even though the flirting was there in Spectre and we were all distraught because we could have had it all and so many fix it fics so many fics about James cosntantly loosing his gadgets and how hard it was for Q to watch him seduce other people and everybody was saying they were grumpy x sunshine/black cat x Golden retriver coded BUT THEY WERE NOT ACTUALLY in my humble opinion but they were easily flustered x flirting menace and Q had such salty one-liners and everybody believed he was a posh boy and do you remember when years later you had the same museum scene with Hannibal it was clearly a parallel and then there was No Time To Die and Q was officially queer oh my God oh my fucking God it was CANON he TOTALLY CANONICALLY MUST HAVE HAD A CRUSH ON BOND and we saw THE CATS and WHO WAS Q WAITING FOR?????? James must have been jealous but then the movie was what it was and a lot of people hated it and all of the fix it fics in which Bond said his last words to Q because it was always Q it will always be Q and also everybody making up names for him names were such a huge deal Q revealing his name to James in his last moments grieving fics in which James died but you also had silly ones and spicy ones uhhh a lot of those because sometimes you just need to ignore canon and see them happy and maybe both retiring or maybe they kept working flirting over the comms and annoying everyone at MI6 which wasn't exactly Avengers "Everybody Lives in The Tower" au but it was close they weren't a found family per se but some of them were very close there used to be edits on youtube yeah before TikTok came along youtube edits were A ThingTM with all those retrica-looking filters and pop songs or sad love songs and fake trailers who remembers those or like scenes edited to look like they were from a romcom and comments on the scenes written in small usually white text that were meant to reflect the character inner thoughts like "That's hot" or "He's so annoying I need to kiss him" or "BITCH" and fics in which Q was kidnapped and James went berserk and a few years ago Knives Out came out and we tried to to have Bond and Benoit Blanc related do you also remember that?

[aziraphales-library]

Hey y'all, first off, thanks for the great work you're doing!

I'm looking for Aziracrow fics with like,, one of them as an FBI agent and the other as art consultant or something like that. I already checked if there's anything in a possible art heist tag, I also looked for crossovers with White Collar, which has a similar premise, and I didn't really find anything. Maybe there's nothing, but I thought maybe you'd have an idea :) Thank you!!

Hello! So, the best I can do is fics in which one of them works in law enforcement of some kind, and the other works in either a different department or completely different job, and they work together in some way. Hope this was the kind of thing you're after!...

Containing Seeds of Destruction by feathereddino (T)

Lower Tadfield is a rural, sleepy little village that is trying to be a town. The crimes that Police Constable A.J. Crowley usually responds to are mundane but never evil. His husband, police psychologist Dr. A.Z. Fell appreciates that their combined caseload reflects that banality. That all changes in 2008 with a call about an abandoned baby. Adam Young's surrender will spark a series of events that will impact their village, their careers, and their personal lives.

What Will Destroy You by EveningStarcatcher (E)

London, 1888 Police Inspector Aziraphale Fell forms an unlikely alliance with Reporter Anthony Crowley to investigate the Whitechapel Murders. Can they solve the mystery and stop the so called Ripper before he strikes again?

Tadfield's Finest by angelsnuffbox (E)

The sleepy town of Tadfield is thoroughly shaken by the arrival of DI Crowley. Where barely anything ever happened before, there is now a bustle of low grade criminal activity, and everyone knows where to point the blame. Gabriel thinks he's a bad omen for the town, many others are quick to agree. Meanwhile, Aziraphale from SOCO just thinks he's hot. Ridiculously so.

and salt the Earth behind you by sunrisesinthesuburbs (E)

Detective (well, Profiler actually, not that anyone seems to care) Aziraphale Fell should have dropped his one and only Criminal Informant the moment he realized he was already falling in love with the man. Alas, he's never had good ideas regarding his self-preservation: when Anthony Crowley calls, he always comes. He will always come. If this wasn't already very bad, his feelings are apparently reciprocated and, in the meantime, his unit has to catch the worst serial killer Washington D.C. has probably ever seen. Crowley has no intention of leaving Aziraphale to deal with this on his own; Aziraphale has no intention of letting Crowley do something stupid just for his sake. Ah, if only love could ever be something easy. “Sometimes I wish I’d met you in a park.” Crowley’s hands move lower, down, down until he reaches Aziraphale’s palms and intertwines their fingers. There isn’t a single chance this gesture can fall under the umbrella of ‘plausible deniability’. Though nothing about this sort of impromptu confession could. “A park, uh? Nice.” A squeeze. “I always imagine something like a library. Or a bookshop or, not sure, whatever place is full of books.”

For His Eyes Only by AFrenchFanWriter (M)

Anthony J. Crowley has been an MI6 spy for 10 years, completing successful mission after successful mission under the guidance of his quartermaster, Aziraphale Fell. But this life is starting to take its toll on him as he is getting older; and when, one day, his past comes back to haunt him, Crowley realizes that it might be time for him to hang up his gun and face all the things he has left unaddressed… (Yep, it is basically a James Bond/Q AU!)

On Espionage and Prophecy (or How to Accidentally, but Wholly, Fall in Love With a Soho Bookseller) by RockSaltAndRoll (E)

1941 is the London Blitz and the year that MI5 really comes into its own with the now infamous ‘double cross’ system. The service keep tabs on suspects, root out enemy agents and try to turn them into doubles. Anthony J Crowley is fucking great at this job. He can be sneaky, underhanded and damn ruthless but also charming and kind. It’s what makes him good at turning. Aziraphale is just a regular Soho bookseller who loves his shop and books and good food and wine when he’s approached by a woman claiming to be MI5, wanting to recruit him for espionage. The poor man is too trusting and gets the shock of his life when he’s approached by a charming but dangerous-looking man also claiming to be MI5. Crowley recruits Aziraphale to double cross a double crosser and Aziraphale takes to espionage like a duck to water. Danger, hijinks, and sex ensue.

- Mod D

[velidewrites]

Get In The Water

To bargain with an ancient death-lord, Captain Elain Archeron must acquire the rare, magical scales of a siren. Little does she know her target is no ordinary Mer—but the Prince of the Undersea himself.

Pairing: Elucien

Tags: Pirate!Elain x Merman!Lucien

Notes: For the beautiful talented stunning @areyoudreaminof for the @acotargiftexchange! I wasn't your original Secret Santa, but I tried to include some of your favourites here (this is your official warning for Jurian being a canon-typical little shit). Sending you so many smooches!

Thank you @ablogofsapphicpanic for being my beta<3

Read on AO3

“With all due respect, Captain Archeron, I really don’t think this is a good idea.”

Elain’s answering sigh was deep enough to rustle the waves ahead. She tossed them a final look before turning back to her quartermaster. “You know exactly where you can shove your respect, Jurian.”

He bounced off the mast with a grin. “Up my arse, no doubt,” he mused, a large, tanned hand stroking his much overgrown stubble. They’d been out at sea for weeks—for good reason, too, though Elain realised it was a sentiment less and less of her crew continued to share.

Still, she nodded with a smile of her own. “Same as last time.”

“Then I’m sure I don’t have to tell you it would have been wise to dock in Adriata two weeks ago.” He crossed his arms. “We’re not exactly welcome on Day Court waters.”

That was certainly one way to put it. Elain was half-expecting the High Lord’s army, ready at arms and lined up on the shores of Port Denera to arrest her and her crew. It would hardly be the first time.

Elain’s smile only grew wider. “There’s nothing quite like coming home.”

Jurian rolled his eyes, no doubt remembering their latest excursion himself, and leaned over the bulwark. “It’s been a while,” he remarked, his brown gaze drifting off to the azure sea. In the waning hours of the afternoon, the golden sunlight reflected off its surface, shimmering quietly as though unaware of the chaos to come. Where she came from—a little town bordering the Eastern Coast—the fishermen used to say the future was carried in with the waves. Elain was never much a practitioner of such belief—after all, if it were true, her ship would surely be on the verge of utter collapse right now, sinking underwater with the crashing force of the raging sea.

Instead, they continued to peacefully make their way northeast, the sun warming their skin as though in greeting. The irony wasn’t lost on her, but she supposed it was much easier to enjoy the bliss while it lasted. The silver blade strapped to her side flashed at the thought, undeniably in protest—she’d had it dipped in the Cauldron a few decades ago (before her sister, the High Lady herself, had somehow lost the whole damn thing), and since then, the sword had seemed to develop a mind of its own. Elain didn’t mind. It was bloody useful in battle, and she was smarter than to argue with a deadly, magical artifact. Even if it was a real fucking smartass.

The sword flashed again—and a lot brighter this time, too bright to mistake it with a random glimpse of the sunlight.

“Sorry,” Elain muttered.

Jurian—she’d nearly forgotted he was still here—glanced down at her belt. “You need to stop talking to the damn thing.”

She could have sworn she felt something sharp twitch against her hip.

“Would you like to talk to it instead?” she asked sweetly.

Jurian’s eyes narrowed. “No.”

“I thought so.”

“Seriously, Elain,” he sighed, apparently foregoing her usual title. “I would have gone to the ends of the earth with you to get those scales. Hell, I will go to the ends of the earth, and you know I won’t so much as hesitate.”

Elain did know. The stakes were too high—too personal, especially for her second-in-command.

“But the crew needs a break,” Jurian continued. “Adriata was supposed to be our goldmine, and we found nothing—nothing, Elain, not even one of those gods-damned—”

“I know what happened in Adriata, Jurian,” Elain cut in. “I was there.”

“I only mean—”

“I know what you mean. And I agree, even if I do not show it sometimes. Jurian, I…” She closed her eyes, letting the salty mist pearl on her skin, her lashes. “I miss her too. Every day.”

For a moment, there was only silence—silence and the quiet whoosh of the deep blue waves.

“I know you do,” Jurian whispered beside her.

“She’s out there, somewhere—somewhere on the Continent. With that monster to do with her as he likes.” She could practically hear Jurian grit his teeth beside her. “I won’t give up, and we’ve been out here together long enough for me to know you won’t give up, either.”

“The Death God is persistent,” Jurian seethed. “He demands too high a price.”

Indeed he did. Koschei, a being so ancient even the fishermen in her small Day Court village had no legends singing of his name, had been magically bound to his lair on the Continent millennia ago—and, apparently, had been trying to find a way out of his chains ever since. The only thing in the world able to release him, though, was—of course—the Cauldron, the creator of the world itself.

And, up until sixty years ago, Elain would see it in her sister’s dining room every Solstice. It was ridiculous, really, the power the Night Court used to have in its grasp. That wasn’t to say it had not been deserved—the Cauldron had been won in a war full of blood and sacrifice, one her sister and his mate had nearly lost their life in, but…well. Surely they could have found a more secure place to display it than their townhouse in Velaris. A place where it could not have gotten stolen by only the Mother knew whom, or better yet—a place where no one, not even Feyre and Rhysand, could ever find it again.

It was too late for such semantics. Despite an entire Valkyrie region searching the skies for a sign of it, the Cauldron was simply…gone.

Nesta believed it to have been an inside job. After all, there were only a handful of people outside of Velaris aware of the city’s existence at all, let alone the High Lord and Lady’s private residence. But the Head Valkyrie had questioned them all—and found nothing at all.

For the first twenty years, Elain searched for it, too—anything to get out of her village, really, and the ghosts of a life she longed to leave behind. An engagement to a local lord’s son might have been the dream of many females back home, but it was, and never would be, Elain’s

The missing Cauldron had given her the opportunity she’d been searching for, and Elain did not look back when Feyre asked for her help. In her travels, though…she discovered a beauty to the seas, to the vast world they opened up for her taking—and so, after too many hopeless clues and tearful conversations with her sister, Elain had let the waves consume her entirely.

She did not think she would ever have to worry about the Cauldron again. She’d hoped, perhaps foolishly, that it had lost itself to the world just as she wished it would. But then Elain had met Vassa, and then Vassa had been taken by Koschei, and, well…

Her fate belonged to the Cauldron once again.

This time, though, it was hardly a chore, or a favour she was doing her little sister. It was a matter of life or death, of the family she’d found sailing the seas of Prythian. Vassa was a sister, too, a sister she loved dearly enough that when Koschei’s demands began to invade her visions, Elain did not hesitate.

She and Jurian had devised a plan—it wasn’t exactly foolproof, so to say, but she hoped it would be enough. It had to be.

“Do you know how much just one of the Mer scales runs for on the black market, Jurian?” Elain asked, more to prove a point than to get an actual answer. He knew—they’d been chasing them for the past two years. Still, she said, “Ten thousand gold marks. You could buy a manor in Spring for that kind of money.”

“I have allergies,” Jurian murmured.

“I know I didn’t just hear that.”

Jurian sighed. “It just seems…I don’t know, Elain. The Mer people are folktale. If your so-called Undersea were to exist, we would have found it in Adriata.”

“The High Lord’s libraries clearly point to the seas of Day,” Elain pressed.

Jurian snorted. “Are you sure you read that right? We didn’t exactly have a lot of time in that library, you know.”

She cut him a look sharper than the sword at her side. “I’m sure. I got the information we needed with a few minutes to spare.”

“I think your posters are still hanging at the entrance.”

Elain wrinkled her nose. “I don’t like the way my hair looks in those ones.” When it came to painting, the Day Court forces were no Feyre.

“They put quite the bounty on your head, you know,” Jurian added. “If that isn’t flattering, then I don’t know what is.”

Elain grinned. “Well, I stole some really valuable books.”

“I’ll bet.” He looked out to the sea again, that rugged face turning more solemn as he studied the horizon—and the shore stretching far ahead. “How do you know the scales will be enough to get Vassa back?”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “I don’t know. But, if we can find the Mer here and get the scales we need…perhaps we can bargain with Koschei to take them instead. Their magic is forgotten, just as he is. He might find them to be enough.”

“That’s a big if, Elain.”

She shrugged. “At the very least, we might be able to use them to trace the Cauldron. I’ve sent a letter to Velaris—Amren volunteered her assistance.”

Jurian shuddered.

“Don’t be a baby,” Elain rolled her eyes. “She’s useful. Ancient.”

“Precisely.”

“I just…” He shook his head, his brown curls catching the sunlight. “Things are weird enough as they are. You Fae are hardly accepting of pirates, let alone humans.”

Elain tucked a loose strand of hair behind an arched ear. “I’m a pirate,” she declared, letting some of the pride she’d buried deep in her chest creep into her tone. “I am happy to share at least half of the burden with you.”

Jurian’s warm hand covered her own. “You’re a good friend, Elain,” he said. “You could have left—could have sailed off after that whole fiasco with Koschei.” He gave her a light squeeze. “But you chose to stay.”

She could not meet his stare—not when the salt in her eyes had begun to burn too much, blurring her own gaze as she turned to face the shallowing water. “I’ve run away before,” she told him quietly. “No more.”

“No more,” Jurian agreed. He had a past of his own—and, when the time was right…he would tell her. And she would embrace it without question.

“I’ll tell you what,” Elain started, her throat suddenly tight. “It’s a big day we’ve got tomorrow. Tell the crew we’ll be dining at the local tavern tonight?”

Slowly, Jurian turned to her—and smiled. “Aye, aye, Captain.”

***

The Pearl was a small ship—small enough not to raise suspicions when they’d docked in Port Denera. The flag—a Mer tail with a pearl resting between its fins—had been carefully folded away prior to their arrival, the sigil of Elain’s crew all but too recognisable in those parts of Prythian.

It wasn’t that Elain had no moral compass whatsoever, but, over the years, she had learned that sometimes, taking her life into her own hands had a tendency to pay off a whole lot more than simply letting it run its course. Had she lived by a different set of rules, she would have long been married to the new Lord Nolan, never having left her hometown and spending her days at the beach, looking out to the sea and wishing for a life never to be.

It could have been a good life, perhaps—but it would never be the life she wanted, the life she craved. Besides, it wasn’t like Elain had ever been given a good example to follow. Feyre, after all, had escaped her own arranged marriage and ran right to the deepest, darkest corners of Night, Nesta following shortly after. It was only fair that Elain followed the family tradition.

Father had been devastated—Elain’s engagement, after all, had been his final, desperate attempt at seeing his daughters well off before his passing. After Feyre and Nesta’s disobedience, as he’d called it, Father had assumed his daughters had simply rebelled because they wished to remain home. Perhaps that was why, after having tried marrying Feyre off to Spring and Nesta to Hybern, he’d settled for seeing Elain with a small, local nobleman.

Elain did not care for riches—well, she hadn’t cared then. Now, having seen all that the world had to offer, she supposed she did enjoy having a few pearls and gold around her neck at times. But it hadn’t been the match itself that bothered her—she was sure Greysen Nolan was perfectly nice and well-mannered—but the fact that Father hadn’t even asked if he was who Elain wanted, if he’d even cared if she could ever love Greysen at all.

As cliché as it sounded, love was exactly what Elain craved so viciously. And now, decades later, she had finally found that love—here, out at sea, with the waves embracing her wholly and eternally. This—the Pearl—was her home.

She sure hoped home wouldn’t mind seeing her stumble back aboard in a few hours, when she was well and thoroughly drunk out of her mind.

Aside from pearls and jewellery, Elain had developed a taste for ale, and it just so happened that the Port Denera tavern was famous for the golden drink. It tasted like liquid gold in her cup, leaving a tinge on her tongue that sent her senses spiralling and flushed her cheeks with bright-pink heat.

The crew seemed to be enjoying themselves, too, and it was only for that reason that she’d allowed her instincts to abandon ship for a moment or two. Well, perhaps three. She hadn’t seen Jurian this happy and relaxed since Vassa had been taken—a sign of how truly tired he must have been these past few weeks, of how badly he needed an evening to forget.

The thought sobered her up just a little, and Elain remembered the true reason she’d allowed this unusual night out in a town where the entire army was on the lookout for Captain Archeron. She did feel slightly guilty for misleading Jurian into thinking it was simply out of the goodness of her own heart—into omitting the one, small ulterior motive that had lately seemed to be driving nearly every decision of hers.

Information.

While the fishermen in the East of the Day Court had no knowledge of the Mer, the folk of Port Denera no doubt sang of the old creatures lurking beneath the sea. She’d already picked up on a few shanties on the way to the tavern, humming the words quietly to herself as she searched the lyrics for anything valuable. The Mer’s magic appeared to be as sharp as their teeth, capable of stirring the waves and calling upon storms. The strongest of them could lure the innocent, hungry wanderers into their traps with a lulling voice and mesmerising eyes, ones that reflected the soul’s deepest desires just as the surface of the sea reflected the sun above. Once captured, they’d sink those teeth into the flesh of their prey, and drag them under—never to be seen again.

Elain hummed the tune again cheerfully, excitement bubbling up in her chest—well, she supposed the bubbles might have had to do with some of the barrels of alcohol she’d consumed. Still, this was promising. All she needed was a name—a lagoon, or a hidden grotto, perhaps, where she could locate a lair. Her Cauldron-blessed sword would do the rest of the job.

Somewhere far beyond her peripheral vision, she heard the silver hum happily, already summoned by the rather bloodthirsty thought.

It was not that Elain wanted to murder the Mer in cold blood. She did not enjoy killing (she could have sworn her blade huffed at the sentiment), but if there was no other way to acquire the scales, she would do it. She loved Vassa enough to do whatever it took—the exiled, Firebird queen would do the exact same for her.

For what had to have been the hundredth time, Elain looked around the tavern, her somewhat blurry gaze scanning the bustling area. It was a lot more crowded than she’d expected—which proved a good thing all the same. It was a lot harder to get spotted in a sea of creatures of all shapes and sizes, and it sure helped that they all seemed piss-drunk, too.

The local shanty found its way onto her lips once more, and she sang it absently, her attention entirely focused on some old wraith somehow downing two bottles of wine at once. Her sharp nails scraped against the glass as she drank, and Elain watched, completely entranced at what she’d never thought could be accomplished before.

In the morning sun so bright, the sailors set to sea,

Their hearts as bold as brass, their spirits ever-free.

But careful, sailor, please, beware the waves that dance and play,

Beneath this sunny surface, a wicked mermaid lay.

“Sounds terrifying.”

Elain jumped.

The ale in her hand fell to the ground with a loud clunk, the sound immediately drowned out by a rumbling laughter of the crows. The golden liquid spilled over her, sticking to the skin of her neck, her collarbones, the curves of her exposed breasts—until finally sinking into the white fabric of her corset. Elain swore under her breath, cursing her choice of garment for tonight, before finally looking up.

“Shit,” she swore again, for the lack of a better word—or, perhaps, because there was no word to describe the male standing before her.

The most beautiful man she’d ever seen.

A pair of shining eyes of molten gold looked her up and down, an auburn eyebrow quirking up in amusement. “Now, don’t tell me you’re disappointed,” he drawled, his voice rich and deep and smoother than the liquid she’d swallowed down her throat. “I spent a lot of time on my hair earlier tonight.”

Elain blinked—then blinked again. “Are you…hitting on me?”

His mouth—full and plush and gods she needed to get it together—twitched. “And here I was, thinking I was all too obvious,” he quipped.

She peeled her gaze off the soft waves of his hair, glistening under the tavern’s candlelight. “Perhaps you’re just not very good at it,” she remarked, thanking the Mother for keeping her tongue sharp when her mind bordered on insanity.

The stranger smiled openly now. “What’s your name?” he asked.

Elain angled her head an inch. “Why?”

Did she really just ask him that?

Perhaps it was time to order some water.

The male seemed entirely unbothered. “It’s not often you meet a beautiful female singing old folktales in the middle of a tavern,” he said, offering a one-shouldered shrug. “I find myself somewhat…intrigued.”

“Intrigued,” Elain repeated blankly.

His smile grew wider. “Quite,” he agreed. “Those are old, you know.”

Elain straightened—straightened and blinked again, her thoughts somehow collecting into one, singular stream as she remembered what, exactly, she had come to this tavern for. “Are they?” she asked, “I’ve just picked up on them an hour ago.”

“An hour?”

She offered a smile of her own. “I have an excellent memory.”

Those golden eyes glistened. “Is that so?” the male asked, his gaze sweeping down her body as though he had all the time in the world. “If I tell you my name, will you sing it for me, too?”

Focus, Elain. He’d mentioned the Mer shanties, did he not? “I doubt anyone will hear it,” she remarked. “I never see Port Denera this busy.”

“You’ve been here before?”

Elain waved a dismissive hand. “Once or twice,”

The male hummed. “Then you know today is an important day,” he said, that strange shade of amusement playing over his features once more. “The High Lord is mourning the loss of his dear wife and son, and we are drinking in a show of, ah…solidarity,” he finished, a passing faun raising his glass at them, as though emphasising his agreement.

Elain waited for him to get out of earshot. “Wife and son?” she questioned, searching the corners of her mind that stored everything she knew about her Court.. “Didn’t that happen three hundred years ago?”

Those eyes narrowed at her slightly, and the stranger tilted his head. “Do you think he should have moved on instead?” he asked, the question so quiet it may as well have been a breath—and yet, she’d heard it perfectly over the bustling crowd.

Elain considered. “I think it must have been a beautiful kind of love, if he’s mourning it so many centuries later.”

His auburn brow arched in surprise. “What did you say your name was, lady…?”

Elain snorted. “Oh, I’m no lady.” She set her glass on a nearby table. “Haven’t been for a while.”

“You certainly look like one,” he remarked, that smile once again creeping back onto his ridiculously handsome features.

She couldn’t resist. “Do I, now?”

He chuckled, the sound low and honeyed. “Oh, absolutely.”

“And are you in the habit of flirting with all the ladies you pick up in a tavern?” Elain teased.

“No, no. I usually let them come to me.” He winked. “I can be a good singer too, you know.”

Elain smiled.

“I’ll take your word for it,” she laughed. “So, you know those shanties, too?”

His eyes glittered.

There it was.

“Some of them,” he agreed.

“Do they hold any truth?” she pressed. Come on, come on, come on…

“Sometimes,” he nodded. “Does it matter?”

You have no idea, Elain thought. “It does. I’m looking for…” she hesitated. “Information.”

“Oh?”

“The books in Day’s library state I might find it here,” she added carefully.

Something like realisation crept onto his features. “You wish to know about the Merpeople,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. Elain’s gaze flickered to the movement. “How did you get access to those books?” he asked.

“It’s not important,” she told him, eyeing the golden-brown muscles flexing under the candlelight.

“I disagree,” the male said, “those books are extremely well-guarded.” Was that admiration she’d heard in his tone?

“What was your name, again?” Elain asked him.

The male smiled. “Would you like to come outside with me?”

As if. “I’m not exactly in a hook-up mood right now, sorry,” she told him, though uncertain if the words rang entirely true.

He smiled—as though he knew. “What about information?” She felt her brows flick up. “I thought so. Now, shall we? It’s more quiet out back,” he added, gesturing to the tavern’s back door.

“I like it loud,” Elain countered. The more people drowning their conversation, the better.

“So do I,” he winked. “Another time, baby, I promise.”

Elain rolled her eyes. “Very funny,” she said, then dared a quick glance around the space again. Come to think of it, the couple at the table near where the two of them stood were awfully close—close enough that Elain decided not to risk it. She nodded to the stranger. “Let’s go.”

“Just so that we’re clear,” he started as they made their way through the crowd, “once you get those scales, we’re splitting the profits.”

“We can discuss the money later,” Elain countered. Like hell she was going to share anything with him.

“If that is what you wish,” he nodded, and opened the door.

The fresh air hit her almost unexpectedly, but it was a welcome change from the stuffy tavern in the back. She breathed in the salt carried in by the sea, her thoughts clearing up enough that she could finally focus on the matter at hand without unnecessary…distractions.

The distraction flashed her a smile, the beach behind him illuminated by the dying sunlight. “So, Mer scales, hmm? What do you need those for?”

“That,” Elain said firmly, “is none of your business.”

He chuckled again, the sound different this time—less than that deep, raspy sound she’d heard before, but more…fluid, like tea stirring in a cup. Warm. Inviting. “Oh, you have no idea,” he said quietly—and reached out his hand.

“Come with me,” the stranger told her.

Elain frowned. “I’m already here,” she pointed out. “You wanted to leave the tavern,” she reminded him.

He hummed—and she could have sworn it was like a melody pouring from his chest. “Yes,” he told her, stepping back until his feet—bare, she now noticed—reached the sand. “Let’s go a little further, alright?”

Elain stepped forward. “I…don’t understand,” she said. Still, she moved in closer.

He offered her a gentle smile. “Just one more step for me, gorgeous, please,” he tried again, his hand still outstretched.

“Okay.” She reached the sand now, too—but he had somehow moved back a few steps again, inches away from the waves’ embrace.

“Good girl,” he purred, the water now kissing his skin. Elain stepped in closer. “You’re very beautiful, you know,” he told her, angling his head slightly. She watched as his long hair spilled down his back in waves softer than the very sea—and met his gaze again, only to find it dark. “Almost beautiful enough to hide that rotten soul of yours.”

That gold had tarnished—enough to hide that bright, enticing gleam.

“Yes,” Elain agreed.

“Mmm, I thought so,” he mused. “I just need you to take a few more steps, alright? We’re almost at the shore,” he added, his voice like a lullaby, reassuring.

“Yes, I’ll follow you,” she agreed again.

“You’re doing so well for me,” he praised. “I might even consider making your death painless,” he whispered, watching her closely as she, too, neared the edge of the water. “Though that wasn’t the kind of death you had planned for my kind, was it?” he asked, a certain sharpness to his tone that made her open her mouth. “Oh, no need to answer that, baby,” he interrupted, “but I do appreciate your eagerness.”

Elain nodded. “Whatever you wish.”

He smiled, flashing his teeth. A perfect, pearly set of sharp blades—sharp enough to tear her flesh apart. “That’s a good girl,” he hummed, and she could have sworn she heard her soul sing in answer. “Now, step into the sea.”

Elain stopped inches from the seafoam. “Will you give me your hand?” she asked him shyly.

His features softened—though the sharp, predatory smile remained. “Of course, my rotten, terrible lady,” he purred. “Come with me.”

Elain slid her hand in his—and waited.

His skin, surprisingly, was warm—sun-kissed, as if he hadn’t spent an entire lifetime in the dark depths of the Undersea. He felt smooth, too, with some coarseness here and there that let her know his palm was no stranger to holding a weapon—a trident, perhaps, if the songs of the fishermen had, indeed, held any truth to them. 

The leaves behind her rustled—and Elain finally, finally released a breath.

“No,” she told him, her voice still feigning that blissful softness. “No, I don’t think I will.”

The merman blinked. “What?”

Elain gave him a smile that was purely Fae—one that let him know she was a monster, too. “It was a nice try, really,” she said, her free hand reaching back to her belt. “Sorry it didn’t work out.”

A pair of iron cuffs appeared in her grip—and, in a flash of a second, found its way onto the merman’s wrists.

His skin sizzled, and he hissed sharply, those dark eyes wide and not leaving hers for one second—but Elain held on, murmuring the spell she’d memorised under her breath.

She could never come to the land of the Mer unprepared.

“Duck!” Jurian yelled behind her.

She only had a fraction of a moment to see the bow in his hands—to stop him before he released the arrow.

Elain didn’t stop him, though.

She ducked.

***

“I can’t believe you caught one of them,” Jurian said in disbelief. “Good work, really, Elain, but did you have to bring him onto the ship?”

From the corner of her eye, she caught a flicker of movement behind the bars. The merman rose to his full height—he seemed taller in the constrained space of the brig, somehow—and met her gaze directly.

“Your name,” he said as though in a daze. “Elain.”

Elain cut her friend a look. “Thank you, Jurian.”

Jurian bounced off the wall. “Sorry,” he shrugged, his tone suggesting he wasn’t sorry at all.

“It didn’t work,” their prisoner said, more to himself now than his jailors.

“What didn’t work?” Jurian asked him sharply.

The merman looked at him—and Elain knew it took everything in her quartermaster not to flinch under his scrutiny. “My spell,” he explained slowly, then turned toward her again. “It didn’t work on you,” he repeated.

“Perhaps you’re not as good as you thought,” Jurian said.

He scoffed, as though the remark pulled him out of whatever fog had clouded his thoughts. “My name is Lucien Spell Cleaver,” he declared, his voice louder now, stronger. “Firstborn son of Helion Spell Cleaver, Prince of the Undersea—and heir to the High Lord of the Day Court.”

Beside her, Jurian went entirely still. Truth be told, she wasn’t sure she was moving at all, either.

She may have been a pirate, but kidnapping a High Lord’s son—nay, his heir—was an act of treason, and Elain really wished to see one hundred before eventually dying a horrible, undoubtedly painful death. Quite common in her profession, really. 

“Impossible,” she whispered. “Helion’s son is dead—as is his wife.”

“Clearly not,” Jurian murmured.

The male—Lucien—narrowed his gaze at the two of them. “We have been in hiding for the moment I was born. There was no denying what I was, not until I learned how to glamour myself, and my mother—she took me back to her people to protect me,” he explained.

“Does the High Lord know?” Elain breathed. He was lying. He had to have been.

Still, it was nice to at least know his name. Fake or not, it pleased her, for some reason. Lucien.

“Of course,” he scoffed. “The ‘Summer Estate’ he leaves for six months every year is Undersea.”

The answer was detailed enough that Elain’s heart quickened. “You really are Lucien Spell Cleaver?” she asked.

“And you,” Lucien nodded, “are Elain Archeron. Pirate…and Mer killer, apparently.”

“I haven’t killed anyone,” Elain protested.

“Yet,” he finished for her. “You were going to kill me,” he said, those golden eyes—back to normal now that he was at their mercy—settling on her as he added, “You still are.”

“I haven’t decided yet,” she scrambled. Some pirate she was—some of her rivals back East would have made her walk the plank for her hesitation.

Still, Elain could not bring herself to remember why…

“Why do you want my scales?” Lucien asked, interrupting her trail of thought—completing it, really.

“I told you, that is none of your business,” she told him, though her voice lacked her previous conviction this time.

“It is, if you still want them,” he countered.

“Why on earth would you give us your scales?” Jurian demanded.

“Well, I wouldn’t,” Lucien shrugged, then lifted his iron-bound hands into view. “As you can see, I am not in my Mer form, and will not be until you release me back into the sea,” he argued. “So, why don’t you just let me go, I give you my scales, and everyone wins?”

“Because you’re very obviously lying,” Elain cut in. “And you and your little Undersea army are going to sink my ship the moment it sails.”

The corner of his lip ticked upwards. “Is the word of a Prince not credible enough for you, Elain Archeron?”

“Not particularly,” she replied calmly. Princes, Lords—she’d heard their promises before, and ran to the sea to escape them.

“You are unlike any Mer hunter I’ve ever met before,” Lucien hummed, as though in thought.

Elain frowned. “There are hunters?”

“Of course,” he told her. “My father has disposed of as many of them as he could, but some still emerge every few years, hoping to see if the songs are true.” His expressions sombered. “Our scales are very valuable.”

“So we’ve heard,” Jurian said.

Lucien’s gaze flickered up. “It is money, then,” he said matter-of-factly, though something like anger lingered in the back of his throat.. “You wish to kill my people for a few gold marks?”

Elain swallowed.

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, princeling,” Jurian seethed.

Elain placed a hand on her friend’s shoulder. “Take a breath, Jurian,” she told him quietly. “Why don’t you leave us alone for a moment?”

Jurian looked at her—then back at Lucien again. “Let me know if you need help killing him,” he said darkly. Then, “For the record, I don’t care what you are,” he told Lucien. “You’re just annoying the shit out of me.”

And with that, he was gone, the wooden stairs carrying the echo of his steps. Only when they faded did Lucien finally say, “I like him.”

“He shot you,” Elain reminded him.

Lucien shrugged. “It wasn’t an ash arrow, now, was it? We live to forgive. Besides, I’m healed now.” Indeed, the wound in his shoulder had now closed almost entirely. “Well, almost,” he said, pointedly raising his wrists back into the light.

Elain had hoped the iron would work—it was an old superstition the humans thought could harm the Fae, but it had to have stemmed from somewhere. With Day’s libraries proclaiming the Merpeople as millenia older than the Fae, Elain figured it wouldn’t hurt to try.

“Sorry about the iron bars,” she said, nodding to Lucien’s cell. “Precautions.”

“I would have expected nothing less,” Lucien said—then leaned back, letting the back of his head rest against the wood. “So.”

Elain released a breath.

“Alright,” she braced herself. He was her future High Lord, apparently—if she lied, she was already dead. “What do you know of Koschei?”

“Who?”

“Nothing, then,” Elain sighed. “He is a death-lord—a god-like being trapped somewhere deep in the Continent. His magic is even more ancient than yours.”

Lucien’s brows furrowed. “And you seek to…take his magic for yourself?”

“I want nothing to do with his magic,” Elain told him hotly, earning an arched eyebrow in response. “It is revolting. But, it also currently binds my friend’s soul to Koschei himself, and he will not give her up unless we offer him something in exchange.”

“Mer scales?”

“He wants the Cauldron,” she explained. “We are hoping the scales will do for now.” She fought the urge to bury her face in her hands. Was the plan truly that hopeless? Was Vassa going to be trapped…forever?

In her misery, she hardly noticed Lucien had gone strangely quiet.

“Our scales do not even compare to the sheer power of the Cauldron,” he said, the words barely above a whisper.

Elain laughed bitterly. “If this is your way of talking me out of it, you should know I’m pretty desperate,” she told him. “I’ll do whatever it takes to get my friend back.”

At that, Lucien said nothing. He only stared at her in thought, his eyes shimmering despite the darkness she and Jurian had shoved him into.

Then, “I see.” He stepped forward then—and halted an inch from the iron bars. “I was wrong about you.”

That, Elain did not expect.

“I told you, your spells do not work on me.”

“I’m well aware,” Lucien hummed. “I speak the truth. What is your friend’s name?”

Her throat threatening to close up, Elain managed, “Vassa.” She shook her head. “She’s like a sister to me. She’s Jurian’s…”

Understanding dawned on his features.

“That makes a lot of sense,” Lucien said.

“Yes,” Elain whispered. “Yes, I suppose it does.”

Lucien studied her closely. “And do you have a…?”

Elain almost laughed—though she supposed it was better than breaking down in front of the man she’d imprisoned aboard her own ship. “Don’t tell me you’re back to your flirting strategy now,” she told him.

Lucien smiled—a true smile this time, though Elain wasn’t sure how she knew. “Was I truly that obvious?”

“I knew what you were,” she gestured over him as if it was enough of an explanation. “No one else has eyes like that.” Like the morning sun itself.

“Now who’s the shameless flirt, Elain?”

Elain chuckled. “Don’t flatter yourself.” She met his gaze again. “The song summoned you, did it not?” she asked. “You weren’t at the tavern when I arrived.”

Lucien nodded. “I heard it from beneath the waves.”

“I’m not that good a singer.”

“No, you’re not,” he said, his smile fading with the words. She found herself wanting to see it again. “It was for another reason that I heard you. I recognise that now.”

“Recognise what?”

Lucien hesitated. “I need to…” He shook his head. “I—I can’t be sure, it doesn’t…” He locked his eyes with her own again, and she watched him patiently as he searched her gaze. “Elain,” Lucien tried again, and she could have sworn his voice trembled with the word. He loosed a breath. “Come with me.”

Elain looked at his outstretched hand—careful not to let the bars graze his skin. “I told you—”

“I’m not using my magic,” Lucien interrupted. “Just…come with me. Undersea.”

“Like hell I will,” she crossed her arms. “I don’t trust you.”

Lucien just stared at her—started as if some internal battle was playing out deep inside him, one she could almost feel in her own chest.

Then, his hand pulled back, and he laid his palm flat over his chest. His heart, Elain realised, her gaze dipping toward it.

She heard it, then—a quiet, yet powerful sound, like a wave crashing over the shore. The steady beating of his heart.

It couldn’t have been—and yet…

And yet, somehow, Elain heard it. Continued to hear it even now, even stronger as Lucien proclaimed, “With my life,” he began, “I promise to do you no harm.” There was an urgency in his gaze as he pleaded, “Just get in the water with me, and I will be yours.”

Elain paused. “Your scales, you mean,” she corrected, suddenly finding herself entirely out of breath.

“Yes,” Lucien agreed. “That.”

Elain studied the bars keeping him away—then the iron key strapped beside her Cauldron-blessed sword. She swore on the Mother herself she could hear it whisper: Do it.

Perhaps she was simply losing her mind.

“Are you going to make me regret this, Lucien?” she asked him.

He simply stared back. “Are you?”

She supposed the question was reasonable enough. “Don’t tell Jurian I’m doing this,” she warned Lucien. “He’s going to kill me.”

Two minutes later, Lucien was free.

It was a blessing that they’d somehow missed Jurian, really—that she’d guided Lucien through the narrow space upstairs until they arrived at the starboard hand in hand, the sea soft and patient. Waiting.

What the hell was she doing? The only thing Elain knew for certain right now was that she was almost certainly going insane, and that Lucien’s hand in hers was warm and steadying in the buoying ship—and that those steps she was hearing somewhere behind them were, without a shadow of a doubt, Jurian’s.

Whatever Lucien was trying to prove, he had to do it now.

“Do we…jump?” she asked him.

“ELAIN!” Jurian yelled.

“I guess so,” Elain answered for him—and, together, they jumped.

The water, surprisingly, was warm despite the middle of the night. Helion liked to keep his Court warm at all times, but she supposed the sea, at least, would have carried some chill to it. It was then that she realised she’d never swam in those waters before—that she’d spent her lifetime admiring their every corner, but had never actually felt their beauty herself.

Everything happened so quickly.

The moonlight shimmered atop the sea, then sank deep beneath its surface, illuminating the space between them. Illuminating Lucien as his glamour faded and revealed the Prince of the Undersea in his true, unmasked form.

Elain could have drowned there and then.

The scales dotting his body glimmered under the light in a symphony of golds, bronzes and maroons, glowing even underwater as they formed a long, finned tail that floated gently with the current. He was sunlight come to life, the forest on a warm, autumn morning, the golden thread coming to life as it wrapped itself around her ribs, and Elain knew—knew this was the true beauty the sea had meant to show her from the very first moment she’d set sail.

“You…” She struggled for a breath. “You’re so beautiful.”

Lucien smiled, a webbed hand reaching for her own. “So are you, he said, placing her palm over his bare chest—just as he did aboard her ship moments ago. This time, though—this time, Elain could hear as their two heartbeats blended into one, a melody that made her own soul sing as Lucien whispered, “I am yours.”

The thread around her ribs tightened, forever to remain.

“You…” Elain blinked. “Oh.” She covered their joined hands with another, as if to make sure. “Lucien.”

“I needed to make sure,” he breathed, pulling her in. “You are my mate.”

There was reverence in the way he’d spoken the words—like some sacred spell only Elain was privy to hear from his lips.

She wanted to try them too.

“You are mine.”

“Yes,” he assured her.

“And I am yours.”

“Yes,” Lucien whispered again.

“Your scale—”

He squeezed her hands tighter. “Everything I am belongs to you now, Elain,” he interrupted. “But you will not need them.”

Elain blinked once more. “I don’t understand, I—”

Lucien smiled. “We have the Cauldron,” he told her. “My father took it—from Velaris.”

Elain wasn’t sure she was breathing.

“No.”

“Its wards protect us—have been keeping us safe for decades,” Lucien explained. “I think it is time we take our safety into our own hands,” he added, his thumb brushing over her palm.

Did he mean—?

Elain shook her head. “I couldn’t—”

“Where you go, I go,” Lucien said. “I am yours, Elain, and you are mine. Together, we’ll get your family back. And,” he hesitated, “If—if you still wish to have me around then—”

Her mate.

“Kiss me,” Elain demanded.

Lucien stilled. “What—”

“Now, Lucien.”

And he did.

Her eyes fluttered shut as Lucien’s mouth clashed into her own, and the world around then exploded—he tasted of salt and the sun-warmed breeze. He tasted like the rest of her gods-damned life, though she supposed eternity could never be enough to satiate the hunger one kiss had instilled deep inside her. Lucien kissed her as if she was the world, as if she was the light illuminating the sea embracing them, his lips hot and soft and all-consuming.

They had a war to face��but, as long as they faced it together…

Elain pulled back, their hearts pounding as one. She smiled at the sound.

“Let’s do this.”

[jasper-pagan-witch]

Hold it I'm sorry now you've got my attention:

Can you give me an example of how that anthropomorphizing and personifying something thing would work, and what would the result be categorized as?

I mean, I'm not a psychologist, but here are my thoughts!

Look at how often people ascribe human traits to plants and animals. A scavenging raccoon is not just trying to eat, it's described as "troublesome". An old oak isn't just long-lived, it's also "wise". A red traffic light isn't just doing its job, it's "purposefully" making you late for work. A Roomba isn't just vacuuming the floor, it's also got a knife and is a quartermaster for a spaceship (just to bring a really Tumblr example into it).

So, when you create a servitor, you're naturally going to start applying "human" traits to it, even if you make it as non-human as you possibly can (a common thing said in first-time servitor creation is to make it look like a machine so you don't get too attached, but this rarely ever works). I've come to the conclusion that, as humans, we're predisposed to loving things, and we want things to love us back. Whether that's servitors that we think are becoming thoughtforms, our pets, the plants in our gardens or yards or windowsills, or anything else we interact with, we ultimately see ourselves reflected in them and hope that they see themselves reflected in us.

...Wow, that was a lot more meditative and rambly than I thought. Uh, anyways, to wrap it back around, I don't personally believe that servitors can become thoughtforms unless you explicitly make it so, but we can easily fool ourselves into thinking our servitors have developed in that direction because we care.

Thanks for sending this ask, anon!

~Jasper

[vyingeyes]

What's In A Name? (Project Crown)

As far as engagements went, this one wasn’t placing itself very highly in 48’s esteem. It was actually rapidly approaching the bottom of his (admittedly small) itemized list of Engagements Ranked By Enjoyability. It sucked, actually.

It wasn’t planned, for one thing, which meant that everyone who had been off-duty had been forced to scramble to get any semblance of kit prepped before shit hit the fan. This happened to include most of Crown Squad, which was especially unfortunate because 48’s rifle had been crushed in a freak incident with a B1 last engagement and the quartermaster had yet to issue him a replacement, so he was forced to enter combat with a single spare DC-17 pistol from requisitions that was, in 48’s professional opinion, about three shots from a critical malfunction at any given time.

But, well. Better that than empty handed. Allegedly. (At least if I were empty-handed I’d be aware I’m unarmed—)

Whatever. It was fine.

As it was, Crown Squad found itself on the surface of some backwater moon, and 48 couldn’t help but wonder if all planets were dusty and orange or if it was just that their battalion just had a predisposition for fighting in the worst fucking climates. He’d need more data before he formed an opinion. (No, he didn’t. He got the worst feeling it really would be a trend.)

If 48 was completely honest with himself (not Kyr. He wouldn’t be telling Kyr this, under any circumstances), he had no idea what was happening. He’d been too busy trying to arm himself to catch the sporadic briefing, but he was pretty sure it’d be fine. 8ball gave him the gist. Shoot the droids that shot at them. Easy. He’d been shooting at droids for almost all ten years of his life. He could probably do it in his sleep. He wasn’t worried at all.

He could just ask Myth. Myth would know what was happening. If he knew where Myth was—

A blaster bolt skimmed his extra-secure cover rock. Little bits of gravel rained down onto his helmet with a grating clatter, and a full chunk of stone separated from the base.

… Perhaps he should reexamine his choice of cover, actually.

Course was somewhere further down the lines, probably berating someone for getting shot. 8ball was… running information, he was pretty sure; long-range comms were supposedly down. Or he could be sniping, maybe. Kyr had to be nearby. But where was Myth? He’d been with him and Kyr before the firefight had started.

48 fired two quick shots at the first battledroid to round the corner of his little bottleneck before quickly ducking back toward the ditch he’d already clocked as “better hiding spot”. The clanker hit the ground hard, and its compatriot stumbled over it and crashed elegantly to the ground. It made a noise of complaint that was cut short by one more bolt fired immediately before 48 let himself roll down into the dirt.

The ditch wasn’t exactly easy terrain, littered with sun-dried branches (he had no idea where the fuck they would’ve come from, since there were no trees in the area, but fuck if he cared) and sharp stones ranging from kneepad-sized (which he really didn’t wanna find out if he could crawl over) all the way up to full boulders that came level with the upper edge of the ditch wall.

Maybe more information would be helpful. Reluctantly, he tapped his helmet comm on, opened his mouth to admit he needed guidance, and—

Hm. That was very loud static. That’s weird.

Unless, he reflected as he quickly began moving through the ditch (away from friendlies and towards the enemy, because it was the faster way to ditch the B1s that were pushing him and they probably wouldn’t think to search this way, surely?), unless it wasn’t just the long-range comms that were down. If all comms were down (or jammed, probably), it’d make complete sense for him to not be able to communicate with his squad.

It occurred to him as he moved that going further into enemy lines without any communication capabilities wasn’t a good idea, because he wasn’t stupid, despite popular belief. But it was either take this path of least resistance and maybe pull off a very cool flank or try to fight his way up the much-steeper slope towards his battalion and get shot in the back in the middle of a terrible dusty climb. This was a calculated risk.

48 was right in that this was a path of virtually no resistance. It was almost laughable, really. He’d clocked the ditch immediately as a potential route, and the droids weren’t even glancing toward it. He guessed their mechanisms wouldn’t have an easy time getting in and out of it, and maybe they thought the clones would have the same problem. Most of the processing power in a series-one droid really did go to their aiming systems—

He had to choke back a startled shout as noise erupted on the ridge to his left. Brief blasterfire echoed down, but before he could properly assess the situation and decide whether or not to engage, a brother was flung into the ditch with him, plastoid clattering harshly against one of the bigger rocks on the opposite ridge wall. 48 stared for a moment before the situation processed and he realized that he’d found Myth. Myth, who was looking fairly hurt and very limp against that rock.

48 got about two steps toward checking on his brother when a loud thud and a mechanical hiss of hydraulics informed him that they had a visitor, and he turned his back to Myth to place himself between him and the droid. The IG-100, actually, which was considerably more intimidating than the average B1—and also a much larger threat.

They were supposed to only be found around really important Separatists, which sucked because it meant that 48 really should have asked more questions about that mission briefing.

The MagnaGuard stared him down, red optical sensors glaring in the harsh light of the moon’s sun. This particular MagnaGuard was armed with an electrostaff, which would have been laughable if not for the fact that they were currently in close-range, which meant that in a few moments 48 would be wishing for a melee weapon of his own. Not to mention his current best weapon was a pistol that almost definitely wasn’t strong enough to get through armor thicker than a B1’s.

“Another clone,” the MagnaGuard rumbled in Binary, as though 48 wasn’t right in front of it with a gun. “Continue with the directive. I will handle it.”

“Like hell you will,” 48 complained, already hating this droid for dismissing his threat level so quickly.

He oh-so subtly stepped back towards Myth. Myth, who was still flat on the ground and also had a better gun than him right now. A tactical retreat of three yards.

The MagnaGuard stepped forward as he moved, raising its staff in a combat pose. 48 raised his pistol and tried to figure out where the fuck he could hit this thing to walk away from this. Its internal systems were very well-guarded by the plating on its torso, the gaps between plates too small for much to slip through. A blaster bolt would have to be exceptionally well-aimed to get between them, and even if he had a stun baton like it did, the electrified heads were too broad to slip between them. As it was, he had a faulty pistol and one unconscious(?) brother.

The staff lit up purple with sparkling electricity. The droid’s head was probably the biggest target, he though. It probably had backup systems in its internal mechanics to avoid complete incapacitation but if he could get rid of its optics—

He fired off a test shot and, as he expected, it did nothing but add another scuff to the carbon scoring on the droid’s plating. He stepped back as the droid took a leisurely swing, desperately trying to figure out what the fuck to do in this situation. Kamino didn’t exactly run courses on what to do in a one-on-one fight with one of the biggest droid threats in the Separatists Army.

The next move from the droid was much faster, and 48 almost seemed to flinch into it, like it had expected his exact movement, and his body locked up, flooded with an absolutely incapacitating amount of electricity. The specifics of electrostaves were eluding him—he couldn’t remember the voltage, which would be grating on his brain for the rest of the day if he survived this—but he did know what the trainers taught on Kamino. Electrostaves were no joke, and it didn’t take more than five seconds for one to flood you with enough electricity to put you down permanently.

The armor was supposed to help with that. A little. It’d distribute the flow of the current better than if he was unarmored.

In the time it took for those thoughts to fire through 48’s brain, he was able to raise his pistol to a gap in the IG-100’s plating and fire off six quick shots directly into its arm joint. Heat immediately scorched through his glove and into his palm from his fickle blaster, but it got the desired effect. The MagnaGuard broke contact with 48, staggering back to turn its head toward the sparking wires of its elbow joint. It clenched its hand, and an unpleasant zapping noise accompanied an increase in flying electricity from the socket. Metal fingers lagged, then fell limp.

If 48 wasn’t thoroughly dazed from his playdate with the electrostaff he might’ve been proud of himself for the glare the droid leveled at him, as though it had the capacity to be personally annoyed by his existence. It warbled something else at him, in Binary again, but this time 48 didn’t have nearly enough mental energy to process it into something he could understand. It was probably a threat. 48 made for Myth’s rifle again but didn’t get far before the MagnaGuard entered melee range once more.

48 had expected for the droid to repeat its eerie prediction of his movement, but oddly he found that somewhere between his reduced thought process and the droid’s now one-handedness, he was able to maneuver himself into a position that—

Okay. Gripping the electrostaff. That’s… an interesting choice, 48.

Well, it did keep him from getting hit with it, he reasoned vaguely as he pushed back against the droid’s unrelenting force. Even if it meant he’d dropped his blaster. It was… kind of a stalemate, but it bought him time. Now if only he could actually form a tactical thought—

Fueled more by instinct than anything else, he made the very impulsive decision to stop pushing back and instead yanked sharply on the baton. Maybe his brain thought he was playing keep-away with his batchmates for some reason. It should have gotten him killed—the droid should have taken the opening to turn the electrified staff head toward 48’s neck and the unarmored patch just under his helmet seal. But somehow, the droid hadn’t anticipated the utterly idiotic move, and when 48 turned and pushed and yanked again, the droid staggered forward and lost its one-handed grip on the staff.

48 would not admit to staring dumbly at the staggered droid, nor at the staff he now held. It was a completely understandable, very curious stare, thank you. These things were designed to kill Jedi, they were designed to avoid being staggered, designed to resist lightsabers and—

And this one was righting itself. That would be bad. 48 adjusted his grip on the electrostaff, calling up the fuzzy memories he had of melee training and bringing the buzzing staff head down hard in the neck joint he’d identified as a potential weak point back when he could think past the blurry pain in his chest.

The metal jammed nicely between the droid’s head and torso, and with the right angle and torque—

The droid’s head popped off. That was good. Yeah? Its main optics would be down. These units had secondary processors but it’d take at least a few seconds to activate them…

… Oh shit, he was on a timer.

Moving as quickly as he could past the fatigue quickly setting in, 48 bee-lined for Myth’s prone form. He was past the point of deluding himself with the rifle, but in his newly enlightened state he remembered that Myth was always painfully overprepared, no doubt even with a frantically assembled kit.

Like 48, Myth was notably down on any actually useful ordnance, but he oh-so responsibly had not one but two emergency flares packed into his primary belt pouch. As 48 dropped the staff and began prepping one, he resolved to never make fun of Myth for his packing habits ever again.

The IG-100 quickly finished adjusting to its impromptu servo-switch, already ominously clomping towards him with one limp arm and no head, the optic in its midsection now gleaming a bloody red.

“Freaky,” 48 muttered to himself. He was a bit past being intimidated at this point, though. He was far too preoccupied.

The droid warbled at him again, and he could almost make out the words this time. His thoughts were soft around the edges again, which was almost definitely not good, and he could almost feel the energy from his adrenaline rush beginning to wane. That also wasn’t good. A crash was not optimal right now.

The flare was also not cooperating. Another tally on the “bad” board.

The droid closed the last yard of distance between it and the clones, and even unarmed it proved to be a very formidable opponent, because it reached its functioning arm out and grabbed 48 by the throat, lifting him into the air with a crushing grip that had 48 wishing they’d been distributed gorgets or something. Really, leaving the throat exposed?

Distance successfully closed. That was good for 48. The MagnaGuard droned something, and 48 realized with no small amount of annoyance that it was not talking to him. It said something to the effect of “neutralizing target�� into its comm system, and 48 grinned wide—maybe the delirium setting in. He’d take what he could get at this point.

“Hey, clanker,” he rasped around the crushing weight on his windpipe. “Wanna see something cool?”

The droid was headless, but 48 got the sense that if it’d had a head it’d be tilted. It was very funny to watch the neck support move without an attachment, but he tried to focus. Arms weakening, 48 dragged the shoddily-modified flare into the droid’s chest-level—about his own abdominal level, with it having lifted him.

He lit it, and very quickly regained the distance between him and the enemy, because they were each launched back a considerable distance in the following boom. The MagnaGuard hit the opposite ridge in two pieces, and 48 hit his ridge with a very painful crack which signaled that A, he had hit a rock, and 2, his backplate was definitely broken, maybe shattered, and also, he was definitely concussed, assuming he wasn’t before lighting the flare. Combined with the ringing in his ear and the painful heat lingering on his front, he wasn’t in the best shape. But he was alive! So far! And very proud that he’d maintained the awareness to point the business end of the flare toward the enemy. That was a major win. And Myth was alive! Probably! And also, he had just announced their location to the enemy en masse!

That was... Less good.

“Nice,” he muttered absently, trying to assess where the fuck he had landed through the smokey soot and dust. “Knew that would work.”

If his gloves were singed from his blaster before, they were melting and fusing to his skin now. Not to be dramatic, but shit hurt.

He dragged one sticky hand to his visor to wipe the blended gunk away. It just sort of smeared, but that was better than nothing, and he realized that he wasn’t actually that far from Myth. It was a good thing he hadn’t been launched into Myth. He hadn’t considered that as an option, but it probably would’ve been bad for them both. He pushed himself upright and crawled over to his brother, who was very helpfully still prone.

“If we survive this, you owe me,” 48 warned him as he reached for Myth’s blaster.

He hissed when the grip pressed into steadily growing blisters on his palm, but he kept his hold on the rifle as firm as he could, nonetheless. He entertained the pros and cons of standing fully.

Pros: he wouldn’t be sitting down when the droids came to investigate the downfall of their superior.

Cons: ow.

Honestly, he wasn’t sure his legs would support him. Everything kinda hurt at the moment. But did his legs hurt worse than his hands? Maybe a bad metric to judge their functionality on, but his hands were still working. Maybe his legs would too?

Worst case scenario, he collapsed, and then he’d be on the ground anyway. Might as well try.

48 used the smooth wall of the ridge behind him as a support to help himself to his feet. His legs immediately protested this course of action, but either a fresh adrenaline rush or his general will to live made it a bit more bearable. It didn’t really matter which.

If he kept his weight against the wall, he could probably maintain this position. Just… only this position. This exact spot standing in the open in the ditch. Awesome.

How to get out of this? Myth would have an idea, if he were awake. Yeah, Myth would definitely owe him. How the fuck do you get trapped alone behind enemy lines and get the shit beat out of you like that? Idiot.

He lit the second flare normally. Technically, it probably would’ve been a better idea to use it as another impromptu explosive, but he wasn’t entirely confident in his chestplate’s durability, and he was already very injured. It might have kept Myth alive for a bit longer, but it’d be better for Myth all around to have a breathing brother watching his back right now.

His audio was out—48 wasn’t sure whether that was his ears or his helmet audio, but he wasn’t about to remove the helmet to find out—and the soot, dirt, and oil paste on his visor limited visibility, but luckily clankers moved and rocks typically didn’t, so it wasn’t that hard to figure out what to shoot at. He’d been drilled on shooting these fuckers since he was two and a half. He could do this in his sleep.

It wasn’t until he realized this blaster was overheating, too, that the desperation began to sink in. It admittedly took him a bit to notice this malfunction, because his hands already hurt and he hadn’t expected any fault with this blaster, but a carefully oriented glance through his grimy visor told him that the battery cell was compromised. Probably happened during the encounter that landed Myth in the ditch in the first place, if he wanted to take the time to care about how instead of what. 48 began rationing his shots.

Luckily, the clankers were very reluctant to join him in the ditch, for the same reasons that they hadn’t entered it in the first place, so they were kind of just lining up into the bottleneck of boulders. It made it easier to keep them out, but it was only a matter of time before a super or tactical droid expended the three percent of processing power that it took to figure out how to deal with him.

48 identified where he’d dropped the electrostaff, on the other side of Myth’s prone form, and began staggering toward it between shots. Now that he was paying attention to it, the rifle wasn’t cooling down nearly enough between shots, which suggested… faulty coolant? Line leak? Fucked up gun. Probably something to do with the MagnaGuard. Every addition to this mission made it somehow worse than it had been before. Bottom three on the list for sure.

His boot collided with the staff, and he did his best to bring himself to an incredibly dignified crouch to wrap one hand on the hilt while the other maintained cover fire. He wasn’t entirely sold on his own ability to use this thing in his current state (Heh. Current. Electrostaff.), but he was also not going to die a coward, so it’d have to do.

When the rifle inevitably jammed, he opted to throw it at the head of the next clanker to poke its weird-ass face into the gap. It didn’t incapacitate it, but it did give him the time to push himself off the wall of the ditch and toward the other side of the trench. When the first droid succeeded in dropping down, he electrified the staff and brought it down on its head. Not as hard as he maybe could, but enough to send it down and keep it that way.

“Next?” he called wearily.

Alarmed droid voices echoed in the rocky terrain, none of it making sense to 48, but the low drone of a commando broke up the whiny pitch of the B1s and 48 really wished Myth would wake up, now. He’s not sure what he’d want his brother to do, considering there wasn’t a single gun between them, now, but at least he wouldn’t have to do this shit alone.

List of things to do when I survive this: Beat the shit out of Crates for giving me a fucking DC-17 pistol when we’re apparently fighting someone important enough to have MagnaGuard.

Then, added after a moment of reflection, Thank Myth for packing the shitty model of flare. Apologize to Kyr for dismissing the importance of briefings. Punch 8ball, he probably deserves it for something.

The next droid came down with a friend, and 48 only got to crush one’s central processor before the other was shooting at him. The bolt skimmed his pauldron and 48 was able to kill it before it shot again, but the force of the bolt staggered him, and in the time it took for him to scrap the second droid, a third and fourth had dropped down. The high-pitched buzz in his ear drowned out the sound their blasters must have made when they fired at him, and he felt at least one bolt hit him. At this range, this dizziness, it knocked him flat, and the yellow sky went dark.

Myth and 48 had been missing for fifteen minutes when someone reported an unexplained explosion. Not necessarily a long time, in theory, but in practice, on an active battlefield? That was half of Kyr’s squad missing, and to say he was worried would be an understatement.

He hadn’t even been informed about the explosion, he had happened to catch one of Tower Squad’s newest members telling their LT about it. Apparently, some sort of ordnance had gone off within enemy lines, and damn if that didn’t sound like something 48 might pull.

Kyr hadn’t bothered to request clarification from the recruit. He headed straight to Course and set off toward where the other half of their unit was dropping into the long-dry riverbed on the fringe of the field.

Course knew better than to ask questions. Green Squad did not.

“Did Baati send you?” Punch asked, not particularly rankled by their sudden appearance.

Kyr moved forward.

“Our squad might be responsible for this,” Course said by way of explanation.

Green Squad moved to accommodate for their increased number. They either didn’t want to ask Kyr to change his position or didn’t care, because they shuffled themselves to fit around him rather than ask him to fold in.

They didn’t have to trek for long before a flare lit the sky and the din of blasterfire began, and everyone broke out into a full run to round the riverbend.

Kyr processed the scene in a split second that dragged out endlessly. Several B1s with their guns raised on one side of the riverbed, a prone brother who could only be Myth on the other, and a limp body in what might have once been white plastoid laying in between them. The B1s had been aiming at the middle brother, but the sudden appearance of the Green-Crown unit had the clankers swiveling to direct their fire at the new arrivals.

Green Squad engaged. Course stood stock-still beside Kyr for a breath before hurrying to Myth, who was closer to him by about a yard. Kyr darted toward 48, heart stalling as he got close enough to properly make out the utter destruction of his kit. The front of his armor was scorched and cracked in multiple places, including a major shattering dent in the space between 48’s left deltoid and pec. Broken plastoid had visibly been pushed inward on contact, and blood lightly saturated the body glove underneath. Almost no part of his armor was still white. The smell of burning pushed past Kyr’s filters at this proximity, and Kyr reached for a pulse. He wasn’t entirely sure that he’d be able to feel one with his own heart pounding as hard as it was, but he needed to try.

Turns out he didn’t really need to, because as soon as Kyr’s hand touched the narrow strip of skin between 48’s helmet seal and blacks, his brother was moving, flinching to one side and lunging out with the electrostaff that he’d had a hand on. Kyr avoided the hit easily, given it was sluggish and poorly aimed in the first place (and also not even electrified), but it was unnerving to watch 48 attack him, and attack him so poorly at that.

“48, it’s me! It’s Kyr. I’m not gonna hurt you.”

48 either did not hear him or did not care, because he was still scrambling, pushing himself up into a sitting position and lifting the electrostaff again.

“Shit,” Kyr muttered, getting a good look at the grime-coated visor.

He didn’t really want to try to subdue 48. Not when he was hurt and not when he didn’t know it was Kyr. But he didn’t really see a lot of options here.

“Course!” Kyr called, not looking away from 48. “Need a hypo.”

Course’s visor shot to Kyr, but he didn’t question it, tossing him a hypo with practiced ease.

Kyr inched forward. 48’s helmet turned to-and-fro like he was trying to get good sights on the perceived threat, then evidently gave up, electrified his staff, and lurched forward with a wide swing. Kyr ducked away again, and while 48 struggled to bring the staff out of its momentum-driven path, Kyr pushed himself into his space and stuck the hypo in 48’s neck.

The effect was immediate. 48’s grip on the electrostaff slackened and he made a sort of choked-out sound as he slumped forward. Kyr caught him cautiously, still looking out for any last-ditch efforts.

“We’ve gotta get out of here,” Punch, suddenly right beside Kyr, informed him. “The clankers’ve realized there’s more of us down here.”

Kyr adjusted his hold on 48, who was shifting and twitching even as he went down under the anesthesia.

He didn’t need to speak before Punch pressed on. “Push will help you get 48 out of here, we’ll give you time to get back to friendlies.”

Kyr nodded, adjusting his brother’s limp form to accommodate the approaching Push, and between the two of them they were able to lift 48 easily. Course was already making his way back the way they came, Myth now half-conscious and staggering along with half of his weight on their medic.

The shuttle back to the Negotiator was easily Kyr’s least favorite part of engagements. The engines on the ship were too loud, reports needed to be drafted, there were less shuttles than there were when they began (so troopers crammed into what ships they had left), and, to top it off, the stench of blood and sweat reeked strong enough to push easily past helmet filters. 

Kyr’s mind ran from bullet point to bullet point on his ever-growing list of post-battle procedures. He switched the “write battle report” point to second place behind “get 48 to the medbay.” His head swam with the details of the mission.

The 212th came to this moon for a reported sighting of a high-ranking Separatist ship. No, not a ship, a ship’s signal. Kyr remembered wrinkling his nose at that fact. Anyone can replicate a signal.

Either way, they were summoned to engage the troops while their General went to investigate and potentially engage with the Seppie officer. Kyr met with almost all of his squad and relayed this information to them. He shouldn’t have trusted 8ball to brief 48. He’d do it himself, next time.

If there was a next time.

Kyr shook his head and shifted his focus to his conscious brother, Myth, who was currently leaning against Kyr’s side to stay upright. He shifted his weight to the opposite foot and pulled Myth up a bit.

“You holding up?” he asked through the comms.

“Mmm…” was the hummed response he got. Man, Myth was out of it.

“What even happened?” He said out loud to no one.

48 stirred. Course physically stepped back from the stretcher that the mangled clone was laid out on. The medic looked up at Kyr, but before he could say anything, 48 was muttering and moving his hands to his burnt chestplate.

“Oh… ‘m alive.” He smiled and squinted at his hands. “Sick.”

Kyr rushed forward, holding onto Myth with one hand and reaching the other out to grab 48’s melted glove. It was still unnervingly warm, and Kyr inwardly cringed at the thought of how it could have gotten this bad.

“What happened?” Kyr demanded. He wouldn’t have time for pleasantries before 48 passed out again.

“Shocked the hell outta me…” 48 mumbled. He was barely moving his mouth to speak. Kyr wasn’t sure how he was even speaking at all—that hypo was nothing to sneeze at, designed with clone metabolisms in mind.

“What was the explosion?” Kyr tugged at 48’s hand, even as his brother slipped back into unconsciousness.

Course spoke up. “The interrogation can wait. He’s hurt.”

Kyr met Course’s gaze and knew instinctively that, behind the helmet, his brother was furrowing his eyebrows and glaring.

“Okay. I’m sorry,” Kyr muttered. He really didn’t mean to stress out Course, he was just worried.

Take a breath.

The ship landed smoothly in the hangar and as soon as the doors opened, Course pushed out with the stretcher. 

Injured first, that was protocol. 

Kyr half-helped, half-dragged a barely conscious Myth alongside him as he tried to keep up with Course’s furious pace through the halls of their home ship.

The doors hadn’t finished opening all the way before Course left 48’s stretcher to prep one of the few bacta tanks kept in the back of the medbay. Kyr lowered Myth onto a cot and looked up to where another medic, the newest one, was staring at him. 

“Go help Course prep the bacta tank,” he said, barely realizing that it wasn’t his place to instruct a medic. He pointed to the door to the back room and, to Kyr’s surprise, the medic quickly walked off to do as instructed.

“Kyr, can you get Shock’s kit off?” Course came in through the comms. “Shock?” Kyr repeated dumbly. There was a pause, and then, “...48. Can you get 48’s kit off?” Course’s voice came through, a bit quieter.

Kyr bit back a laugh, but his voice betrayed his amusement. “Got it, I’ll get Shock prepped for bacta.”

He looked over and didn't really know where to start. It’d probably be easiest to get his brother’s leg plates off first, right? He unbuckled and unlatched each plate methodically, scanning all the while for injury.

The leg plates had been easy. The mangled chest piece… That one Kyr examined for several long seconds, trying to find the best place to start.

“Protocol for damaged armor says that you’re permitted to apply excessive force to structural weak spots if the plates are unable to be removed via standard methods,” Myth spoke up.

Kyr physically jumped at his brother’s voice. “Gods, Myth!”

He turned to where Myth had pulled himself into a sitting position. His brother surely should not have been awake. How long had he been up for?

“If you can’t get to the buckles or the magnets won’t release, you can cut through the straps holding the plates together,” Myth continued as if he didn’t just scare the absolute shit out of Kyr. 

“You shouldn’t be up,” Kyr scolded, looking around for an instrument to cut the shoulder straps with.

“You shouldn’t be completing medical protocols without the direct supervision of a trained medic.” Myth smiled fully, with far too many teeth to be innocent. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

Kyr huffed in response. His eyes landed on a nearby scalpel; probably the best he’d get without snooping through drawers. He pulled gently on the strap of Shock’s armor and carefully slotted the blade between it and Shock’s shoulder. With one quick upward slice, the strap fell away. The chestplate sagged, now that it was only supported on one side.

He lifted Shock’s arm gently, finally able to reach the release switch on the inner side plating. The plates demagnetized without issue, letting Kyr repeat the sequence of actions on Shock’s other side finally pry the burnt, broken front plate off of his brother.

Purposely keeping himself between Myth’s sightline and Shock, Kyr surveyed the injuries.

Yeah. It looked… Really bad. If Kyr had any proper medical training, he could probably make out more than that. As it was, he didn’t need medic modules to know the bloody pulp of body glove wasn’t what you hoped to see in a patient.

Course emerged from the back room and Kyr let out a sigh of relief. Perfect: someone who could tell him what “really bad” actually meant.

“Give me that.” Course looked right over Shock and held his hand out to Kyr.

“Is it bad?” Kyr handed Course’s scalpel back and tilted his head at Shock.

Course didn’t respond, which was likely a yes. Instead, he pulled Shock’s stretcher into the back. Shortly after, Kyr heard Course’s sharp orders to the new medic.

“You’ve got Myth. I can handle this.”

The shiny walked out, glancing back at the door as he walked over to Myth. When he finally turned his attention to Myth, he froze.

“You shouldn’t be upright. Let me help you lay back—”

Myth was already sinking down into a horizontal position.

As the shiny got to work, Kyr realized his to-do list was still incomplete. He nodded to Myth and the medic and decided to go grab his datapad so he could at least get some work done while waiting for news about Shock.

He had just passed the medbay doors when he saw 8ball barreling top-speed down the hall towards him. Kyr knew that he had one chance to restrain his brother before he ran into the medbay and demand to see Shock or pester the new medic about Myth.

With barely a second to think, Kyr took two steps forward and threw his arms out. 8ball hit him hard, and they both fell to the ground. Kyr used 8ball’s confusion to get the upper hand and twist out from under his batchmate. He grabbed 8ball’s arm and twisted—not enough to hurt. Not yet. The day was young.

“Don’t run in the halls.” Kyr slowly loosened his grip, letting 8ball up only once he was certain the scout wouldn’t continue bolting into the medbay.

“Baati told me someone was hurt! Who is it?” 8ball demanded, as if he had the upper hand. “Course? 48?” Kyr couldn’t hold back his flinch. “It’s 48? Is he okay?”

Kyr shook his head wearily. “… He’s… he’ll be fine. He’s in bacta.”

8ball’s eyes widened. “In the tank?”

Kyr couldn’t help but sigh, pinching his nose. “Yes, he’s in the tank. He just went in before you got here.”

“What happened?” 8ball asked.

“Only Shock can answer that.”

8ball’s face twisted in confusion. “Shock?”

Kyr remembered too late that 8ball hadn’t been on the transport with them. “It’s what Course is calling him. We found him with a MagnaGuard’s electrostaff—don’t ask, I really can’t explain anything until he’s back up.”

The strain came right out of 8ball’s expression until he was all wide brown eyes and slightly-opened mouth. “48 got his name?”

“If he likes it.” Kyr smiled wryly. “I think he will, though.” Shock. It just suited him.

“Oh. Cool. Where’s Myth?” 8ball asked, and the 180 shouldn’t have Kyr reeling.

“Also in the medbay,” Kyr admitted. “He was found with Shock. He’s awake, last I saw, but really shouldn’t be up right now. He took some bad hits. You can talk to him tomorrow—” Kyr had to reach out and grab 8ball again to stop him from running right off again. “The medics are about to be swarmed. They don’t need anyone else in their way. Unless you’re hurt?”

8ball shook his head slowly. “… They’re both okay, though?”

“Yes, 8ball,” Kyr sighed. “Myth is okay and Shock—” He put the image of his batchmate’s mangled armor and flesh out of his mind, “—will be just fine once the medics get through with him.”

“Alright. I guess I can visit tomorrow.”

“Good. Come with me back to the barracks.”

Kyr put a hand on 8ball’s shoulder and guided him towards the bunks. As they talked, Kyr took note of the bags under 8ball’s eyes and the way he seemed to move his hands slightly after he started speaking, like they were lagging three steps behind his mind. 

“They had me running such absolutely kriffing ridiculous intel!” 8ball complained as they walked through the sliding doors of their barracks. He threw his helmet onto his bed, the one right below Myth’s. “Didn’t even give me a speeder, just went ‘oh, run about a half mile to tell this lieutenant that he should get his men to this position and then run a half mile back—UPHILL—to tell the captain that they can’t do that! Instead of just letting me go fix the stupid comms jam like I wanted to!” 8ball groaned and sank down onto his bed, sitting on the edge and pulling his datapad out. “And now I have to write a stupid report about those stupid communications that got jammed… stupidly.”

Kyr chuckled at 8ball’s outburst. Despite his previous frustration at 8ball, he was just relieved to have a brother in the bunks with him. If the whole squad had ended up in the medbay… Well. He wouldn’t be able to focus much on his report, he knew.

He settled at the table set up in the corner and pulled his datapad out to write his own stupid report.

Truthfully, the report was a welcome distraction. Kyr was vaguely aware of his leg bouncing anxiously every time his mind wandered back to the two brothers currently held in the medbay. The time couldn’t pass fast enough, and Kyr made sure this report was thorough. He didn’t have Myth to help “embellish” any details now if he wanted to, anyway.

8ball finished far before Kyr, and he walked over to loom over Kyr’s shoulder.

“Ooh, still on section 6-B I see,” he teased, and Kyr sighed.

“Yeah, it’s a rough one. We all kitted up so quickly, I couldn’t get a full loadout report.”

“Well, I can tell you I had all my standard equipment, if that helps. I also saw Myth grabbing flares.” 8ball was trying to remember more when Kyr cut in.

“Flares? What model?” Kyr looked up from the datapad and turned to fully face 8ball. His voice had come out more harshly than he had wanted it to.

“Uh, I don’t know. I wasn’t paying that much attention.” 8ball subconsciously snapped to attention as he gave his report to Kyr—a rarity, these days. Probably the battle haze still drifting around them.

“Alright.” Kyr turned back to the report and quickly added, “Thank you.”

8ball fell out of attention and wandered out toward the mess hall, leaving Kyr to ponder the missing flares. They’d seen one on site just before they’d gotten there, but Myth hadn’t had any on him when they found him, and neither did Shock. Nobody reported an emergency flare before then, either, but that left at least one flare completely unaccounted for; if Myth really had only grabbed one flare, 8ball would’ve said so. He hadn’t, he’d specifically said flares, plural. An image of Shock’s melted gloves appeared in Kyr’s mind, and he pushed that line of thinking down immediately. It wouldn’t do to make any kind of report based on nothing but assumption.

Eventually the report was as complete as he could get it, and Kyr needed to report Shock’s damaged armor to Crates. He walked with purpose, as he always did, and other clones stepped aside to let him through. He appreciated being able to walk freely, as long as he looked purposeful; it helped him think without running into anyone.

On a whim, he took a slight detour, nearing the medbay and slowing his pace.

Kyr knew that reporting all damaged or missing equipment was more important than checking in on his batchmates, who needed rest anyway. Despite this knowledge, he found himself walking into the medbay.

He might be able to ask Myth about his kit. Yeah, that was it. 

He immediately knew that wasn’t going to happen when he looked over and saw Myth, finally passed out and thoroughly patched up. Kyr looked to Course seated on the opposite side of the medbay. His brother was examining something on his datapad with one hand and moving supplies on his table from one pile to the another with the other, expression the picture of irritable neutrality.

“How are they?” Kyr spoke, and Course’s focus broke.

He glanced up at Kyr. “Resting. Previously peacefully.” His eyebrows raised slightly. “They aren’t able to report yet.”

“I know.” Kyr tapped his foot. Why was he even here? He had other things to do, as did Course. Hell, 8ball was able to find something better to do than harass the medics—

“You can see him if you’re that worried.” Course stood and opened the backroom door, allowing Kyr to pass through to the bacta chamber.

Kyr stayed silent as he went back. All the heavy-duty medical equipment that wasn’t needed for common field injuries stayed in this sterile, often dimly-lit room. The bacta tanks lined the backmost wall, and inside one of them floated Shock.

It felt wrong to see his brother like this. Blisters marred his hands and forearms, and new scars streaked across his chest, both electrical burns and broken skin from his shattered chest plate. Kyr set a hand carefully against the glass separating him from Shock.

“He’ll live,” Course said from behind Kyr. It occurred to Kyr, distantly, that Course probably couldn’t say anything more reassuring without the risk of lying.

Kyr pressed his forehead to the glass above Shock’s forehead, willing his strength to his unconscious brother.

K'udesii jahaala, vod

“What?” Course asked from the control panel of the tank.

“Nothing.” Kyr let himself take one final look at Shock before making eye contact with Course. “Do you remember what kits they had? I’m trying to finish the mission report, and I need to tell Crates what went missing or got damaged.”

Course went along with Kyr’s self-imposed distraction, walking him out of the medbay and giving his own report of what he saw and what was salvaged from the mess they found Myth and Shock in.

From there, the report to Crates went smoothly. Kyr appreciated Crates for how well he knew protocol, but that was about where his appreciation ended. He would never admit it to anyone but himself, but Crates seemed disorganized and lost to Kyr. He got his job done just fine, but it was never without some unnecessary delay. 

Kyr let it go and moved on with his checklist.

Training schedule was next. He had been given the agenda, he just needed to put it into the range’s programming. Then he needed to head to the training deck and put in the next simulation details. He wasn’t even thinking about checking the maintenance and general upkeep schedules yet—that could wait.

Kyr always found it easy to throw himself into this kind of work. Mindlessly marching from room to room, punching in codes that he didn't have to think twice about. Enter, program, leave, repeat. The pattern soothed his thoughts and let him focus his stream of nervous energy on a simple goal. And once all the work was done, he could focus his energy on training.

He didn't realize how late it had gotten until the range lights automatically turned off on him. Blinking in the darkness, Kyr decided it was time for another stop by the medbay, some food, and an attempt at sleep.

"Kyr, for the last time, they need rest,” Course snapped before Kyr even stepped a foot into the medbay. His patience… seemed to be thinning.

"That's not why I'm here." Kyr crossed his arms and stood in the doorway. The sensors couldn't close the door on him, and more and more cold air drifted out of the medbay the longer he stood there. "Come eat. I know you weren't scheduled this late, and you look like shit.” It wasn't a question, but it wasn't quite an order yet.

Course looked at him, then at the door controls. "You're letting the air out."

"The door will close behind us." Kyr let Course deflect for a moment, the same grace Course had granted him on his last visit. "You need rest, too."

Course’s focus turned to Myth, who was fast asleep across the room. He reluctantly turned back to Kyr with a barely audible sigh. Kyr stepped back, keeping one foot in the door to let Course out.

They walked to the mess hall in silence, but it wasn't tense. Kyr knew that Course was exhausted, but he didn’t intend to push him too hard on it if it meant he could get his stubborn brother fed and maybe—Force willing—to bed.

Not a soul occupied the mess when they arrived—no small feat, with the revolving-door shifts on the cruiser, but half the ship was likely dead asleep after their engagement. The other half, presumably, was hard at work sorting out the post-battle chores. Kyr blindly felt along the wall by the entrance to get to the sensor. As soon as he passed in front of it, the fluorescent lighting flickered on, and both he and Course recoiled at the brightness.

It wasn’t a designated meal time, so options were limited. Kyr sat across from Course and tossed a scavenged ration bar onto the table by his batchmate.

"Why are you still up?" Course spoke first. He sat hunched over his datapad and didn't bother looking up.

"Same reason as you. Can't sleep when there's work to do." Kyr halfheartedly swiped at Course's datapad. "We have to stop at some point, though."

Course yanked his datapad back and rolled his eyes "Maybe you need to stop. I know the amount of sleep I need to be effective, and I've gotten it."

Kyr blinked slowly, far too tired to unpack that statement right now.

"We're both going to sleep. It's either that, or I follow you back to the medbay and file reports until I pass out."

"You can knock yourself out. I'll just be working."

"Course." Kyr was done bargaining; it was late, and he let his worry bleed into anger. "You're going to sleep. I don't need three brothers half dead."

Course finally looked away from his datapad to stare at him, and Kyr gazed unrepentantly back. He knew better than to give Course a single inch.

"… Fine.”

It might have been the only true victory of the day, for Kyr. It was more than enough for him.

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

This is split into two chapters on AO3 but I'm not gonna post two separate subchapters for the spinoff on Tumblr.

Second part (starting with Kyr's POV) was originally written by our resident chapter artist! She's Kyr and 8ball's creator. Both parts were originally written in probably 2023, edited and revised within the past month to align with current continuity.

Main chapter 3 can be found here.

[whencyclopedia]

Battle of Gazala

The Battle of Gazala in Libya in May-June 1942 was a decisive victory for German and Italian forces led by General Erwin Rommel (1891-1944) against British, Commonwealth, and Free French forces during the Western Desert Campaigns (Jun 1940 to Jan 1943) of the Second World War (1939-1945). As a consequence of the defeat and breaking up of the British defensive line at Gazala, the Allies were obliged to surrender the key fortress port of Tobruk and give Rommel his finest victory.

General Rommel, Western Desert

Imperial War Museums (CC BY-NC-SA)

Desert Warfare

Into the second year of WWII, the Allies, then principally British and Commonwealth forces, were keen to protect the Suez Canal from falling into enemy hands, that is into the control of the Axis powers of Germany and Italy. North Africa was also strategically important to both sides' wish to control and protect vital Mediterranean shipping routes. The island of Malta was also crucial in this role and holding the island fortress (then in British hands) was another reason to control potential airfields in the North African desert. Finally, North Africa was the only place where Britain could fight a land war against Germany and Italy and so hopefully gain much-needed victories that would encourage the British people after the debacle of the Dunkirk Evacuation and the horrors of the London Blitz.

For all of the above reasons, a series of desert battles ensued, which are collectively known as the Western Desert Campaigns. At first, the British Army faced poorly equipped Italian forces, but these were soon considerably boosted by German troops with superior armour, weapons, and training.

North Africa proved a difficult theatre of war with its small ports, poor (or often non-existent) roads, and harsh desert environment. For both sides, battling local conditions and overcoming frequent shortfalls in logistics became just as important as bettering the enemy's military forces. As Rommel once reflected: "The battle is fought and decided by the quartermasters before the shooting begins" (Mitchellhill-Green, 264).

One thing the desert had was space, and battles could range over many miles as territorial gains became much less important than inflicting material damage on the enemy compared to other theatres of the war. Other peculiarities of desert warfare included the general absence of any civilian involvement and the fact that both sides frequently used captured equipment, a phenomenon that often made positive identification of exactly who was approaching across the far horizon in clouds of dust and sand extremely difficult. These same dust clouds, and the speed of armoured engagements, also meant that both the Axis and Allied air forces could only play a limited role in battles and so were largely reduced to targeting supply lines or fixed defensive positions.

General Erwin Rommel

Bundesarchiv, Bild 146-1977-018-13A / Otto (CC BY-SA)

Continue reading...

[scienter]

My thoughts on Wind and Truth Chapters 10 & 11:

I had a crazy thought a few days ago, but now I don't think it's so crazy.

Is Syl the author of Knights of Wind and Truth?

I reviewed the Wind and Truth epigraphs released so far and the one from chapter 2 caught my attention:

 “I first knew the Wind as a child, during days before I knew dreams. What need has a child of dreams or aspirations? They live, and love, the life that is.” – From Knights of Wind and Truth, page 3

It reminded me of something Syl said in Oathbinger:

Syl walked up to him in the air. “They’re like I remember them.” “Remember them?” Kaladin whispered. “Syl, you never knew me when I lived here.” “That’s true,” she said. “So how can you remember them?” Kaladin said, frowning. “Because I do,” Syl said, flitting around him. “Everyone is connected, Kaladin. Everything is connected. I didn’t know you then, but the winds did, and I am of the winds.” “You’re honorspren.” “The winds are of Honor,” she said, laughing as if he’d said something ridiculous. “We are kindred blood.” “You don’t have blood.” “And you don’t have an imagination, it appears.” She landed in the air before him and became a young woman. “Besides, there was … another voice. Pure, with a song like tapped crystal, distant yet demanding…”

And in chapter 10 Syl appoints herself as Kaladin's scribe?? 🤨

I think Syl is the author of the epigraphs. That's my new theory.

Anyway,

Chapter 10: I loved everything about this chapter!

Kaladin followed Syl into a section of the tower with lower ceilings. They had to stop flying and walk, and soon entered the scribes’… uh, supply depot? That wasn’t what they called it, but Kaladin of course couldn’t read the sign. Scribes didn’t have a quartermaster. Storms, what did they call the place? A long, low-ceilinged room full of bookcases and puttering ardents, bald heads reflecting the glowing lights embedded into the stone. The scents of paper and hogshide leather filled the air.

So basically:

Syl bobbed right up to the counter. “Do you have my things?” She waved at Kaladin. “I brought a pack human.” “A what?” Kaladin said.

LMAO. Kaladin is Syl's "pack human."

"She squinted at Kaladin. “You’re not going to teach him to read it, are you?” “What if I did?” Syl said, going up on her tiptoes and projecting confidence. “Dalinar reads.”

DO IT, SYL. TEACH KALADIN HOW TO READ.

“What is it?” Kaladin said, flipping through the pages. “The Way of Kings,” Syl said. “Your own copy! I got it for you, since I’m your scribe.”

Syl got Kaladin a copy of The Way of Kings . . . 🤔 Now why would she want him to have that book? Does she think Kaladin will find Nohadon's writing useful as Dalinar's heir? And how does Syl even know about that book?

Btw - I love that we've come full circle with that book.

Syl leaned forward conspiratorially across the counter. “I could never figure out why these humans were so shy about the spot between their legs! Strange to my uncultured spren mind. Then I figured it out! Must be something pretty ugly down there, for everyone to be so afraid to show it! The ugliest thing I know of is a chull head. So when I made this body, I put one there.” woman stared at Syl, and seemed to be trying very hard not to look. “… Chull head,” the woman finally said. “Chull head,” Syl replied. “Down… there.” “Down there.” Syl held the woman’s eyes with an unblinking stare, before adding, “I feed it grass sometimes.”

I love how Syl loves to screw around with people.

“Do you even exist?” he said, saying it before he thought through the words. “Under the clothing? I mean, are the clothes your skin, or…” She leaned toward him. “Wanna see?” “Oh, storms no,” he said, imagining her vanishing her clothing right there in the middle of the book-quartermaster depot-place, fully visible to everyone. Or perhaps worse, just to him—to make him blush. Storms, she could do that at any time, in the middle of a meeting with Dalinar. She’d probably find it as funny as sticking his feet to the floor. One would think, after all this time, he’d have learned to keep his storming mouth shut. “Still wondering how much detail I have, aren’t you?” she said, leaning up against him. “No,” he said forcefully. “You’re going to find a way to embarrass me. So no.” She rolled her eyes. “We are as we were imagined, Kaladin,” she said. “Basically human—but with certain enviable improvements. You can assume that if a human has it, I do too—unless it’s icky.”

I picked up shipper vibes from this interaction. Although I don't ship Syladin, I'm not opposed to it either. A romance between them wouldn't be the worst thing to happen. Syladin is preferable to killing either character. Just saying.

“Look,” Kaladin said, “you need to talk to someone about your problems. Not me; I’m just some stranger. But find someone. Talk. Grow. It’s worth the effort, all right?”

Yes, Brandon! Give us more of this! I love therapist-Kaladin. It suits him so well.

“I assume,” Kaladin said under his breath, “most book-quartermasters aren’t so terrible.”  “Wait, what did you call her?” “Um… book-quartermaster? Who works at the scribes’ supply depot?” “The head librarian,” she said, “at the library?” “Oh, right. Yeah, that’s the word.” “You are absolutely adorable sometimes.

BOOK-QUARTERMASTER!? 😂😂 Oh, Kaladin. Syl's right. You are absolutely adorable sometimes.

CHAPTER 11:

For while the contest of champions was to happen in the East, a different contest was to happen in Shinovar. And one that the Wind swore was equally vital. Perhaps more so. —From Knights of Wind and Truth, page 8   

Oh, really!? The stuff going down in Shinovar is more important than the contest of champions? Well, I feel justified in giving Kaladin's storyline disproportionate attention. lol

“You have learned substantiation? I thought your kind had forbidden that skill.”

Shallan’s using forbidden skills, huh?  That tracks. I wonder why it's forbidden though . . .

 “I said reality could be what I imagine it to be, but I don’t actually want that. That would be… terrifying…”

Yes, Shallan. Yes, it would be.

“This device points to something far in the distance. Something the Sibling called ‘the Grand Knell, source of the Current, the death of a god.’ ”

And Gallant is bonded to a musicspren?? Hm.

“That spren…” Adolin said. “It was familiar somehow. Its eyes… I’ve seen it somewhere before…”

. . . is this musicspren, Sureblood? I can’t recall Adolin interacting with a musicspren before.

I wonder if the musicspren are connected to Roshar’s rhythms or the flute Wit gave to Kaladin.

“That’s thousands of assault troops,” Adolin whispered from inside his illusion. He righted Gallant’s saddle after handing off his greatsword to one of Drehy’s squires. The scabbard was gone, and the equipment boxes had been knocked free—Adolin grimaced as his hand lingered on the now vacant saddle hooks. “They have patrols watching to make sure no one spots them,” Shallan said. “It’s a secret strike force.” “They’re sailing straight for Azimir,” Drehy said. “Storms… they probably came all the way from the Horneater Peaks, and the perpendicularity there. They must have been planning this for months.” “Agreed,” Adolin said. “Drehy, you have to get us to Azimir as quickly as possible.”

Uh-oh. Aren't Kaladin, Szeth, and Syl stopping at Azimir before arriving at Shinovar? I guess we know when Kaladin will be picking up the spear again . . .

[featherwurm]

Thinking about Karlach's cambion "friend" Flo again - imagining a time in Avernus when these two were interacting; Karlach relatively newly healed, and still trying to find her way (reflecting on her scars.) She mentions she didn't have time to feel sad in the Hells (and that she learned to keep to herself), but mentions that Flo could cheer her even when she didn't feel like smiling (despite, as Karlach says, being willing to strangle her if she turned her back.) As she says "bitch had good jokes." (Based on her letter to Karlach, she's clearly a bully as well, but Karlach isn't above laughing at that - especially with raw nerves anyway.)

Who's Flo, you ask? Well if you trigger a certain dialogue in Moonrise Towers (speaking to the bugbear quartermaster Lann Tarv with Karlach in your party), you get a little info on her.

She does not appear in game and I've just made up an appearance for her based on what I think she should be (enormous, mean, and a force of personality.)

[creativesnek]

Bowuigi Selkie AU

Ch. 1: Ebbing Tide

“Land ho!”

     The crew of pirates approached the deserted island, their ship cutting through the choppy waters with a ferocity matched only by the fierce determination in their eyes. The winds howled like banshees around them, whipping their hair and clothes into a frenzy as they prepared to disembark onto the shore. Stealthily, they navigated their vessel towards the sandy beach, every muscle coiled in readiness for whatever awaited them on this uncharted land.

Finally, they touched land. 

     As soon as the anchor was securely in place, the commanding captain leapt from the side of the ship and gracefully landed on the sun-kissed shore. With a flick of his tail, he brushed off the sand and pushed back his striking scarlet locks. His piercing red eyes scanned the beach with a watchful gaze, searching for any potential threats. The intense sun reflected off his shimmering gold scales, adding to his imposing presence. 

“All right, everyone. Disembark! Hurry up and set up camp before the sun goes down!”

     The crew quickly followed the captain's orders, scurrying off the ship and onto the beach. They worked together to unload supplies and set up tents, all while keeping a watchful eye on their surroundings. The captain stood tall, his regal demeanor commanding respect from his crew.

     Finally, after a long journey, they could finally wind down. They were exhausted from the long journey, but they knew that their work was not yet done. The crew had to ensure that the campsite was secure and that they were prepared for any potential dangers that may arise. The captain surveyed the area, taking note of any potential threats and spotting possible supply sources. 

     A koopa appeared by the captain’s side, rolling the sleeves of his blue tunic. They adjusted their thick-rimmed glasses before speaking, “Just check our reserves, as you requested, Captain Bowser.”

Smoke billowed from the nostrils of the commanding Koopa as he grumbled, "How long can we afford to rest?"

"Three days, tops. Then we must resupply and check on the settlements," replied his subordinate.

Bowser nodded, begrudgingly accepting the news. "Kamek, keep an eye on the crew. I need to stretch my legs and wander around for a bit."

      The captain's tone was gruff and irritable, a reflection of the immense frustration that comes with balancing the needs of one's troops with the demands of a mission. For far too long, he had placed his own needs behind those of his crew. Sensing his captain's sour mood, the quartermaster allowed him to leave. There was no need to worry about Bowser, as he was more than capable of defending himself. Anyone foolish enough to try and fight him would quickly regret their decision. Additionally, the crew would no longer have to walk on eggshells, trying to avoid further irritating their hot-tempered leader.

      Huffing flames every now and then, the mighty commander strolled along the sandy shore, relishing the gentle lull of the ocean. Bowser delved into his belt, snatching up a small waterskin. He took a long swig of the cool water, feeling it quench his thirst and soothe his fiery temper. As he walked, he surveyed the landscape around him, Bowser tried to ease his frustration. 

      Despite his fearsome appearance, there were moments when the captain allowed himself to simply enjoy the beauty of the world around him; otherwise, he’d probably lose his sanity. The sound of waves crashing against the shore, the salty tang of sea air on his tongue - these were small pleasures that reminded him there was more to life than just protecting his settlements. 

      Bowser shifted his gaze to the side, where a cluster of black rocks had caught his attention. The tide had receded, revealing their flat surfaces, and the large koopa wasted no time in making a beeline for them. It was the perfect spot for basking, and the last thing he needed was to get sick from not getting enough light. After all, he had a busy schedule to keep up with. Who else was going to care for his people? 

      As Bowser settled onto the warm rocks, he couldn't help but think about the weight of his responsibilities. Being the leader of the Koopa Troop was no easy task, and he often found himself sacrificing his own needs for the sake of his people. But he knew that it was worth it - after all, they were his family. And he couldn’t possibly let countless people live in anguish under that wretched king’s rule. He closed his eyes and let the sun's rays wash over him, Bowser's mind drifted further. There were so many issues to address - food shortages, infrastructure repairs, and threats of discovery. It was a lot to handle, but Bowser had always been up for a challenge. He had to.

      At the end of the day, he knew he was doing good. Even if others feared him or considered him nothing more than a beastly sea outlaw. Such opinions meant nothing to him; all that mattered was the safety and freedom of his people. With those thoughts, the captain drifted off, enjoying a rare moment of peace.

┍━☽【❖】☾━┑

       Beneath the crystal-clear surface of the ocean, there existed two extraordinary beings - twin selkies. These majestic creatures swam through the vibrant coral reef with unparalleled grace, their sleek seal bodies gliding effortlessly through the rocks. Their shimmering fur coats sparkled in the sunlight that filtered through the water, a sight that left onlookers in awe.

       As they swam, the selkies communicated with each other through a series of clicks and whistles, a language known only to their kind. These guardians of the reef were tasked with protecting its inhabitants from harm, a duty they had fulfilled for nearly three decades. They knew every inch of the reef, every nook and cranny where danger could lurk.

       Their powerful tails propelled them forward with ease, and their movements were nothing short of mesmerizing. The selkies were a sight to behold, and their presence alone brought a sense of calm to the ocean's inhabitants.

       The twin seals circled a rock formation, then headed towards the surface. As they swam upwards, the seals could feel the pressure of the water decreasing. They knew they were getting closer to the surface; and when they broke through the water's surface, they took a deep breath of fresh air. The sun was shining brightly overhead, and they could see for miles in every direction.

       The seals looked around, taking in their surroundings. They were surrounded by rocky cliffs and a beautiful blue ocean that stretched out as far as the eye could see. The smaller seal nudged his brother, his glassy black eyes focusing on something on the shore.

       A large ship was docked on the shore of their home. The larger seal followed his brother's gaze and let out a low growl. He had seen these ships before, and they always brought trouble. The landfolk who came on them were loud and carried strange objects that could harm the sea life; many even relished in doing so. The smaller seal looked up at his brother, fear in his eyes. " What do we do? " he asked.

The larger seal thought for a moment before responding. " We need to stay away from the shore, " he said firmly. " And we need to warn the others. "

“ Mario, you don’t think those are the pirates from before? ” asked the smallest.

“ They are all the same to me, Luigi, ” said his brother bitterly. “ Nothing but a gang of reef destroying, coat-stealing bastards. ”

       With those words said, the eldest selkie brother dove back under the waves. Luigi anxiously glanced back at the ship, noticing how they seemed to be settling on the beach; he hopes they don’t stay. The young selkie has heard tales of massive ships like these; they scour the seas, snatching up schools of fish in nets. Sailors would purposely hunt after merfolk for nefarious reasons; he had a friend who was captured recently… She was fished up by one of these fiends and narrowly escaped with her life.

        Luigi shuddered at the thought of his friend's close call. He knew that not all humans were like this, but the ones who were made life dangerous for all sea creatures; it wasn’t worth his life, trying to discern whether their intentions were good or bad. Best thing Luigi could hope for was that they were only passing by. As long as they stayed clear of their reef or the estuary leading to the Jelly Town, the two won’t be seeing any combat.

         As he watched, a group of sailors started looking out at the sea. Luigi quickly sank below the waves; even though he had his coat on and camouflaged as a seal, he still wanted to avoid detection. The selkie swam along the shallow water, heading towards the estuary; he had wasted too much time gawking at the ship. Once at a safer distance, he resurfaced to catch his breath; something caught his eye. 

          A huge sea turtle had washed ashore on top of some rocks; the ebbing tide must have left it stranded and too tired to swim back. However, they weren’t like any sea turtle Luigi has ever seen. For one, its size was far too drastic; toned muscles were visible even from a distance. He’s never seen a sea turtle with a spiky shell or bright red hair. 

          Luigi approached it cautiously, unsure of what to expect. As he got closer, he noticed that the turtle's eyes were closed and its breathing was deep, not showing any signs of distress. He wondered how long it had been stranded on the rocks and if there was anything he could do to help; although, it looked just fine. 

           Grunting slightly, the selkie climbed onto the rocks and galumphed towards it, sniffing it. It smelled like… smoke? Not like the suffocating scent of fire though, more like cedar. Luigi poked his snout against its hand. Wait, hand? He looked down, noticing the sharpened claws.

This was no sea turtle.

            Luigi yelped, shuffling backward in a panic. The noise woke up the giant before him. The strange beast slowly opened his eyes, squinting at the small figure in front of him. Luigi froze, unsure of what to do next. He approached it, thinking he would need to keep a fellow sea creature, but now he just willingly walked towards a predator.

            But as the beast slowly blinked at him, Luigi noticed something strange. The giant wasn't angry or aggressive. In fact, he looked almost...confused?

"What the… a seal?"

            Luigi jumped out of his stupor at the sound of its voice. He waddled back, sliding down the rocks, and into the water depths.

            Meanwhile, the now (rudely) awakened and confused Bowser looked on as the startled creature fled, scratching his head. He didn't have too much time to, though; in the distance, his crew was calling him.

[sweetjulieapples]

Dear Commander - Chapter 29: A Glimmer of Hope

Cullen x Trevelyan

AO3 MASTERLIST

She expected a fight. She wanted a fight. In the turmoil they faced, she found herself searching for a sign, a justification. Instead he handed her a glimmer of hope.

CW: Mention of surgical procedures and suicide.

Full chapter below:

Thoughts of Cullen weaved in and out of her mind all through the night. It wasn't uncommon, in fact, she had come to expect her conscious to drift to him. Sometimes her thoughts would linger on something that he had said — a remark on a report that made her giggle or a blunt observation on Skyhold's progress. Sometimes it was a look, an unguarded smile or a smug smirk.

Things felt different now. The thoughts were more intense. The little things she noticed about him, more observant.

As Juliette strolled through the courtyard, the morning air dewy and fresh, she reflected on their moments together during the war council the evening prior.

He seemed well enough. He moved about fine and didn't appear to be in any pain.

She glanced up at the sun as it broke through the clouds, shielding her eyes with her hand.

He was in a decent mood too, aside from his stubborn arguments with Josie…I must remember to thank her for sending up pastries this morning, that was kind.

She chuckled to herself softly.

I can't believe he tried to measure his armor with a tool from the quartermaster.

The yard was filled with chattering, a peaceful communal atmosphere. She smiled and nodded her head as she moved past workers and guests.

He looked tired though. I hope that he's —

"Inquisitor!"

Juliette spun around at the sudden call of her title, snapping free from her rumination. A scout jogged after her.

"Inquisitor. We have confirmation that Ser Hawke departed for Crestwood this morning."

"Oh, wonderful."

"He…ah. He asked that I give you this," the scout smiled awkwardly.

Slowly Juliette held out her hand, accepting the note with a hesitant expression.

Inquisitor, Don't worry. Helping people and killing people are what I'm best at. Hawke

Juliette looked up at the scout with a raised eyebrow.

"Please tell me Varric went with him."

"He did, Your Worship."

"That eases me, if only a little," she said with a sarcastic roll of her eyes. "Thank you," she dismissed the scout with a nod and he raised a first to his chest in acknowledgement. Her eyes followed his movements, paying close mind to his posture and expression. He didn't look her in the eyes. They never do.

She dawdled along the path, head down and lost in thought. The fresh, earthy scent of wet grass and soil embraced her as she moved near the infirmary camp.

Once Juliette drew closer, she was able to recognise some of the soldiers. One man rested on a bedroll by the fire, drifting in and out of consciousness. Slowly she approached, gently crouching down beside him. His skin was clammy and he murmured incoherently with eyes closed tightly as though trying to block out the light. Her eyes swept over him, her heart aching at the sight of the wound where his leg was amputated.

"Arran?" she asked softly. "Can you hear me?"

His eyes fluttered open, once a vibrant green and full of life, now glassy and distant. He winced, reaching for air in response to her voice.

"It's Juliette," she said gently. Then she paused, realizing that her name probably meant nothing to a man who had only known her for a short while. "…The Inquisitor," she clarified.

"You remembered…my name," he managed to ask in a breathless murmur.

"Of course," Juliette smiled, trying to keep her voice light and optimistic. She glanced around the camp, overwhelmed by the sight of the injuries. She returned her eyes to the soldier, her focus on his weary face. "You accompanied me on my return to Haven one time, I have not forgot. You have two sisters and a knack for wood carving, though I'm only taking your word for that. You could just be sweet talking to impress the ladies."

Arran coughed in an attempt to laugh. Juliette placed her hand on his arm, watching him closely with concern.

"Is it working?" he asked through a hoarse whisper.

Juliette laughed softly. "Perhaps. I'm certain you'll be up and about soon enough, ladies of Skyhold swooning by the allure of your…wood."

"Think the Maker has other plans for me."

Her heart sank at his words. She looked around once more, an immense sensation of unease washing over her. A variety of scent collided; the damp earth of the grounds, smoke from the fire, vinegar and herbs, blood and iron. Some patients were resting, motionlessly, with little spark of life. Others moved around, chatting, their lives untouched by the surrounding grief and pain. It's little wonder she found Cole here before, compassion drawn to such despair.

There seemed to be only one healer tending to the wounded, a thought that unsettled Juliette. Even in Haven there were many hands helping. It made no sense to lose that service now.

Juliette returned her attention to Arran, resting the back of her hand against his cheek.

"Oh, you're burning up," she said with worry. "What can I do to help ease your pain?"

His response was a haunting whisper. Hope lost.

"Kill me."

Juliette froze. Her hand shook beside his face, a chill sweeping over her. Her eyes, heavy with emotion, drifted to his leg. She braved another glance at the injury and swallowed hard. A tingle settled in her face, grasping for the strength to hold back tears.

"I can't. I can't do that," she said, a breathless response.

She pulled back, rising to her feet slowly. Her eyes darted around, desperate for something that she could use to help. Her attention landed on a bucket and a pile of linen. She reached for it, thankful for the ice water that she could use to wet the cloth with.

"There are more pressing issues ma'am," a woman's voice called out.

Juliette's eyes snapped up to the healer as she quickly approached. Ignoring her, Juliette continued to submerge the cloth into the water, wringing it out with her eyes focused on Arran.

"Hello? Did you not hear? We need to be boiling water to sanitise these bandages."

Juliette stood, casting a cold glare in the woman's direction before returning to Arran's side.

"I heard you well enough," Juliette replied, gently laying the cloth on Arran's forehead . She rose to her feet and stepped towards the healer. "Where are all the other healers? The chantry sisters and mages?"

"Oh," the woman replied. She stood with confidence, surprised but hardly impressed with Juliette. "You must be the Inquisitor."

"I am," Juliette said. "I don't believe we've met. I don't remember you from Haven."

"That’s because we haven't," the woman replied. "And I'm a surgeon, Your Worship, no chantry sister."

"And you're no mage," Juliette guessed, taking the initiative to tend to the pot by the fire. She crouched low and slowly waved her fingers over the water, a satisfied smile playing on her lips when it began to bubble.

"I am not," the woman remarked watching Juliette, unenthused. "Magic can’t cure everything, and we shouldn’t rely on it."

Juliette glanced over her shoulder, an apathetic expression in response to that statement.

"Good health isn’t magic. It’s diet, exercise, and a balance of the humors," the surgeon added.

"And what happens when there is no time left?" Juliette challenged. "Under distress, circumstances that don't allow the luxury of quality diet, exercise and …balance?"

"Simple. There's potions and poultices. I can set broken bones and perform amputations." She folded her arms, watching Juliette closely with a smug expression. "There's a reason the Commander chose to move me from the Hinterlands camp to here. I'm well versed in surgical practices."

Juliette felt her throat tighten, a jolt of recognition coursing through her.

This is Cullen's doing? He removed the mage healers? After I made it clear how important they are?

Juliette tore her eyes away, looking to the ground with scrunched brows and a glare. "There's your boiling water," she muttered before taking a few steps away.

"Science, Your Worship, is the way of the future." The surgeon stood watching Juliette with a hint of smirk, awaiting her response.

Juliette halted, exhaling sharply, her face overcome with anger. She spun around and looked to the surgeon with a darkness in her eyes.

"Where are your records?"

Cullen stared at the note, hoping that if he'd squint, perhaps the words would make more sense. But as the letters written in a shaky hand blurred before his eyes, he was none the wiser.

His pain was hers but her pain was the end of his.

Cullen sighed deeply, glancing up at the messenger that stood watching nervously. He pulled the next note from the pile, reading it under his breath.

"They didn't hang you there, you can walk away."

The messenger shrugged her shoulders. "There's several more, but…similar in tone. Shall I lea—"

The door to Cullen's office burst open with a loud creak, sunlight blaring into the dimly lit room.

Within the second it took for Cullen to look up, a book crashed onto his desk. Candles fell and bottles shattered as they hit the floor, wine and glass everywhere.

"Maker's breath!" Cullen shouted, jolting back, hand instinctively reaching for his sword. He took a breath, eyes darting around the room as he snatched the pile of documents from the desk, fanning them aggressively to extinguish the flames from the candles. With an exhale, his focus snapped to the door where Juliette stood, anger flaring in his eyes. "What has come over you?"

She stared him down, chest rising and falling with every furious breath, absolutely livid. Her attention snapped toward the messenger, her face a storm of emotion, eyes dark and unwavering.

The woman stepped back, consumed by shock. "I…I'll take my leave if it pleases you, Your Worship."

"Please," Juliette said, her voice almost a growl.

The messenger nodded quickly, scrambling to retreat. Once she closed the door behind her, Cullen returned his focus to Juliette. For a split second there was softness in his eyes, a melancholy expression. But it vanished just as quickly, his face contorting into a scowl.

"Have you lost your mind?"

His voice was heavy with irritation and she wondered, through her fury, if there was disappointment too.

Their eyes locked, intensity burning between them. Juliette's brows furrowed, her nose crinkling.

"Just as well I haven't!" She shrieked. "Do you know what the cure for that is?" Her shrill voice rose, echoing through the office. She stepped closer, her eyes remaining fixed on Cullen. "A hole drilled into my skull!"

"What?" Cullen exclaimed. He threw his hands up in defeat, baffled by her nonsense. "What are you talking about?"

Juliette pointed to the door, in the direction of the camp. "That woman you put in the infirmary is a lunatic! See for yourself!" She flicked her head in the direction of the book before folding her arms.

Cullen blinked, as though concealing an attempt at an eyeroll before moving to pick up the book.

"Not to mention she's arrogant, dangerously sure of herself."

"Well, we don't recruit people for their pleasant personalities. We recruit them for their skill, and integrity."

"Integrity," she whispered sarcastically, nodding her head.

Cullen lifted the book that Juliette had hurled towards him moments before, the leather-bound cover pinched between two fingers. Trickles of wine and shards of glass fell as he dangled it before himself. He glanced up at her, heavily unimpressed.

"I can't believe you." She spoke under her breath with disdain.

Cullen's expression faltered, a crestfallen look on his face by the tone of her voice.

"Even after I told you," Juliette's voice was low and seething. "You still went behind my back and got rid of the mage healers."

"I did not!" Cullen protested, slamming the book down onto his desk in a flash of anger. He glared at her intensely, creases deeping on his forehead. "You wanted mage healers in every Inquisition camp! You wanted them at every outpost!"

"I didn't say to remove them from here!" Juliette yelled. "Your soldiers are out there suffering, are you aware of that?"

Cullen recoiled, glass crunching underneath his boot as he stepped back. "Am I aware of that," he repeated, a low sarcastic tone in his voice. "Of course I'm aware!" he shouted. "You don't think I go down there every day? That I don't know the agony that they endure?"

Juliette narrowed her eyes, her lips pressed together tightly, fists clenched at her sides. She looked away for a moment, as though contemplating her next move before charging towards his desk, a sudden burst of movement.

"Ser Oswin. He was one of Rylen's, a former templar from Starkhaven," Cullen began to explain as she pushed past him, snatching the book and flicking through it with haste. "He passed away 3 nights ago."

Unaffected by his words, the slight waver of sorrow that broke through his hostile tone, she continued to search the book.

"Caedrica. She's recovering despite the odds. Had a tree branch protruding from her shoulder when she was thrown from a horse in an encounter with bandits."

Juliette turned to face him, closer than intended. She paused for a moment, taken aback by how he was standing so near to her. With a jagged inhale, she gathered her resolve, shoving the book into his hands, her finger lingering on the page where she wanted him to read.

"Arran, he's a farmer from Redcliffe," Cullen continued, following the lines where her finger rested. "He has—"

"Don't talk to me about Arran," Juliette said coldly.

Cullen looked up at her, their faces close. Their eyes met and she hesitated for a second, swallowing before continuing to speak.

"Arran asked me to end his suffering," she said, her words haunting, echoing through the room.

Cullen's expression softened, his eyes holding sorrow as he looked at her. She tore her eyes away, overwhelmed by conflicting emotions. She was furious. But he looked at her like that.

"Look here," she said with haste, focusing on the book. His eyes remained fixed on her, still holding sorrow, watching her closely. He took in her movements, every averted gaze, every waver in her voice. He could sense that there was more to her anger, something deeper. She was hurting.

"See this? Amputation after amputation. Leeches. Bloodletting," Juliette said with disgust.

Cullen slowly pulled his eyes away from her, letting his attention fall to the book. When his finger traced beneath the lines he read, she pulled back, sending a jolt of disappointment through him as she retreated to the other side of the room.

"These…these are from back in Kingsway. She was treating at The Crossroads," Cullen spoke with concentration, his brows furrowing as he focused on the records.

"These procedures —"

"Are necessary. I don't see the problem here."

Juliette folded her arms and her face hardened. "Turn the page," her voice darkening.

Cullen looked across to her, a hint of surprise crossing his face before he returned to the book. He slowly shook his head as he skimmed over the details.

"It's grim, but this is the reality of war I'm afraid, Inquisitor," he explained, his voice laced with regret.

"Leather restraints and alcohol. For an amputation, Cullen. It seems inhumane," her voice broke as she pushed herself off the wall, her posture straightening. "Magic could have been —"

"Magic was not an option," he interjected.

"How can you say that?" she whispered in shock. "If magic can limit even half the pain that these people suffer, is it not worth it?"

"Because magic caused these injuries to start with!" he snapped. His eyes widened at the sound of his own voice, regret washing over him in an instant.

Juliette froze, blinking. Her arms crossed over her chest, tightly, less of a stance of aggression as before, now more a comfort.

"The burns described here," Cullen shook his head, placing the book down on his desk. He ran a hand over his face, closing his eyes, an attempt to push the thoughts aside. "This would have been apostates, before we had control of the Hinterlands."

The tightness in Juliette's jaw eased, her face relaxing. He carried himself with a quiet grief that was hard to ignore.

"What these records don't show is the treatment refused, Inquisitor. Not everyone will accept healing via mage."

"So what's the solution?" she asked, frustration returning to her expression. "Send them away, replace them with herbs and…" She shuddered. "Leeches?"

"I didn't…" Cullen began to argue, but he caught himself, shoulders drooping in a heavy sigh. He took a step closer, eyes locking to hers, a softness in the way he looked at her, as though the gold of his iris were speaking.

"I didn't send them away," he repeated, softer this time. Gentle.

Juliette looked to the ground. Slowly shaking her head, her anger still simmering beneath the surface with every pound of her heart.

"The Skyhold healers were needed at a camp just off the Imperial Highway," he explained. "Your order has exhausted our roster of mages proficient in healing, to my knowledge, but I'll go now and speak with Fiona if it will satisfy you."

She looked up at him, stunned by his sudden suggestion.

"Just like that?"

The sound of her voice felt as though it lingered in the air, her surprise, a soft gasp as their eyes connected.

"Well, what will you have of me?"

Juliette was astounded by the question. Part of her had an answer, many answers, in fact. There was plenty she could ask of Cullen. But here, in this moment, she was left speechless.

She expected a fight. She wanted a fight. For all her hurt, the suspicion of betrayal, she felt relief in those emotions. It was a way out. A coward's path, but an escape nonetheless.

If he were to be a templar, driven by his hatred for mages, she could allow herself to be angry. She could justify her frustration, the way her heart hammers in her chest when she looks at him. The way she wished she could slap that smug smirk off his face, drive some distance between them. She could let go.

But that wasn't Cullen.

He didn't hate her. He wasn't trying to oppose her. She had it wrong.

It took Juliette all too long to realize that she was staring. Lost in thought, a pained expression of confusion written on her face.

"I…" she whispered, words rolling off her lips without thought. "I don't know."

A lie.

She stumbled backwards , blinking rapidly, her hand shaking as she slowly raised it to her lip. She glanced up at him, noticing the way his body tensed, his expression of alarm as he watched her.

She was running out of excuses. The thought, once a quiet nagging, now screaming at her. She wasn't sure how much longer she could ignore this. She couldn't think clearly, couldn't even feel clearly around him. It was all a blur, an overwhelming whirl of embarrassment and regret.

Without a word, she raced for the door, footsteps quick, head down, desperate to remove herself from his sight.

"Ju—" His voice faltered, the sound of glass crunching beneath his feet as he took a step forward.

She stopped in the doorway, heart pounding, breath caught in her throat. Cautiously she glanced over her shoulder, catching his concerned expression before she pushed forward, closing the door behind her with a resounding bang.

The breeze was cool as she stepped outside, a refreshing caress that gently lifted her hair and rustled the fabric of her blouse. Her breath came in shallow pants as she moved along the battlements, fingers trailing over the cold stone. She blinked against the sunlight, its bright rays warming her face. Yet, she felt none of this.

Juliette was numb. Anxiety settled in her chest, her mind feeling clouded with rapid thoughts, each one more daunting than the last. She didn't know if she should cry or scream.

Just say it.

She choked on air, her throat feeling as though it were closing up. She squeezed her eyes shut.

Tell him. Tell him and get it all out. Confess, lay it all bare.

She slowly opened her eyes, blinking as she turned her head over the edge of the battlements. The mountains blurred into the distance, a soft haze of white snow.

Let him turn you down. Be over with it. Move past this.

She dropped her head into her hands. Her eyes fell closed, the darkness a place to hide, if only for a while.

You can't keep this up. You're neglecting your duty. You are the Inquisitor for Andraste's sake!

Grow Up!

A door burst open with a loud creak. She didn't realize at first, her body jolted to the sound, yet her mind continued to whirl. There was a gust of wind, howling as it circled the fortress. Distant chattering, so faint it was barely audible, drifted up from the courtyard below. Then there was a rythmic clank, a steady cadence, footsteps and armor.

She looked up slowly, flinching in surprise at the sight of Cullen. He never called out to her like he normally would. Instead, he moved quickly, his stride rigid and determined. His smouldering stare nearly stole her breath away. The way he looked at her, so serious and compelling, commanding her attention.

As he drew closer she resisted the urge to step away, holding her ground, frozen in place by his presence. He grabbed her hand, sending an unexpected spark through her. Her eyes pulled away from his, almost cautiously, drifting to where her fingers rested against his palm, as if she were afraid of what she might see, of what this might mean.

His fingers curled, pushing soft velvet against her hand. She almost dropped it, the small pouch that he passed to her. She lifted her gaze, eyes wide with wonder , lips slightly parted.

"I believe this belongs to you," he spoke, his voice calm, far too gentle for what she believed she deserved after the scene she caused in his office.

Cullen slowly withdrew his hand, his intense gaze focused on her. When she lifted the necklace, revealing the delicate gold chain, sunlight caught it, a glimmer vibrant before her eyes.

Juliette was speechless. The Chantry pendant held in her hand left her baffled. In silent prayer at night she had begged. Guidance, affirmation — she longed for a sign that her heart was not misled. Juliette never considered herself superstitious, but she had been instructed to wear that necklace—and for twenty-five long years, she did. Until the day it fell, she had held onto her faith.

Now, a physical manifestation in her hands, something tangible to grasp — she found her sign. Juliette knew in her heart that she was in the right place. The Inquisition, the anchor she'd bear — it was all meant to be.

She looked up at Cullen and her heart skipped a beat.

Cullen was …

His expression, steely and focused, now softened, waiting for her response.

"I…how did…" Juliette's voice was a soft murmur, words as scattered as her thoughts.

"I found it at Haven," Cullen spoke, his voice formal, his face returning to that intensity he held moments before. "I remember that you wore one similar and…" his voice drifted as his cheeks and ears began to deepen in colour. "This is yours, right?"

"Yes!" She exclaimed, rushing to ease his doubt. "I didn't think I'd ever see it again." She returned her eyes to the necklace, closely observing the clasp.

"I had Harritt mend it for you," he began to explain. She quickly looked up at him and his words faltered. "I…"

"Thank you, Cullen," she whispered, heartfelt sincerity both in her eyes and voice.

Cullen's lips twitched, almost hesitating before curling into a soft smile. That smile. Genuine, kind, bashful — how she'd love nothing more than to be the cause of such a smile, each and every morning.

"You're welcome."

His voice was gentle, almost as velvety as the pouch she held in her hand. Juliette's eyes drifted to his once more, her expression softening, a dream-like gaze.

"Allow me?" He offered, holding out his hand. A bold gesture, however chivalrous.

For a moment she was taken aback, unsure what he had meant. Then it dawned on her.

"Of course," she said softly, gently handing him the necklace before turning her back to him. She swept her hair to one side and inhaled a light, quivering breath.

Juliette closed her eyes. She could feel her pulse throbbing in her neck. Each breath felt too loud, too heavy. She held it in, fearing how it might sound, so hyper-aware of every sensation within her body. A tingling heat washed over her, almost dizzying.

She could feel his presence. His armor creaked with every movement. She heard his breath, the slight waver as he hesitated, fumbling with the clasp. A shiver tickled the back of her neck—not from the chill in the air, but from the slow, agonizing build of anticipation.

I could have done this three times over, she thought, fingers twitching with the urge to reach back and take over. For anyone else, she would have.

But this was Cullen.

For many months now she had longed for his touch. Making sense of the way he made her feel was daunting enough on its own—but putting it into words? To confess all that she desired, how her body ached for him and how her heart skipped whenever he was near, seemed impossible. The fear of rejection was far too fierce to consider, not when she couldn't hide from him, not when she had to face him every day.

So she savoured the moment. Every drawn-out second of awkward tension, worth it for his touch. However fleeting it may be.

The necklace ghosted over her skin, the metal cool, goosebumps raising when it dangled above her collar bone. It made her shiver, that cool contrast to the heat ever growing in her cheeks. When his fingers, touch muted by gloves, rested on her shoulder, she almost forgot how to breathe.

Cullen sighed, a heavy sound of frustration, so close to her that she could feel his breath against her neck. Her body tingled in response.

"Perhaps if I take these gloves off," he said with an awkward chuckle.

Juliette swallowed. "Perhaps," a timid response.

She released her hair, letting it fall around her shoulders, and held the necklace firmly against her décolletage. She raised her other hand back, gesturing for his gloves.

"T…thank you," he stuttered.

Does he feel this too?

Juliette blinked, feeling heat bloom in her cheeks and neck. She attempted a response, but instead an awkward noise, light and soft, tightened from her throat. Then, the gloves were placed in her hand, and before she could string together a coherent thought, his fingers swept her hair aside. It was like a jolt of electricity coursing through her.

Cullen's fingers brushed along the side of her neck. They felt rough, though his touch was feather-light and careful. Her entire body tingled in response, and when his fingertips roamed her skin, dusting lightly along her collarbone — his touch hardened her nipples, agonizing heat pooling in her core. Juliette froze, holding her breath, her body yearning for more.

"There." His voice was soft and hazy, Juliette meanwhile, blinking herself to awareness. Cullen's hands slowly withdrew and Juliette lifted her fingertips to her neck, just to reassure herself that it was over.

She could still feel his presence behind her, standing close. Slowly, she turned, her breath shallow, movements shaky. Their eyes met and to Juliette, it all felt like a blur. There was a magnetic pull between them, their bodies close, a lingering gaze.

Kiss me.

He could have stepped back. He could have looked away.

Kiss. Me.

He could have just handed her the necklace and returned to his duties. But he didn't.

Her eyes drifted to his lips, lingering on his scar. A gentle breeze swept across the battlements and his scent carried in the air. Juliette's eyes closed, the familiarity of the fragrance like a warm embrace. She'd noticed it before, at the war table, when he rescued her during the blizzard. Earthy, but sweet. She didn't know what it was, only that she liked it.

As the breeze settled, her eyes fluttered open. Cullen's focus was on her, an intense, smouldering gaze. A moment stretched between them, the air charged with anticipation.

Juliette blinked, tearing her eyes away from his. She stumbled back, clumsy, almost toppling over. Cullen reached his arm out, reflexes fast, and steadied her with a hand on the shoulder. She gasped, startled, and looked up at him. Their eyes locked again, lingering for a moment more. She could feel her face burning, cheeks flushed and pulse thrumming in her neck.

It was then, that she noticed the change in his expression. His eyes narrowed, alarm in his features. Whatever this was, whatever it could have been — she'd ruined it.

“Your gloves,” she breathed, her voice weak. She pressed them into his hands and stepped back. “Thank you… I— I have to go.”

"You're welcome," Cullen murmured, watching her retreat, his fingers tightening around the gloves.

[scrapironflotilla]

Two sights remain vividly in my mind. One was our chief clerk, the worthy Mr Marshall, sitting on his typewriter with a rifle across his knees, supported by an aged gentleman in khaki, one of the Quartermaster's clerks who wouldn’t have hurt a fly, armed with two revolvers. Both of these worthies were prepared to sell their lives as dearly as possible in defence of of the divisional office and officer’s mess, and both would have been of the greatest danger to all but the Huns, for to them the pen was mightier than the sword, and neither were skilled in the use of lethal weapons!

LtCol Arthur Floyer-Acland, a staff officer in the 41st Division, reflecting on the German offensive in March 1918 and fear it caused behind the British lines.

[chronicle-of-isha]

Chapter 2: Capture

It was the clinking of chains that woke Isha next, and for one panicked moment, she feared she had been captured by the mortal agents of Chaos.

However, the binaric static that came from around her quickly told her otherwise.

Keeping her eyes closed, she felt out from herself, grasping the dimensions of the room she was in.

It was made of metal, and very dark. Gears turned and thick pipes shook with the rushing sound of promethium flowing through them. Steam whished from unknown contraptions; covered in gears, levers, buttons, and the half-mechanical skull of the Mechanicus.

‘Mon-keigh fanatics’ She mentally huffed. A better captor than she had feared, but equally hostile.

Heavy chains bound her arms and upper torso to a cross shaped slab held up against the wall; hardly the welcoming preparations given to a guest. Heavy blast doors kept the room shut, and two white robed figures clinked and clacked across the floor, waving the mechanical tentacles they called mechadendrites around picking up various broken instruments such as circular saws, laser cutters, and plasma torches.

The blast doors clanked, and internal locking mechanisms unbound from each other, as the massive gears on the door spun; whether it was decorative or for practical purposes, Isha could not say.

As the doors opened, a third robed figure entered the room, and the blast doors slammed shut immediately behind her.

Binaric static filled the room once more, and Isha reached out to their minds to eavesdrop on their conversation.

Their method of communication was strange, always with an identifier, and very little respect for the common gothic grammar their species often shared. A strange mish-mash of mathematics, scientific jargon, and religious references; almost a reflection of what their culture was.

Quartermaster Xhal: Risk assessment result requested.

Magos Khmash: Risk assessment overturned. Unrecorded nature of subject = Potential for new information on Xeno species. Classified Eldari. All risks < Acquisition of new samples.

Xenobiologis Tirevola: Recovery possible by Class F servitors. Therefore, nascent risk of target deemed to be 0.0000000001%

Quartermaster Xhal: Addendum, recovery possible by only Class F servitors. All other partial or non-lobotomized servitors and Skitari report neotenic regression in mental state. 45 mind wipes were carried out, increasing task flow by 32% past daily median. Request reassessment of effect on servitor, Skitari maintenance efficiency and propose re-schedule of vivisection to post-mortem dissection.

Xenobiologis Tirevola: Request denied. Servitor, Skitari maintenance = class 10 process. Canticle 3.251 of Maintenance Hymn Version 45112. “Decrease importance of task = Decreased necessity to improve until loss of efficiency > Rate of acquisition of information from new Xeno sample.”

Quartermaster Xhal: Parsing quote… String association within local cogitation network… [[[Error]]] File not Found. Inference: Quote has been truncated through intended or accidental omission. Suggestion: downgrade importance of all further suggestions from Xenobiologis Tirevola using multiplier of 0.05.

Xenobiologis Tirevola: Insult detected: 0.05 = communication priority of Class D servitor with only 25% of original brain matter and 0 cogitation augmetics.

Quartermaster Xhal: Warning: Statement does not generate sufficient task importance to cogitate response. Automated binary warning sent: Reformat cogitation banks and recalculate statement importance before decreasing unit efficiency through repeated binary communication requests. Failure to comply = Reprocessing of augmetics for decorative functions due to inferred inherent production fault. Therefore, probability for successful augmetic recycling = <0.0005

Magos Khmash: Enough. Reset all binary communication priorities to default values according to standard communication protocol. Psychic interference requiring all operating teams working on subject to have undergone either total lobotomization or compartmentalization of emotional sensors into cogitation vault is identified as subject risk for target. Counter point: The path laid by the Omnissiah is not an easy one. Risk has been noted, but potential information has been deemed to outweigh risk. All future binary discussions will now be prioritized towards cogitation of vivisection methodology for subject.

Quartermaster Xhal: Resetting cogitation priorities. By the will of the Omnissiah.

Xenobiologis Tirevola: May knowledge show the path forwards. Suggestion 1: assemble neuro-sympathetic link to trauma cogitation vault. Quote: “Know thy enemy as thy self.” Greatest method of knowing the enemy = empathy. Therefore, empathetic attachment to subject nervous system during vivisection = highest efficiency method for data extraction from target.

Quartermaster Xhal: Usage of neuro-sympathetic link documented to decrease unit personal negative feedback response by [Data Redacted]. Additional documentation suggests 30% increase in unit wear and a 50% increase in time spent for maintenance leading to a net decrease in user optimization. Addendum: Quote not found.

Magos Khmash: Agreed, projected required increase in data quality exceeds statistically probable outcome. Previous records also provide data that, on average, decrease in subject survival times by 40±5% upon use of neuro-sympathetic link. Current subject importance dictates best course of action would be to increase survival time for longest period of data acquisition.

Xenobiologis Tirevola: Usage of data acquired from neuro-sympathetic increases personal unit serotonin levels by median of 250%. Increased motivation = increased efficiency in subject preparation and future data acquisition tasks.

Quartermaster Xhal: Inquiry: has usage of neuro-sympathetically acquired data been confirmed to be addictive.

Xenobiologis Tirevola: [[[Error]]] Inquiry has been deemed to infer on unit worth and faith in the Machine God. Response not generated.

Magos Khmash: Xenobiologis Tirevola, command priority 5-499. Submit to full functional reassessment once current subject vivisection schedule has been completed.

Xenobiologis Tirevola: Understood. All responses withheld until full functional reassessment has been completed. Switching mechadendrites to remote manipulation.

Quartermaster Xhal: Magos Khmash, primary reports indicate dermis of subject and cranial follicles were resistant to standard vivisection equipment. This behavior is not reported in previous subjects. Possible explanation?

Magos Khmash: Osseous samples of previous Eldar subjects reported to be several times stronger than plausible from material construction. Similar trait plausible to be extended to other tissues in some individuals.

Quartermaster Xhal: If dermal intrusion = impossible. Then alternative method of intrusion possible is through mucosal membranes. Key targets; oral cavity, nasal membrane, oculi, colon, and genitalia.

Magos Khmash: Latter two options are undesirable. Increase in necessary post operation cleansing rituals should be avoided.

Quartermaster Xhal: Expression of personal relief. Options provided in preferred order of attempts. Personal note: removal of colon and genitalia logged as greatest gift from the Machine God in personal maintenance logs.

Magos Khmash: Similar description found in personal logs. Conjecture: increase in comfort level of subject during procedure leads to minor increase in subject survival time. Therefore, removal of colon and genitalia first = increase survival time for subject?

Quartermaster Xhal: Negative. Log 311510 indicates removal of subject genitalia generated great distress and almost immediate expiry of subject due to shock.

Magos Khmash: Unfortunate. Then the procedure begins with the oral cavity. Prepare for cauterization of tongue and removal of dental protrusions.

Xenobiologis Tirevola: Breach of previous statement made due to change in subject eye movement. Vivisection target is awake.

Isha chuckled to herself, ruse found out as the three augmented Mon-keigh turned towards her.

“Identify yourself and purpose.” Demanded the one labeled Magos Khmash as it barked at her in a synthetic voice.

“You demand to know what I am?” She spoke quietly as the rage built inside her from listening to how casually they spoke of brutalizing her children.

As her eyes began to emit a silvery glow, a long forgotten feeling of terror grew in the Tech Priests’ mechanically enhanced minds, even with the emotional cogitators physically holding apart brain matter from synapse; preventing the electric signals that would have formed fear.

“Then know me you shall.” Her head rose, and the chains binding her creaked and groaned as they snapped apart from a flex of her limbs.

“I am the mother of murdered children. Inheritor of a stolen birthright. The winds and waters of worlds birthed the beings which swam and strode across them at my command.”

“I am witness to the War in Heaven. Victim of foolish laws and the Lord of Murder. Betrayer of my uncle and the King of Gods.”

“I am the consort of the hunt. Mother to dreams. The daughter of two deities of death. Now, hear the cry that drove my father’s blade into my mother’s arm!”

Raw awful knowledge rushed into the mind, as the keening wail of the goddess washed over them.

Life, and the place of all creatures within its great cycle, was revealed.

They could see it now, the strands that tied their own mortal fire to the smallest embers in an ant, and where their ashes would go when the final flame died.

To hear her voice was to know one's place in the universe. To see the smallness of all that encompassed their being, and the beauty of belonging to the eternal taking and giving of that which animated them all.

When Isha’s voice ended, all that stood before her collapsed; mind and mechanical substitutes, burned out by divine knowledge. Broken were their dreams of grandeur, their faith in the Omnissiah, as the bitter truth of life as they had always instinctually known it; the sheer meaninglessness of their struggle in the grand scheme of things, permeated their every thought.

For in their glazed, opened eyes; the smallest gnat was of equal importance to the very leaders’ they had pledged allegiance to. And the damnation of the Goddess of Life robbed them of all their mortal pursuits, for to know the sufferings of the sickest slave, snuffed out all the taste and odors of the finest wines gifted by the greatest lords.

Isha slumped forward, torn chains rattling to the floor, panting with exertion and self-loathing. Cursing mortals was abhorrent to her; even those not under her protection. Furthermore, that cry did not end within this room. Across the planet, servitors, slaves, and Skitarii buckled to their knees while the Tech Priests’ binary babbling fell silent in their noosphere as her voice wracked the local Warp.

The Four would surely take notice, no matter how strong the pylons of the Necrons were.

Though her curse had neutered the populace’s Warp presence to the point where they could not provide sustenance to the Four, they would provide pitiful protection against the mortal agents of Chaos.

Shaking off the remaining shackles, Isha strode past her slumped captors. The sight of them sickened her, for though it was her curse that brought them low, she hated it. Life was not meant to be lived like this. For as much as what she had shown was the truth, true life was always oblivious to it. No predator would kill a prey if it felt its own teeth pierce its own skin. No tree would drink from the dirt with the knowledge that they were feeding on the fecal matter and corpses of other plants and animals. This was a truth she was supposed to shoulder, not them.

A frustrated sigh escaped her lips, as the thick blast doors bent beneath her fingers, before she wrenched them out of her way.

She had to hurry. Whether it was by Warp or Webway, she needed to leave. Although she may have damned this world to her pursuers, all would be lost if she were captured.

Then she felt a great golden heat open in the void. The blazing glow of a burning star, scouring the very Warp of all its denizens as it passed. Her wide eyes gazed up into the inky sky, just in time to see the faint flash of a closing warp portal; a brief purple glow among the far brighter stars.

A growing sense of dread approached. Visions of grim death and necessary suffering flashed across her mind, as the burning man-shaped thing came towards her in a massive gold and red Void Ship. A ship so far away that it could not be seen by the naked eye, yet fully in rage of the batteries of guns that lined either side; capable of penetrating the crust of planets.

The Anathema came, and she could not run. For in its awful glory, the very Warp receded at its touch. The faint feeling of the Webway was washed away, only to be replaced with golden walls and wards of righteous hate and conviction.

Isha’s Warp sight crossed with the Emperor of Mankind's; both of their brow’s furrowed. Then, with a great bitterness in her heart, she bit her lip and bowed her head and knee.

‘To struggle free from one set of chains; only to dive into the bindings of another.’ Isha thought to herself ‘Surely, Cegorach would have found this most amusing.’

[shastafirecracker]

Selkies!

This is one I really wish I'd been able to work through more of, but at some point I really had to pick between this idea and Wildflowers to focus a lot of energy into! This was also a dark fantasy epic, conceptually, but more Pirates of the Caribbean than big haunted Ghibli forest. Vash and Knives are selkies, and at some point (whatever event passes for July) Knives stole Vash's skin and hid Vash away in the ballast hold at the very bottom of his cursed ship, Ark. Everyone on the Ark is a creature in their own right and loyal to Knives (first mate Legato, bosun Elendira, quartermaster Zazie) or Dutchman-style drowned sailors cursed into indentured undead servitude (Midvalley, Hoppered, Wolfwood, etc). Wolfwood decides to risk horrific punishment to investigate the whale-song-like noises that come from the bottom of the ship, which the whole crew knows not to acknowledge.

Broad plot bullet points: finds Vash, gets to know Vash, finds out what he is, steals his skin back from Knives and helps him escape, can't leave the Ark because of his own curse, then switch to Vash now-free as he meets other main character allies like Meryl, Milly & Livio, and then there's a return & rescue second half where Vash confronts Knives and his ship of horrors to break all the curses. You can see how this was going to be a long fucking project! It's one of those WIPs I desperately want to read but still cower at the idea of writing it all down.

Here's a clip of Wolfwood discovering Vash!

The ballast hold extended the entire length of the ship; he didn't want to get too far away from the hatch, not on this first scouting visit. He could bring a length of twine with him next time to tie off at the hatch so he could find his way back even if his light got doused. He stopped again, deciding in that moment to try again another night. If he wasn't summarily executed by Bluesummers in the morning, he'd know he was safe from prying eyes and could revisit the hold as much as he wanted to.

But he wanted to give one more fair shot at finding the beast that haunted the ship's belly, so he quietly said, "If someone's there, I don't want to hurt you. Just want to see what you are."

His hand was hot from cupping the candle flame, but he kept the light dim so he could pick out any flashes of reflection in the gloom.

Another rock shifted. It sounded bigger. And then, a rustle as of something moving - maybe clothing. And, finally, barely above a whisper, rusted near-silent with disuse, a voice said:

"Hello?"

Wolfwood's heart sped up. He widened his eyes, searching for any visual sign. "Here," he said. "I brought a light."

He lowered his hand and cast more light out into the hold. He'd moved into an area where - he just now noticed - the stones were different. Cracked and flaked, laid out so they were more stable underfoot. At the far edge of the light, he finally saw it - the haint, the beast - coming into the pool of light, hunched but walking on two legs.

It was… a man. Just a man. Face partly covered by the huge swath of tattered, dirt-brown cloth wrapped around him, the person shuffled into the candlelight, hand held up to shield his eyes. "Hello?" the man whispered again.

"God," Wolfwood breathed. "How - who are you, why are you down -?"

The man reached up and pushed the makeshift cloth hood back from his face, freeing a long, ragged fall of pale hair. And he peered forward, and blinked his eyes a little wider, trying to make out Wolfwood against the light. His lips parted, barely, as though he was trying to find words.

And Wolfwood recognized him.

"Jesus, fuck," Wolfwood hissed, scrambling backwards immediately. He turned in the small space and banged his head on the deck above him as he fled for the hatch and safety, heart suddenly in his throat, hammering louder than the ocean just outside the hull. The candle dripped hot wax on his knuckles as he failed to hold it upright, so he dropped it. He slid and twisted his ankle but kept going, splinters in his fingers as he hunted along the deck for the hatch, the hatch, let him out, shit, he didn't want to die at those hands -

Behind him, he thought he heard another sound, but his hand suddenly met movement and he shoved the hatch cover out of the way. He extricated himself from the ballast hold like an eel, jammed the hatch cover down, and heaved the water barrels back on top of it with more strength than he'd used in years. He was flushed, hot, breathing hard, and his mouth tasted of copper - he'd bit his tongue.

That man - that - how -?

It was the captain.

[pmamtraveller]

LAS MENINAS (1656) by DIEGO VELÁZQUEZ

The title translates to “Maids of Honour”. In the painting, INFANTA MARGARITA sits in VELAZQUEZ’S large studio surrounded by her ladies-in-waiting and other courtiers. She is five years old and the heir to the throne of SPAIN.

The large painting also shows Velazquez himself standing behind a huge canvas on the left-hand side. The strong, foreshortened, right-hand wall has three rows of artworks that help define the space. Over half of the room is dark, dim, and vacant around the figures. On the back wall, the royal couple is reflected in a mirror.

In the lower right-hand corner are two court dwarves and a large dog. Behind the dwarves are two women, one a nun and one a lady’s guard. The queen’s quartermaster can be seen on the steps at the back, facing an open sunlit door.

Technically speaking, the piece is proof of VELAZQUEZ’S genius when it comes to composition. Here, he employed astute observation to create compelling portraits, but the real focus of the work, utilizing real space, mirror space, and pictorial space, is its almost modern play upon perception itself.

He used his subjects’ positioning to create multiple planes of view and diagonals that draw the viewer’s attention to different parts of the room in an even manner. We’re not only guided to see what’s going on in the room but also to think about what’s beyond the boundaries of what we see.