#so elder and the riders would likely have short hair

[wickedcriminal]

Some age-old "HTTYD 3" Doods featuring Outcast Younger and Prison Darkheart Elder

"HTTYD 3" is books 9-12. Younger took Big Tooth with him in exile on Elder's request, to keep each other safe. They'd meet the Light Fury while on the run (who is Furious's right hand and is trying to kill them, mind you), and Grimmel would be one of the bounty hunters tracking down Minicup through Big Toothless. Unfortunate side effects of traveling with a night fury!

Elder takes Stoick's place in the books getting taken to Prison Darkheart along with the other Dragon Riders 😔

Bonus: Younger finding Elder in Prison Darkheart

[blueberrypancakesworld]

Painful ink words and snowflakes

Cregan x Jacaerys

warning : be/become in love (implied love at first sight), fluff, comfort, angst, emotional, kiss

Summary : The high wide cold north a realm where Jacaerys first flew on his dragon Vermax. The cold had always fascinated him when surrounded only by fire, warmth and no cold snow and ice. Gray eyes meet beautiful darkness and dark eyes meet the gray pretty sky. A young lord and a young prince together in the north find themselves in pain and care as a raven arrives with painful inky words and snowflakes meet tears.

Info : Episode one was a rollercoaster of emotions and I need more of these two so cute and hot but most of all so ahhh. So I hope I don't make the first episode even more painful here and have fun reading ;)

masterlist

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The north lay high above King's Landing. It was a great land, the greatest that not only served under the House of Stark. A house as old as the house of Targaryen, the dragon and the direwolf, two houses that had always seemed to have an alliance.

A bond that became even stronger after the death of Visery. A time in which two princes of the realm rose up from Dragonstone, sent by Queen Rhaenyra, to reestablish not only allies but also old alliances.

In a war you needed every man you could get and while her younger son his beloved brother Lucerys Velaryon was sent to Storms End to join the Baratheon who had a connection to the Queen through Rhaenyra, he Jacaerys the eldest son and heir to the Throne of Black was sent to the far north.

The warm clothes he had barely worn in his life, clothes he had still found too warm in King's Landing and had joked with Vermax, ,,I will become a dragon in the warmth," to which his mount replied with a snort and swift flight to cool his riders.

But soon a few hours later, as the sea receded and they crossed fields and paths and valleys, he saw the land becoming more and more barren, barren farms and villages with lights and snow. White snow.

A thing of nature snow was something he had only really experienced once the short winter in King's Landing short winters are good but he found it fascinating even then.

He would help his mother, honor his family and end this dispute. It took a few moments before the inhabitants of the north also saw the prince of the realm and looked up into the sky, excited and slightly frightened. Jace circled the magnificent castle before carefully landing his dragon in the large courtyard, which still seemed a little unusual for the greenish dragon.

He had always been surrounded by warmth since he was born, warmth from fire, from love and from dragons…so he was even more fascinated by the cold.

,,There it is Winterfell and our destination" he speaks with Vermax who understands his ancestors here were their common ancestors here the good Queen Alysanne with her dragon Silverwing a feeling of pride filled the prince.

Vermax looked around with orange eyes and seemed to be interested in the snowflakes that not only circled him, but Jace had to admit that he had never seen such big flakes dancing around him. It was beautiful. Just as beautiful and mesmerizing as the lord before him.

A man only a few years older than himself, a young lord in charge of a house and a wall fortress. A young man of rather and plfihct as he bowed dressed in black with the Valyrian steel weapon ice on his back as Jace did the same.

,,It's nice to finally meet you my prince" came from the elder's lips and he held out his gloved hand which the prince took more hastily than he intended ,,It's an honor to be here in your seat Winterfell you'd think it was an old tradition" Jace said for the first time seeming unsure if he was saying the right thing but those greyish eyes like the cloudy sky he loved to fly through was something that captured him.

The brown hair slightly lighter than his, the face strong, the body seemingly hardened and barely concerned with winter as if he were a direwolf himself. But that smile, that smile of understanding as he pulled Jace close for just a moment, not a real hug, perhaps more of a coming closer as their eyes met.

The dragon met the direwolf and felt small, intimidated and yet…drawn. ,,It is an old tradition and honor indeed my Prince please follow me" he said and walked towards the inside while the prince walked next to him, the younger's gaze just too fixated on the older and Winterfell.

This coolness seemed like something completely different. Not warm, but all the more inviting. ,,I should have visited the north much earlier it's so different from King's Landing or Dragonstone" he said as they arrived in the great hall he looked inside and yet even though they were seated inside it seemed cool rather than warm.

He had turned away from Cregan and looked around slightly, seeming completely fascinated, not seeing the look of admiration on Cregan's face as he scrutinized him. The direwolf looked to see if he could trust the stranger to let him into his pack territory.

His brown eyes are as pretty as the dark starry nights in the woods the lord thought and couldn't stop the smile on his lips, a smile that only showed for a moment, a smile that disappeared when he saw the stranger. A sword at the prince's side let him know why they were here, what was going on out there towards the south and even if the creatures of winter were behind the walls he could probably only fight two wars badly.

,,I'm glad my Prince that you like it so much…not everyone finds beauty in something like this," Cregan said and gestured towards the corridor to go to his personal consultation room, interrupting his ally's exploration who nodded at him, slightly puzzled and then with a stern face, ,,Of course, Lord Stark" came from his lips before he followed the brown-haired man.

The two young men stay in the room for a few hours until the afternoon. They took off their heavy coats of fur and thick fabric because of the warmth that seemed to bother them both.

Their bodies bent over the table, the chairs barely used, too eager to look at the maps, papers and plans they all revealed. The supplies, the men, the weapons and the strength, ,,You see my prince it is not very much but for the rightful queen we give all we can" he said and signed some papers on which the goods and men would have been fixed while Jace secured back the support of men to strengthen the wall and help the north through winter which they always needed.

Winter is coming.

Winter always comes after the hot fiery summer is gone. But Jace knew he could count on Cregan, the look that sirchiet gave him was sincere and honest, ,,For this the Crown and I are eternally grateful to you Lord Cregan," he replied, his smile meeting the elder's as they looked at each other for a moment in silence.

The brown met the gray and vice versa as they faced each other and Jace faded from the gray Freely infinitely beautiful as the sky he seems to be utterly alluring thought the prince and heir to the throne of the realm.

But this momet passed, this breath of cold and fire passed and they decided to go to the wall and put on their cloaks and capes it almost seemed more intimate as they put on their clothes.

A thought that made his cheeks flush and Jace tried to cover it slightly with his curly hair…but Cregan had seen it with an equal thought. The two were silent as they walked side by side, the wooden box of the elevator swaying meters above them, ,,Are you sure you don't want me to take my dragon, my lord?" Jace asked, scowling as he heard the shaking and scraping as the wood was lowered.

But Cregan grinned and placed a hand on the prince's shoulder and squeezed it lightly, ,,Even Queen Alysanne and her dragon only came to the wall not the wall I assure you nothing will happen…and please if you like call me Cregan" an offer Jacaerys accepted with a nervous yet drawn out smile before he placed his hand on his shoulder as well and said, ,,Jace will do…Cregan".

The elevator up Jace felt the height didn't bother him it was the uncertainty that it wasn't a dragon that lifted him into the air. The height and the coolness that surrounded him was familiar and beloved, but this wobble and backlash was reminiscent of their first flights with Vermax when they were both barely practiced.

,,Is flying a dragon less shaky? You looked as graceful as the queen back then," Cregan said with a hint of amusement in his voice and moved a little closer to Jace, seeing surprise in the dark eyes before he heard the short hearty laugh.

A laugh that infected Cregan and they enjoyed the moment of bliss as the wint blew around their strands and they exchanged glances again as they reached the top. Duty entered their eyes as they walked past the men.

Duty and honor they both had and goodness they knew what was at stake and they would stand behind it forever. Jace knew he had Cregan's strength on the ground and Cregan knew he had Jace's strength in the sky. It was a knowledge of each other's worth as they arrived at the small observation deck.

The wind around Jacaery's hair played loose and Cregan could feel it wanting to run through the dark curls, wanting to keep Jace here longer, wanting to show him so much more. ,,The winter and your north is beautiful my Lord Cregan," Jace said, looking out over the endless expanse of ice and snow and he clung to the wooden railing held by the best ice, rope and metal.

,,Infinitely wide and wondrous with bright stars in the sky, dark impressive expanses and yet…at night death," the older man said and looked from the view to Jace who turned to him, he had only heard in books about the danger beyond the wall but whether it was real. He saw how Cregan was probably reminded of this something but was at least intimidated by it.

Jace stepped closer to him and placed his hand on Cregan's, ,,I'll light your night with Vermax Cregan, no harm will come to you. Not tonight, not in the war, never, I promise," he promised the older man and was about to step closer when footsteps interrupted them, ,,A raven from Dragonstone has delivered a message, my lord," were words that made them both pause. Jace looked at Cregan as he unfurled the note of duty that had come back to them both.

Words written in dark ink the second prince of the realm Lucerys Velaryon killed while performing his duties. They were words in ink that gave Cregan a jolt of realization that their abrogation would come into effect sooner than he thought, that he would lose Jace sooner than he would have liked, and that he would have to tell his dragon prince what had happened. His gray eyes full of seriousness looked into the uncertain dark eyes of Jace who waited unthinkingly for the answer.

It was still the hope that this horrible act of reality had not happened but Cregan just shook his head and handed the note to Jace placing a hand on his shoulder, ,,My condolences I'm sorry my prince…Jace" were the words that left the Starks lips as he saw the horrible realization in the dark eyes. As he saw something break inside the prince as if a piece of him had been torn out.

He saw the glimmer of tears come into the prince's eyes as he turned his gaze with an appathetic nod and blink to Cregan, then to the letter and then to the snow. ,,Yes-I thank Cr-Lord Stark…I'd like to be alone-I have to get back," came from Jace, who broke away from the older man and ran slowly, then ran to a platform on which several crates were stacked.

If he jumped it would be the end, he would lose Jace even more than he already had, a fear that immediately gripped the older man. ,,My prince! Jace!" he shouted the name as he saw the brown-haired man mumble something too quietly for him to understand before he threw himself down, his own startled cry piercing the cold, silent north and his hand reaching for the younger one.

He didn't want to lose the one to whose heart his was beating the same. ,,Jace! Wait, come back!" he shouted in anguish and fear as he saw the prince on Vermax clinging to the saddle and seemingly about to fly away in his current state, a distance back in an emotional state that could lead him to suicide.

But the brown-haired boy flew away with Vermax but not towards Dragonstone relieved in the heart of the north dweller who saw the green dragon scream out cries of pain and fear and seem to disappear behind hills in the neighboring forest.

,,Get my horse ready now!" the young lord shouted and hurried into the elevator that was being lowered as fast as he could, his fingers drumming on the wood for fear of what Jace would do. The loss of a brother, a blood relative, a loss that must be more painful than any battle wound.

As soon as the wood reached the ground, he sprinted out to the servant who was already holding his horse, ,,Keep guarding everything until I get back," he said before telling the animal to gallop off towards the forest. The forest in front of him was only a few minutes away, but due to the density of the forest it was difficult to find anything.

But finding a dragon shouldn't be difficult, ,,Faster, come on boy," he instructed his horse, pushing a little harder to the side and was glad that he came to the wooded, uncertain ground as they jumped over tree trunks, he ducked under branches and the roots didn't break the horse's hooves. He shouted the prince's name, he shouted the younger one's name, he saw nothing next to the brown and white that indicated Jace's frustration and fear.

They had only known each other for less than a day and yet something seemed to connect them, not age, not royal blood…it seemed stronger. ,,Jace! Jace where are you!" he matured again and rode on, trying to find his way through the forest that could look no more than the dark eyes he was lost in until he saw a movement in the corner of his eye.

Pulling on the reins, his horse came to a sudden stop, ,,The dragon," the lord muttered, seeing the slightly lighter scales than the single trunks and the looming orange eye, ,,Jace, it's Cregan!" he shouted, slowly coming closer with his horse. He suspected that Vermax would not attack him but creatures of such power who knew?

Slowly dismounting not letting the beast out of his sight his horse bucked however and he let go of the reins knowing it would find its way back on its own if it had to as he strode on. With a whistle his mount would have come back without him he had important things to do.

Even if he just got to the ice he wouldn't stand a chance but he didn't have to because he saw that the dragon had wrapped its wings and tail around something as if it wanted to shield something or rather someone. ,,Jace?" he asked more calmly and empathetically and now stood next to the dragon that radiated a warmth that resembled spring or summer, a strange feeling, but it was a warmth that somehow always surrounded Jace.

He heard several heavy breaths and was afraid that the prince had fallen off the dragon and was injured, but these were followed by cries and a broken, ,,I'm fine…Cregan just go…please me," he heard the broken voice and placed his hand carefully on the green dragon's wing.

Vermax seemed to look at him, his orange eyes looking at him for a moment before he lifted the wing and let Cregan into the safe space where Jace was sitting. He looked down at the ground, his knees drawn up, the sword with splinters of wood next to him and a face lying in his hands.

Wordlessly, he sat down beside him close enough for the brown-haired man to lean on if he wanted to, if he wanted to soothe the pain of hot tears with cold. He let him cry, let him scream and mumble incoherent words, let him come close to him in his arms and detach himself.

,,Let it out Jace…let the pain and the thoughts out it hurts I know my dear prince…just let it happen for this moment" he said and almost fell over when Jace suddenly threw himself against him, chin on his shoulder and just held him, crying silent tears and Cregan, Cregan held him, stroked his back and held him. Again and again Jacaerys seemed to want to mumble something about what he could have done, his fault and the war.

But everything was interrupted by crying while thick, cold snowflakes slowly flew down on them. ,,Snowflakes freeze feelings for a moment Jace look up let yourself be lulled before you travel to the queen" Cregan murmured only hugging him closer yet feeling the brown eyes look up the fast beating heart calm down a little and the sniffling stop.

Instead, it was the prince's tears that were frozen by the snow and the kiss on his head, brief yet effective, that helped the young prince's tears to stop, or at least to hold back until he was in the warmth of Dragonstone in his mother's arms.

,,No matter what happens Jace in the snow and in the cold feelings are waiting for you…I am waiting for you and always will. Fly as fast as you can the war will break out do you understand? Fly and help the queen my prince Jace" were Cregan's words as he rose and pulled Jace to his feet, the prince still looking up at the sky and only now his dark eyes into the gray eyes that were indeed covered with a gleam of sorrow and fear. Jace looked at him for a moment before he nodded wordlessly,

,,Yes-yes I will come back Cregan I must leave…the flame in my heart was waiting for the next meeting" he murmured still slightly in shock but with sincerity as he placed a hand on the older man's cheek and Cregan did the same, wiping away the last of his tears.

,,Fly my prince, hurry up I'll always be here for you!" he called after the prince who had taken to the skies with Vermax to look at them both one last time before Jacaerys disappeared into the gray clouds on the green dragon Vermax and Cregan remained on the ground surrounded by dark trees.

But the next meeting was sure to come when the direwolf and the dragon met again and could lie in each other's arms under different circumstances with affection, understanding or perhaps even love.

[mrsarnasdelicious]

Saphires and Darlings - I

Mommah needs an outlet for her Aemond obsession. This is rubbish, nothing to see here, carry on scrolling.

"We have been summoned, child." My 'Father' says. "To the Keep we go." I reply. I have grown tired of living at an inn. "To The Keep we go." He says.

To the King we go indeed.

Lead by a knight in white armour and a short grey bears, we are taken before Viserys Targaryen. Last Rider of Balerion the Black Dread and King of the Seven Kingdoms. "The Alchemist." The Knight announces loudly. The Throne is occupied by a very frail looking man. I can scarcely believe he is the king. He looks more like a beggar in King's clothes. He is missing an arm and his right eye is milky grey and blind.

"Nicholas, come to me." The King croaks. 'Father' obliges, sauntering to that awful monstrousity of a throne. He bows. "I am at your service, Your Grace." He purrs. It is evident the King has received Him before. The King knows Him, or at least who He pretends to be. I sorta feel left out now. He has been to see the King and I have just sat at an inn, writing my book.

"I know you are, Nicholas. You have been these past few weeks and I thank you for that. I want you close." The King says. "I am right here, Your Grace, not close enough?" The Crawling Chaos purrs. The King chuckles feebly. "That is not what I mean, Nicholas, you know that." Viserys waves a dismissive hand. The Crawling Chaos smiles joylessly. He tilted his head every so slightly. "Then what might you mean, Your Grace?" He asks. As though he does not understand. Of course he understands.

"I want you to take residence in the keep, so I may rely on you whenever I need you." The King says. 'Father' bows deeply. "It would be my honour, as it would greatly honour my daughter." He gestures for me to come forward. I oblige, walking to his side. He smiles down on me. That void meaningless smile. I don't know why so many people buy it.

The King gestures me over to him, as well. The Elder God nods, telling me to obey. I walk forward, to the foot of the throne. The King looks down on me. He rises laboriously and descends the steps, to better look upon me. "My Lady." He smiles kindly. "Please, Your Majesty, it is just Tessa." I mutter softly. He takes my hand and kisses my knuckles. "Wonderful to meet you, Tessa." He says. "It is an honour, Your Grace." I mutter. I have no idea how to act.

I don't know what Nyarlathotep has planned.

The Elder God gestures and I go back to him. "We would be honoured to reside at the keep, Your Majesty." He purred. The King smiles, rather oafishly. "I'll have accommodations made as soon as possible." He says. The Crawling Chaos bows.

He pulls he aside and we assimilate into the crowds, watching King Viserys hold court. It is not very special. He hears petitions and makes judgements, unless the petition is too large and has to be put to the council, which happens three times.

It takes five days for our living quarters to be arranged. Five more days at the dreaded inn.

But once we are settled, we are visited by the King and his family. The queen looks at The Elder God like he has brought a deadly disease to the city. And I get a look like I am not wearing any clothes. There are two princes and one princess. The Princess is mumbling to herself. I have heard she has dragon dreams, but this is another level of intense. Both princes give me an up and down. "Be polite, boys." The Queen scolds them right away.

"My Lady, I am Prince Aemond, it is a pleasure to meet you." The taller of two takes my hand and kisses my knuckles like he undoubtedly has been taught. "Please, I am no lady." I whisper. I flush a little. There is something about his voice. "You sure don't look it." The other Prince says. I roll my eyes at him. "Well bred, I see." I say sarcastically. The Queen gives me a look.

"You must forgive my daughter, she is very used to speaking out for herself. Such is the life of a baseborn woman with red hair." The Crawling Chaos says in a playful tone. The King laughs, effectively dismissing any protest The Queen may have had about me. "She should be taught manners." The oldest Prince says. I sit down by the hearth. "Wouldn't you just like to do that, Princeling." I purr. The younger son chuckles darkly. "His name is Aegon." Hisses the Queen. "Like the conquerer, I see." I smirk wickedly. Neither Aegon, nor the Queen seem very pleased with me. But The King has seated himself and seems to not have a single clue.

Gods, this is going to be a mess and a half.

"Dear child." Nyarlathotep's voice breaks my concentration and I put down my quill. "Yes Father." I look at him over my shoulder. "The King has made me an offer." He says. "Yes?" I ask, knowing he wants me to be brimming with curiosity before carrying on. Yet I can't really be fucked at the moment. I was having fun writing my little dragon stories, okay!

"The King has offered his son's hand in marriage." Says The Crawling Chaos. "You have to be fucking kidding me." I say. The Elder God shakes his head. "Wish that I was, my pretty, but the King seems either fond of me, or eager to be rid of his ocularly challenged son." He smirks wickedly. "The Prince Aemond.. I heard maids whisper he sleeps in his sister's bed more often than not." I say. The Elder God nods. "I see, it is a ploy to keep him away from his brother's wife." He murmurs. A chuckle tumbles from his lips.

"Well, I would hate to trap you in a loveless marriage." He cooes. "No you don't." I say dryly. "No I don't. I will set things in motion." He extended his hand to stroke my face. "Be good to him and give him sons." He whispers. I scoff and avoid those empty grey eyes. "You know very well I cannot choose that." I bristle. "His forebears could, I am sure you will find a way." The Elder God smirks. I roll my eyes and focus back on my papers. "Just let me know when you need me for dress fitting." I sigh. It is not like I will get to plan this wedding. And neither will my groom. "I shall, dear child." Nyarlathotep purrs, before taking his leave.

I stare blankly at my parchment, not sure how to feel about this prospect.

[paramouradrift]

Honor & OC's (On The High Seas), Batch #2

So there I was, scanning my two master docs with all my OC info arrayed before me, and I was like, "Self, which group should you do next? You've so many options. So many prices and values! Who would make an appropriate follow-up to the officers?"

And then, it came to me. There was really only one, true option.

FIREBENDERS, BABY.

In a fic that center's Zuko's struggles with his own inner sense of right and wrong, naturally his bending--and the people who guide and train him--should take center stage. Besides which, I'm sure some of you are dying to know what half of the secondary ship looks like (fear not, the other half will be covered soon enough).

In terms of rank, the firebenders aboard the Momiji, later the Setsujoku, are all members of the same firebender corps, which puts them above the rhino riders, artillerists, and ordinary seamen, but below the tradesmen, senior non-com officers, and all commissioned officers. This matters a great deal more on a larger, more strictly-run vessel, of course, where ship norms, collective experience, and instinctive bonds of loyalty aren't there to maintain crew cohesion. These people have, after all, all been sailing with Zuko et al for three years, and before that all of them served under Iroh right up until the siege of Ba Sing Se.

Without further ado, in order of seniority...

Zoran (the Team Daddy)

Age: 45

Appearance: tall, long greying black hair and beard which are always singed somewhere, receding hairline, top-knot, burns about the ear and neck, medium skin tone, amber eyes, distinguished face, athletic build. Usually found wearing firebender armor or dressed in casual red-lined tan shirt and trousers. He also wears matching woven bracelets from his home village.

Gender & Sexuality: Cis male, Heteroflexible

Likes: Reading, particularly tales and histories, tea, and martial arts training

Dislikes: strong smells, fermented food

Raison d'etre: duty

Service History: Zoran has served in the Fire Army since he was 18, and has received two commendations for battlefield bravery, including a holding action at Ba Sing Se. In the two years between the siege ending and Zuko's banishment, Zoran was recovering from battlefield wounds and training new recruits as a firebending instructor in the Domestic Forces with Hirume.

Hirume (the Support Carry)

Age: 36

Appearance: average height, short black hair in a top-knot, well-trimmed fringe, olive skin tone, green eyes, round face, broken button nose, numerous burns and scars on her hands, arms, and legs, athletic build. Usually found wearing firebender armor or dressed in a dark grey shirt that covers her burns and matching trousers. Hirume also wears a red necklace from her home village.

Gender & Sexuality: Cis female, Heteroflexible

Likes: Reading, story-telling, and sweets

Dislikes: Taiyou's singing

Raison d'etre: protection

Service History: Hirume started in the Domestic Forces at the age of 18 and managed, through a lot of hard work and determination, to secure a transfer to the front line. She served under Iroh with distinction, but was badly injured during the Siege of Ba Sing Se. The Houka Reforms ended her career in the Fire Army, and she did a short stint in a Domestic Forces training academy with Zoran.

Jin Hui (the Elder Gay)

Age: 32

Appearance: tall, shoulder-length black hair in a top-knot, well-groomed black beard and mustache, amber eyes that low-key bore into your soul, olive skin tone, muscular build, numerous scars and burns on his torso, legs, and left arm. Usually found in firebender armor or wearing casual red tunic and trousers in the style of his home island. He also wears red armbands and bracelets, and keeps his hair neat and tidy.

Gender & Sexuality: Cis male, gay as foretold

Likes: Calligraphy, personal grooming, and wordplay

Dislikes: Loud noises, anyone and anything that fucks with his man

Raison d'etre: guidance & protection

Service History: Jin Hui was in the medic corps of the Fire Army after leaving the Fire Temple at 18, but his firebending skill earned him a place on the front line with his boyfriend Tae Gyun. They kept each other's backs through many engagements until the Siege of Ba Sing Se. Tae was killed in action in a push to capture an artillery emplacement on the wall, and Jin Hui continued to fight until the retreat. He requested, and was granted, a transfer to the Domestic Forces where he worked guard and manual labor posts.

Yang (the Sore Winner)

Age: 29

Appearance: average-height, long brown hair in a top-knot, braided to keep the loose strands out of her face, amber eyes, extremely athletic build, olive skin tone, heart-shaped face, resting cash-me-outside face. Usually found in firebender armor or a standard off-duty soldier outfit: dark grey or crimson shirt and trousers, and boots. On special occasions, she will wear a red jacket and dress in Capital City style.

Gender & Sexuality: Cis female, closeted bisexual

Likes: Games, winning, a proper challenge

Dislikes: Bad food

Raison d'etre: Nationalism

Service History: Yang volunteered in the Junior Domestic Forces as a child, and leveraged the connections she made there to secure a spot on the front line under Iroh's banner. She fought with ferocity at Ba Sing Se, but the Houka Reforms eliminated her post and she was sent back to the Domestic Forces as a firebending instructor, a sidewise promotion she was none-too-pleased with.

Taiyou (the Brat)

Age: 27

Appearance: average-height, long brown hair in a top-knot, brown goatee beard, black eyes, athletic build, fair skin tone, dimples, a smile that makes you swoon (or triggers your punching instinct), shrapnel scarring on his entire left side. Usually found in firebender armor or wearing a tastefully revealing crimson shirt--or an open jacket with no shirt--and dark grey trousers. Taiyou accessorizes with bracelets, rings, and necklaces when he's allowed to.

Gender & Sexuality: Cis male, sloppy pansexual

Likes: Games, gambling, flirty bants

Dislikes: killjoys, hypocrites

Raison d'etre: thrills

Service History: Taiyou joined the military because he believed that it would improve his already-impressive game with the ladies of his home island. This proved to be an entirely accurate assessment, and he spent a few tours in the colonies at guard posts during the day and the brothels at night. He was transferred to the force that went on to besiege Ba Sing Se and discovered that he didn't like the front line at all, actually, and also that he didn't mind the company of other men when times were desperate. He was badly injured in the siege and transferred to the Domestic Forces after his recovery.

Haram (the Hot One)

Age: 24

Appearance: below-average height, luscious black hair, well-groomed in a top-knot, medium skin tone, clean-shaven, cheekbones that could cut through glass, built like a brick shithouse, amber eyes, strong nose, a single dimple on his right cheek. Usually found wearing firebender armor or a casual sleeveless red shirt and matching trousers. Haram accessorizes with armbands and a brace on his right forearm due to past injuries.

Gender & Sexuality: Cis male, bi-curious

Likes: Training, proper hair-care, music

Dislikes: Humidity

Raison d'etre: glory

Service History: Haram had the misfortune of being assigned to a rookie division deployed to Ba Sing Se in the second year of the siege. Right out of basic training, he was thrust into the worst of the fighting from the get-go and proved himself skilled on the field. He received a commendation for valor, but battlefield injuries saw him reassigned to the Domestic Forces as a firebending instructor while he recovered.

Stay tuned for more OCs!

[limerental]

Here we go, my first @witcher-rarepair-summer-bingo fill, for the prompt, Romeo and Juliet

Relationships: Ciri/Dara

Rating: T

Content Warnings: referenced genocide, briefly assumed threat of sexual assault, minor head injury, canon typical fantasy racism & misogyny

Summary: Canon Divergent. Ordinary princess Ciri (no elder blood, no child surprise) is dreading her upcoming political marriage when she meets Scoia'tael Dara in the woods outside of Cintra.

Ciri urged her mount on through the tangles of the undergrowth, leaning to cling to the mare’s neck as she surged up inclines that scattered loose soil underfoot, leaning back again as they dropped into vine-choked valleys. 

The horse was sure-footed and hot and could sense Ciri’s rush of adrenaline and frustration, the overwhelming need to flee and flee fast. Whoever dared to chase her would not keep up, not with the reckless route that she took through the landscape. 

But no one was chasing her. Not yet, at least.

“Go take that new mare out,” her grandmother had said after Ciri’s frustration bubbled over into snide words unbefitting of a princess. Her lips had pursed with pale tightness, but the softness of her eyes said that she understood some of what Ciri was feeling. She and Queen Calanthe only fought so fiercely and so often because of how similarly stubborn and rebellious and bold the both of them were. “I trust that you’ll come back with a clearer head.”

She could pretend for a moment while hugging the mare’s muscled neck, that this headlong race was part of a much grander, more exciting adventure. That her life was not spiralling utterly out of her own control in ways that were so mundane.

Princess Cirilla of Cintra, having been of age for nearly a year now, was to be married off before midsummer. 

“We have delayed long enough,” said her grandmother. “If it were wholly up to me, I would not have you marry at all except for love. But the threat from the Scoia’tael increases by the day, and a marriage will strengthen the coalition of our allies. You have known your whole life this day would come.”

Ciri’s whole life made for a dreadfully boring story. Nothing exciting or interesting had happened to her even once or ever would.

Even a harrowing flight through the forest in defiance of her Destiny was nothing more than a cliche. The newest feminist literature told similar tales over and over. Stories of bold maidens who spat and brandished swords and cut their hair short and fled from the marriage bed were all the rage in the more forward-looking areas of the Continent.

But this was Cintra, and Ciri was not a girl but a Princess. No one would ever write a story about her except as a footnote to some arrogant prince, further noted in the lineage of her sons and grandsons. 

Probably her name would be misspelled. <i>Princess Serilla of Cintra</i>, it would say. <i>Producer of prodigious heirs and otherwise simply not of note even a little bit.</i> 

The rugged landscape suddenly opened up as the mare charged ahead, and Ciri found herself on a beaten track, cutting off a rider on a grey stallion who scrambled desperately to avoid a collision. 

Her mare skidded in a great cloud of dust and veered one way while Ciri veered the other. She soon found herself sprawled on the path observing just how much faster her mount could run without a rider as the horse disappeared around a curve in the path, her hoofbeats fading.

Something nudged Ciri in the stomach.

“Ow,” she said, touching the velvety nose of the grey stallion who snuffled at her abdomen. The horse’s face was fine-boned and dished along the curve of its profile, and it wore a bridle embroidered with intricate stitching and hung with tassels. The reins jingled with miniature bells. The horse’s ears were pierced with golden barbells. 

This was no Cintran horse and certainly no Cintran rider.

Mustering all her courage, she forced herself to squint up at the towering rider, the dappled sunlight through the trees casting a mottled glow on his figure. A young man dressed in earth tones, his skin dark and jawline bare of facial hair. He looked down at her with brow furrowed, as though confused by the series of events that had led to a girl lying flat on her back on the path before him, dazedly stroking his horse’s muzzle.

Most distressingly, he wore a cap sitting askance on his head, a squirrel’s tail slung across his right shoulder.

“You’re a--” Ciri wheezed to clear the dust from her lungs and sat up on her elbows. “You’re an elf.”

“I’d say so, yes,” said the young man. "Have been since I was born.”

“I’m fine. Thank you for asking.” Ciri shoved herself up to stand and found herself much less fine than expected. The world spun.

“You alright?” asked the young man.

“No, of course not,” said Ciri. “What a stupid thing to ask.”

Her brain a bit addled by the fall, Ciri was not sure whether she should be more fearful that the elf would leave her alone in the forest or that he would take her with him. There were said to be Scoia'tael encampments scattered throughout the countryside, but she had not expected any so close to the outer wall. 

She didn’t notice the rider dismount until he was standing beside her at the stallion’s head.

“His name is Wyn,” said the elf, lying a gloved hand on the horse’s face, “and I’m Dara. How about you?”

“I’m--” She stopped herself. “I’m no one. I’m an orphan. A brigand. Nobody.”

“A brigand? Did you plan to rob me? By flinging yourself from your horse?”

“Well,” said Ciri, “I’m not a very good brigand.”

“That was a well-bred horse for an orphaned nobody,” said Dara. He was smiling, the slow sort of smile that touched his dark eyes first, though she didn’t know what exactly about this situation was anything close to amusing.

“I stole it.”

“I thought you weren’t a good brigand?”

“Suppose I just go lucky,” said Ciri. She drew a deep breath and felt a twinge in her ribcage. Ignoring it, she squared her shoulders and faced Dara with all the bold nobility she could muster. “Or not. I know all about that cap you wear. I know who you are. I know you hate my kind and want me dead. So go on, get on with it. Try to strike me down. I'll defend myself."

“Your kind?”

“Humans,” said Ciri simply. “You wish to wipe us out and claim our castles for your own and muddy our bloodlines.”

Dara bent over his knees to laugh, a startlingly loud noise in the quiet forest.

“I think you may have some things a little backwards," he laughed. “Is that really what’s being said about us these days?”

“Yes. In all the… brigand camps.”

“I didn’t know brigands cared about castles and bloodlines.”

“No but--” Ciri felt her cheeks turn pink. 

“You’re Princess Cirilla of Cintra,” said Dara, and Ciri’s heartbeat leapt in her throat.

“How did you--”

“You’re wearing the seal of Cintra at the clasp of your cloak. Your hair is as pale as they say. And you speak like a princess.”

“I damn well do not,” said Ciri. “Fuck you,” she added for good measure.

Dara laughed again, a sound both light and musical, a warming sort of laugh.

“Princess Cirilla,” he said, stepping closer to her. The horse between them seemed bored of the affair of standing in the middle of the road, his eyelids fluttering closed. Her head felt too muddy to know what she was meant to do in this situation. She expected that she should flee. Call for help. At any moment, a gang of Scoia'tael could burst from the trees and claim her for ransom.

“Ciri,” she corrected. 

“Ciri,” said Dara, smiling. “I’m not going to leave you alone in the woods.”

“Right,” said Ciri, suddenly dizzy. She found that it was not as gratifying as she thought it would be to be a part of a more exciting narrative. “You’re going to kidnap me and take me back to your camp and make my grandmother give in to all your sick and twisted demands for my safe return. Or worse, you aim to defile me and force me to bear your children which will ascend to the throne. Or you--”

Her dizziness overwhelmed her.

The forest pitched to and fro, and when she became aware of her surroundings again, she rode on horseback with someone’s arms clenched around her, the undergrowth a green blur and the horse’s pace swift and sure. 

Cold fear gripped her until she saw a familiar outer wall rise up from the forest. She knew if she craned her neck, she would see the glittering spires of Cintra’s main keep far away on the hill.

“You took me back,” said Ciri, her voice scratchier than expected. Dara’s grip tightened as she shifted to look round at him, and he reined the stallion to a halt. He had removed his cap, and she was struck by the strange urge to touch the line of his pointed ear. She realized a second too late that she had given to the urge and snatched her hand back, face burning. 

“I took you back,” said Dara. “I’m not an animal or a monster. I don’t kidnap or defile distressed maidens. None of my kind do. We want reparations, not slaughter. We want our relics returned to us and our history respected.”

“How boring,” Ciri mumbled. “The other story’s much more exciting.”

Dara dismounted and shifted to help her do so as well. Ciri swayed on her feet but managed to stay upright, distracted by the warmth of Dara’s hands on her arms.

“I’m sure you know there’s a gate not far from here. Follow the wall. I can’t go farther than this.”

He gathered up Wyn’s reins and turned to lead him back into the forest, and Ciri felt her heart clench strangely.

“Wait,” she called. “You saved me. You’ll be rewarded.”

“I don’t think that’s how this works, Princess,” said Dara and smiled his soft smile.

Ciri breathed deep, holding herself upright and summoning all her bravery, and strode with only some unsteadiness to stand before him. 

“Thank you, Dara of… the woods. For your service and protection.” 

“Very formal for a brigand.”

“Yes, as is taught at brigand school.”

Being almost of a height, Ciri needed only to rise slightly onto her tiptoes to brush her lips against the line of Dara’s brow. His fingertips touched the curve of her elbow, and she rested a palm on his chest. Small and lingering touches that she would remember with perfect clarity long after.

“Have you read any of the latest stories? With defiant maidens who flee from the marriage bed and learn to fight with swords and ride swift horses and cut off all their hair?”

“I can’t read,” said Dara simply, “but they sound like good stories.”

“Yes,” said Ciri, and with all the stubborn rebellion that was her birthright, she ducked forward to kiss him on the bow of his lips. 

[modern-inheritance]

Modern Inheritance: Collateral (Smoke and Mirrors)

(A/N: A post-Feinster conversation between Brom and Arya. The whole end of Brisingr has so many implications for reawakening trauma for everyone, especially these two. 

I want to make it abundantly clear, Brom and Arya never have and never will have any sort of romantic/couples thing between them! They’re more of father/daughter, mentor/student and traumatized war buddies. They’ve known each other so long that there’s a lot of trust and understanding between them concerning their traumas and the ways they cope. Anyway, cheers!)

~~~~~~~~~~    

“What the hell! Brom!” 

The elder Rider jerked, nearly inhaling the entire half smoked cigarette that he held to his lips. He whipped around to face his accuser as he choked on the ash he had sucked in, his first words of protest lost when he immediately had to double over in an attempt to clear his irritated lungs.

Arya scowled from where she had stopped not a yard behind her mentor, arms crossed as she waited for Brom to finish his coughing fit. The elf hadn’t exactly planned to seek him out after leaving Eragon and Saphira to rest at the house they now occupied as the Varden secured Feinster, instead looking for a place to sleep in the sacked city. But the steady trail of smoke from behind the corner of a half collapsed stone building had drawn her eye.

“The pipe? That’s fine! I could live with that! You sourced your own stock. But this shit?” Arya plucked the smoldering stick from his fingers as Brom began to raise his hands in defense. “For fucks sake, you know what’s in them! Enough’s enough!” She threw the cigarette to the sandy gutter beside the house and ground it out with her heel. 

Brom finally managed a handful of words edgewise. “I’m out of pipe weed. The whole city is out.” Grumbling to himself as stepped back to lean against the wall, he began fishing his hands in the pockets of his coat. Arya’s eyes narrowed when his hands reappeared holding a beaten, half empty pack of Talon Filtereds and a squashed box of matches. “Don’t start with me again, girl. I’m not in the mood.”

As usual, his former student ignored him. “You’re chain smoking again?” Her words were sharp, almost accusing, but beneath it all edged a hint of worry.

Brom snorted, pale smoke venting from his nostrils as the cigarette caught and held. He took a deep inhale, let the feeling circulate in his lungs, before releasing a stream of grief and anger with the acrid vapor. “Would you rather I drink?”

Arya growled quietly and fell back against the wall next to him. This wasn’t a battle she could win, and she knew it. That didn’t change the way she felt. “No, I want you to deal with your fucking emotions in a healthy way.”

At that the Rider let out harsh bark of laughter and a cloud of white. “Look who’s talking, girl! Wait, what’s that?” He held up a hand and sniffed the nicotine laden air theatrically. “Do you smell that? Suddenly it reeks of hypocrisy here!” 

The elf gave a wry grin, the pain behind her own bottled up grief and night terrors tugging at her lips. “...Touché.”

They stood together in silence for a handful of minutes, haloed by smoke and the dim glow of the lanterns that replaced shattered street lights. 

The previous battle was unique for them. It had reopened old wounds that had just started to scab over, gashed a fresh one right across their hearts. She had faced the horrors of her nightmares brought back to life. He had watched helpless as his son and the boy’s partner of heart and mind nearly died. Both had lost the man that practically raised them, the one person they assumed they would never need to expect would die. 

Brom broke the thick silence. He took a short pull of his cigarette and tilted his head to regard the woman beside him. “Are you holding up?” 

He hid his grimace by lifting the stick back to his face when Arya dropped her gaze and refused to look at him. That was never a good sign. And she had been doing so well before Feinster.

“I’m fine.” The elf flicked her eyes in Brom’s direction when he moved, and scoffed when she saw the pointed, rather familiar expression he now gave her. “Oh, what?” Brom didn’t answer, merely put the cigarette to his lips again and raised his eyebrows even further. “Everything right now is just…. It’s fucked up, Brom. There isn’t time for me to...I don't know, vent?” She scowled and pushed stray hair back from her forehead, trying to gather her thoughts. “Fall apart? Sort through it. You know that.” 

The elder Rider let out a grunt of acknowledgement around the dull orange of the tipping paper before gesturing to Arya’s neck. “Not enough time for healing that, then?”

Arya’s hand came up to touch her throat subconsciously, the dark marks under her jaw giving a light twinge at the contact. Eragon had healed the internal damage to her throat and muscles, but battlefield healing and exhaustion had let the surface injuries remain. 

“They’re just bruises.” Still, her fingers lingered there, testing the injured flesh. Trying to chase away the feeling of cold hands around her throat and the smell of blood and concrete, the face and triumphant, gleeful snarl of another man-shaped monster. 

Brom watched her out of the corner of his eye. When Arya abandoned the bruises to rub the back of her neck, that telltale tic that she had used for well over a year now, he ashed his cigarette and gently tapped her shoulder with the back of his free hand. “It wasn’t him. He’s dead and gone. Eragon saw to that.”

Arya let out a shaky stream of breath and dropped her hand from where she had been smoothing over the scars that slashed above the edge of her tank top. “Yeah, I know.” Sliding to the ground, the elf balanced on the balls of her feet and plucked a pebble from the earth before mumbling, “Doesn’t change how my brain sees it though.”

She looked up at her mentor, doing all she could to hide her desperation for a distraction as the old scenes loomed in her mind. “What about you, old man? Hanging in there?”

Brom’s lip twitched in a sudden snarl, the cigarette bobbing with the motion. “I’m going to kill that demon’s spawn.” 

The change in his voice sent a sudden chill down Arya’s spine, chasing away the lingering sparks that raced across her scars. This wasn’t the voice of the man who had lived the last seventeen years. This was the voice of the man Arya had met on the trails of Ellesméra, a walking embodiment of rage, betrayal and anguish that could burn all in his path. “You mean Murtagh?”

With a violent jab of his hand Brom stabbed out remnants of his first smoke on the wall behind him. He ignored the pinpricks of blood that welled up from his fingers as he yanked a fresh stick out of the box and clamped it in his teeth to light as he growled, “He doesn’t get a name anymore. He’s dead when I see him, dragon or no dragon. I’ve done it before and I’ll do it again.” The first match he struck snapped in half and fizzled out. Brom swore and threw the shattered bits away and broke his cardinal rule to light the soothing cigarette with a spark of magic at his fingers, angrily puffing as it took.

Arya regarded him steadily, hearing the pain that edged the fury like so many razors. It would do no good to remind the Rider that Galbatorix had been in control when he struck the final blow against Oromis and Glaedr, nor would he want to hear that the young man and the red dragon were not Morzan and his twisted mount. 

“...You really wanted them to be different, didn’t you?” The moment the words left her mouth Arya felt the folly of letting them loose. 

Brom’s brilliant blue eyes turned to her, nostrils flared in rage as they jetted twin streaks of smoke. His hand lifted slightly, hovering near head height where Arya crouched beside him. The elf tensed, ready to take the blow if he struck. 

He stopped. His fingers flexed, as though they could not make up their mind. At his lips the cigarette trembled, the trail of smog from its end wavering. For the briefest of moments, Arya saw a blazing flash of...failure...in his eyes. That was failure, failure and agony at the lives lost, though two still walked among the living. And then it was gone, replaced by an intense but controlled anger.

Brom lowered his trembling hand. “...Just let me smoke, dammit.”

“Fair enough.”

Another ten minutes passed, the only sounds being the Varden watch patrols calling out to each other in the sleeping city. Brom let his somewhat crumpled cigarette burn down to the mashed filter before grinding it out. His shaking had calmed, the enraged light in his eyes dimmed. 

He cleared his throat as he shook another snout from the dwindling box. “...You had a shift watching Eragon and Saphira earlier?” Arya nodded, rolling the pebble she had picked up in her palm and shifting her balance in accordance with its movements. “And how are they doing with all of this?”

Another wry grin tilted the corner of the elf’s lips, though she did not raise her gaze. “Exceptionally better than we are.” The two shared a short laugh before she spoke again, almost hesitant. “Eragon is...having trouble. With something that happened while he was helping clear out Feinster.”

“What happened?”

Arya rocked back onto her heels and recounted Eragon’s telling of the boy that had startled him inside one of Feinster’s homes. The sheer shock he felt when he saw the youth, his pang of recognition, and, later, the horror he felt when he realized just how close he had come to killing an innocent civilian. “It’s been eating him up inside. Saphira’s told him over and over that he didn’t actually kill the kid, that it all worked out, but he’s still thinking about it.” She sighed, and with a flick of her wrist threw the pebble down like a dart. It gouged a crater into the compacted, sandy soil, the quiet thud and depth of the impact betraying her unearthly strength. “I told him to stop and just forget about it when he asked me how I would handle it.”

Brom paused. “...That’s unlike you.”

The elf rubbed her temples and shifted back to the balls of her feet, agitated and indecisive. “Yeah, well...I shut down a bit when he mentioned it. He wanted to try and get me to open up again, seeing as it’s gone well the last few times.” She shook her head, braid swaying. “I couldn’t. Not to them. Not about that.”

Realization dawned on the older Rider, and he pinched his cigarette between his pointer and thumb as he drew a long, deep pull and gathered his thoughts. He exhaled slowly, a heavy sigh of memories that were only partly repressed by the nicotine’s taste in his mouth, before slipping a hand into his pocket and peering up at the half concealed stars above. “Right. Thornwell.” He flicked the ashes away. “...Now that’s something I’d rather forget.”

“Fuck off. The day we forget Thornwell we better be fuckin’ dead.” Arya’s tone was harsh, laced with the bitterness of failure and a vehement streak of self-hatred that the elf rarely let out into the open. “We’re the only ones left to remember it, and it was our fucking fault. Don’t you dare try to brush it off.”

“I’m not.” With a soft pat, Brom dropped his free hand onto Arya’s head. The touch was sudden, so much so that the elf nearly jerked away until she felt the tension in the man’s muscles, the miniscule tremors that the cigarettes couldn’t suppress. 

He knew. The memories still hurt plenty. He couldn’t let them go either. 

Arya sighed and ducked her head, breaking the contact. “Good.” Her voice wasn’t as sharp now. Just...tired. 

The taste of rich dirt, acrid smoke from a magic fueled fire and burning plastics rushed her senses with the memory of Thornwell’s resurgence. Uncaring if any of Eragon’s guards were in sight, she spat to the side, trying to rid herself of the shame laced flavor. Again she found herself resentful of her mind’s sensory recall, bitterly wishing elves memories could fade to washed out images and sounds as humans did.

“Here.” The combat liaison looked up to see Brom offering his still smoldering cigarette down to her. She stared at it for a long moment before gingerly accepting the roll between two fingers and shot a wary, questioning look to her mentor. “I don’t just smoke them for nicotine. It’s the only thing keeping the tastes out of my mouth.”

A moment later saw Arya coughing and gagging as she thrust the cigarette back. “That’s awful!” She spat again, choking on what felt like burning fumes. “Fuck!”

“But it worked, didn’t it?”

“I’ll tell you when I stop feeling like there’s acid in my throat!”

The old man was right, though. The acrid, vile taste had drowned out the pervading scents and flavors of that one day so many decades ago.

As the elf took a sip from the canteen off her belt, Brom turned his gaze back to the clouded stars. “...That was the day you broke my jaw, wasn’t it?”

Arya snorted into the neck of the canteen before muttering, “I cracked your cheekbone. I was…” She paused, screwing the cap back on and trying to choose the words that would cause the least pain for both of them. “We both were fucked up in that moment. You just wouldn’t realize it. I had to do something.” 

“...I was like that a lot back then.”

“Yeah.” Arya clipped the canteen back on her belt. Rubbed her hands together. 

She couldn’t bring herself to admit just how scared of him she had been that day, even before the accident. Brom carried within him a level of intensity at times that transcended rage. Thornwell was an incident where that blind fury led them both to ruin, at the cost of innocent lives. 

Brom cleared his throat, drawing the elf’s eye back to him. “You know...we should start easing Eragon and Saphira into the notion that...that there’s going to be collateral someday.” The words left his mouth with a grimace and puffs of smoke. “Prepare them for it. Eragon’s so empathetic, I’m worried that–”

“No!” The Rider jerked, startled by the sharp, nearly shouted dismissal. Soft flecks of ashes scattered down, drifting to land cool and harmless onto the fists Arya held clenched at her knees.

Her refusal shocked him. Arya, of all people, knew that the right preparation could help lessen the acute effects of war. Her upbringing, like Eragon’s, had done little to prepare her for taking lives, losing comrades, and the burning senses of shame, self-hatred and anguish that could all accompany a prolonged conflict. As naïve as she had been when she joined the Varden, with only the surface understanding of her eventual role, it all had left a lasting impact on the elf. 

Brom frowned. His former student’s body was ridgid, knuckles white. “Arya, you know it’s going to happen sooner or later–” 

Arya cut him off again, her voice softer yet edged with a firm, pained conviction. “Brom...we both know it’s already happened.” And she pointed out towards the city around them. “You can’t tell me there weren’t people here.”

Some of the buildings were collapsed inward on themselves. Shopfronts, family businesses with living quarters above, stood half charred or half destroyed. Behind them, towards the towering keep, the building that Saphira had torn apart tooth and claw was abandoned besides smears of gore. 

A nagging, grim understanding began creeping into Brom’s mind. 

“I know he’s your son, and I know you have more of a say in what you tell him.” Arya continued. “But I can’t let you put the idea in his head. He’s so...he feels so much, Brom. He feels for others as much as he feels for himself. Saphira tries to help him through it but through him, she feels it too.” Tiny tremors shook her fists, nails biting into her palms. “If you start trying to prepare him, they’re going to realize that it’s probably already happened. They’re going to start wondering when. Why they didn’t notice it before. How many. 

“That spiral doesn’t stop. It’s so hard to shut out, and….” She stopped, just short of her voice breaking. “I don’t want that to happen to them. Just...let them have this, Brom. Let me worry about it. Okay?”

Brom dragged the last trails of smoke from his cigarette and reached down. Placed his hand on the elf’s head and gently ran his thumb over her hair as he had always done with Eragon when the boy was frightened by his stories years ago. She tensed for a moment, before he felt the pent up stress ease. “Okay.” The older Rider tapped out the end of his smoke on the wall. “I see your point, kid.” With a gentle shift he pushed her to lean a shoulder against his leg in a comforting gesture of support and understanding. “But when it happens, you tell me. They’ll need both of us.”

“I will.”

They stayed like that for a long moment, supporting each other as the night’s words swirled through their minds. 

“...I’m not going to be able to sleep tonight.” Arya muttered suddenly. 

Brom let out a soft scoff. “Join the club.” 

It brought another grim smile to the elf’s face. “Walk with me? Patrolling tends to help.”

“Fine.” Brom reached into his coat as Arya stood and stretched. He swore quietly when he found that the box of Talons was empty. 

Realizing that Arya was watching him, Brom gave the box one last longing look before crumpling it in his fist and dropping it into his pocket. “Lead the way, kid.”

[whywishesarehorses]

Inside the Famous—and Deadly—Omak Stampede

This article was written by Allison Williams, published in the August 2017 issue of Seattle Met, and reformatted here for your enjoyment.

This one is text heavy and long, so it is hidden under a read more.

Thursday

Eighteen horses form an imperfect line on a hot August night, their 18 jockeys clad in jeans. Here on a sandy bluff in the small town of Omak, four hours east of Seattle and several worlds away, riders and spectators alike move with nervous energy, anxious for the race to start. One jockey wears a helmet topped with a pink mohawk, another with a GoPro camera. One horse, sponsored by a local marijuana dispensary, sports painted pot leaves on its rump. Wispy white eagle feathers hang from others, emblems of the Native American heritage the men share.

A summer carnival glows below, neon outlines of rides called the Orbiter and the Fireball, metal towers that came into town on tractor trailers. Farther into the Okanogan Highlands, a casino twinkles alone on Indian Reservation land. It’s August 11, 2016, and even an hour past sunset the air holds onto most of the heat from the 90-degree day.

A “whoooop!” erupts from the gathered crowd as the animals sidestep and bob their heads behind the chalk starting line. His race number bright across his chest, 18-year-old Scott Abrahamson eyes the sandy dirt in front of the line, groomed like a golf course sand trap. His long bubblegum-pink sleeves mean he’s easy to spot even in the shadows where floodlights don’t reach, and his helmet blinks with battery-operated toy devil horns. He’s surrounded by both champions—Loren Marchand with seven titles, Tyler Peasley with three—and nervous high schoolers in their first race.

At the crack of a gun, the horses charge. Their riders lean forward as hooves pound the sandy flat, at least for the first hundred feet. The crowd cheers as soon as the pistol sounds, cries and hoots blossoming into the dark.

Then 18 horses go off a cliff.

The riders shift in their saddles as their mounts fly down an incline steeper than a ski jump. The best jockeys, the veterans, barely lean back coming off the hill, reins clasped in the left hand and riding crops in the right. Others grasp a bar they’ve rigged on the back of their saddles they call the “oh shit handle.”

The spectators’ cries reach full pitch when the pack is halfway to the waterway at the base of the hill, a thick ribbon of black that flows left to right. The horses plunge into the inky Okanogan River en masse, hooves hitting the shallow bottom, and all but one charge across to the opposite bank. The stadium on the far side is lit up like a Friday-night football game, floodlights bright atop red, white, and blue bleachers, and Scott and his hot-pink sleeves emerge first in the dirt oval, just 45 seconds into the race. As they cross the finish line, Peasley is right on his tail.

Fifteen horses follow, minus the one that tumbled in the river. A crew attends to the downed horse from the deck of a small drift boat; while the stadium roars, a veterinarian surveys the animal and notes that it’s already gone, likely drowned.

Back atop the hill, Colville tribal elders watch through binoculars before one spots something in the sandy dirt, an eagle feather dislodged by the chaos. They circle the downed quill, addressing the spirit it represents, the eagle that travels in both worlds, before one of the elders lifts the feather to return it to its owner.

This is the World Famous Suicide Race.

There will be four races total during Omak Stampede, always the second weekend in August. Each race awards five points to the first-place finisher, four to the second, and so on; the overall winner clinches the King of the Hill title on Sunday, and $40,000 in prize money is distributed. It’s the highlight of this Central Washington town’s year, a tradition that draws thousands of spectators—and animal-rights protesters.

Omak straddles the border of the Colville Reservation, home of almost every racer, horse owner, and trainer. The contest is a rite of passage, they say, a proving ground for men—and even a few women—coming of age more than a century after actual horseback warfare. Beyond the turgid flow of the Okanogan River through town, the reservation sprawls over 1.4 million acres of highlands, brittle with brown grass in late summer. There the Native American communities are plagued by poverty and unemployment.

If the Suicide Race was a small-town Friday-night football game, teenaged Scott Abrahamson would be its star quarterback. He’s an ace student, focused and polite, with technical internships and honor rolls to his name, but this weekend he’s a jockey with a King of the Hill title to defend. All eyes are on him.

Friday

He gets sick before every big race. “Everything hits me and my body,” Scott says. “I can barely walk.” His cousin calls it good luck; Scotty puking means they’re going to do well.

In the hours before Friday’s race, the second of four, Scott’s prepping in the triangular Owners and Jockey’s paddock in the middle of the fairgrounds. By 5pm, Omak veterinarian Jai Tuttle holds court at one end of the dusty enclosure, near standing fans that muster a little manufactured breeze. As they wait to parade their horses for Doc Tuttle, owners angle water hoses over the animals’ backs.

Everyone older than Scott calls him Scotty. This year’s printed program, in the roster of winners dating back to 1935, calls him that. After he won in 2015, he became small-town famous, no longer just the good kid who excelled at basketball and wrestling. People holler, “Go Scotty” at him all weekend.

His father was famous too. That’s what happens when you win the Suicide Race; Leroy Abrahamson took the title in 2002, but was best known for his prowess in the Indian Relay, a more widespread style of racing where one jockey hops from horse to horse. Leroy, Scott has heard, would flit from one mount to the next with only a single foot brushing the ground.

Scott doesn’t remember his first time in a saddle but assumes it was before he could walk, though he largely gave it up in elementary school, when his parents split. His father was the horse guy; his mother was all about school. So he became a standout student in Coulee Dam, a reservation town in the shadow of the 50-story hydroelectric giant. When his father died in 2009, he was drawn back to horses.

“I’m sorta doing all this for him,” Scott says, hesitant. His mother wasn’t wild about the racing, but he didn’t falter at school, scoring an engineering internship with the Bureau of Reclamation. Slight and muscular, his five-foot-nine stature is too tall for a throughbred jockey but about average for this race. His hair is short and straight, spiking around his head like a halo, and he likes to hide his eyes behind sunglasses.

The summer he was 16, after his sophomore year of high school, Scott entered his first Suicide Race. Atop a small gelding named Kinky, he fell as they crested the top of the hill on the Thursday race, flipping over the horse’s shoulder. On Friday the pair wrecked in the water.

“I flipped over and everybody ran me over,” he says. “Everyone says it happens so fast, but when I was in it, it was like slow motion.” Finally, on Saturday, they made it through the entire race, galloping past the finish line in the stadium. Then Sunday the pair wrecked again.

A new horse was in order. His trainer, George Marchand, is a giant within the Suicide Race world and holder of three titles. He’d lost his own father at 14 and rode against Leroy Abrahamson 15 years ago, so he guided Scott, this time to a nighttime ride on a quarter horse–thoroughbred mix named Eagle Boy. The butterscotch-colored gelding was only about five years younger than the rider.

“It was pitch black and dusty,” remembers Scott. The hills of the reservation are dotted with brush and ponderosa pine, but he could make out little from his saddle. They were on top of a hill, he knew that, and that George had taken off.

He gave Eagle Boy his head as they sped over the uneven terrain. “We were jumping trees and dodging trees,” recalls Scott, but they moved as a unit. “I was like dang—he trusts me.” Matching horse to rider is alchemy.

In 2015, in his second year racing and only 17 years old, Scott on Eagle Boy tied for first overall with six-time victor Loren Marchand, George’s nephew. With a wide grin stretched across his face, the rising high school senior played rock-paper-scissors with his cochamp for a King of the Hill prize bridle.

The name World Famous Suicide Race might be a bit of hyperbole, but the race is nothing if not infamous. It emerged in scrappy Omak where a Great Depression population boom—all the way to 2,500 souls—launched an annual rodeo in 1933. As publicity chairman, furniture store owner Claire Pentz proposed a dramatic steeplechase to draw spectators, inspired by mountain races across the reservation at Keller, where riders charged a dry channel in the Sanpoil River. He knew how to sell it: He gave his 1935 creation a catchy name.

The World Famous Suicide Race ran every summer, the marquee event at the four-day Omak Stampede rodeo. Dynasties were born when the inaugural race’s third-place finisher, Alex Dick, won regularly through 1965. There have been seven Marchand riders over the years, six Abrahamsons, nearly a dozen named Pakootas. The unofficial motto, one that appears on winners’ belt buckles, is “Wimps Need Not Apply.”

The 210-foot hill, most say, is a 62-degree slope. Or it’s 54.7 degrees, as measured by a race official in 1993. Others say it’s more like 30. Regardless, it’s terrifying. From the top, the hill feels as steep as a hard ski run; a black diamond, but not a double black. Scrambling up on foot, you might use your hands.

The stampede and race remain intertwined, but in 1999 the Colville Tribes boycotted to protest a change to their camping space on the fairgrounds. The Stampede lost attendance and revenue, and the following year a deal was struck: The tribes got more control over the race organization, and the encampment got its park space.

Family ties bind many of the owners, trainers, and jockeys, and while a few aren’t Native American at all, they’re the exception. This is the biggest sporting event in the region, the Super Bowl of north-central Washington. “This is the only time we get to play cowboys and Indians,” jokes one organizer, Ernie Williams.

Doc Tuttle is fairly new to the race gig, but between her ease with fidgety horses and no-nonsense demeanor, the veterinarian exudes authority. One by one she clears the horses for Friday’s race, directing owners to walk each thousand-pound animal in a figure eight as her eyes stay trained on forelegs and haunches, scrutinizing for swollen tendons or joints.

No one can pretend the Suicide Race isn’t controversial. As early as 1939, the protests started; Humane Society president Glen McLeod succeeded in canceling a mountain race in nearby Hunters, then traveled to Omak and Keller hoping to do the same. “Why, even the riders call it a ‘suicide race,’ ” McLeod told The Seattle Daily Times before a similar trip in 1941.

Animal rights groups started keeping a tally of dead horses in 1983, with one count now at 22. “The reality is that the race is viewed as part of the Omak Stampede rodeo, and rodeos are protected under state law,” says Seattle Humane Society spokesman Dan Paul, but points out that rapid shifts in public sentiment swiftly made SeaWorld orca shows and circus elephant acts extinct.

People for Ethical Treatment of Animals has run letter-writing campaigns. In 1993, the Northwest’s PAWS, or Progressive Animal Welfare Society, tried a more robust tactic, filing a lawsuit that alleged organizers harm horses for profit, but a Superior Court judge threw out the case. In 1996, a PAWS member sued the Okanogan County Sheriff’s Office and the rodeo for roughing him up when he videotaped a horse being euthanized; the suit settled for $64,500.

For the organizers, the response is simple: The race is merely an extension of their horse-infused culture. Every rider points out that they ride similar hills during wild-horse roundups and cattle work.

Horses have to pass three checks before they’re allowed entry into the race: the vet examination, a swim test, and what’s called a hill test, where horses must round the top of Suicide Hill without hesitation.

Tuttle isn’t from the reservation; she isn’t originally from Omak. But even as an outsider, the one who has to put horses down if they’re hurt, she doesn’t think it’s inhumane.

“These guys use horses that love it,” she says; the horses are bred to it and run steep hills regularly on the remote corners of the reservation. She rarely has to disqualify a horse because owners who spot lameness usually scratch. “It does hold a real special place in the Native culture. It does.” And that horse Thursday night that likely drowned? She considers it. “He was doing what he loved and he had a quick and honorable death.”

Friday night’s race is classic and clean; no bad wrecks. As always, the riders reach the starting line by crossing the river on the Highway 97 bridge, closed to traffic. Hooves clomp on the asphalt as the parade passes a road sign that reads, “Tribal Code Laws Apply.” There are no rules to apply in the Suicide Race once the gun is fired; riders can whip each other, pull each other’s reins. No helmets required. No wimps.

The results echo the previous night: Scott Abrahamson and Eagle Boy come in first, Tyler Peasley on Spade in second. When Scott wins, he raises his right hand above his head, palm out, fingers outstretched. His father’s gesture.

Scott was only four when Leroy won the Suicide Race. “Everyone said he was one of the greats,” he says. “It’s kinda hard to fill his shoes.” Instead he fills his horns. He wears Leroy’s blinking red devil headpiece, the kind of bauble most 18-year-olds would don at a Halloween party.

Scott’s idols were the riders who won in the late 2000s, including the 30-year-old three-time champion who came in second to him during this weekend’s first two races. As a kid he’d run down hills playing at Suicide Race, imaginary whip flying, yelling, “I’m Tyler Peasley!” After his 2015 win, Scott noticed something: “The kids run around saying they’re me.”

It’s after 10pm when the racehorses have completed their cooldown laps and have been loaded into trailers for the ride home. Scott accompanies George Marchand to Omak Lake, 15 miles out of town, to let Eagle Boy soak before bed.

Saturday

Saturday night’s Suicide Race is the biggest. The 7,700-seat arena is packed, and lines form at every fun house and stomach-destroying ride in the carnival outside. Booths hawk curly fries, cotton candy, and foot-longs, though the longest lines are reliably at a taco truck.

But that’s not the whole Omak Stampede. On the east side of the arena, a mirror festival, maybe even larger: the Indian Encampment. Rows of teepees surround a round pavilion for dancing and drum performances, with RVs and tents beyond that. Spectators bring their own camp chairs to supplement the few bleachers. Booths sell jewelry, T-shirts, and dream catchers, and while some of the food is the same—nothing is as universal as curly fries—more signs are handwritten, and many vend Indian tacos and huckleberry lemonade.

Before the rodeo begins, the arena’s industrial speakers blast pop country songs over every acre. The festivities begin with a series of anthems and processions, recognizing the neighboring nations of Canada and the Colville Tribes. During the ride-in, dozens of rodeo queens from around the West shoot into the center oval on horseback, one by one, decked in every shade of sparkle.

The announcer introduces each event, then banters with the rodeo clown when things get slow or a bull rider needs a moment to limp off the dirt. The Professional Rodeo Cowboys Association produces the classic rodeo events, ones with more white riders than Native: bull riding, steer wrestling, team roping, barrel racing. Specialty acts bridge the competitive sports: trick riders and one blonde woman who does a kind of partner dance with an unbridled palomino horse to the blaring sounds of a country song called “Free.” It ends with the horse placing its blond head in her lap.

The Suicide Race is the final blockbuster event. Spectators wade up to their knees into the Okanogan River just upstream of the race crossing, bare feet on slimy rocks. Signs still note that video recording is prohibited, but they’re roundly ignored in the age of cell phones.

Despite the shocking name, the only rider death since anyone’s kept close records was one who drowned on his way to the starting line—though there are plenty of close calls. In 2002, the year Leroy Abrahamson took home the title, racer Naomie Peasley took a tumble so bad she fractured her skull. She recovered, but not before flatlining twice in the medic helicopter.

In its anti–Suicide Race materials, PAWS airs a common criticism of the race: its authenticity. “Organizers currently contend that the Suicide Race has roots in Native American tradition but, in fact, an Anglo conceived the race as a publicity stunt,” reads its statement. Detractors hang on that detail, its origins with furniture salesman Claire Pentz.

To riders and trainers, though, Pentz is irrelevant, and they point to the deep roots of horse culture. For Scott, the point of the race is clear: “Showing that a young man is becoming a warrior, becoming a man.”

The race, the encampment—it’s the tribes’ biggest invitation into their world. “There’s more that people don’t see behind these walls, about Indian life...sweat lodges, medicine,” adds Aaron Carden, a retired racer who now teaches Native language on the reservation. Of the borders around that world, he says, “It’s not our fence to keep people out. It’s the fence white men built to keep us out of the area they took.”

The race wasn’t the only thing “created” by a white man; the very invention of a Colville Tribes unit is recent. Long before that, before statehood, before Manifest Destiny, before Lewis and Clark white-privileged their way across the American West, the Okanogan Highlands tribes lived nomadic lives, picking berries and drawing salmon from the massive Columbia River. And racing horses.

First came the incorporation of Washington Territory, then a series of executive orders begun by president Ulysses S. Grant that roped several tribes into three million acres between the Methow Valley and the Columbia River. Others were elbowed into the reservation, linking bands that once stretched from the dusty plains of Washington to the mountains of British Columbia. One chief invited a famous Indian leader, Chief Joseph, and his Nez Perce followers in 1885. With his band, the Confederated Tribes of the Colville Reservation—a patchwork assembly that had no single language or traditional commonality—reached their current 12-tribe size.

Over 125 years the tribes faced what so many other American Indians did—children forced into boarding schools, languages squashed. The federal government forced a cheap buyback of 1.5 million acres, lands still lamented as the lost “North Half.” The Grand Coulee Dam, erected in 1942, blocked spawning salmon with its 550-foot concrete walls; Colville tribal members mourned the loss of Kettle Falls, a historic fishing spot, with a Ceremony of Tears before it was submerged by the dam’s backup.

In the 1960s, the tribes toyed with termination, dissolving the reservation altogether and splitting the lands among its 5,000 members. Reservations had been terminated by the government before, but the Colvilles were the only ones to dare seriously consider it themselves, an unprecedented move of self-governance. Congressional hearings were held but the measure never passed, so the Colville Reservation endured.

The Suicide Race is a separate world from suicide itself, a public health crisis for the Colvilles. Whether spurred by pervasive poverty—reservation unemployment topped 50 percent in 2010—or rampant substance abuse, the suicide rate ballooned to 20 times the national average in 2006. “After that we were in a panic on what we need to do and could do,” says tribal staffer Olivia Wynecoop. Tribal leadership declared a state of emergency, and Wynecoop helped secure grants for education and designating “natural helpers” to be on call for suicide emergencies.

Scott positions Eagle Boy at the western end of the starting line for the Saturday-night race. This isn’t like the starting gate at the Kentucky Derby; horses pace and turn, and the antsy palomino next to him does a sideways prance before the starter pistol goes off. Scott is angry, though later he says he can’t remember why. Trash talk and psych-outs are regular along the starting line, older jockeys trying to ruffle the young ones still gathering their courage.

But three years and one win into the Suicide Race, Scott can ignore the chatter. He and Eagle Boy are still until the gun sounds, then fast to the crest of the hill. Aaron Carden still remembers the feeling 25 years after his first win: “You’re actually flying in the sky. Nobody can take that away from you.”

There’s a commotion, a cloud of dust to Scott’s left, but he’s well in front of the pack as they hit the water. Two strides into the dark water, Eagle Boy stumbles, flinging Scott into the river. His blinking red devil horns disappear under the white churn created by horses on either side. They’re both okay but don’t log a finish.

What Scott couldn’t see was what happened on the top of the hill, to the very first rider off the break. Tyler Peasley, whom Scott idolized as a kid, and who’d placed at Scott’s heels the past two nights, darted off the top of the hill like a raptor after its prey. Peasley’s a little taller than Scott, broader shouldered, and he rides to win. His mount, Spade, got so much air he tucked his back legs underneath him and simply sailed for the first 30 feet of the downward slope.

They were serene in that moment, flying, until Spade’s hooves finally hit the tilted ground again; Peasley pitched over Spade’s front left shoulder before the horse executed a tight somersault. The jockey disappeared under the hooves of the horses behind him and the crowd made a collective, guttural gasp. Peasley’s body didn’t come to a stop until he reached the bottom of the hill.

Sunday

The final race is also the only daytime race of the weekend; for the first time since the trials and runoff races held before the stampede, they’ll be rushing the hill in full daylight.

The mood in the O&J paddock is subdued, but word is going around that Peasley is stable at a nearby hospital. News will later spread that his injuries included a broken pelvis, hip, and ribs, and the racing community fundraises to support his care and gas money for his family to visit him.

Remarkably, Tyler’s horse, Spade, is unhurt from the tumble, ready to race again. His owner lights a bundle of sage and says a few words over the horse before a new jockey takes the saddle.

For the final time in 2016, Scott follows the parade to the top of Suicide Hill. His jeans have a gaping hole in the knee—real wear from hard riding, not a fashion statement—and his wraparound sunglasses are ’80s big. No devil horns for the daytime race, but, as ever, his name is the one most shouted by the crowds: “Come on Scotty,” over and over.

With 10 points already earned, Scott only needs to place to secure the title. Owner and trainer Marchand tells him not to go all out, and when the gun fires, he doesn’t. He holds back his whip, lets Eagle Boy run the race without extra urging. It’s the smart move, the calculated move, no doubt informed by the disastrous night before. But Scott comes to regret holding back.

Not because it doesn’t work. Scott and Eagle Boy place second, netting four more points and easily clinching his first solo all-around title. But for Scott, the kind of driven athlete who hates to give a single inch, playing it safe feels wrong. Now with two titles to his name, only three years in, he says he’ll ride “until I get broken down and can’t do it no more.”

Three days later, Scott will depart his Coulee Dam home and drive five hours to start his freshman year at Washington State University. As an engineering student he will pull a 3.8 GPA his first semester and a 3.9 the second; he’s lined up two years of scholarships so far and hopes he’ll be able to extend to the full undergrad four.

Scott won’t brag about his Suicide win at college, but he’ll drive home every fall weekend for Indian Relay races, another sport that mixes horsemanship with a touch of anarchy. Around the reservation, he doesn’t have to brag about being King of the Hill; everyone already knows. “He’s the Steph Curry of the Suicide Race,” one tribal member says. “Loren and Tyler are the Lebrons.”

The second weekend of August 2017 is already on everyone’s calendar. Scott will be back on Eagle Boy, who he now half owns with George Marchand—a 49 percent share. He now has a streak to defend. By early June, high winter snows have melted to fill the Okanogan River, and ecologists are warning of water flows two or three times normal. Scott guesses that, with the river this high, it’ll be too deep for the horses to simply wade across during the Suicide Race; they’ll have to swim for the first time since, he believes, 2002. The year his father won it all.

But on Sunday night in August 2016, after the King of the Hill awards and the pictures, he’s just a high school kid again. He wanders the Indian Encampment with friends, waits in line for fry bread.

Under the pavilion, dancers spin and step, decked in elaborate feathered headdresses and beaded robes. Some have numbers pinned to their costumes, like marathon runners, to compete. In a drum tent, the songs are a steady thrum of chants and cries, indecipherable to the visitors who stand awkwardly outside the rows of seated tribal members who are at once both audience and participant.

Picture this: a quiet mountain lake, bordered by rocky hills dotted with ponderosa pine. In daytime Omak Lake is seven miles of brilliant turquoise, but now, at night, it’s a black mirror. Two men drive a horse trailer to its shore, unloading an unsaddled Eagle Boy.

It’s one of George Marchand’s secrets to success; the lake minerals soothe the bumps and scrapes along the horse’s legs. In the midst of the annual Perseid meteor shower, the uncloudy Okanogan skies are perfect for spotting streaks of celestial light, but the men don’t look up as they dissect the day’s race.

Scott holds Eagle Boy’s halter from a dock while the horse wades into the water, breaking the lake’s calm. The water hasn’t yet cooled from baking under another 90-plus degree day, and the hills that round the lake keep the night air still. They’ve survived another madcap contest together, earned another W. They’re back on the reservation, back home. In the silence the only sound is the lapping of the lake water against a horse.

[eggytranslations]

Volume 1, Chapter 1-Ambush

Content warnings: death, ableism, suicidal thoughts, mention of racism?

The whole thing happened so suddenly.

“Thump—”,  a small blue and white porcelain bowl fell to the ground, rolled twice, and fractured into several small pieces. At the same time, the shiny brass bell that had been polished by time also fell from a great height, jingling twice with an especially alarming panic, and then slumped over beside the fragments.

“Shaoye…shaoye, shaoye...somebody help! Shaoye has been bitten by a snake!...”

The shrill voice cut through this early spring afternoon, a rare bright and sunny day. Very quickly, endless bustling footsteps came from the originally tranquil mountain courtyard—kick and clatter—you could even hear the sounds of these panicked footsteps knocking over things. 

Shen Qingxuan widened his eyes to stare ahead, working hard, trying to get a glimpse of the beast that had bit him, but his eyes were blurred, as if they were covered by a layer of thin white gauze, so no matter how hard he tried he could not see clearly. Internally, he could not help but be stunned by the snake’s powerful venom, but also secretly think, man proposes but God disposes. He had thought of countless ways of dying, yet how could he have foreseen that he would ultimately end by a snake’s venomous fangs?

Thinking up to now, in his heart of hearts, he was not shocked, and just closed his eyes. He was vaguely aware that the servants who rushed over had moved him from the chair, and were frantically calling for the physician while yelling for someone to fetch the antidote pills.

And anything after that, he did not know at all.

The eldest young master of the Shen family was bit by a snake in his mountain villa.

This news travelled like the birds in the mountain forest had flapped their wings and carried it out themselves, taking only a cup of tea’s time before sounds of horse feet came from the originally tranquil mountain path. One after another, the horse carriage and silk sedan chair

finally arrived outside the doors of the mountain villa in a rush. 

The rider on the horse and the noble in the sedan hurriedly disembarked, entered through the doors, and without anyone greeting them, burst into Shen Qingxuan’s room. 

The man lay behind green gauze curtains with both eyes shut tight. His forehead was overtaken by an unclear black-purple color, that dense color was even gradually spreading throughout his whole face. His originally light colored lips became strangely flushed red from the contrast of his black-purple face. His refreshing outer appearance was completely gone. At a glance, he actually looked like three parts human and seven parts ghost already.

“Xiao Xuan!” An elder with lightly frosted temples saw Shen Qingxuan’s state and let out a low cry that was sorrowful and grieved to the utmost point. “My son!” He cried, as if he still had words to say, but could only choke.

“Laoye.” The uninvolved steward who stood to the side quickly interrupted his master’s grief, and reminded him, “Laoye should not be grieving now, the proper thing to do is to think of an idea to save shaoye’s life first.”

“Yes, yes.” Under the rush of grief for his son, Master Shen only woke up to his error through that warning, and he quickly got up with a hand over his eyes. Still choking with sobs, he asked the servant beside him: “Did you all remove the toxin yet?”

“There are always snakes, insects, rats, and ants on the mountain, therefore all the regular medicines are supplied. The antidote pills for snake venom have just been given to shaoye, but...the effects are not clear.”

“What kind of snake was it, could you see clearly?” the steward hurriedly asked.

“It was too chaotic then, this lowly servant could not see clearly. It was coiled on the pergola

in the yard, but it was also blocked by the branches. In my quick glance, I only saw a section that was as big as the mouth of a bowl…” the servant spoke and gestured, but once he finished speaking, his forehead was firmly slapped. The steward angrily said, “Glib-tongued servant, you are full of nonsense!” Ignoring the servant’s tearful complaints, the steward simply explained to Master Shen, “Laoye, Lu-mou also lived in the mountain forests as a child, but I have never heard of a snake that could grow that thick and big. Unless it is a python, but big as pythons are, they do not easily bite people, and their toxicity is even less likely to be this fierce. This servant must be speaking rubbish, he is only describing it so dreadfully so that he can be punished less.”

Master Shen was terribly upset, and could not handle this presently. He just angrily told the retainer to scram.

“Where is the bite?” The steward asked again of the servant girl who was shaking by the doorpost. She was Shen Qingxuan’s personal handmaid.

“On the wrist.” The maidservand’s face was pallid, and she anxiously added, “Since the sunshine was good today, shaoye wanted to sunbathe, so I wheeled him into the yard. As usual, shaoye wanted to drink a pot of floral tea at that moment. After making the tea for shaoye, I was going to bring some tea cakes, but just as I turned around and walked a couple steps, I heard the tea cup fall to the ground. When I turned back around, shaoye had already been bitten by the snake...” At this point, the maidservant already had tears in her eyes, and was sobbing.

“You saw that snake?”

“I saw it. That person was not lying. That snake really was as thick as the mouth of a bowl, and perched on the railing. When I saw it, it had just drawn back. I saw it was pitch-black, only its abdomen had a bit of gold. I have been on this mountain serving shaoye all these years, and saw some snakes that were beaten dead, but I have never seen such a large snake...”

“It was really that big?” The steward was still uncertain.

Her knees went soft, the girl kneeled on the ground, crying while vowing: “How would this maidservant lie about such an important matter? If there is a trace of a lie, then this maidservant shall die miserably!”

On this side of the room, the steward checked the testimony. On the other side, Master Shen suppressed his sadness to observe his son’s injuries. When he pulled out his eldest son’s wrist, he saw that the injury bitten by the snake’s fangs had already been crossed through with a knife. This helped him relax a bit, knowing a servant was quick-witted enough to promptly slit an opening and suck out the poisonous blood. But this snake venom is too aggressive; in just a short period, it caused a grown man to lose all his senses. Unfortunately, this toxin may have already entered the bloodstream, and would be difficult to clear!

Master Shen grasped that thin and pale wrist, his heart filling with sorrow. It is said that the eldest son is the pillar of his family. He did not have a son until he was 30, yet he let Shen Qingxuan fall into an ice cave at the age of eight. After the rescue and a high fever, not only did his son become mute, but his lower limbs were also damaged by the frostbite, and could only ever be paralyzed on the daybed. Master Shen originally thought it would be easy to raise and support him. There was no need for him to obtain fame and fortune; with the Shen family fortunes, there was no issue supporting the eldest son for his whole, peaceful life. However, who would have thought that at age 27, he would be bitten by a snake.

“That ruinous beast!” With a low shout, Master Shen even had thoughts to catch that snake and eat its meat raw.

“Laoye, do not worry.” The old steward, who has looked after the Shen family his whole life, yet again consoled. “Shaoye’s health has always been weak. Year in and year out, he has been rehabilitating in the mountain villa, therefore all kinds of precious medicines are more or less prepared. Maybe there is still a means.”

“What kind of means?”

“Does laoye still remember what happened during last year’s Mid-Autumn? Someone from Nanman, who had dealt business with the Shen family, gave a tribute of two pills that were said to be capable of relieving all the world’s strangest poisons?”

“I remember, I remember. I saved that medicine. ...Does it really work?”

“Laoshen does not know either, I am just told that the Nanman wetlands contain poisonous insects and wild beasts in numbers. This pill might really have miraculous effects, perhaps?”

“Then why have you not fetched it?” Master Shen stood up in a hurry.

“Aye.”

The medication was quickly retrieved, dissolved in warm water, and administered. As he was fed the medicine, Shen Qingxuan’s jaw was clenched tight, his facial muscles rigid, seemingly a hair’s breadth away from death.

The whole room was engulfed in a state of panic, and the air felt heavy.

Night fell, and the servants lit the oil lamps. Light and shadow quivered.

Shen Qingxuan’s bedroom door opened sometimes and closed sometimes, people shuffling out and in.

Yet not one person noticed, in the swaying shadow of the oil lamp, there quietly stood a man.

Black hair flowed loosely down to his waist. He was also dressed in a black robe, standing with both hands behind his back. The lapels of his robe were embroidered with gold thread into simple decorative patterns. Expression ice cold and lips pursed, he was standing there for who knows how long.

Not one person noticed, and even the people who brushed past him did not cast a glance at him. If anyone had seen him, they surely would not turn a blind eye to this man that looked like a demon on earth.

But indeed, not a single person knew his presence.

The night grew late, Master Shen was tired in both body and heart. He wanted to keep vigil by his son’s bedside, but old age ruthlessly shackled his parental affections. It was the end of February, and although spring had begun, the nights were still cold. After a few soft coughs, Master Shen faintly felt his head start to hurt. Under the steward’s encouragement, although he was loath to leave, he still went to a room warmed by charcoal fire and lay down on the bed.

In the bedroom, there were only the steward and three servants left still looking after Shen Qingxuan.

After another two double-hours passed, Shen Qingxuan, whose breathing had been shallow, gradually gained a steadier and stronger breathing sound. In the shadows, the unmoved, standing man slightly raised his eyes. His eyes showed a spark of surprise; he did not believe this world had an antidote that could actually detoxify his venom.

As expected, when he concentrated a bit to take a closer look at the gaunt and frail man lying on the bed, it dawned on him: this is the so-called rally before death.

Those antidote drugs, at most, only delayed a few threads of time. Antidote? Pure delusion.

Shen Qingxuan struggled to open his eyes. His heavy eyelids felt like they weighed a ton, no matter how he tried, he could not open them.

However, the servant girl waiting by him saw his movements, and joyfully shouted: “Shaoye, shaoye!"

Her noise had a rash joy, and woke up the small courtyard and mountain forest that just fell asleep.

Very quickly, Master Shen came over dressed in a cloak

and did not even stop to put on his socks and shoes. He frantically ran, and yelled: “Xuan’er, Xuan’er...Have you awakened, Xuan’er? Dad is worried sick...” 

Perhaps the calls of his family gave Shen Qingxuan strength, his quivering eyelids worked to open, and finally they budged. His eyes were slack, taking a moment to focus until the depths of his eyes had some liveliness. 

Shen Qingxuan slightly opened his mouth to speak, yet could not make a sound.

But everyone knew he said, “Dad.”

“Ah, dad is here...” the old man immediately burst into tears. Master Shen did not even care to consider how many years he spent with the stance of an elder, he shakingly grabbed his son’s hand, murmuring, “Qingxuan ah, do you feel better? If you are better, then Dad will be so relieved…”

Shen Qingxuan used all his strength, just to barely pull his rigid face into a small smile. Internally, however, he somehow knew he could not escape death this time. His whole body was entrapped in a sense of paralysis with no ability to move. Whenever he breathed, his nostrils filled with a fishy sweet scent; what’s more, in front of his eyes were bursts of pitch-black with intervals of clarity.

The sensations when one is on the brink of death are probably like this.

Actually, there was nothing to dread. For disabled people like him, death was really not as dreadful as living.

Only, he could not bear to leave his parents and younger brother.

These years, his family was the only pillar he had to support him in continuing to seek happiness in life. Everytime he thought about his parent’s pitiful grief after his passing from this world, he could not bear it in his heart.

He thought about his own death, not because he was abandoning and resigning himself to despair. These years in the wheelchair, he actually grew accustomed to this existence of not being able to take care of himself. Burying his childhood dreams of flourishing a whip and riding a horse was not a very challenging task at all.

He thought about his own death because his health was deteriorating year after year.

Before, he could occasionally bask in the sun, call someone to push him, and go for a stroll in the wooded forest.

But in the last two years, he was getting worse. Catch a little draft, and he would be ill for a period, each time more serious than the last. Eventually, it became so bad he could not get out of bed for a month or two.

This winter, he did not go outside. He barely even opened the windows.

He finally recovered, and wanted to bask a bit in the sun, yet he startled a snake that had just ended its winter hibernation and was out to bask in the sun as well.

Thinking of this, Shen Qingxuan could not help but smile, and think to himself that this sunbathing, it seems, whether for himself or the snake, was not comfortable.

He knew in his heart that the snake was just sunning itself on the railing at first, and he was sitting in his chair—man and snake minding their own business. 

They could have lived harmoniously in peace and returned to their respectives homes after sunbathing.

But somehow a soiled piece of leaf just had to fall into the clear tea water. His natural disposition preferred cleanliness, so he, immediately and without another thought, threw out the bowl of hot tea.

At the time, he did not see that snake. Once he realized it was improper, the tea had already been thrown out, and had drenched those shiny black scales with steaming hot water.

The startled snake turned its head around and took a bite out of the hand he did not retract in time.

In truth though, it was more of his own fault. Such hot water, nevermind a snake, even a mere rabbit would be startled enough to retaliate.

It was a very mighty snake. He only caught one glimpse of it, then got distracted by the pain and had to look away. But Shen Qingxuan still remembered that the snake was gleaming black all over; when crouched with its head erect, its neck and abdomen gleamed golden yellow, which was particularly dazzling in the light of the afternoon sun. Later, he wanted to take a closer look, but could not see clearly anymore. He also was not sure if that snake was scalded or not.

It is said these kinds of apodal animals are completely covered with small scales, and probably are not really easily harmed by a cup of hot tea.

In front of his eyes was another moment of extremely dizzying blackness, to the point that even the sound of his father’s voice by his ear was also drifting away. Shen Qingxuan still wanted to listen hard to what his father was saying, but could only hear the beating thunder in his ears. All the disorderly fragmented sentences came through the thundering, yet were still unable to reach his mind. Shen Qingxuan only knew that his father was speaking, but no matter how hard he exerted himself, he could not hear clearly what exactly his father was saying.

Shen Qingxuan knew well enough that his life was at its limit, internally, he was not sure if he was more melancholic or more relieved. He always knew he was a person not long for this world, but the arrival of this scene still caught him off guard.

The concern in his heart made him want to have one last look at this world that had accompanied him for 20 some years. Even if he barely had the strength to breathe, Shen Qingxuan still worked hard to open his eyes wide—the scattered expression within his eyes was also stubbornly gathered back—to gaze at his family. Focusing for a protracted moment.

His father who was normally healthy and well maintained, appeared old and ragged at this moment. The old steward who had rushed about and busied himself for the Shen family his whole life, the maidservant who had already cried into a mess, all of the familiar people who had been doing their best to take care of him all of these years...his eyes slowly, almost rigidly, moved over everyone’s face, Shen Qingxuan haltingly lifted the corners of his mouth, and showed a shallow smile. As if saying goodbye.

His smile was quite faint, appearing ferocious and crude on his currently three-parts-human-seven-parts-ghost-like face.

Yet, it displayed a profound fondness for and reluctance to let go of living.

Such a despairing fondness, yet it also carried a relief towards death.

Perhaps this smile was too striking for the eyes and too startling for the heart. The cold and still man in the shadows, who had watched this entire scene from beginning to end, raised his eyelids. His pupils, which were as dark as the waters of the deep abyss, rippled from a sudden splash.

[tabbyrp]

{Tropes in the Wild West, part 4} {Cont from [x]} @brooklynislandgirl​  @tarnishedhalo

Sleeping in the saddle required two things: skill and a steady horse. Sam considered himself reasonably adept at the fine art of riding and Red Wing, in his humble opinion, was one of the finest mares to grace the lands. Rattlesnakes didn’t spook her in the slightest. Streaks of lighting could split the heavens while thunder roared, and it would barely raise a flick of the mare’s tail. Not that her resilience in that regard had been tested lately. Along each step of this ride, started a goodly time before the first cock’s crow and continuing well past the sun’s zenith, the sky stayed clear and the ground bone dry, dust kicking up with each strike of the hoof. A current flicker of wind sent a near hand’s worth of grit straight up Sam’s nose, made him sneeze violently, and dragged him out from the otherwise pleasant doze. 

As the cowboy righted himself, drawing brim of hat higher to survey his surroundings, it became possible the horse had roused him on purpose. They had reached the stretch of trail which led a winding path to the Riley stead, beaten down over the years by equestrian hooves, plodding cattle, and the occasional trip by cart or wagon. Sam knew it well, even if lately he had not travelled it as often as he should, matters between him and Riley being ever complicated since the incident. Complicated, but not uncivil. As horse and rider trotted towards the house, Riley was there to greet them, the setting sun causing two waiting glasses of whiskey to ascend into sparking gold.

Later, Sam reclined in one of the family’s chairs, still plump with padding despite a long journey from the old country. His stomach was full from a hearty meal and weary bones found comfort in the stillness. Miss Beth and the other guest had both retired gracefully once the plates were cleared, disappearing with lanterns and laughter that spoke of a secret joke between them. Sam was none the wiser as to how Miss Tabitha had come to be part of the residence. An innocent inquiry over dinner had been deferred by Riley and enforced with that certain set to his posture. The one that taught men quickly to keep civil tongues in their heads about Miss Beth. Miss Tabitha appeared to raise his same guard dog hackles, though Sam was wise enough to resist laying bait to see what Riley would bite over. 

Their previous partnership had worked well for numerous reasons, one being Sam’s calm balance to Riley’s strong will. Caution tempering boldness, except for when those bold choices were exactly what the situation required, and Riley had always been willing to lead the charge. Fearless was how Sam had viewed his friend from the first moment they met, two young bucks about to learn how this wild land needed to be treated.  Now, Riley appeared weary as he poured them both a fresh glass of imported drink, one that Sam took a light sip from, lest he give in to temptation and fall asleep right then and there. 

Perhaps Riley took pity on him after the long journey, for he skipped the polite type of conversation that would involve asking how the cattle were faring and what the other cowboys had been doing whenever granted free time to carouse in the township. “Now that the ladies are gone to bed, are you going to explain why you’re really here? I know you miss my cooking and the wit of my conversation, but it’s a long journey for one meal.” 

There… there…  beneath the crooked smile, lingered a ghost of the Riley he remembered. It hurt Sam in the chest, for he was about to snuff it out before the flame had time to grow. “We’ve got trouble at the ranch.” He gave Riley the due respect by facing him square on, as was right when about to ask a man for aid. “The kind that only you and your sister know how to deal with.” 

They left the following morning. The two men had spent time in discussion about the safest mode of transportation. A small wagon was slower, though it had advantages should anything untoward happen out on the trail and they needed to defend the women. Riley was prepared to begin greasing the axles when Miss Beth emerged from the stables, her steed in a trot while she led another by the reins. Miss Tabby, being from the town and used to working on her feet instead of in a saddle, had clutched the pommel tight to keep from lurching off, though she carried a grit of determination that Sam could find respect for.

Both were dressed ready to travel, supplies and bags strapped securely in place, with Miss Beth making statements implying that the men should hurry up before they were left behind. Riley was none too pleased, that much was plain, but arguing would only waste more daylight. Even a horse whipped until bloody could not complete the journey between sunup and sundown. Making camp at night always carried a risk, although there were certain spots on the plains where lingering too long meant not rising come the dawn, and Sam had no intention of becoming grub food. Not today, at least. 

Compared to Red Wing, with her steadfast nature, Sam’s friends favoured more spirited equines. Riley needed only a light squeeze of thighs to send Sally into a rocking canter, man and horse in perfect unison as they scouted ahead for trouble. Miss Beth’s gelding was a restless creature, endlessly flicking his mane and resisting the reins, keen to break free from a plodding walk. On occasion she split off, never travelling far, mostly to examine a particular shrub or other object of interest. While the brother and sister pair were absent, Sam and Miss Tabby engaged in idle conversation. He learned she was not a whore, despite a residence at the saloon, and nothing more about what bound her to the other. For all Miss Tabitha demurred, she did so with a warmth that few white women ever offered Sam. 

Miss Tabitha’s charisma, however, took a dent when it came time to stop for the day. After horses were fed and a fire stoked to life, she insisted on breaking off pieces of her dried apple and depositing them outside the edge of the stone circle which Miss Beth and Riley had lain around their camp. Protests about attracting animals landed on deaf ears. Even after the ladies fell asleep, huddled together nose-to-nose beneath woollen blankets, Riley suggested Sam leave things be. So, he did, until a pair of ruby red eyes appeared in the shadows and four claws, scythe shaped like a barn cat if not so large and twice as thick, dug into the offering.

Sam looked away, deciding it best  if he saw no more if he were to cede to his friend’s request for restraint. Already a part of him screamed to wrench a log from the fire and strike the cursed creature away into the blackened landscape, if not send it screeching back to the hell from whence it came. “It’s gone now.” Riley’s low, steady voice drew him away from those malignant urges, and indeed, when he glanced towards the darkness, nothing stared back at him.

“Is she like you?” Sam’s question hung in the air. Riley sighed, reaching to toss another fistful of kindling into the fire before standing.

“You can take first watch.” The man clapped his shoulder, unapologetic for everything, and made his bed beside his sister. Stars spread across the night sky and a chill carried in the air, making it hardly scandalous for Riley to roll onto his side and tuck in behind Miss Beth, trapping in the warmth of her body. A few hours later, when it came time for Sam to stretch and rouse his companion, he equally made no mention of how Riley’s hand had drifted during slumber, one arm draped heavily over his sister and a lock of Miss Tabby’s hair twisted around his fingers.

The remainder of their journey passed quick enough, the foursome covering ground faster than Sam may otherwise have predicted. He estimated it barely an hour past midday when they crossed the invisible property border to the cattle ranch which he called home. Previous plans for expansion in both land and numbers were currently postponed. Waiting for better weather, the current herd needing all their attention in an endless hunt for blades of grass still holding moisture. A dam and her offspring had wandered away from the rest, nosing at the ground as the group rode past. Sam would have to round her up at some point. There were other matters to attend to, and Riley had expressed his desire to deal with those sooner rather than later. 

Further within the boundary, while far away from everything else, stood a corral. The small collection of wooden beams and panels nailed tight together, if certain slants to joints suggesting a hasty assembly. Remaining atop their horses, Sam led them closer. Slowly, cautiously, for even steady Red Wing gave a nicker of protest at the approach. One of the other ranch hands had draped a circle of rope at roughly a yard’s distance from the enclosure, locking it down with heavy iron nails.  That was where Sam halted them. Close enough for a clear assessment, far enough for safety. 

It took a moment or two for the dozen bovines within to notice their presence. Leathery heads lifted, empty eye sockets unseeing and gaunt nostrils sucking in the air. Their hair was gone, every last strand, leaving behind bleached skin that clung to gaunt bones. Unlike the docile mother cow they had passed, these creatures shivered and swayed, endlessly shifting their weight from one spindly leg to the other. The largest of them rocked forward, pressing up against the fence. It licked the air with a decaying tongue, got a proper taste of the observers, and gave a guttural howl. Two more went flank to flank with the leader, catching the scent. Sinewy necks extended towards Sam and the others as far as captivity allowed, falling short, yet still teeth flashed as jaws snapped wildly, bone clicking against bone. 

Miss Beth and Riley exchanged a look, the elder saying something under his breath. Sam possessed enough experience catching his friend’s muttered comments to piece together this one. It’s spreading. Riley  raised his voice to ask what methods they had tried to dispose of the creatures with, impassive while Sam listed off lead bullets, noxious poisons, and an attempt with an axe which left the wielder with a broken arm. “Take Tabitha up to the quarters.” Issuing what was more order than request, Riley dismounted with his old engraved pistol in hand, his sister following and starting to unstrap certain bags from her saddle. “And bring a few strong men back with you, along with some shovels.” Being dismissed caused a protest from Miss Tabby, and it took another terse, private conversation between her and Riley until the lady relented. 

Perhaps it was none of his business. Still, as he and Miss Tabby rode away from the corral, Sam took in the downcast twist to her expression, and said in a tone of someone making merely a passing mention, “He’s only like that with people he cares about.” She sighed, lips parting as if to reply, but whatever she may or not have intended to say was cut off by the sound of a single gunshot ringing through the air. A high-pitched scream, bestial and ferocious, came after, then another crack of the gun. Miss Tabitha covered her ears and Sam took her reins, leading the horse with the sounds of death following close behind.

[azzy-the-christian-furry]

((Revelation, Part 2.))

Ch.9:

The fifth angel sounded his trumpet, and I saw a star that had fallen from the sky to the earth. The star was given the key to the shaft of the Abyss. 2 When he opened the Abyss, smoke rose from it like the smoke from a gigantic furnace. The sun and sky were darkened by the smoke from the Abyss. 3 And out of the smoke locusts came down on the earth and were given power like that of scorpions of the earth. 4 They were told not to harm the grass of the earth or any plant or tree, but only those people who did not have the seal of God on their foreheads. 5 They were not allowed to kill them but only to torture them for five months. And the agony they suffered was like that of the sting of a scorpion when it strikes. 6 During those days people will seek death but will not find it; they will long to die, but death will elude them.

7 The locusts looked like horses prepared for battle. On their heads they wore something like crowns of gold, and their faces resembled human faces. 8 Their hair was like women’s hair, and their teeth were like lions’ teeth. 9 They had breastplates like breastplates of iron, and the sound of their wings was like the thundering of many horses and chariots rushing into battle. 10 They had tails with stingers, like scorpions, and in their tails they had power to torment people for five months. 11 They had as king over them the angel of the Abyss, whose name in Hebrew is Abaddon and in Greek is Apollyon (that is, Destroyer).

12 The first woe is past; two other woes are yet to come.

13 The sixth angel sounded his trumpet, and I heard a voice coming from the four horns of the golden altar that is before God. 14 It said to the sixth angel who had the trumpet, “Release the four angels who are bound at the great river Euphrates.” 15 And the four angels who had been kept ready for this very hour and day and month and year were released to kill a third of mankind. 16 The number of the mounted troops was twice ten thousand times ten thousand. I heard their number.

17 The horses and riders I saw in my vision looked like this: Their breastplates were fiery red, dark blue, and yellow as sulfur. The heads of the horses resembled the heads of lions, and out of their mouths came fire, smoke and sulfur. 18 A third of mankind was killed by the three plagues of fire, smoke and sulfur that came out of their mouths. 19 The power of the horses was in their mouths and in their tails; for their tails were like snakes, having heads with which they inflict injury.

20 The rest of mankind who were not killed by these plagues still did not repent of the work of their hands; they did not stop worshiping demons, and idols of gold, silver, bronze, stone and wood—idols that cannot see or hear or walk. 21 Nor did they repent of their murders, their magic arts, their sexual immorality or their thefts.

Ch.10:

The Angel and the Little Scroll

Then I saw another mighty angel coming down from heaven. He was robed in a cloud, with a rainbow above his head; his face was like the sun, and his legs were like fiery pillars. 2 He was holding a little scroll, which lay open in his hand. He planted his right foot on the sea and his left foot on the land, 3 and he gave a loud shout like the roar of a lion. When he shouted, the voices of the seven thunders spoke. 4 And when the seven thunders spoke, I was about to write; but I heard a voice from heaven say, “Seal up what the seven thunders have said and do not write it down.”

5 Then the angel I had seen standing on the sea and on the land raised his right hand to heaven. 6 And he swore by him who lives for ever and ever, who created the heavens and all that is in them, the earth and all that is in it, and the sea and all that is in it, and said, “There will be no more delay! 7 But in the days when the seventh angel is about to sound his trumpet, the mystery of God will be accomplished, just as he announced to his servants the prophets.”

8 Then the voice that I had heard from heaven spoke to me once more: “Go, take the scroll that lies open in the hand of the angel who is standing on the sea and on the land.”

9 So I went to the angel and asked him to give me the little scroll. He said to me, “Take it and eat it. It will turn your stomach sour, but ‘in your mouth it will be as sweet as honey.’[a]” 10 I took the little scroll from the angel’s hand and ate it. It tasted as sweet as honey in my mouth, but when I had eaten it, my stomach turned sour. 11 Then I was told, “You must prophesy again about many peoples, nations, languages and kings.”

Ch.11:

The Two Witnesses

I was given a reed like a measuring rod and was told, “Go and measure the temple of God and the altar, with its worshipers. 2 But exclude the outer court; do not measure it, because it has been given to the Gentiles. They will trample on the holy city for 42 months. 3 And I will appoint my two witnesses, and they will prophesy for 1,260 days, clothed in sackcloth.” 4 They are “the two olive trees” and the two lampstands, and “they stand before the Lord of the earth.”[a] 5 If anyone tries to harm them, fire comes from their mouths and devours their enemies. This is how anyone who wants to harm them must die. 6 They have power to shut up the heavens so that it will not rain during the time they are prophesying; and they have power to turn the waters into blood and to strike the earth with every kind of plague as often as they want.

7 Now when they have finished their testimony, the beast that comes up from the Abyss will attack them, and overpower and kill them. 8 Their bodies will lie in the public square of the great city—which is figuratively called Sodom and Egypt—where also their Lord was crucified. 9 For three and a half days some from every people, tribe, language and nation will gaze on their bodies and refuse them burial. 10 The inhabitants of the earth will gloat over them and will celebrate by sending each other gifts, because these two prophets had tormented those who live on the earth.

11 But after the three and a half days the breath[b] of life from God entered them, and they stood on their feet, and terror struck those who saw them. 12 Then they heard a loud voice from heaven saying to them, “Come up here.” And they went up to heaven in a cloud, while their enemies looked on.

13 At that very hour there was a severe earthquake and a tenth of the city collapsed. Seven thousand people were killed in the earthquake, and the survivors were terrified and gave glory to the God of heaven.

14 The second woe has passed; the third woe is coming soon.

The Seventh Trumpet

15 The seventh angel sounded his trumpet, and there were loud voices in heaven, which said:

“The kingdom of the world has become

the kingdom of our Lord and of his Messiah,

and he will reign for ever and ever.”

16 And the twenty-four elders, who were seated on their thrones before God, fell on their faces and worshiped God, 17 saying:

“We give thanks to you, Lord God Almighty,

the One who is and who was,

because you have taken your great power

and have begun to reign.

18 The nations were angry,

and your wrath has come.

The time has come for judging the dead,

and for rewarding your servants the prophets

and your people who revere your name,

both great and small—

and for destroying those who destroy the earth.”

19 Then God’s temple in heaven was opened, and within his temple was seen the ark of his covenant. And there came flashes of lightning, rumblings, peals of thunder, an earthquake and a severe hailstorm.

Ch.12:

The Woman and the Dragon

A great sign appeared in heaven: a woman clothed with the sun, with the moon under her feet and a crown of twelve stars on her head. 2 She was pregnant and cried out in pain as she was about to give birth. 3 Then another sign appeared in heaven: an enormous red dragon with seven heads and ten horns and seven crowns on its heads. 4 Its tail swept a third of the stars out of the sky and flung them to the earth. The dragon stood in front of the woman who was about to give birth, so that it might devour her child the moment he was born. 5 She gave birth to a son, a male child, who “will rule all the nations with an iron scepter.”[a] And her child was snatched up to God and to his throne. 6 The woman fled into the wilderness to a place prepared for her by God, where she might be taken care of for 1,260 days.

7 Then war broke out in heaven. Michael and his angels fought against the dragon, and the dragon and his angels fought back. 8 But he was not strong enough, and they lost their place in heaven. 9 The great dragon was hurled down—that ancient serpent called the devil, or Satan, who leads the whole world astray. He was hurled to the earth, and his angels with him.

10 Then I heard a loud voice in heaven say:

“Now have come the salvation and the power

and the kingdom of our God,

and the authority of his Messiah.

For the accuser of our brothers and sisters,

who accuses them before our God day and night,

has been hurled down.

11 They triumphed over him

by the blood of the Lamb

and by the word of their testimony;

they did not love their lives so much

as to shrink from death.

12 Therefore rejoice, you heavens

and you who dwell in them!

But woe to the earth and the sea,

because the devil has gone down to you!

He is filled with fury,

because he knows that his time is short.”

13 When the dragon saw that he had been hurled to the earth, he pursued the woman who had given birth to the male child. 14 The woman was given the two wings of a great eagle, so that she might fly to the place prepared for her in the wilderness, where she would be taken care of for a time, times and half a time, out of the serpent’s reach. 15 Then from his mouth the serpent spewed water like a river, to overtake the woman and sweep her away with the torrent. 16 But the earth helped the woman by opening its mouth and swallowing the river that the dragon had spewed out of his mouth. 17 Then the dragon was enraged at the woman and went off to wage war against the rest of her offspring—those who keep God’s commands and hold fast their testimony about Jesus.

Ch.13:

The Beast out of the Sea

The dragon[a] stood on the shore of the sea. And I saw a beast coming out of the sea. It had ten horns and seven heads, with ten crowns on its horns, and on each head a blasphemous name. 2 The beast I saw resembled a leopard, but had feet like those of a bear and a mouth like that of a lion. The dragon gave the beast his power and his throne and great authority. 3 One of the heads of the beast seemed to have had a fatal wound, but the fatal wound had been healed. The whole world was filled with wonder and followed the beast. 4 People worshiped the dragon because he had given authority to the beast, and they also worshiped the beast and asked, “Who is like the beast? Who can wage war against it?”

5 The beast was given a mouth to utter proud words and blasphemies and to exercise its authority for forty-two months. 6 It opened its mouth to blaspheme God, and to slander his name and his dwelling place and those who live in heaven. 7 It was given power to wage war against God’s holy people and to conquer them. And it was given authority over every tribe, people, language and nation. 8 All inhabitants of the earth will worship the beast—all whose names have not been written in the Lamb’s book of life, the Lamb who was slain from the creation of the world.[b]

9 Whoever has ears, let them hear.

10 “If anyone is to go into captivity,

into captivity they will go.

If anyone is to be killed[c] with the sword,

with the sword they will be killed.”[d]

This calls for patient endurance and faithfulness on the part of God’s people.

The Beast out of the Earth

11 Then I saw a second beast, coming out of the earth. It had two horns like a lamb, but it spoke like a dragon. 12 It exercised all the authority of the first beast on its behalf, and made the earth and its inhabitants worship the first beast, whose fatal wound had been healed. 13 And it performed great signs, even causing fire to come down from heaven to the earth in full view of the people. 14 Because of the signs it was given power to perform on behalf of the first beast, it deceived the inhabitants of the earth. It ordered them to set up an image in honor of the beast who was wounded by the sword and yet lived. 15 The second beast was given power to give breath to the image of the first beast, so that the image could speak and cause all who refused to worship the image to be killed. 16 It also forced all people, great and small, rich and poor, free and slave, to receive a mark on their right hands or on their foreheads, 17 so that they could not buy or sell unless they had the mark, which is the name of the beast or the number of its name.

18 This calls for wisdom. Let the person who has insight calculate the number of the beast, for it is the number of a man.[e] That number is 666.

Ch14:

The Lamb and the 144,000

14 Then I looked, and there before me was the Lamb, standing on Mount Zion, and with him 144,000 who had his name and his Father’s name written on their foreheads. 2 And I heard a sound from heaven like the roar of rushing waters and like a loud peal of thunder. The sound I heard was like that of harpists playing their harps. 3 And they sang a new song before the throne and before the four living creatures and the elders. No one could learn the song except the 144,000 who had been redeemed from the earth. 4 These are those who did not defile themselves with women, for they remained virgins. They follow the Lamb wherever he goes. They were purchased from among mankind and offered as firstfruits to God and the Lamb. 5 No lie was found in their mouths; they are blameless.

The Three Angels

6 Then I saw another angel flying in midair, and he had the eternal gospel to proclaim to those who live on the earth—to every nation, tribe, language and people. 7 He said in a loud voice, “Fear God and give him glory, because the hour of his judgment has come. Worship him who made the heavens, the earth, the sea and the springs of water.”

8 A second angel followed and said, “‘Fallen! Fallen is Babylon the Great,’[a] which made all the nations drink the maddening wine of her adulteries.”

9 A third angel followed them and said in a loud voice: “If anyone worships the beast and its image and receives its mark on their forehead or on their hand, 10 they, too, will drink the wine of God’s fury, which has been poured full strength into the cup of his wrath. They will be tormented with burning sulfur in the presence of the holy angels and of the Lamb. 11 And the smoke of their torment will rise for ever and ever. There will be no rest day or night for those who worship the beast and its image, or for anyone who receives the mark of its name.” 12 This calls for patient endurance on the part of the people of God who keep his commands and remain faithful to Jesus.

13 Then I heard a voice from heaven say, “Write this: Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord from now on.”

“Yes,” says the Spirit, “they will rest from their labor, for their deeds will follow them.”

Harvesting the Earth and Trampling the Winepress

14 I looked, and there before me was a white cloud, and seated on the cloud was one like a son of man[b] with a crown of gold on his head and a sharp sickle in his hand. 15 Then another angel came out of the temple and called in a loud voice to him who was sitting on the cloud, “Take your sickle and reap, because the time to reap has come, for the harvest of the earth is ripe.” 16 So he who was seated on the cloud swung his sickle over the earth, and the earth was harvested.

17 Another angel came out of the temple in heaven, and he too had a sharp sickle. 18 Still another angel, who had charge of the fire, came from the altar and called in a loud voice to him who had the sharp sickle, “Take your sharp sickle and gather the clusters of grapes from the earth’s vine, because its grapes are ripe.” 19 The angel swung his sickle on the earth, gathered its grapes and threw them into the great winepress of God’s wrath. 20 They were trampled in the winepress outside the city, and blood flowed out of the press, rising as high as the horses’ bridles for a distance of 1,600 stadia.

Ch.15:

Seven Angels With Seven Plagues

15 I saw in heaven another great and marvelous sign: seven angels with the seven last plagues—last, because with them God’s wrath is completed. 2 And I saw what looked like a sea of glass glowing with fire and, standing beside the sea, those who had been victorious over the beast and its image and over the number of its name. They held harps given them by God 3 and sang the song of God’s servant Moses and of the Lamb:

“Great and marvelous are your deeds,

Lord God Almighty.

Just and true are your ways,

King of the nations.[a]

4 Who will not fear you, Lord,

and bring glory to your name?

For you alone are holy.

All nations will come

and worship before you,

for your righteous acts have been revealed.”[b]

5 After this I looked, and I saw in heaven the temple—that is, the tabernacle of the covenant law—and it was opened. 6 Out of the temple came the seven angels with the seven plagues. They were dressed in clean, shining linen and wore golden sashes around their chests. 7 Then one of the four living creatures gave to the seven angels seven golden bowls filled with the wrath of God, who lives for ever and ever. 8 And the temple was filled with smoke from the glory of God and from his power, and no one could enter the temple until the seven plagues of the seven angels were completed.

Ch.16:

The Seven Bowls of God’s Wrath

16 Then I heard a loud voice from the temple saying to the seven angels, “Go, pour out the seven bowls of God’s wrath on the earth.”

2 The first angel went and poured out his bowl on the land, and ugly, festering sores broke out on the people who had the mark of the beast and worshiped its image.

3 The second angel poured out his bowl on the sea, and it turned into blood like that of a dead person, and every living thing in the sea died.

4 The third angel poured out his bowl on the rivers and springs of water, and they became blood. 5 Then I heard the angel in charge of the waters say:

“You are just in these judgments, O Holy One,

you who are and who were;

6 for they have shed the blood of your holy people and your prophets,

and you have given them blood to drink as they deserve.”

7 And I heard the altar respond:

“Yes, Lord God Almighty,

true and just are your judgments.”

8 The fourth angel poured out his bowl on the sun, and the sun was allowed to scorch people with fire. 9 They were seared by the intense heat and they cursed the name of God, who had control over these plagues, but they refused to repent and glorify him.

10 The fifth angel poured out his bowl on the throne of the beast, and its kingdom was plunged into darkness. People gnawed their tongues in agony 11 and cursed the God of heaven because of their pains and their sores, but they refused to repent of what they had done.

12 The sixth angel poured out his bowl on the great river Euphrates, and its water was dried up to prepare the way for the kings from the East. 13 Then I saw three impure spirits that looked like frogs; they came out of the mouth of the dragon, out of the mouth of the beast and out of the mouth of the false prophet. 14 They are demonic spirits that perform signs, and they go out to the kings of the whole world, to gather them for the battle on the great day of God Almighty.

15 “Look, I come like a thief! Blessed is the one who stays awake and remains clothed, so as not to go naked and be shamefully exposed.”

16 Then they gathered the kings together to the place that in Hebrew is called Armageddon.

17 The seventh angel poured out his bowl into the air, and out of the temple came a loud voice from the throne, saying, “It is done!” 18 Then there came flashes of lightning, rumblings, peals of thunder and a severe earthquake. No earthquake like it has ever occurred since mankind has been on earth, so tremendous was the quake. 19 The great city split into three parts, and the cities of the nations collapsed. God remembered Babylon the Great and gave her the cup filled with the wine of the fury of his wrath. 20 Every island fled away and the mountains could not be found. 21 From the sky huge hailstones, each weighing about a hundred pounds,[a] fell on people. And they cursed God on account of the plague of hail, because the plague was so terrible.

Ch.17:

Babylon, the Prostitute on the Beast

One of the seven angels who had the seven bowls came and said to me, “Come, I will show you the punishment of the great prostitute, who sits by many waters. 2 With her the kings of the earth committed adultery, and the inhabitants of the earth were intoxicated with the wine of her adulteries.”

3 Then the angel carried me away in the Spirit into a wilderness. There I saw a woman sitting on a scarlet beast that was covered with blasphemous names and had seven heads and ten horns. 4 The woman was dressed in purple and scarlet, and was glittering with gold, precious stones and pearls. She held a golden cup in her hand, filled with abominable things and the filth of her adulteries. 5 The name written on her forehead was a mystery:

babylon the great

the mother of prostitutes

and of the abominations of the earth.

6 I saw that the woman was drunk with the blood of God’s holy people, the blood of those who bore testimony to Jesus.

When I saw her, I was greatly astonished. 7 Then the angel said to me: “Why are you astonished? I will explain to you the mystery of the woman and of the beast she rides, which has the seven heads and ten horns. 8 The beast, which you saw, once was, now is not, and yet will come up out of the Abyss and go to its destruction. The inhabitants of the earth whose names have not been written in the book of life from the creation of the world will be astonished when they see the beast, because it once was, now is not, and yet will come.

9 “This calls for a mind with wisdom. The seven heads are seven hills on which the woman sits. 10 They are also seven kings. Five have fallen, one is, the other has not yet come; but when he does come, he must remain for only a little while. 11 The beast who once was, and now is not, is an eighth king. He belongs to the seven and is going to his destruction.

12 “The ten horns you saw are ten kings who have not yet received a kingdom, but who for one hour will receive authority as kings along with the beast. 13 They have one purpose and will give their power and authority to the beast. 14 They will wage war against the Lamb, but the Lamb will triumph over them because he is Lord of lords and King of kings—and with him will be his called, chosen and faithful followers.”

15 Then the angel said to me, “The waters you saw, where the prostitute sits, are peoples, multitudes, nations and languages. 16 The beast and the ten horns you saw will hate the prostitute. They will bring her to ruin and leave her naked; they will eat her flesh and burn her with fire. 17 For God has put it into their hearts to accomplish his purpose by agreeing to hand over to the beast their royal authority, until God’s words are fulfilled. 18 The woman you saw is the great city that rules over the kings of the earth.”

[mrdemarlowe]

"The 333" Prologue: Betrayals

At the height of humanity’s ignorance, a war was waged.

The night sky morphed into a sea of darkness, as legions of Angels swarmed towards Earth’s land. The Angel’s invisible form only made visible by the trails of fire they left behind on route towards the highest populated areas on the planet.

This event would have multiple consequences for humankind.

To start, almost ninety percent of Earth’s land was destroyed and submerged into the oceans, leaving the remaining ten percent of land poisoned or too small to inhabit. In order to deal with this calamity, the survivors of humanity took to massive sea craft, hastily outfitted for long voyages, and began their long and difficult way through the world’s now dominant oceans. Where they would sail for close to twenty years before finally finding a home on land.

A second consequence of the “Rapture” (as some would take to calling it), was a mysterious mutation that occurred within living creatures and caused grotesque deformation and dampened physical ability within the afflicted. In time however, the survivors began to notice that the once prominent and disfiguring mutations were evolving to less visible, more enhancing mutations.

This would be the rough explanation for the creation of the Loma, a new race of humankind that had adapted with abilities.

The third and final consequence of our war had much to do with the first and second, this would make way for the subspecies of monster races to emerge from mutated manifestations of human consciousness. Of course, not many scientists were counted among the survivors of humanity, so even though not many knew the true origins of these races, this was the generally agreed upon explanation. All they knew, or needed to know, was the danger these races would bring for humans in the future.

The Carrier City, home to our race’s remaining people, would steadily drift closer to an unknown fate, and towards a place with divine implications, but demonic foundations.

Meanwhile, on the opposite side of the world from humankind, a different race emerged. This race had been created through the evil that man had poured into the land, through years and years of blood soaked battles.

Appearing in various corrupted forms, with demonic ambitions and enhanced abilities, the Demazo Race began it’s task to create a new continent in order to lure in any surviving humans for subjugation.

Thus, after almost twenty years at sea, humanity came across a massive land mass they had never seen before.

The scholars on board Carrier City boldly claimed this error on the navigation teams and captain of the vessel, Domillus Sysa. There were accusations of concealing land, or deliberate avoidance in order to sustain control over humanity.

In the end, a small faction of rebels would depart to make their own journeys on the new land, as Sysa’s group would settle in the northernmost territory of their new home. This territory was named Bernum, and was the first land to be discovered and claimed by humankind in years.

The continent humanity had landed on was named Lynn, after the late wife of Domillus, who had risked her own health in order to develop a treatment for some unknown disease that had plagued Carrier City early on in its voyage.

None disagreed, and a new kingdom arose from the ashes of a war not yet forgotten.

In the years to come, a new history began to unfold created from the actions of King Sysa and his bloodline, leading humanity down a new path of existence within the land of Lynn.

This is where we’ll start our story.

Bernum consisted of three distinct geographic features. It’s mystic forest of Demal Dora, which guarded the entrance from southern invaders, to it’s vast mountain-scape, which created a perfect foundation for Bernum’s eventual Kingdom with natural defenses, and its beaches down on the north side of Bernum’s border, which provided a great area for ports and fishing.

It’s within the first geographic feature, where a small campfire can be seen. Sitting around this fire, sheltered from a raging wind, were four men of varying age.

The first man Jacoby Simms, a grizzly man with silver hair and beard equivalent to the moon, who’s short stature warred constantly with his fiercely overbearing presence, sat idly stoking the flames. His hair and beard, both braided heavily with an assortment of gleaming metallic objects, glistened as it rubbed against his silver armor. His heart and mind were heavy this night, and no amount of drink or song was helping to appease his stress.

But it mattered little, his stress would not be transferred to his subordinates, he loosed a short soft sigh, and fixed himself upright.

“Anyone up for a Sysan Story?” He asked in his gruff but heavily accented voice. “I know one that’ll go great with a moonlit night like we have here.”

The smile on his face was clearly forced, but he had small hope that his crew had not noticed as he stood to begin.

“I’d rather you tell us what was said in Bella and Cyllym.”

This response came from Cassius Grau, a young man of twenty one years, who’s youth often went unnoticed under his wise and questioning eyes. But with his messy hair, and growing stubble, his questions and air of authority quickly vanished under the uncertainty of his power.

To his left sat the youngest of the four, a young man of nineteen, with short dirty blond hair, and a constant look of paranoia in his eyes named Elliott Alba.

Elliott scoffed quietly, before continuing his scan of the dark surrounding forest. “We aren’t high enough in the chain of command to understand these things.”

This was said almost in complete unison with the words of the last man who sat directly across from Cassius. Tristan Zuna, who had started with “You” instead of “We”, and was quite irritated at the mocking done by his pupil, finished his statement with a word of chastisement. His jet black pencil tip mustache and hair, which he kept in the slicked back style of old world Spaniards represented his refined and suave personality and his slick black armor complemented him to a T as well.

“I suggest you stop with the interruptions, and listen to your elders.” Tristan finished eyeing both pupils.

“Don’t be so rough on the boys,” Jacoby laughed, “they’re just nervous of war, and rightly so. But we can talk about that tomorrow when we report to the King. For now let’s recount the tale of Demarlowe Sysa, the fourth King of Lynn, and the wielder of the *Holy Roar*.”

“In those days, demons still ran the majority of Lynn’s southern half, and war between the races had been an ongoing struggle for the past Sysa King’s. But King Demarlowe was young, he knew that he had the strength his father had lacked in his old age. He knew he had the power to subdue the Demon race for good.”

Jacoby paused for effect, before continuing.

“It was on a night like this, with the moon in full view, that the King led his forces to retake Bristol and Fallpin. He discovered his Holy Roar, and with it he banished the Demon Prince to the deepest pit of hell.”

“I doubt things were that simple.” Cassius interjected. “The rest of the Kingdom’s territories were still united in it’s support of the King.”

“And they still are…” Tristan began to argue, but Jacoby stopped him with a wave of his hand.

“This world is ever changing, things come and go, and sometimes we humans crave things we can no longer have, or will never be able to have. This can make us do evil things.” Jacoby looked the boys each in the eyes. “If war becomes an outcome that we are to expect, it is our own fault as a race for our desires and flaws. We just need to trust in those who have a higher sense of divine purpose.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” Cassius replied, a sinister smile forming at the corners of his mouth. “We should trust in someone with a higher purpose than just taxes, and technology. We need power and knowledge, with a system designed to cater to those who’ve obtained both. We need a new way.”

“Don’t you ever speak such treasonous words in our prese…” Tristan began to yell, but was cut short by Elliott’s calm whisper.

“Null.”

With this, the two older men found themselves unable to use their Lomatic abilities, and as the cold chill of fear rose deep in their chests they turned to see Cassius Grau rise from his spot with the sinister smile fully visible on his face.

“Lunaius et Espanza” he began in a strange foreign language, before switching back. “Kill each other, make it look like an enemy ambush, and die knowing you’re both failures as teachers. Your own students overpowered you.”

With an evil bout of laughter, the boys watched as their former mentors ripped each other apart while the reflections of the campfire danced inside pools of blood.

The first betrayal was finished.

The Next Day:

As the midday sun reached its place above Bernum’s cityscape, two tattered and frantic riders were seen approaching the Kingdom’s gates. Standing Guard today was Rose Petallis and Sylvia Lennox, two of the most promising Royal Guard recruits in their generation.

Rose, a sweet and logical girl, almost twenty years in age, with warm auburn hair and soft amber eyes, was the first to notice Bernum’s crest on the riders cloaks. This was also when she realized the identity of the men, as Cassius Grau and Elliott Alba reached the entrance.

Sylvia, who was much more aggressive in nature, brushed back her golden blonde hair from her light green eyes and shouted to the men below.

“Identify yourselves or submit to apprehension and interrogation.” She finished, still eyeing them suspiciously.

The pair waited a couple moments for any response before calling down again. This time, the question came from Rose.

“Cassius? Elliott? Where are Sir Jacoby and Tristan?” She asked each question in fast succession, worry clear in her voice. “What’s going on guys?”

“Stop talking!” Sylvia scolded, “Until we’ve confirmed their identity, we mustn’t reveal any important information.”

With seemingly no words coming from below, the two girls decided to head down for a closer look. When they reached the bottom they noticed something off about the two men.

They were bloody, with pieces of clothing ripped off in various places. The frantic energy had faded, and the two men now lay slumped over on their mounts. The scene looked slightly staged but the girls immediately recognized their comrades outside the gate.

“That’s the boys,” Sylvia observed, turning to lift the gate. “ Something must have happened down in Demal Dora. We must inform the King.”

As she finished lifting the gates, Sylvia noticed a brief glimmer of metal before a slice appeared across her jaw and cutting down the length of her chest. As she fell to the ground, life fading from her eyes, the form of Elliott Alba appeared in front of her.

“You really were so beautiful…” He sighed softly. “Such a shame.”

Then he plunged his sword deep into her gut, pulled it out and walked away, as Cassius finished off a struggling Rose with a swift snap of the neck.

Sylvia’s eyes filled with darkness as her vision faded, the last image seen replaying in her head. Cassius and Elliott, with putrid smiles on their faces, walking towards the castle. Their second betrayal complete.

Meanwhile, at the castle:

In the highest observation tower, a frightened and confused Darla Brand has just witnessed the betrayal of her comrades at the gate.

Her dark brown hair, usually worn down, had been tied back to prevent obstructing her view of the seasonal migration of the local birds, but what she had seen by the gates was a simple mistake of curiosity.

The fear and confusion changed to anger and a determination to inform her guardsmen of the incoming danger, but as she reached for the door handle she found it already turning. Once it opened, she was relieved to see her fiancé, Prince Damian Sysa, who had just arrived to surprise her with lunch.

“Cassius and Elliott are back,” she started, “but something is wrong, they attacked Sylvia and Rose. I just saw the entire thing from the observation scope, and they’re on their way here. I think something is going on.”

As she finished, she noticed the doubt in her betrothed ones eyes flicker slowly before switching over to trust when he noticed her gaze. She gave him a moment to grasp the situation before prompting him to action.

“I need you to trust me, go inform your father.” She begged. “I need to go and help the girls at the gate, but when you escape with the King, come and meet me there.”

With this, she raced off leaving Prince Damian to warn his father of the coming attack.

In a quick moment of thinking, Damian decided to utilize his ability.

A quietness filled the room as his eyes closed to this world into another.

The Luullo Void was a dimension built entirely on silence. Only those born with Luullo type abilities can access the void, but even among them few can freely roam inside it’s realm with consciousness.

Prince Damian searched quickly for any aura inside the void, knowing only one person who could help at a time like this. But to no avail, Damian could only reach out in hope.

Finally, after a few seconds, Damian reached the consciousness of his mentor, the only other man to have made conscious contact inside the void. Adamantis Black, his father’s right hand and the commander of Bernum’s Royal Guard.

In the throne room, located on the opposite side of the Castle:

Adamantis Black, a man of few words with dark black hair and a trimmed and kept beard to match stands across from King Darius Sysa, Bernum’s current ruler.

As he finished his report, he feels a pinprick of anxiety coming from the Luullo Void. Without hesitation he establishes connection, and as a first instinct scolds his pupil.

“If you can’t free your mind of anxiety, everyone will feel your presence here my young student.” He chastised lovingly. “We’ve discussed this issue before.”

He felt a mischievous smirk form on his face before remembering his current location. The king eyed him, clearing questioning the smirk.

“Your son has entered the void,” he answered without orders. “he is getting stronger, but as of yet has much to lear…”

He was cut off by a desperate Prince Damian.

“My Father… danger. Cass and El… attack. Protect the King.” His last sentence was short enough to come in clear and was the only one to catch Adamantis off guard.

Without hesitation the King’s commander charged for the door to secure the room, but was too late.

The door handle turned, and in walked a young man with jet black hair and a look of pure delight clear across his face.

“Hello father.” He addressed Adamantis, before spotting the King. With a quick bow he finished, “Your Highness.”

“What’s wrong Sebastian,” Adamantis asked, noticing that something wasn’t quite right with his son. “Do you know what’s going on with Cass and Elliott?”

“Indeed I do father,” Sebastian replied coldly. “In fact, I told them to do it. I made all of this fun happen today.”

At a point of almost hysterical laughter, Sebastian slowly begins to calm down as King Darius rises from his throne.

“Explain yourself now boy, or so help me, I’ll make you slap yourself into a coma.” The King started, an air of intense anger beginning to permeate from his every word.

“Empty threats at this point my King,” Sebastian turned his gaze more intently displaying his pleasure at his achievements. “Everything is as I’ve planned. The envoy from Cyllym to Bella claiming war, the spies in our capitol, even the assassinations in Aurora that closed the trade agreements with Bernum.”

Without another word needed, The King began to incite his ability the King’s Command, which allowed him to speak orders into fruition, however it would not activate, much to the King’s surprise and dismay.

As both Adamantis and King Sysa stared in horror, the walls began to fade away to a dark pitch black nothingness. Leaving behind only, the three men.

“Welcome to my Noir.” Sebastian spoke smoothly, as two more figures emerged behind him. “Glad you boys made it in time to enjoy the fun.”

As the figures began to materialize, the King noticed the faces of both Cassius Grau and Elliott Alba, grinning as if they had just spent the night with a commune of women. Each covered in blood without a hint of injury the King could discern.

“I take it you boys are going along with this then?” He asked, already knowing the answer. A sadness had already began to sit in his eyes and words carried heaviness at the thought of this treachery. “Why?”

“Simple Old man, it’s time for a new line of Kings.” Sebastian, who had now made his way closer to his father, began slowly. “Let’s not waste any more of it.”

Before he could react, Adamantis Black found himself deep within the Luullo Void once more. Yet this time felt different, almost permanent in a way. He saw far more clearly within the void than he had ever seen before. And in his final moments of life, he discovered the experience of being reborn into another.

As Sebastian Black’s blade finished it’s downward slice, Adamantis Black took his last breath, and his body hit the ground with a heavy thud.

The King could do nothing but kneel at his best friends side and watch as life faded from his corpse. An anger again beginning to form deep within his gut. With no hesitation, he began to curse Sebastian Black.

“You are evil incarnate, you shape yourself in ways to mix with innocence but you are corruption to your core. You will hurt those closest to you with no remorse, and trade power for bits of your soul. Yet your evil will be your undoing. It will consume you and erase your existence forever.”

As the King finished his fierce last command all three boys lunged forward. Each one plunging their swords deep into the King’s chest. And watched as his body landed uncomfortably on the ground.

“It’s a new Era boys, let’s make sure it remembers who we are.” Sebastian mutters proudly.

The blackness faded away leaving no trace of the incident that had just occurred, just a cruel smiling Sebastian sitting on the King’s throne. With his third and final betrayal finished, he commenced with his last objective.

“Inform the council of elders knows of the Prince’s treason, and make sure you capture them before they escape.”

With Sebastian’s orders, the two men disappeared to capture the prince, as Sebastian peered happily through his new throne room’s window.

A few moments earlier:

Prince Damian had felt the disconnection from his mentor before anything else, and once he had realized what that meant, began making his way towards the throne room. However he was stopped by a reestablished connection to Adamantis Black who spoke briefly through the Void.

“I am dead, your father is surrounded, nothing you can do, run, take Darla and the baby, live.”

As tears filled his eyes, Damian understood his mentors words, and he raced to find Darla and escape the castle grounds. He would never return to his home territory, and he rode away from it’s borders with tears in his eyes and hatred in his heart. He turned to give one last glance to his old life, then turned back and headed towards his new one.

In the years that followed, Damian and Darla would settle cautiously within the territory of Alorica where they would have their daughter Donna, and would stay hidden for years until sickness took hold of Darla and eventually, Prince Damian as well.

[shelleysprometheus]

Chapters: 24/? Fandom: Sherlock (TV) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Lestrade (Sherlock Holmes), Molly Hooper, Original Female Character(s), Original Male Character(s), Sally Donovan, Mike Stamford Additional Tags: Horses, Rodeos, Cowboys & Cowgirls, rodeo!lock, vet!John, Vet John, Case Fic, WIP, ACD Canon References, Texas, AU, Alternate Universe, Slow Build, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Slow Burn, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Awesome Sally Donovan, Sally Donovan Appreciation, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Sherlock Being A Manipulative Bastard, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Eventual Happy Ending, But shit will hit the fan several times first!, Masturbation, Bad Puns, Puns & Word Play, Lies, broncos, Rodeolock, very slow burn, Like…glacially slow burn, It’s For a Case, Animal Death, Developing Relationship, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Rodeo Clowns, Cowboy!Sherlock, Cowboy!John, Sexy Butts in Jeans, Awesome Molly Hooper, Cowboylock, Cowboy!lock, line dancing, Dancing Lessons, Dancing, Drunk Sherlock, Continental Drift Slow Burn, Coitus Interruptus, Mystery, Alternate Universe - Farm/Ranch, Safer Sex, Condoms, Blow Jobs, Pool & Billiards, John is a Horndog, Cowboy Sherlock, Cowboy John, Chaps Series: Part 1 of The Devil’s Blaze Summary:

Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only Consulting Equestrian Expert, is the individual called when horse owners are out of their depth. At the behest of his elder brother, Sherlock travels to Amarillo, Texas, to investigate why a valuable bucking stallion has seemingly gone berserk for no reason and killed his trainer. The local authorities suspect the owner of fraud and possible animal abuse, but Mycroft sees parallels to an unsolved case from the 1980s wherein a racehorse killed a groom. Complicating the situation is John Watson: bronco rider, rodeo veterinarian and one of case’s primary suspects…

Or, to put it another way: Rodeolock AU! Sherlock Holmes and John Watson running around Texas, USA in cowboy boots, Wranglers blue jeans and cowboy hats. ‘Nuff said.

OK. so yeah, um .. brain still caught up in this image from the first chapter:

 "And call me John, please,“ he added with a wink and a friendly grin. He removed his hat and ruffled a hand through his short, blond hair before redonning it and tucking his thumbs into the loops of his jeans. The movement drew subtle attention to the championship belt buckle he wore as he leaned back against the stall door. Tilting his head, John raised an eyebrow, his dark blue eyes intent on hers. "What can I do for you?”

This fic has it all. Goddam gorgeous cowboy vet, John Watson, consulting equestrian expert (getting himself into a pair of chaps), Sherlock Holmes, kick-ass Sally Donovan, a case-fic to rival all case fics, and horses! My only word of caution would be to not attempt to read the entire 279K words all in one day (by 1am I was feeling a little queasy) but damn it, if it wasn’t one of the best reading days I have had.

@dulcimergecko

[weirdponytail]

Modern Inheritance: Judge You Not/Blue-Black Arrogant Prick

Judgement Oneshots (Book 1 Murtagh and Brom Centric Stories): Judge Me Not  //  JUDGE YOU NOT

(A/N: A bit of a time jump continuation from Judge Me Not, we get some more interaction between Murtagh and Brom with Arya thrown in the mix. The secondary title is explained in the story.)

~~~

Murtagh rolled over, trying to find that one, inexplicably comfortable yet contorted position that would finally let him sleep. He was tired, very tired, after the headlong rush across the Hadarac and had been looking forward to the rest their hard won lead would bring.

But after at least a week and a half of traveling by night and sleeping by day, suddenly becoming diurnal again was not as easy as he had hoped.

He rolled over once more, mentally grumbling to himself when he saw that Eragon was sound asleep. The boy was tucked up next to Saphira, two thirds of his body under her wing and his head resting on a pile of unused clothes and blankets. He looked quite comfortable, his mouth open slightly and even a bit of drool on the side of his face.

Murtagh sat up, suddenly realizing that Arya was no longer stretched out near Saphira's foreleg where she had previously laid down to sleep. The blanket was still there, but neither the elf nor her combat-jacket-turned-pillow were to be seen.

"–rather not go there so soon. I've only been able to teach them how to survive, and I've been having a tough time doing even that." Murtagh whipped his head around as Brom's rough whisper reached his ears. Two dim silhouettes sat on the short, rocky protrusion that hid their camp, keeping watch over the landscape. "Eragon has the uncanny ability to get into trouble the moment he moves more than fifty yards from Saphira. If we went to the forest now, they'd laugh at all of us."

A light scoff sounded as the slimmer of the two figures shifted, pulling a leg up to their chest. "No, they'd sing praises to Saphira and pat you on the head for trying your hardest. Eragon would need a bit more work before they would go crazy for him, but they'd still clap politely, I'm sure."

"...You're probably right."

"Yeah, well, I know my people. Always gotta be polite and proper in the pines."

Murtagh grabbed his rifle and slung the strap across his chest before clambering up the rocks. Both Brom and Arya turned to him as he heaved himself over the edge.

"Can't sleep." He said at their questioning gazes. "Bloody body clock is shot to hell. Mind if I join you?"

Brom gestured with his unlit pipe to an open patch of stone. "Sit yourself down, then." They arranged themselves in a roughly triangular position, each able to take in a section of the area while also carrying on polite conversation.

But, knowing the three distinct personalities arrayed before them, polite conversation wasn't likely to happen.

In the quiet that followed, Murtagh became increasingly aware that Arya was studying him with a disturbing intensity. Her eyes flicked over his face, darting from one feature to the next, and he subconsciously leaned back a bit.

"...What?" Murtagh leaned back a little more, finally breaking the silence. "Oi, I know you're taken in by all this–" he extravagantly gestured to his face and body with both hands, hiding how unsettled he was with his usual sassy smugness, "–like the other ladies, but no need to try and devour me with your eyes, lass."

Still intent on examining him the elf responded offhandedly, "Don't flatter yourself. And what did I tell you about calling me that?" Before Murtagh could protectively grab his rifle to prevent the magazine from being shoved up his nose, Arya suddenly sat bolt upright and snapped her fingers. "Got it!" She looked to Brom, a slight frown on her face. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Brom grunted, clamping his teeth on his pipe stem. With the amount of chomping the old man did on it, Murtagh wouldn't be surprised if it had some magic worked into the wood to prevent it from splintering.

"What's going on?" Murtagh crossed his arms. He didn't like it when the two elder members of their little group shared secrets or their weird little nonverbal signals. "If it involves me, I have a right–"

Arya cut him off and pointed to his right eye. "Blue." Then his left. "Black." Her lip twitched into a surprisingly fierce snarl. "Arrogant, psychopathic, warmongering, traitorous, race-murdering PRICK."

Brom let out an uncharacteristic snort, pulling his pipe out of his mouth. Murtagh realized it was a choked off laugh, and scowled at him. "Why is it that everyone only remembers my father, huh? He's dead. Let me live my life, not his."

"I wasn't laughing at that. I've just never heard the bastard described so...simply." Brom chuckled again. "I'm surprised it took you this long, Arya."

"It's not like I shook Morzan's hand and got to know him as well as you bloody did." Arya tossed her braid over her shoulder and clasped her hands together, her anger fading. "Besides, I never thought he'd have a son." She regarded the aforementioned offspring with one of her signature blank expressions, eyes searching his face again. "His mother must have been the Black Hand, wasn't she, Brom? You must have known."

Just like before, Brom shifted slightly at the mention of Murtagh's mother, a strange light flashing through his startling blue eyes. It was gone just as quickly as it had appeared, though, and the old man gave an affirmative grunt.

"Oi!" Murtagh snapped, rage starting to bubble in his gut. He could feel the vein on his forehead starting to stand out, and that made him even angrier. "Stop talking about me as if I'm not even HERE!" Both adults looked to him. "I am not my father's son! So judge me not by his actions! I am my own man!"

A faint smile touched Arya's lips, and she nodded. "Aye. Don't worry, Murtagh. I judge you not by your father but by you alone. Family shouldn't be the sole point on which someone is judged, especially if they were not raised by them." The elf knit her fingers together and rested her chin on them, expression again serious. "Your father was a terrible person, and I'm sure out of all of us in Alagaësia, you know that fact better than anyone. But, unlike some children who would turn their rage against the entire world, you have chosen to take your anger and skills and do what you can to fight against what Morzan and Galbatorix wrought. From what I have seen of you, you are a good man, and don’t deserve any prejudgement based on your father’s actions.

“Unless you're a spy, in which case I'd congratulate you on getting this far, and then promptly kill you." She flashed him a dangerous, sharp toothed grin. 

Brom nodded sagely in agreement, then locked eyes with Murtagh. "Oi. I'm only going to say this once, so listen carefully, whelp." Murtagh's snarl returned at the old man's use of his usual, insulting name for him, but Brom put his hands up. "Peace. Just hear me out this one time. I won't repeat what I'm about to say. Ever."

He took his pipe from between his lips and rolled it between his fingers before again looking Murtagh in the eye. "You've proved yourself quite a bit since you've joined us. I can say with confidence that you are not your father's son, and I knew the bastard since he was younger than you are now. You have a sense of morality and sound judgement that he never had, even if your justifications for that judgement are usually driven by your survival code." Murtagh's scowl fell. As Brom spoke, the young man's expression turned from one of red-faced frustration to disbelief, his mouth slightly open as the old man pointed the stem of his pipe at him. "You've been...invaluable, in helping me protect Eragon and Saphira. And you probably saved the Varden by rescuing Arya while at Gil'ead, as she's the only one who can secure the elves support for the rebellion again.

"What I'm saying is that I judged you prematurely. And I...apologize."

Murtagh stared at the old Rider, trying to find the words to explain the unexpected welling of emotion in his chest. "Brom, I…I don't know how to..." He faltered, and resumed gaping at him.

"You can start by closing your mouth." Brom snapped gruffly. "You'll catch flies like that, whelp."

Arya raised her eyebrows and leaned towards him. "I think you broke the poor boy."

The young man shook himself out of his stupor. "No, no, it's just…. I figured if I could get you, Brom, of all people, to see that I'm not some demon spawn then I could live my life in peace. And now that you just confirmed it, I can't. I have to keep fighting the King."

Brom snorted and stuck his pipe back in his mouth. "Oh, you're a demon's spawn, there's no denying that." He growled. "You're just not acting like a demon. Kudos to you, whelp."

"Lay off him, Brom. You can't just turn around like that after giving him such a heartfelt speech." Arya swatted the old man on the arm, to which he grumbled and pushed her.

Murtagh rubbed his face, feeling even more drained after the emotional joyride the two had just put him on. "Bloody children, the both of you."

Arya smirked. "I'm not the one up past his bedtime."

The young man threw his hands up. "Alright! Alright, I get it. I'll try to sleep again." He stood and moved to start climbing back down to the clearing, then paused. "Thanks for what you said. The both of you."

"Don't get all sappy on us." Brom growled, crossing his arms. "You still have quite a bit of proving to do, whelp."

"Sure, Brom. Whatever you say." He smiled, and for a moment Brom saw a flash of bright teeth and dark hair, a laugh echoing in his ears. Then both the memory and Murtagh were gone, the man clambering down the short cliff to collapse on his sleeping bag.

The old Rider blinked, trying to clear his head, and found Arya regarding him with a slightly concerned expression. "Oh, what? Are you going to start telling me what my father looked like now?"

Arya’s light frown did not ease as shook her head, fringes of hair that had escaped her braid flicking about her face. "No. Just thought I saw something." They lapsed into comfortable silence, once again facing out over the land. A warm, dry breeze wafted through the woods from the nearby Hadarac and brushed over them, carrying the scent of the sands.

"It was hell crossing that." Brom muttered, chewing thoughtfully on his pipe again and silently lamenting that he couldn't light it without revealing their position. "But at least we're nearly to the mountains now. At this pace, another week and a half or two and we'll be with the Varden."

Arya hummed softly in agreement, her farseeing eyes picking out the distant campfires of the Urgal party following them. They blazed like bright candles to her sight, and she counted twenty before the camp stretched beyond her vision.

They stayed up for a while longer, talking about this and that and hashing out the possible responses the Varden could have to their arrival. It was an hour before Arya looked up at the sky, noting the new positions of the stars, and said, "You should catch some rest, old man. Your watch is over by my reckoning."

"You keep calling me old, Arya. I think my physique speaks for itself; I'm still quite spry, thank you very much." Brom stood and stretched his stiff joints, pointedly ignoring the chorus of pops and crackles that dampened his previous statement as the elf smirked. "I'll wake Eragon for his watch."

Arya waved him off. "Leave the kid be. Both he and Saphira have earned their sleep. I can take his watch."

"Again?" Arya shrugged. "You can't keep this up. You need to sleep just as much as we do, probably more since you're still healing."

"I'm fine, Brom. Really."

Brom frowned. In the dim light of the stars he could see that she was lying. Her skin had regained its usual tanned tone after trekking through the Hadarac, but over the last day or so she had paled slightly. Despite the cooler temperatures, a slight sheen of sweat was on her brow and she wore her combat jacket zipped all the way up as if she were freezing. "Anything you want to tell me?" She shook her head. "Arya, I can tell when something's up. Did another wound get infected again?"

"No." And she added firmly, "I'm fine."

"If you keep trying to deal with things like this on your–"

"Brom!" The old Rider's eyes snapped to hers. Arya's voice had taken on a sharp edge and held an unmistakable ring of authority that, despite the conversation they had held earlier, reminded Brom that some things were hereditary no matter the differences between parent and child. "Leave it. I'll be fine. We can talk about it later. Just go to sleep."

He regarded her with a steady gaze, keeping their eyes locked. His suspicions were confirmed when it was Arya who broke contact, looking away from him with her jaw clenched tight. "I hope you're right. And I hope you will tell me when whatever this is gets worse." He warned. "Remember what I told Murtagh, Arya. You're the only one who can get the Queen start supporting the Varden again. So for not just your sake, but the entire damn Varden's, I hope you're right." And he started the short descent back to camp.

Arya let out a breath and looked up at the pale stars. They twinkled above her, smugly winking as if they knew, as she did, that fire was burning in her veins.

The Shade smiled, pointed teeth gleaming. "It won't kill you right away, little elf. It won't even start to kill you until I tell it to." Arya gritted her teeth as the clear fluid in the syringe slid into her wrist and rushed through her bloodstream. "My own modified Skilna Bragh. You know, little elf, if you escape, and you run fast enough, you just might make it to your people or the Varden before it destroys you." And he winked at her, as if sharing in some private joke.

The elf closed her eyes and let her head fall back. She had to decide. Continue traveling with the others, leading not only the Urgals to the Varden's doorstep, but Durza as well and probably slowing the group down until she succumbed to the poison in her blood, or try to run to Ceris and deliver a dying declaration that would force the Queen to resume aiding the Varden.

No, she couldn't do that. It would lead Durza right to the elvish city.

Her last choice was grim. Leave the group at the mouth of the Beartooth River and turn back to the Hadarac. She could slow the Urgals as best she could, and die a warrior's death. It was preferable than dying of thirst or poison in the hellish sands.

Another swirl of wind flowed from the aforementioned desert. Arya sighed as it ghosted over her skin, her nerves tingling with the first uncomfortable prickles of pain, and looked back to where Brom was kicking his sleeping bag out on the ground. "Yeah, Brom," She murmured. "I hope so too."

[veinereastath]

hi there again (I'm the anon from the Eredin age ask, btw, thank you for the answer!! I like your theory). i wanted to ask one more thing - how did you play around with pairing aen elle with a human? not that I have something against it, hell naw, but I'm wondering whether making Rhan a human was somehow important for your plot, or did you just decide it for no bigger reason?

I like your questions, Nonny! I really do~

~ Also, sorry in advance - this is a long answer. I wanted to make it short, but.. I guess I usually go to far with asks, probably because I’m just too excited, duh.

Okay, first things first - pairing Aen Elle with a human is sick. :”) To some extent, I presume. I would never go for it if not for the canon Lara Dorren x Cregennan of Lod story, because that gives some mild suggestion that, technically, such a relationship is possible. Even more interesting, the romance between them was more bothering for humans than elves, so it’s also a little point for my evil little abomination that I created.

About how it started - I created Rhan (or, actually, loose concept of her) in late 2015 / early 2016 [I started my journey with this universe in September 2015 where I played Witcher 3, and after finishing it I swallowed the whole saga by Sapkowski in less than two weeks]. Fun fact - she was an elf at this point, Aen Elle, actually, with a totally different backstory than what we have now. But me, being me, always digging human x elf / demon / whatever the hell you can come out with relationships - it wouldn’t work, it was too boring for me, so I scrapped that early concept and started nibbling, slowly and lazily, at something new. I think that the first ideas that are actually what Rhan is today started appearing in my head during summer vacations in 2016 (gosh, why am I giving so many pointless details, sorry anon).

Let’s get back on the grid - the main problem I have with Eredin is that he’s one of that characters that doesn’t have much screenbooktime. The whole Tir na Lia plot takes about 40 pages I think, and Eredin has maybe 15 pages in total. It’s not much when we have 5 books + about a dozen or so smaller stories [and Season of Storms, but it came out much, much later]. But what I could pick up was that:

Aen Elle are a fucked up race, and that’s a fact, but, honestly  - 90% of the Witcher universe is either genocidal, racist, or both, or worse,

Eredin is genocidal and racist, and, even more... complicating, the whole "Ciri in Tir na Lia” plot puts Eredin, Avallac’h and Auberon in position of rapists, because putting a woman in someone else’s bed without her permission is rape,

he’s that lovely, dark and highly intelligent manipulative type. :”)

It’s quite a feat, because everyday I get around 3-4 new little ideas for their story, but only 1 at best makes it to the “next step”, because there are many things I have to consider - first is, 98% of soft and fluffly things just won’t work with Eredin. They just won’t, but somehow I’m fine with that, I was never a fluffly-tropes kind of person. Second is, Rhan x Eredin relationship is difficult on every level: the race difference is obvious, but there is also age, for example, and all the time I have this little devil in the back of my head reminding me of the “the old, kinda supernatural being falls in love with a young woman” trope: *cough* Twilight *cough*. The worst thing that could happen is making Eredin OOC somehow. But that’s always the biggest fear when shipping OC x canon, I presume.

So, in order to make myself feel better, in nearly every piece of story with them I write I put that huge doubt, mostly on Rhan’s side, how the hell this could work and her little panic when after some time she realizes where her feelings are going, because while Aen Elle x human might have indeed a chance of happening again, even after Lara Dorren x Cregennan, it’s still wrong on nearly every level. When that Aen Elle is Eredin, it’s even worse.

The very definition of “falling in love” itself also kinda feels weird when Eredin is taken into consideration, imo, so that’s another thing I have to live with every day (but hey, I love suffering, so it’s all good, right).

Moving on - I decided that if this is supposed to work, Rhan should probably be as most non-human human as I can, while still somehow keeping that “humanity” in her, because... If I wanted to de-human her entirely, why not just make her an elf and be done with it? That’s why I decided that while yes, she was born on Skellige and is 100% human, I will put her in Brokilon, make her live and learn from the dryads, and then put her right in the middle of Scoia’tael to give her the deep understanding of elven culture and way of life. The final effect is that while Rhan is human in terms of how she looks like (no diamond-cutting cheekbones in her, baby~) and tends to show a more fiery side of her temperament here and there, she behaves like an elf in about 85% of the case - to make it more “real” I added small headcanon things that could potentially fit elves, at least Aen Seidhe, the way the greet each other, thank eatch other for help, share their emotions etc., so after just a few days Eredin realizes “well, she’s human, but she does not behave like one, and does not move or fight like one”. It’s barely a deal for him at this point, but it’s the first, microscopic step towards moving their relationship onto some normal ground.

Another thing - this relationship could not happen fast. While Rhan is a sorceress and, indeed, has an increased lifespan thanks to magic, she is still a human and the biggest human thing in her is that she perceives time like humans do - every minute, hour, week is important to her, while Aen Elle can wait decades and not be too much bothered by it. So something long and lazy from Rhan’s perspective would be a blink of an eye for Eredin, especially since I stick to that headcanon that he must be at least 300 years old - at this age elves are pretty much done with everything, they’ve seen nearly everything, and they just don’t care that much about time, and they get quite bored with each other (sex-wise, as Avallac'h said to Geralt in Tower of The Swallow).

Though, on the side note, the books heavily suggest that Eredin is, indeed, impatient; something that kinda costed the Aen Elle losing the Elder Blood and Auberon at the same time, because he would probably live if not for Eredin’s hasty attempt to speed things up.

Huh, what else could I say... Ah, right, time. I wanted to mention that I made their relationship take a long time to just go from “you’re just a trophy” to “you’re tolerable” to “alright, I consider you to be a living being and slightly appreciate what you’re doing to Aen Seidhe elves in your world” to “I respect you” to “I would not die for you, but I would kill for you”. I’m still not entirely sure how much time I want it to take, but one decade is an absolute bare fricking minimum. Recently I’m kind of going more into putting it into a span of 20-25 years, actually. And it’s still not that much for Aen Elle elf.

What else... Ah, to figure out how the hell would Eredin even consider taking her alive, instead of killing her on the spot after she got trapped in Tir na Lia for the second time (in case you don’t know - I gave Rhan a highly unstable magic; she can’t create portals, because they always throw her to the place that is full of powerful magic, and doesn’t care for worlds barriers - and Tir na Lia is literally full of it), I went with the very long and tiring chase sequence; Rhan was able to run away for 5 days before she got captured, with barely any sleep available at that time, to kinda give this whole thing a vibe of an exciting (for Eredin, that is) chase, that is something new and interesting after the routine that is unicorn hunting / raiding human villages. The Raven Haired Bastard managed to be slightly, just sliiightly impressed by how long she was able to play this game, slipping from his riders by mere inches. Slightly. But that’s already some kind of a start to make it at least somehow believable. At least for my mind and my imagination.

And yes, I know he chased Ciri as well, but in her case it was a matter of life and death, because Eredin needed her blood, it was a matter of survival of the whole race, not chase for fun. In case of Rhan, it's more of a free-time challenge, a hunt for a difficult, but not that important prey. Aaand I don't like Cirilla, but that's another thing, yikes

... God, it was not supposed to be this long, I’m sorry. I just couldn’t make it shorter. And there are still probably things that I would like to mention, but just can’t think about them right now.

 

Moral of the story is - I dig complicated, dark and difficult relationships. I always go for them. Well, in 99% of the case.

[kurahieiritrjio]

Original Raw Chapter

Synopsis: Equinox company find themselves taking on a feral child who has an innate magic needed to wield a legendary Crystal weapon forged by the Elder Gods for sealing away demon kind from their world. Demon kind seeks her extermination so the Evil Kings may return to devour the lands of Gyeteras. Equinox must protect the young girl plus find the Tiger’s Eye Scales of Judgment. The magical scales become a double half moon axe capable of stopping hordes of evil from overwhelming their world.

Sparkles of silver light ricocheted off mismatched buildings slipping in and out of Betlic Jetren’s feverish sight. Glimpses of Clear Brooke River and community flashed between trees like a heart felt greeting. Thick tree trunks of hickory, oak, red maple, and paper birch shaded the wide stone road of Caravan Highway. Betlic ignored alarmed calls from wagon teamsters and outriders moving in the other direction. This stretch of highway was well maintained so underbrush hindering Betlic’s sight was thinning the closer Equinox Company got to the Clear Brooke Station entrance.

The growing clamor tickled his ears with promises of medical aid. Light gusts brought delicious stomach rumbling scents into his sweat, dust, old blood, and beast musk numbed nostrils. Large stable shed complexes full of activity was flashing between trunks. All of Betlic’s remaining focus sharpened on the promise of safety and aide for the remnant of his hunting group.

Familiarity with Clear Brooke Station had Betlic envisioning throngs of gnomes, humans, dwarves, the odd troll, lesser giants, and elves bustling around multitudes of cornicuses with diverse horn configurations and foot types. His ears could hear people shouting, most likely from the open air market surrounding the merchant’s guild. It was the time of day when the market was most crowded. Behind the city loomed the deep shadows of ancient Brackenveil Forest’s mighty towering trees. 

Soon long overdue medical care would be had. Better yet Clear Brooke Station was well known to Equinox Company. Betlic hoped their long standing reputation would save their lives. Unusual circumstances, broken contracts, unwanted bartered goods for payment, and time crunches continued plaguing Betlic’s demon hunting team. However, he hoped Equinox’s dubious luck was improving. Having Master Inek Copperwell hire them to escort his cart with Seth Grace and Gillian Stockton’s unconscious bodies inside his wagon was one stroke of much needed luck. If only their luck would hold long enough to get Seth and Gillian back on their feet!

Strands of saturated lentil hair flopped into his eyes. Betlic yanked it out of the way and used his tunic sleeve to swipe away sweat. The motion of his arm unleashed pulling and burning needles which left him wincing. How was it so hot when the sun had not been up very long? Were his wounds causing fever? He needed to focus on the road and his surroundings since it was his temporary job. He, Dreng, and Eldwyn only agreed to be cargo guards to get Seth and Gill the help they needed.

Betlic turned his head and felt a fluttering buzz erupt through his skull and sluice down his body like a building wave crashing on a beach. The odd sensation had him swaying in his saddle. Getting light headed was a very bad sign. Almost there. He would hold on as long as needed.

“Ho there! Looks like you’re the group needing emergency aide.” A gnome teamster bellowed from his front perch on a massive eight wheeled stock wagon. He and a pair of outriders pulled the twelve ram head heavy drafts to a stop. “Did bandits do this to you and your beasts?”

Refocusing, Betlic noted accumulating guards and outriders were staring and muttering to each other. No doubt they were looking at the sorry sight of the last of Equinox Demon Hunter Company stationed around Inek’s cart or trailing behind. Vallin was on foot pulling along their remaining cornicus mounts. Betlic did not have to look back to know several beasts were stumbling under the rocking motion of huge loads.

Betlic shook his head trying to clear his mind and almost fell off Squirrel’s back as thrums of cold electric current swirled and cascaded the length of his body a second time. Was the man talking to him?

Eldwyn’s mellow voice carried over the jangle of harness, heavy clopping hooves and quadcorn talons. “No. We ran afoul of a demon troop. Equinox Company won the fight at heavy cost. Trying to get to Crone Nelda to deal with the magic taint. We have crossed swords with three bandit groups so far. We handed them over to the magistrates in Resin Town and Lofty Oaks respectively.”

Someone yelled, “By the Thrice blasted tree! All know Equinox is the best demon fighting group in the lands but don’t you think fighting a war troop is a bit extreme?” Must be an elf in the crowd.

“We were lied to about a job we took. We found ourselves under surprise attack and surrounded. You try facing several greater demons determined to get even some time and then say we were being extreme.” Dreng’s guttural voice thundered over the babble of onlookers.

Betlic was tired of having to defend his companions. At least when told the truth most caravan owners moved out of the way of Master Inek’s cart so they could jog their beasts around the slower wagon trains to get to Clear Brooke quicker. Let his co founders deal with the chatter this round. Betlic simply wanted to be done with this trip and sleep for a week. Not that he would get to slow down before arranging everything his group needed. The idea of a bath and long sleep in a real bed was all he craved.

“We were sent by a concerned outrider. You look to sore need us.” A tanned gnome with her hair in a bun jumped in front of Squirrel reaching for his hackamore nose band. Betlic clung like a bur to Squirrel’s back as the big buckskin shied from being caught.

“Thank you for the offer, Matron. We are almost there, and short of funds.” Betlic answered once he found his balance.

“What do you think emergency aide means, young man? You won’t make it without us. Your cornicuses are bad injured and failing. They need to be brought in and tended. We will get you into town. You need the witches because you’re about to fall out of your saddle.” The older woman chastised him with such obvious fear in her voice Betlic struggled to focus on her.

Infuriating to hear, but all too true. “In our defense, Equinox has never had thirty companions and half our combat trained mounts killed in a single fight before, Ma’am. The Overseer Guild in Cryslatta called a war troop of sixty odd demons a nest. To the best of my knowledge, such has never happened before.” Several knife and lowhorns with riders were clustering around them. “Then the guild refused to make good on the outstanding debt after failing to give us accurate information. Never mind their idea of a healing guild which denies magical taint exists so we lost even more of our number while getting stripped of our funds.”

“Ignore Betlic’s sharp tongue, good people. He looks like a poorly sewn patchwork quilt under his clothes and maille. Master Inek Copperwell is helping us get our worst wounded to Clear Brooke before they die of demon taint. So please forgive him his cruel words this morning.”

“Let them take your over burdened animals and gent Vallin in. All know your reputation, Mister Jetren. Equinox Demon Hunter Company keeps it’s word and all who know you will vouch for you.” One of the outriders yelled.

Betlic argued “we’re almost broke. I cannot change reality. We are without choice but to race to Clear Brooke. The closest city with a witch enclave capable of saving their lives.”

The big buckskin Betlic rode lurched around the gnome woman still trying to grab his nose band or reins and pitched into a jog toward the city despite heavy billowing sides.

 “Stop, Betlic. Our beasts are failing. They can’t finish the distance.” Eldwyn yelled from behind.

Trayhern’s voice had Betlic pulling on Squirrel’s reins. A deep groan bordering an offended whistle pulsed through Squirrel’s triad of horns as he slowed to a walk but refused to stop. A hard shake of the buckskin’s head rattled his ridge bones beneath thick cream hide.

“Looking forward to a big bin of ground meat and diced vegetable aren’t you, Squirrel?” Betlic gave his mount an affectionate rub above a seeping gash on the animal’s shoulder. Squirrel’s long ears wagged back and forth. Tired as Squirrel was he knew their location and was eager to arrive.

Needle sharp throbs of pain tore along his torso as Betlic's arm lifted so he could use his tunic sleeve to mop runnels of sweat from his eyes. His vision wavered again. Blinking rapidly to clear his sight, Betlic wondered whether grand master wizard Aulon would still send funds if Seth died. Would the protection oath ever be given by Aulon to new members of Equinox? Could Equinox even recover from this insidious blunder?

Squirrel jerking to a stop tore Betlic from disjointed thoughts. He almost toppled from the saddle yet again. “Bet, yer not a’right. Squirrel’s taking ya fer a ride. T’others dun stop’d.” Lance’s voice chided. Three long and wicked sharp horns growing out of Hobb’s dark brown forehead and face got far too close to his own as Lance’s tricorn blocked their path. “Ven’m dun gett’n ya. Fev’r gett’n worse.”

Leathery pitted skin, shocking blue eyes, and shaggy molasses hair. A very familiar looking long knife and sword sheath pair strapped to opposing hips swam into focus. Sheathed daggers strapped to biceps and forearms gave silent warning to avoid conflict. More throwing knives, darts, slim throwing axes on each side, and bolts for a Brownie sized crossbow which was palm sized for a man were confined in neat rows down the length of matching bandoleer straps hanging from each shoulder to opposing hip. Two cases of arrows for a full crossbow and a recurve bow hung off the saddle pommel. Such a deadly rogue. Betlic blinked faster. It was Lance Bullard he was facing alright.

“Sorry. Need to get things done as soon as we arrive.” Betlic responded when his eyes registered Lance waving a hand inches from his nose. “I’ll be fine, Lance.”

Lance snorted. “No ya won’. Yer see’n de witches firs’ thing. Beauty n Velvet ‘er down.  Lightfoot’s bad too. Figg’r Drum ’ead ‘n Cast’way’s near ’s bad. Firebran’ gun’ drop ina minute. Eld, Dreng, ‘n Val’s mov’n der packs.”

“Shit. We can’t afford the stop.” Betlic squeezed his eyes shut and gulped air to try and stop the spinning sensation.

“Yer sick, Bet.” Lance growled. “Yer blotchy wit fev’r. Way yer sway’n, yer gun’a fall off Squir’l soon. Yer push’n too ‘ard.”

“You’re talking fringe too fast to follow. Tells me you’re in a panic. Seems I've made too many bad calls. My stupidity got most of our company killed.” Betlic gripped his saddle pommel and eased back onto the two saddle rigs tied together and lashed on the back of his own. He hoped the new position would counter his increasing lightheadedness.

Lance heaved a disgusted sounding sigh. “M tak’n lead. Yer doin' de bes’ ye can widda bad mess. Eld got at bad job. As to de talk, mos’ de old tim’rs dead is wha’ gots me shook, Bet. Know’d ‘em since I join’d. Ev’n Seth ‘n Gill’s dyin' slow. De was all tuff as you ‘n me. Don’ seem righ’.”

Lance’s rapid fire garble was still sorting itself out in Betlic’s mind as Hobb backed up and slid along Squirrel’s side. Betlic felt his reins getting yanked from his grasp. “New blood dyin’s nutt’n. But de old fight’rs? A’s summin’ differnt. I got ya, Bet. Jes hang on yer rig, n I’ll keep ya steady.”

Dreng’s deep rasp reached Betlic’s ears over the increasing babble of onlookers. “Watch it, man. Bad enough I feel like a shin guard standing next to you. You don’t need to stomp me into these paving stones while I’m trying to loose Beauty’s girth band for you.”

“Sorry, Grump. Can’t see you . . . round the rigs. Not my fault . . . your so short.” Vallin’s response was breathy and panting.

“Oh sure, pick on the dwarf why don’t you? You giants need to learn how to look down.” Dreng always grumbled when distressed. Betlic’s ears took over. He heard a weak wail from two or more horns followed by heavy thudding. “By the blazing forge, who else is going to keel over in the middle of the road? Firebrand, on your feet! Get up so I can get the saddles off you and put you in the beast wagon.”

A fiery hued chestnut tricorn with his top horns and mid nose knife stuck halfway through a pasty demon’s upper body, dual hooves pulled back to free long talon pairs for slashing the demon’s grasping arms. Firebrand’s fangs were snapping at the demon’s stomach.

Kuruk was whirling his basket hilt claymore as fast as it could be swung along both of Firebrand’s sides to maim and kill any demons he could reach. No matter how fast he moved his blade, he was being overwhelmed. Three more demons were closing from the rear as Firebrand’s whip tail cracked and lashed. A furry, feline were beast resembling demon leapt over the slashing bony flat tip of the cornicus’s tail and landed on the top of Firebrand’s rump. Betlic caught a glimpse of the demon sinking black fangs into Kuruk’s thigh, claws digging into his chest and waist, thick hind legs bulging to leap off Firebrand’s haunches. Squirrel could not disengage with the demons they were fighting. Betlic felt white hot embers slide down his back and across his side as his own hand and half pair of blades met considerable resistance. Scalding heat seeped into his leather breeches. Another demon down.

“I’ve got him.” Vallin’s now steadier voice drew Betlic’s attention. Considering how muscular and tall Vallin Skorr was he could probably pick the injured tricorn off the ground. Though it was likely Firebrand would lift his dual hollow hoof sheaths and rake him with lethal talons over the attempt. At least Vallin could pick Firebrand up if the beast cooperated and he removed his mace and deck cleaner axe. “Eld, get Lightfoot and Thunderhead’s saddles loose. I’ll be there in a minute to fetch their packs to load.”

“Sure thing, Val.”

Dreng slapped his booted foot to get his attention. “Betlic, take Lance, Kite, Katinka, and Marcus with Master Inek into Clear Brooke to get Seth, Gill, and yourself treated. I’ll handle things here with Val and Ears help.”

A shout from the rear which sounded like Marcus had Betlic turning his head back toward the disaster unfolding behind them. “Watch out for that strawberry dappled roan quad heading this way. He’s unpredictable and might attack you beast carters. Now that his Templar’s dead, Rhapsody won’t let any of us near him. Wrath and I will deflect him.”

“Stay back. Let Vallin, Dreng and myself handle getting Beauty, Velvet, and Firebrand in that contraption to load. I will deflect Rhapsody if he charges.” Eldwyn also bellowed.

“If he charges he’ll break his forelegs in that tattered mess of rags hanging from his breast band and saddle cinches.” The woman from before was arguing.

Betlic’s mind tossed the image of Rhapsody’s torn up metal chest band harness to the forefront of his memory. Half the chain linkage padding was torn from the thick metal links. Covered in old blood and trailing near the ground between Rhapsody’s fore legs. The fluttering fabric was catching on some of Rhapsody’s shin claws to make the big predator stumble. Impatient fangs and his lower jaw blades made short work of tearing the heavy fabric free from pressure pulled claws. Four horns resonated a chest deep growl as Rhapsody tore the remaining metal link protection loose. Straightening up, the chain lengths caught the edge of torn flesh and ripped another chunk of Rhapsody’s hide and muscle loose.

“I have enough magic to deal with Rhapsody if he gets surly, Marcus. I can still build barriers that he isn’t immune to.” Eldwyn’s voice drew Betlic’s mind back again. “Get Seth, Bet, and Gill into town, Inek. Go with them, Marcus.”

“Sound plan. Bet sore needs medical attention too. He’s losing focus from a high wound fever. Take the twins. We’ll get these mounts sorted out.” Dreng was rumbling next to his leg.

“S’why I got ‘im.” Lance said.

Squirrel groaned through his three horns and shook his whole body which jarred Betlic’s stitches. He gave his restless mount a couple affectionate slaps on the bony ridge crest even as pain scalded his senses. The buckskin had worrisome chest injuries which Betlic knew were hurting. His own bandaged torso, shoulder, lower back, and legs throbbed plus burned with a staccato beat.

Although Squirrel’s natural plating prevented deadly organ wounds, carrying weight with a slashed up chest had to hurt. The padded links of Squirrel’s own chest harness was abrading rows of claw marks last Betlic checked.

“Bet, can you make it or are your wits too addled by fever to function?” Dreng’s rumbling voice snapped Betlic’s eyes down to his friend and partner.

“Everyone was butchered because I noticed the danger too late, Dreng. I got too many of our friends killed.”

“Bordering delirious I see. Damned head is harder than a forge anvil today. Stayed level headed through the fight. Anyone else would have panicked and we would all be dead right now.”

“Yeah right. I should have. . .”

“Stop with the should haves. They don’t matter. Things are grim and we all know it. We’ve a strong reputation at Clear Brooke and many a favor owed which we can collect. What we fail to sell to cover expenses can be made up soon enough by a fast courier bringing us the coin we need to settle accounts. Running Stag’s bill and the healer fees for all of us will get worked out, Bet. I swear it. Master Inek offered to cover our meals, laundry, and baths while he’s here.”

“You know best how to bargain, Dreng.”

Dreng shook his head which made his shoulder length, mahogany braided mane slide like a pendulum. “The gnomes will know how to catch and cure Rhapsody, Betlic. We won’t fail him or Cliff’s memory. Get yourself, Seth, and Gill to the witches. Long Ears can keep Rhapsody calm enough until we reach Clear Brooke.”

“I hope so. Otherwise they’ll kill him because he’s acting so crazed. He’s hurting.”

“We’ll save him. We may have to muzzle him and boot his claws to manage it, but we will get Rhapsody home to Grace Manor, Bet.”

“The temple will enslave him again once we reach Prosperity. A shame because Rhapsody is one of the finest war steeds in Gyeteras.” Betlic felt his throat tighten as he spoke.

“We’ll sort it when the time comes, Bet.” Dreng announced with steel underlying his words. “Focus on getting to the witches. I’ll take care of our mounts and the rest since you aren’t in any shape to do much right now.”

“I’ll see Seth and Gill bedded down in Running Stag, and the witches called. You handle the parcel selling and mount care. I’ll send a message to Aulon. We’ll get done faster if we divide the labor.”

Dreng shot Lance a concerned glare which spoke volumes Bet could not decipher. His shoulders rose and fell. “Hickory Haven for our meeting place?”

“Sound plan.” Betlic answered automatically.

Dreng slapped Squirrel’s shoulder. “Get him to town in one piece.”

Squirrel was moving so Betlic called over his shoulder, “See you at the tavern.”

“Save us a table at the Haven.” Vallin called as Hobb sidled Squirrel up to Maple’s nose. Betlic trusted Squirrel would stay with the massive draft without him having to interfere. So long as Marcus and Lance stayed close to do the actual guarding, Betlic could sort out a plan of action to keep Equinox’s honor intact.

Rough timbered long houses came abreast of their group as the trees vanished to grant access to town. Several hitching posts in front of the long houses were half filled. It was not yet crowded. Hickory Haven Tavern served one hundred or more travelers per meal rush each day as best Betlic could recall. Hickory Haven was the main meal stop for most caravans for midday meal before pushing onward to Castle Ring. Or they got so far as Apple Grove Station if they left early enough. Hickory Haven Tavern was the closest to the stone paved highway, and therefore the most convenient. Troughs and hitching posts stood five rows deep before the complex. The tavern was the largest eating establishment outside of major metropolitan areas.

Betlic’s wavering eyes made out two tall cabin roofs which served as kitchens. Their famed pit ovens and outdoor grills were under broad, sturdy veranda roofs nestled between the two kitchen buildings. Aromatic smoke coiled and whirled on a soft breeze. His stomach clenched from a whiff of roasting venison. Verandas connected the other buildings together so that inclement weather did not spoil anyone’s meal. Serving staff were scurrying back and forth between the pit and grills, plus the kitchens. Most were laden with large trays stacked high with food, pitchers, and tankards.

The pair of main split log long houses seemed to beckon. A smaller building set back to the side was for the spell casters, traders and merchants who wished to eat separate from mercenaries and guards. Best of all, Hickory Haven had a decent sized bathhouse attachment replete with private laundry service and changing quarters around back. The only establishment on the highway where travelers got a hot bath in privacy, plus their clothes cleaned.

Master Inek seemed eager to reach their destination. He clucked to increase Maple’s pace one last time. He would wish to push onward after a hot meal most likely. If so, Betlic would forgo the bath and meal to have enough time to place Seth and Gill within an inn room under the witches care.

Sending word to Aulon that Seth was stuck in Clear Brooke Station and needed funds came hard second to the witches getting called. The worst injured mounts would be stabled until Seth and Gill were strong enough to bring the extra mounts home. It was possible that Dreng could arrange a storage space so that Seth and Gill could bring the tack, seeds, and farming tools home at a later date.

“Master Inek, do we head out after midday meal?”

Inek gave him a considering look with a sweep of his hand in the direction of the long beast sheds on the other side of the entry lane. “Cornicus Master Uric Hawthorne would be sore at me if I didn’t bring Maple in to say hello to him for an overnight visit. You’re in need of a break, and the witches care as well, Betlic. So Maple and I will stay overnight or longer. We are well ahead of my delivery schedule so you can get some rest and take care of your group without fear. I can get the nagas quartered in Evergreen Stable for up to three days. They are all in sturdy cages so Thorne won’t bicker too much about it.”

Betlic cocked his head as he looked up at the dark haired trader in his rich turquoise tunic and chocolate leather breeches. “Did not know you were on friendly terms with the Evergreen Stable Master. We usually work with Rook Ardith since most of our cornicuses come from his ranch and stable.”

“I’ve known Hawthorne since we were both clumsy youths. Maple here comes from Hawthorne’s elite draft breeding program.” Inek boasted.

“A valuable beast then.” Betlic answered to keep his mind focused.

“Indeed she is. Master Hawthorne breeds the finest beasts for long hauling without having to worry about their joints suffering fatigue syndrome. As I’m sure you noticed with how long Maple has continued to high step along despite the heavy cart she’s pulling.”

“So your mare came from his pasture lots? They say he demands a one time breeding right out of each sale. Does he truly do such?” Marcus butted into their conversation.

A side glance at the knight had Betlic lifting a brow in silent query. Marcus wiggled his brows with a sly grin. Perhaps he had also picked up on Inek’s penchant for fawning so was distracting the merchant.

Master Inek was prattling away. “He does demand a spawn if the beast sold is from his elite stock. When Maple reaches ten I’ll need to pasture her for a year since she is one of his elites. Thorne and I go back a long ways as I was saying, Sir Marcus. I used to be a rein man on one one of my parents wagons when they were in their prime. They ran nine wagons in the string. Hawthorne and I would sit in the tack shed and eat together every time my family wagons came in for the night. Hence I could buy this mare. Maple is one of the finest trained draft rams on the highways, and Hawthorne wouldn’t have sold her except she took a shine to me. You can’t go wrong with a draft ram from Beast and Stable Master Uric Hawthorne’s breeding program.”

Marcus responded, “If one has the funds to spare, the finest stock can be bought during the fairs. Most of our mounts come from the stock yards here. Most of our longest lasting mounts are Ardith Ranch trained.”

“I believe it. Your mounts have excellent conformation and heart, despite being injured. They kept a brisk pace even with all their wounds sapping their strength. Only a truly fine trained and well bred cornicus can do such. Ardith does have the best reputation for training fighting stock from all four breeds.” Inek said. “Your quadcorn war steed is well behaved considering everything. Ardith does have a knack with quadcorns or so I’ve heard tell.”

“Wrath was foaled in the Borderlands. Lord Garth’s breeding program before he was murdered by the treacherous Duke Bryce. So my war steed is older and well settled with me. Given time and a good partner, young Rhapsody should likewise mellow.”

“I’m not familiar with the Borderlands or Fringe cornicus breeders. Too dangerous for such as myself to ply trade out there. Need too many guards to make it worth the effort. Only twenty plus wagons in a train can expect to scratch out a profit. But I will say Wrath is impressive. He’s the largest and most powerful quad I’ve ever seen.”

“Since joining Equinox, I’ve come to appreciate the Clear Brooke gnomes reputation for breeding tough fighting mounts. The quads bred here are longer bodied and not so bulky boned because they don’t need to be. Wrath’s kin are the largest of the blood because they have to survive demon attacks and still carry riders to safety despite injuries with some frequency. I noticed our riding injured beasts sits wrong with those we’ve passed on the road. Border and Fringe cornicuses are used to such trials. They are asked to carry burdens out of necessity. So I hope the stable masters here can back their rumored miracle healing as well as any Borderman.”

Inek gave a sage nod. “Not just rumor, Sir knight. Hawthorne and his staff are the best beast healers in these parts. I dare say your mounts will benefit from a couple hours of Thorne’s attention. Not to mention he consults the witches as needed. Hawthorne gets help with the worst injured beasts from Crone Hilda or Dame Galiana if he believes a beast will be lost without magic reinforcement.”

Betlic interrupted, “good to know. We often use Rook Ardith’s stable, but I am willing to try Hawthorne’s. I will do my best to arrange for Seth and Gill to have care so I can finalize arrangements for our stock. I expect you will wish to continue our trip soon though it may mean changing out our own mounts for rented ones to see you to Prosperity.”

Betlic took a deep breath and continued, “It would be nice if we could lodge at Running Stag for two nights to make sure the witches can tend all our wounds so they won’t render us useless later. It would grant Dreng and me time to arrange everything, and possibly unload the farm goods to cover our companions and mounts care. If that fails, we can get the process started for Seth and Gill to have everything extra shipped to us once they recover enough to travel home.”

“As I said before, I am already planning on it, Betlic. I stay to visit with Hawthorne whenever I come through here. We’ve made excellent time so we can remain a full two or three days to help you settle things if you wish to continue with me. The witch healers will do more than was available in Cryslatta’s fancy medical guild. Neither of your companions will survive much longer on the road. They both look worse than this morning when Vallin loaded them into the hollow beneath my bench.” Inek explained.

“Thank you. The extra time will allow me to settle things.” Betlic answered as his shoulders began to sag.

Don’t mention it, Betlic. I’d like to help get Equinox Company back on solid ground. I can do some poking around to find buyers for your unwanted farming wares or anything else you and Dreng deem necessary to sell.”

“We cannot thank you enough for caring about our welfare considering Seth’s magic and staff plus Gill’s bow, war hammer, and mace are useless to you, Master Inek.” Marcus replied.

Betlic knew Dreng would be unhappy if Master Inek took over selling their goods. It was a matter of pride to the dwarf that he control the Company’s funds and bartering for supplies. However, Marcus might be onto something equally vital. They would have to convince Dreng to accept aide.

“Equinox’s demon hunters are respected. Your company has done an excellent job of protecting my freight since we met in Cryslatta despite all your injuries. More importantly you’ve done a great service to all traders and merchants across this land for near a decade.”

“It will take time to find the right people to keep it that way. I fear the demons may get a dangerous toehold again thanks to this last job.” Marcus said.

“Shame you were crippled by nefarious folks.” Inek answered in a quieter tone. “The tale of you getting double crossed spreads far and wide. People are getting angry. Equinox Company has earned everyone’s gratitude on the trade lanes. Sunny Vale is fortunate it perished. Cryslatta will feel many a merchant’s wrath soon enough. Assuming I get this particular shipment to Prosperity under the given schedule, I will take control of my family’s business. Once I am in control, I plan to move the family warehouses away from Cryslatta’s tax men’s clutches.”

“Sound plan. Sunny Vale’s chief lied to the Overseer Guild about the number of demons according to Cryslatta’s guild. From what we saw during our time there, I doubt the chief lied.” Marcus growled.

“Twas te poor look’n a haml’t. Fig’r de Crys Guil’ stripp’d em o der coin afor de sent out de ‘quest.”  Lance added. “So Bet n Grump git seed n plow parts te sell af’er we di’ de job. De lies n lack o hon’r is bad der.”

“Agreed, Lance. I smell deception same as you. Had we known we were facing a troop, Betlic, Dreng, and Eldwyn would have brought funds enough to hire extra fighters and still done the cleansing despite the community being so poor. We have company funds set aside to hire extra fighters when we learn about demon numbers that high.” Marcus echoed Betlic’s thoughts.

“I’ve heard said that you do charitable cleansings each year. Few mercenary bands would bother since they don’t profit.” Inek swept blue black hair away from his eyes as he spoke.

Betlic responded through clenched teeth. “Cryslatta’s Overseer’s Guild forced Sunny Vale’s survivors to part with their grain and farming equipment. We did not want their last livelihood goods, but the ten survivors have been put in chains either way. Then the same Guild told us we could not sell anything in their city to add insult to injury.”

“Dey was all fer loot’n dat town. Seem’d to be loot’n ever’ body purses round de city. Din’t find a dec’n size meal whole time we’z der.” Lance added.

Betlic silently agreed with Lance. “The poor need not fear Equinox will refuse aid when demons are haunting their fields and streets. They can speak truth and expect aide no matter their situation. The message must become common knowledge for the day when Equinox has filled it’s roster nigh to forty again.”

“Don’t forget that the Overseer’s Guilds in each City Kingdom sets prices, my friends. The Cryslatta Guild most certainly demanded an impossible fortune of them long before the work came to your attention.” Inek added in a grim tone.

Marcus growled, “which is wrong. Perhaps we should ask the temples and holy orders to inform us of villages in need if they cannot afford to post a cleansing job through their Overseer’s Guild because of the minor kingdoms increasing greed. People could come to us directly if they are strained of purse.”  

“We are fortunate you employed our sorry remnant as guards that we might get home at all.” Betlic interrupted Marcus’s tirade.

Inek waved off the comment. “Equinox badges are the best deterrent for thieves a man can secure for himself. Even injured as your members be, accosting this cargo cart has already proven deadly,” Inek answered in a conspiratorial tone. “Bandits can’t see bandages beneath clothes and maille, but you’ve done your duty better than most whole mercenaries. Plus your loose war steed has shown his fangs, claws, and talons quick enough to ensure the word’s spreading like wildfire to leave my cart alone.”

Squirrel turned into the largest stable complex’s courtyard alongside Inek’s cart. The trader’s words were true enough, but it galled Betlic that his group’s crossed sword and sorcerer staff over a demon’s skull was reduced to a ploy. As dire as some of their injuries were, their clashes with bandits could have resulted in death. He had no chance to say as much as gnomes, elves, and humans came surging forward to take their mounts.

“Where is Master Hawthorne’s Evergreen?” Inek bellowed which brought various stable hands up short. All the hands who stalled were wearing various blue, yellow, burnt orange, forest green, flame red, oak brown, or crimson dominant tunics. Burnt orange with black trim was Ardith Stable’s colors.

Betlic wavered. He knew Rook’s stable hands and prices. Yet he also owed Inek Copperwell his loyalty since he and Eldwyn accepted the emergency job. Master Inek pushed his poor ram head hard to arrive here for Equinox’s sake.

A weathered faced, bandy legged man with salt and pepper hair stalked into the courtyard with employees wearing silver and grass green tunics following at his heels. With a wave to Inek the man snapped orders and gnomes scattered to obey. The middle aged man walked closer to appraise the animals over which he was to take charge.

“Well I see you brought Maple in for a reunion, Inek.” The middle aged stable master called as he sauntered closer. “It isn’t like you to push her so hard that she’s lathered and her sides heaving like this. Your guards look like they’ve near killed their mounts defending your cargo.”

“We’ve two badly injured men laying beneath my bench seat, Thorne. A string of injured cornicuses are being brought in by foot and a beast wagon. They belong to my acquaintances here. They sore need your medical expertise. I believe you’re best able to handle demon tainted wounds.”

“What happened?” Hawthorne demanded as Inek climbed down the ladder steps he rolled out of his cart. Betlic also swung off Squirrel’s back to cling to the saddle until his head stopped spinning. Lance had a hand between his shoulder blades until he steadied.  Lance crowded Betlic’s periphery as he shuffled over to Inek and Evergreen’s Stable Master.

He started evaluating the man who would take care of Equinox’s beasts. Master Hawthorne was perhaps five foot three inches, a big man for the gnome race. His longish face and deep set craggy features did not hide shrewd and concerned glints flashing in the depths of red spoked yellow eyes.

“Captain Betlic Jetren, Lance Bullard, and Sir Marcus Farcrest of Equinox Demon Hunters Company meet Beast and Stable Master Uric Hawthorne of Evergreen Stables.” Inek intoned with a hand flourish.

Hawthorne’s brows beetled as looked up at Betlic and his companions. “Rumors claim Equinox was butchered by a nest of demons. Some say Equinox is done for. But I recognize you three well enough. Same with your cornicuses. Seen them in Rook’s stalls many a times.”

Marcus growled, “try a war troop of sixty odd demons led by several greater demons and your rumors would be true. Equinox Company routed and slaughtered the troop, but paid a heavy price in the doing.”

Inek placed a hand on Hawthorne’s broad shoulder. “Old friend, their beasts have demon tainted wounds, and are in need of a true expert healer. Nineteen bad wounded cornicuses with more heart than I’ve ever witnessed outside of Maple’s. Pressing hard and fast to reach here was the only option Equinox has after enduring the unsavory business that befell them in Cryslatta. These men are proof that heart still drives Equinox. They will rebuild and keep their oaths to save lives.”

Hawthorne heaved a sigh and nodded. He pivoted on his heels and bellowed at his employees, “Get these cornicuses unsaddled and blanketed. Cool them down slow and easy. Get nineteen stalls prepped for emergency wound care. We need long shaft canvas cots to move two severely injured warriors. Move it.���

Betlic put a hand on Marcus’s shoulder to bring him back to a calmer state. “Please forgive our foul moods. We lost dear comrades, and many fine beasts because of lies.”

Hawthorne shoved his index fingers of each hand through belt loops on either side of his waist, and rocked back on his heels. “Wish I could say you were the first having such problems. Cryslatta Kingdom has gone to rot of late.”

As Hawthorne spoke a small gnome girl reached for Squirrel’s reins. She crooned as Squirrel’s long ears swiveled up, down, back, forward, and then down hard against his cheeks. “Go on, Squirrel. Let them take care of you.” The tricorn gave a short horn growl before obeying the unfamiliar stable worker.

Wrath’s talons were digging into the ground and near yanking his stable hand off his feet to get inside the stable.  Epoch, Ginger, and Hobb were moving at slower paces without a fuss.

“Can we get my cart unloaded. I’ve got a live shipment this round, and two near dead men to get to the healers.”

“Yes. But I would like to know what exotic pets your moving before my stable hands go near your cart. Well, Inek?”

“Not pets. Guardian Nagas some sea faring ship captains hired for treasure escort.” Inek protested.

“Only you, Inek.” Hawthorne shook his head. “Saul, Mica, Ox! Get the cage lift and clear space in the second harness room for venomous exotics. Meet me at the North Wall.” Hawthorne gave Maple’s halter a light tug and the lumbering beast began to follow. “Lets get Maple’s cart situated where I can keep an eye on it easier.”

“Thank you, Thorne.” Inek breathed.

“Let us unload Seth and Gill before you take the cart.” Betlic stepped in the way.

“We’ll unload them, Betlic. You’re ready to drop.” Marcus growled as his palm slammed into Betlic’s chest.

“E’s right. Yer wobbl’n so migh’ drop ‘em.” Lance urged.

Rook Ardith startled Betlic by gripping his elbow. “By all the Gods of light it’s good to see you alive, Betlic!”

“We’re with Master Inek this time or I would have called for you, Rook.” Betlic felt compelled to explain.

“I’ll do what I can to help Thorne. You don’t need to worry about it. Most of your stock comes from my pastures and schooling so we will help no matter which stable holds them.” Rook’s lime and gray eyes searched his face. “You look ready to drop, man.”

Betlic turned to watch Lance and Marcus unload Seth as gently as possible. By the time they were out of the wagon the first time, two unrolled canvas carry cots were in place to rest Seth and Gillian’s bodies.

“No nest could have done this much damage to any of you!” Rook snarled as he bent over Seth.

“We were caught unaware by a full demon troop led by five greater immortal demons. Got surrounded and cut to pieces, Rook.” Betlic responded by rote.

“So I heard Marcus bellowing. Foul deeds are happening in Cryslatta these days, Betlic. It wounds my heart to see you ran afoul of the misbegotten curs now in command of that kingdom.”

One of the stable hands came to take Maple around the side of the stables so her cart could be unloaded once Lance and Marcus got Gillian onto the second stretcher.

“I’ll help get them to the witches.” Rook offered as he clasped onto Betlic’s arm even tighter.

A familiar voice cut through the air. “Slow down, Obstinate. Your going to yank Scrapper and Shadow Stalker off their feet you loony fool.”

Hawthorne headed toward the limping beasts. Eldwyn was sitting on the seat beside the team handler instead of riding Breeze. Headbutt was trotting beside Vallin with Dreng in his saddle.

The beast master held himself rigid as he watched the animals bumble closer. As Vallin reached their group, Hawthorne called his employees to take over unloading the beast wagon and walking each cornicus past him. Hawthorne scratched his chin as he appraised their injuries. The stable master’s owlish red spoked yellow eyes missed nothing, going so far as to measure how wide some of the wounds were with splayed hands. He poked his head into the front hatch of the beast hauler for several moments.

Hawthorne returned from his examination.“Some may die no matter all my skill or any others, Mister Jetren. The poison looks to have run deep in the four downed in the wagon. You will lose at least three. They were hit quite hard by foul magic, claws, and fangs it looks like.”

“Indeed. We buried most of our magic users, and fighters who rode them on the old consecrated hill overlooking Sunny Vale while the others tried to reach the medical guild in Cryslatta.” Dreng rasped. “Good to see you, Rook.”

Rook’s hawkish nose lifted as his head tilted at an angle. “Glad you’re still breathing, Dreng. I’m assisting Beast Master Hawthorne here with your animals. It’ll take two stables worth of hands and expertise to put these cornicuses back together. Even pooling our skills, Thorne’s right about some being too far gone.”

“We’re low on funds, Rook. Unless we can get in touch with Aulon and he fast couriers coin, we’re going to have to sell enough excess equipment to afford their care.” Dreng rumbled as he dismounted from Headbutt.

“Muzzle it, old friend.” Rook answered as he clasped Dreng’s forearm. “I know your beasts as well as my kin. Raised and trained almost all of them over the years.”

“Fair. We are deeply shamed over them looking such a sorry mess, Rook.”

“Hard won victories are messy, Dreng.”

Dreng held out his hand, palm facing the sky toward Master Hawthorne. “What say you we discuss the price of getting these poor steeds proper treatment? Names Dreng Ironclasp.”

Hawthorne nodded and gripped Dreng’s meaty forearm. “Beast Master Uric Hawthorne, but my friends all call me Thorne. I’ll give you a good bargain since Rook’s determined to help, Mister Dreng. Never fear Evergreen would gouge your purse. If even a fraction of the new rumors racing along this stretch of road are true, your men were sore cheated and abused by the Guilds in Cryslatta. The adventurers will no doubt make the city’s guilds wish they had done their duty by you once the truth circulates.”

Dreng nodded his assent. “By the beard of the first smith I’ll not deny it. Dreng’s fine, Thorne. Be there any farms around these parts looking for tools of their trade?”

Hawthorne blinked, brows furrowing as he side eyed Dreng. “We’ve farms a plenty in these parts. They keep Clear Brooke’s many kitchens and stables well supplied. Why do you ask?”

Dreng scratched his short trimmed beard. “In the beast wagon are huge packs which Equinox beasts were unfairly carrying. They contain dismantled farming tools, nuts and bolts to assemble them, and a variety of seeds. Such was the poor payment we were forced to accept. We cannot use any of it. I’d see our mounts rid of the weight when they head for home again. Perhaps your local farmers need or desire plow parts, hoes, rakes, and seeds if there still be time for the planting. I’m willing to haggle. Are you willing to work with me?”

“I’ll send for Squire Lister. She’ll know who needs what right enough. Some farms are still sowing crops around here. Will be for another two weeks best I know.” Hawthorne agreed. “Squire Lister does all the major trade and supply ordering for this area, so she can find homes for your wares if anyone can. With Lister’s help, I will give you fair trade, Dreng.”

“Anything which doesn’t sell to Lister, I can inquire about this evening at Hearth Shield’s main lobby.” Master Inek volunteered. “The open market tomorrow might also prove profitable to move weapons and the rest of your excess.”

“Much obliged to you both.” Dreng responded. He shifted to face their gathering team. “I’ll see to things here. Why haven’t you gotten Gill, Seth, and Betlic into beds so they can be looked after? I’ll meet you in Haven’s first long house for food once I get things sorted here.”

Eldwyn huffed, a look of disbelief loosening his jaw. “You can’t . . .”

Betlic gripped the elf’s shoulder and gave a hard shake to silence Eldwyn. The shocked look downgraded several notches but Eldwyn’s passionflower eyes remained wide. “Want us to send you some breakfast while you’re haggling, Dreng?”

Rook spoke up, “a fine idea, Bet. I’ll get things in order with speed so Squire Lister and her men won’t take up too much of Dreng’s time. I’ve enough stable hands to spare three for unpacking under Dreng’s supervision.”

Eldwyn executed a small hop and twist out from under Betlic’s grip and clapped his hands as he settled eyes on the dour looking dwarf. “Many thanks, Rook, and Beat Master Hawthorne. Let’s get Seth and Gill sorted. Dreng can manage with a good hand and face scrubbing before he eats. We’ll send him a hearty meat pie with trimmings as soon as Vallin can place the order.”

“Be sure to take all our saddlebags with you, Long Ears. Be quicker to get clean when I’m done here.” Dreng snapped the saddle bags off his shoulder and hurled them into Eldwyn’s gut.

“You got it it, Grumpy.” Eldwyn joked as he straightened back to full height.

“Vallin, get us a bathing room. You’ve been loping on and off for days. You deserve first bathing rights. See if they have something to soak your feet. Take the twins with you. They can carry our saddle bags to the bathing rooms.” Betlic suggested as he snatched Dreng’s saddle bags out of Eldwyn’s hands to hand over to Kite. He pulled too thicker silver rods from his pouch and then tossed it to Vallin. “Eldwyn, Marcus, Lance, and I will get Gill and Seth settled at Stag, and send for the healers before joining you.”

Inek lifted a hand as if to argue, but Eldwyn gave him a sharp head shake as they bent their heads closer together and whispered to each other.

“Sound plan.” Vallin croaked in his cavernous voice. “Come along twins. We’ve gear to gather.”

Instead of obeying Vallin, Katinka tapped Betlic’s arm. “Bet, don’t forget Rhapsody. Shall I bespell him to be caught easier?”

He glared down at the girl. “First of all, only sworn companions of at least three years get to use my nickname. Secondly; Vallin already has a job for you to complete. So why aren’t you following mine and Vallin’s orders, young lady?”

“I’ve got spell training. And Rhapsody’s dangerous enough to need me to offer my magic to help stop him.” Katinka snapped.

“You aren’t capable of undoing the necessary spells, you little fool. Furthermore you accepted Seth’s offer of training. Your acceptance makes you an Equinox recruit. So do your part and help Kite with the saddle bags.”

One of the Evergreen stable hands stopped beside them. “If you’ve a mount gone feral, Cleric Sedric can catch them for you.”

“Get a grasp on that strawberry dapple roan quadcorn’s hackamore to strip his war saddle to doctor his wounds, and Equinox will be eternally grateful. He’s bespelled by the Justice Templars of Prosperity. You’ll need a cleric familiar with the Order’s spells to undo the enslavement.” Betlic explained.

“If you have the Knight’s amulet, Holy Sedric can work the needed magic. We’ll catch your war steed quick as a blink,” the youthful gnome promised.

“Now there’s a show I’d love to stay and watch.” Eldwyn’s laughing voice merged with a light elbow to Betlic’s injured side.

“Let’s hope Rhapsody doesn’t kill anyone because he’s crazed by pain.” Betlic grumbled as he reached into his jerkin’s inner pocket and withdrew Sir Cliffton’s holy badge. “Will this do?

“Yes, Sedric should be able to make the proper link with this.” The stable boy snatched the necklace and raced around the stable building.

An older stable hand shaking her head stepped closer. “We’ve plenty of experience catching half feral war steeds without partners. I recognize the strawberry dappled bleeding mess near the beast wagon. With Master Rook and Holy Sedric’s help, he will be caught and doctored by midday.”

“Thank you. Rhapsody has saved all of our lives on many occasions. Failing to aide a member of Equinox is breaking our oaths to each another.” Eldwyn spoke while shoving Headbutt’s reins in her hands.

The gnome girl looked dumbfounded as she led the spiral horned pacer into the stables. Dreng was back at the wagon directing a pair of brawny humans to remove the heavy packs and saddles from the beast wagon and stow them into a pair of two wheeled barrows.

Hawthorne was working with three other men and a wheeled contraption involving a net sling to get their fallen animals out. Lightfoot was hanging in the netting. The three men pulled the hoist backwards and began rolling it to the stable doors.

“Let’s get out of their way.” Betlic said while bending over to grab the handles of Seth’s cot.

Rook pushed him aside and grabbed the handles. “Enclave or Stag? You lead the way and we’ll bring the cots, Betlic.”

“Sound plan.” Lance grabbed the other end and with a nod he and Rook lifted at the same speed.

“Stag. It’s closer.” Eldwyn answered as he and Marcus picked up Gillian’s stretcher. With Betlic leading, they wove between buildings to avoid most of the heavy foot traffic. Jaw clenching against intermittent dizziness, Betlic hurried toward the Running Stag Inn.

Although the place resembled a military barracks due to the number of men and women who needed beds each night, Running Stag was divided into rooms housing side by side beds, or different sets of bunks for each room. Some bunk rooms had as many as fourteen beds stacked along both walls. Others had as few as four to six stacked beds. Stag featured a male wing and a female bunk wing.

As they reached the stairs, Matron Matilda Everard pushed open the double doors with help from her youngest son Riley.

“Thank the Elder Gods own light you’re alive, Betlic.” The round cheeked gnome woman gushed while looking around him to see who followed in his wake. “Oh dear me, get the wounded into room six. I’ll send for the witches.” The older woman dry rung her hands on top of her apron. “Clover, fetch linen protectors to room six.”

Matilda’s slender nutmeg haired daughter leapt from behind the counter, yanking two bundles off the long shelves at her back, keys jingling in her apron pocket as she fled down the hall.

“We’re on tight funds this time, Matty. We’ll take one of your ten man bunk quarters if you have any open.”

“Bunk quarters will make it harder to care for your injured, Betlic. They will go in room six unless the Witches decide they need to be housed at the Enclave. Don’t argue.” The portly gnome’s jaw jutted forward as she glared up at him with a pointed finger ready to jab him in the abdomen.

Eldwyn intervened before he could challenge her decision. “We would appreciate it if Riley would request a witch who knows diverse demon venoms, Matty. Cryslatta’s healer guild has naught but pompous wind bags spouting nonsense. They killed several of us before we understood we wasted a fortune trying to save our own lives. We moved fast as possible to get here before the taint kills Gillian and Seth. Betlic’s bad off too. We hope we aren’t already too late.”

Matilda slapped her palms together, “Riley, fetch Crone Nelda. Tell her to bring all her demon cures with her. It’s a dire emergency.” She grabbed the second massive key ring off the side hooks attached to the counter and hurried down the hall before them. “How many do you still need to house beyond Gill and Seth?” Matilda side eyed Eldwyn as she spoke.

“Six more companions total and two recruits. So eight beyond Seth and Gill. One is Vallin. We brought a teen aged orphan girl and her twin brother.” Eldwyn answered as he followed her into the Stag with Gillian’s cot.

“Heard tell all of you were dead three days past. Word is that the Cryslatta Healer’s Hall was shipping out the last of you for burn rites. Fools were claiming Equinox got eradicated by a demon nest. Sounded queer to me since you’ve not lost to a dozen or so demons since nine years past before you got enough magic users signed on.” The buxom woman hustled behind Clover to swing room six’s door wide.

Betlic replied. “We will need time to find new members. If Seth lives, he will have to forge new mage groups into tight teams.”

“Magic flingers are competitive, Betlic. I’ll put Vallin up at Hailwick’s place. They have beds his size seeing as they cater to giants.” Matron Matilda motioned the group into the room.

Betlic had no idea how much coin and rods Dreng would bring in, or whether Aulon could get funds shipped to Clear Brooke with Prosperity’s morning couriers. It felt wrong to ask for special accommodations considering how strapped their funds were at the moment. A side by side bed arrangement was a greater silver rod and two greater silver coins per night. An eight man bunk room was three silver rods and a lesser gold coin per night. To house Vallin was a lesser gold rod and five greater silver coins per night. Even assuming Aulon would go to Grace Manor and collect the funds, it would take at least three to four days by chain stabled cornicus runners for the sum to arrive.

Matilda poked him hard enough he doubled up from pain. “Muzzle your pride, Betlic Jetren. I know you’re good for the funds so I will cover any tabs for you. Bring me the balance whenever you come this way again. Including Hailwick’s fees. The girl you brought can bunk with you in room ten since it has enough beds. Or I’ve got a trundle cot I’ll put in here if you’d rather she keep watch over Seth and Gill which is covered in the rules. You run a tight outfit and always have, so I’ll not worry about her in Equinox quarters.”

“Thanks, Matty. We’re humbled by your good faith. She can sleep in a bunk room with us.” Eldwyn inserted as he passed into the room bearing the head of Gill’s stretcher with Marcus bringing up the rear.

“You were just here with nigh on forty men and women wearing your colors and badge. Your misfortune is one of the foulest things I’ve ever heard tell. Honored Seth might as well be dressed in a blood soaked death shroud. Gill don’t look much better. I’ve no doubt you lot are bandaged under your clothes by the pain on your faces. I see you come through here several times a year injured. But you, Betlic, look the worst. Should put you in here with Seth and Gill on a trundle.”

Rook and Lance settled Seth onto the other bed as Betlic shrugged his broad shoulders and fought down a wince. “I’ll be fine in the bunk room, Matty. Got a lot to get done today so we can pay our accounts off sooner instead of later.”

Rook shook his shaggy head. “You need a bed, Betlic. Eld and Dreng look alert enough to handle things. Trust them.”

Marcus chuckled as he straightened from helping settle Gill. “You know us well, Widow Matty. Same with you, Rook. We sent Vallin to reserve a bathing room at Hickory. Master Inek insists on covering our meals, baths, and our laundry. Once we’re cleaned up, we’ll tend each other’s wounds and eat on our employer’s tab.”

“I was going to send Wulfgar to open tavern tabs for you. So tell me, where’s the sourpuss?” Matron Matilda demanded as she gripped Eldwyn’s sleeve.

“No need for a tab, Matty.” Marcus said. “But, we thank you all the same.”

“Dreng’s with Beast Master Hawthorne bartering farming goods we got stuck with for our clawed up mounts care.” Eldwyn was answering while patting her clenched fist. “Surely you didn’t think demons could kill our favorite grouch?”

Rook stepped close and beckoned Betlic to lean down. “You do know Widow Matty’s sweet on Dreng, don’t you?”

“Everyone knows but Dreng. He can’t see it, Rook.” Bet whispered.

The older cornicus breeder grinned, eyes crinkling with wrinkles. “Why am I not surprised he’s blind, Bet?” He whispered back.

“Never seen a wizard as strong as Honored Seth looking so near dead. Made me wonder if Dreng met a bad end.” Matty pulled back and smoothed her apron down. “Sir Cliffton?”

“Dead on the battlefield, Matty.” Marcus answered.

“Victoria, Handell, and Regina?”

“All ‘em ‘er dead, Wida’. Vallin ‘n Dreng er only ones missin’. De’s fine, jes busy.” Lance answered as he rolled a heavy canvas stretcher around it’s poles for easy carry. “De demons ev’n got Hellion. Ne’er knew I’d see de day she’d die. She wen’ down fight’n. Took ‘er fair share o’ dem’ns wit er.”

Marcus lifted his hand to end Matron Matilda’s interrogation. “Matty, we brought two teenage part trained magic users with us. Seth has decided to train them as a sorcerer and wizardess respectively.”

Matilda swiped her left hand across her face as she absorbed the situation described. “We faced a full war troop led by greater demons and won. The reason Equinox still won is because we’ve gained so much experience fighting nests with well ordered mixed teams. When we arrived at Sunnyvale we were caught between greater demons leading the charge from behind and in front of us. In the end, we killed a full war troop with inferior numbers. Nobody has ever done that before. The only ones not dead are a couple of the greater immortals who managed to escape once Regina and Orva were killed while Seth was drug off Epoch’s back. We found pieces enough to identify Liehdrel, but nobody knows for sure when she got torn apart. We would appreciate it if you would spread the truth to anyone who tells you our company was destroyed by a mere nest of demons, Matty. The truth needs to be shared.”

Matilda shook her head as she bent closer and smoothed back sweat drenched locks from Seth’s brow while contemplating everything revealed.

“Nobody has ever claimed to have killed greater immortals outside old legends. Honor has limits, you fools. Too many died for your lofty ideals.”

Raking his fingers through his thigh length ponytail to pull it across his chest, Eldwyn leaned against the dresser. “Seth, Regina, Liehdrel, Orva, and Abrecan combined forces and did bring down three greater demons. And they were definitely immortals, Matty. The ones to escape were in as bad a shape as Seth and Gill. I’ve never seen so much magic power piggy backed and entwined together to create a single battering ram of force such as I witnessed in Sunnyvale. If we can find more wizards and sorcerers like the ones we lost, we might even turn the tables before demons can slaughter more villages on our side of the borderlands.”

Marcus took up the tale.“He speaks the truth, Widow Matty. I saw the five form a wedge and fight the greater demons while the rest of us fought for our lives against superior numbers. We were surrounded before we understood what was happening. Even if we had known the real numbers in time, none of us can leave helpless villagers to getting tortured and eaten alive. We would have paid extra fighters and still helped Sunnyvale no matter the numbers. Equinox has always put saving lives as our first priority in the Pledge of Companions.”

“We fough’ ‘n won. None ‘zerves at kind a twisted death. Nev’r will let folk die at way if we c’n stop it.” Lance agreed as he took both wound up cloth stretchers in hand.

Matilda shrugged. “Demon hunters see how demons kill first hand. No wonder you survivors become the fiercest yet queerest brained warriors alive. Seems you lot can’t let go the hatreds and heal.”

Lance shook his head. “Twas born in de fringe, near de great’r gates. I seen dem’n kill’n as a yung’n. Can’t ne’er not hear de scream’n when I sleep, Wida.’ Got nuttin’ ta do wit hate. Jes cann’a sleep if’n I don’ try sav’n ‘em all.”

Rook spoke up. “He’s right. One in a hundred survivors become a demon hunter, Matilda. Few survivors can face demons after seeing them kill someone they know.” He pointed out. “It’s why I broadened my training program for fighting cornicuses and diversified into all four breeds instead of only focusing on tricorns and quads. I started breeding knives with the sharpest natural horns I could get my hands on. Started looking for the thickest based low horns I could find for the same reason. What they lack in natural bone armor, they make up for with speed and agility to help keep the magic users alive through evading the worst attacks. I’ve already got the best tricorn and quadcorns around these parts. I’ve redoubled my efforts to get newborn quads gentled enough to fight beside the men and women with guts enough to face demon kind without flinching.”

“I don’t understand, Rook.”

“Equinox’s determination to protect those who cannot hope to save their lives is why I’ve expanded so much over the last ten years. Betlic, Eldwyn, Seth, and Dreng’s starting vision impressed me when I first met them. Their dream isn’t about seeking glory, Matilda. Their objective is ensuring villages don’t continue to vanish from maps. Or get labeled badlands or cursed ground. They were lied to so this massacre is not about pride at all. It is about how much rot is to be found in Cryslatta and how the various Guilds in that kingdom have forsaken all honor. They have forgotten they are separate from the new rulers and their advisors.”

Matilda heaved a sigh. “I’m sorry if I jumped to the wrong conclusion. Let me open bunk room ten and get a trundle rolled in here. I’ll see to it that the witches get to Seth and Gill the moment they arrive. Strip out of your armor as soon as you get in your room, Sir Marcus. No need to wear what’s left of it around town.” Matilda tossed over her shoulder as she headed to the next room.

“Yes, Ma’am,” He answered while following her from the room and deeper into the building’s male wing. Lance headed the opposite direction, toward the front doors with Rook. Eldwyn closed the door behind himself. Betlic leaned against the wall to wait for the witches to arrive.

[vesperlionheart]

Sirens of the Sea, 12, and gaasaku for a friend. If you do it thank you so much

The Spirit of the Oasis - GaaSaku  (5.5K)

There are stories of miracles that are whispered in shadows, behind hands, and over night time campfires because they need to be, and not because they are true or worth believing. Least of these stories are the ones of the oases that bloom for the pure of heart who are most in need of them. Magic carpets, cities of brass, and enchanted flutes were all a poor man’s fantasy and Gaara was no longer a poor man, so there was no use in believing in such stories. 

“You think you’re too good for old Baba’s stories?” Chiyo teased Gaara.”My grandson thought that way too.”

“I’m not going to end up like your grandson,” Gaara grumbled, hating how he had to show his elder such respect when all she did was tease him. 

“That’s what he said too, when I told him about my lover who said the same damn thing,” Chiyo laughed, slapping her knee while her brother fed another log to the fire from beside her, silent as ever. 

Gaara winced, unable to clear his mind of the mental image of old bad Chiyo having someone she could call a lover. It was such a dirty sounding word when she said it. 

“That’s...understandable I suppose,” Gaara forced to grit out.

“You ain’t gonna ask me what my lover did or what happened to ‘em?” Chiyo whined playfully.

Gaara really didn’t want to ask. 

“What happened, elder?”  

But he was a good kid.

Chiyo’s beady black eyes sparkles from underneath the sagging of her skin, heavy with bushy gray brows. “Hey commissioned a friend to map the desert for the brass rider and got that far before the way was no longer for them.”

“What does that mean, baba?” Temari asked. 

Behind Gaara his brother and sister sat on their own mats, drinking from the elder’s stash of wine and gorging themselves on her food. Gaara took only enough to be polite but did not consume. He was the head of his tribe now, he couldn’t afford to piss off an elder. 

“He had received the words of his elder, to travel across the desert, to seek the aid of the brass rider, and follow where it would lead. But with no faith, he relied on his friend the cartographer to map his steps. Without faith he was a lost one, as was my daughter, as was her husband, as was their child, my grandson.”  

Baba Chiyo reached into her sack cloth dress and pulled out the blue powder before throwing it onto the fire, changing the color of the flames and making their burning smell sweeter. Kankuro leaned forward in his seat, excited by the change blue powder produced. It was a simple traveler’s trick, nothing but small science, but to a people without education, Gaara understood how it could seem like magic. 

“It is a sin to seek without faith.”

“It is foolish indeed,” Temari agreed, always the faithful daughter. When the mystics had said the murderer of their mother and not she who was first born would lead their tribe she had bent her head in thanks for the prophecy and never questioned it. She should have hated him but her faith saved him from that life of neglect, so as much as Gaara wanted to sneer and think himself wiser than the superstitious sand witch, he would honor her words and listen. 

“Are we called to seek, wise woman?” Kankuro asked. 

Chiyo cackled and rocked back in her seat while her brother poked at the fire. “Are you destined for greatness, or does the bird long to fly? Which is easier to answer, I ask you?”

“It is a great honor to be so star blessed,” Temari whispered, watching Kankuro with soft eyes and softer thoughts. When she looked to Gaara her softness didn’t lessen and he felt all the safer for it. In the absence of their mother, Temari had been his maternal comfort for all those years. He would not deny her this. 

“Speak of our fate, elder,” Gaara said as he lowered his face to the sand and the ground. He touched it to his fingers and closed his eyes. “I beseech you, speak it.” 

Between them the blue fire crackled and the desert night spun on. Eventually, Chiyo breaks the silence and Gaara knows he is allowed to lift his face to her once more. 

“I will say this then, you own a great and vast land, and on that land you have built up your father’s estate so that is the envy of others, but it yet lacks three things. The first is this, a talking bird who speaks only wisdom, second is the tree that sings prophecies, and third is the golden water from the fountain without end. Come into possession of these three things and you will be made far greater than any that came before you in the tribe of the Wind.” 

“Oh elder, these are grade items indeed, but how would we begin to find them?” Temari asked, already sounding in love with the idea. Gaara stayed quiet, content to honor his sister with whatever she wanted within reason. 

Chiyo waved to the fire and the draft that followed her hand made the flames flicker. “You should travel for three days in the direction of the sun’s birthing, and then you will find a fallen king who has traded his riches for humility. Treat him kindly and he will tell you where to find your three treasures.” 

Gaara glanced sideways at his brother, grimacing at the star struck look in Kankuro’s eyes. Sometimes he was no better than their sister when it came to matters of fate. 

The night grew long and Gaara bid Chiyo and her brother farewell, departing with his siblings back to their tribe and back to their manor. They slept soundly through the night, but the morning had nothing but turmoil for them. 

As luck would have it, Kankuro became obsessed with the idea and in short order packed up and headed out on his adventure to seek his fortune, both for himself and for the family. And for all of Temari’s faith she did not want to risk the life of her brother. She begged Kankuro to reconsider, but the middle child was unswayable. 

“Take your hawk with you,” Gaara instructed. “If he should return to us for any reason we will know you have perished and mourn you properly.”

The suggestion only made Temari more upset but Kankuro gathered up the leathers and hood for his hunting hawk and promised the both of them he would return with enough riches to make them sultans.  

Yet seven days later his hawk returned itself to their garden and the whole house mourned for the loss of the firstborn son. 

“This is the price of faith,” Gaara said to his sister in his anger, only to regret his words hours later once his spirit had cooled. 

He tried to apologize but Temari had locked the doors to her chambers and forbid the servants entry. She kept her doors shut no matter the hour of the day. Gaara ordered her favorite dishes be made, her favorite coffee be brewed, and even burned her favorite spices to coax her out, but his sister was unreachable for days. 

Four days later Gaara had reached the end of his patience and ordered her doors be broken down. He refused to let his sister starve herself and leave him too. She was all he had left and the thought of life without her-

“She’s not here, my lord!” 

Gaara’s thoughts unraveled. “What do you mean?” 

The servant produced a note and bowed low. “She has fled and taken her hunting hawk with her. Mercy, my lord, we did not know.”

Kankuro’s headstone had not been planted yet and already he was to commission a second? The thought turned his blood to ice.

 “Make ready my horse.”   

Gaara rode for a day to the edge of his territory before he saw his sister’s hawk, flying to greet him along the way. In the wild desert he cried aloud, summoning it down so that he could weep over it’s feathers and scream for the audience of his animals. No one could hear him in the desert so he let his heart show. Nowhere else would he be so honest. 

“You have forsaken me, you have gone where I can not!” he cried into the sands for nearly the rest of the day. 

When night fell Gaara noticed his horse had run off and the hawk had disappeared with it, leaving him truly alone. He took shelter under the shade of a rock outpost and rested there. 

The morning came, and with it, thirst. All his food and water had been tied up under his saddle bags, leaving him with nothing more than his shoes and clothes. He had a small bag of money, but in the middle of the desert it was more worthless than dirt. 

“I have wasted too many tears on my family, soon I will join them. If only there would be someone left to miss me.”

Gaara stood and trekked in the direction of his home, not realizing his sense of direction was off.  At the end of the second day he was weak and too tired to rouse himself further, so he took shelter under some more rocks and cried without tears. 

He was the youngest, what were they thinking making him their chief! He had been the only one with enough good sense to resist Chiyo’s silly superstitions and look where that got him; his faithful sister lost, his older brother dead. 

His head swam with exhaustion and dehydration, so when he looked up and saw an oasis growing out of the dead earth he did not believe the sight of it. How silly for his brain to play such a mean trick on him. An oasis would bloom for the faithful in their time of need, the old stories said. 

 Out of all his siblings he had the least faith. What had faith done for Kankuro or Temari? 

But his body felt like something he no longer controlled as he roused himself and staggered towards the mirage, smelling wildflowers and water in the air. His feet touched the stone and then the earth, soaked and wet before he fell onto his knees and plunged his hands into the water, sinking them up to his elbows in the cool pool. He cried aloud, bringing some to his mouth to drink. He turned greedy for the taste of it and gorged himself until he felt like an ocean rested in his belly. 

“Satisfied?”  a voice teased from somewhere behind him. 

Gaara turned, stumbling to see, perched atop one of the rocks, a woman with pale hair, paler skin, and eyes as vibrant as emeralds. Her smile cut her lips into something spellbinding, as Gaara found himself transfixed at the sight of her. 

She laughed at his expression and rolled off the rocks, drifting more than falling. Behind her the long train of her dress trailed, curling with the breeze until she stood in front of him. Gaara felt his throat grow tight as he tried to swallow and keep his eyes off the way a slit in the fabrics cut all the way up to her thigh, showing off leagues of soft flesh. 

“You look even cuter when you’re startled, I think,” she laughed, kneeling down so she was closer to his level. 

Gaara’s eyes kept wavering, too amazed by the curve of her uncovered shoulders and bare arms. He could see so much of her, more than he was used to seeing in a desert landscape where sundeath was as common as thirst. 

She wasn’t human.

“Temptress,” he choked out. “I’ve been seduced into your lair and now you’re going to-to kill me here.”

She blinked in surprise and then burst out laughing, standing suddenly to better grab at her stomach as the mirth of his words shook her shoulders. “Temptress?” she gasped. “I’m not even an angel this time? You must be a heretic of some sort.”

“I know no spring or oasis would open itself for one with my miniscule faith. I am not delusional,” Gaara struggled to answer.  

“I’m not going to eat you, silly heathen.”

“Then you mean to deflower me!” he accused, backing away, face red and warm from the admission.

“A tempting offer, but no. I’m not in the habit of seducing half dead heartbroken boys so you may rest easy, Gaara of the wind tribe, I’m not here to do you any ill.” She swept the train of her dress behind her and dipped low into an old fashioned bow from before bows became reserved for men exclusively. “I am Sakura, and I simply wished to save your life.” 

“Wh-what benefit is there for you to do so?”

“Are you not wealthy?” she teased.

Gaara reached for the pouch of coins and tossed the bag at her feet. It opened and spilled, scattering glittering coins of silver, bronze, and gold. He eyed her warily to see what she would do next.

Sakura sighed and rolled her eyes, tilting her head back to better see the stars. Behind her the short cut of her sunset pink hair shifted, nearly ethereal in how it moved without touching her shoulders.  

“I have no use for your silver, boy, take these back,” she said, motioning with her bare toes to the spilled coins. “I risk so much for far greater rewards, such you could never pay.” 

“What do you want from me then?” Gaara asked, making no move to gather his money pouch. 

“Sit with me among the flowers and talk awhile. In the morning I will send you off with food and water. I swear upon the stars no ill will come to you from me here in this oasis.” 

Gaara hesitated. The creature before him was not human, she was a being of magic and starlight, one who could bloom waters in the desert and command the plants to flower with fruit. Beautiful as she was, Gaara didn’t want to make the mistake of thinking her mediocre. If she was truly a creature from Chiyo’s tales, he needed to show her reverence.

Gaara shifted, folding his legs under him until they were bent. He touched his face to the ground and bowed low. “Great spirit, I thank you for your mercy. I shall do as you bid me.”

“Sakura,” she breathed, chuckling. “Please just call me Sakura. Now stand and join me by the flowers. You must tell me of your quest.” 

Gaara climbed to his feet and saw her hand offered where he could reach and grab it. He hesitated before accepting, and Sakura led him to a natural stone table with benches on either side. A pair of goblets had already been set out with sweet wine and plates overflowing with ripe fruits waited for him.

He sat and told her the story of his sister and brother, about how he wanted to at the very least, find their bodies and bring them back. He told her of Chiyo’s stories, of the talking bird and other treasures. He told her of the Wind Tribe, of his people who were strong and vast. He told her of the prophecies around his birth. He told her of the elders who raised him. He told her of his favorite steed, and hunting bird. He told her of where he ran the fastest and where he meditated. 

Before he could help it, he was spilling all his secrets to her, eager to appease her and win a small smile. She was a creature of magic, maybe even one of the star children. It made sense to appease her like how he appeased Chiyo and the sultan. 

But he never wanted Chiyo to smile at him that much. 

He never wished the sultan to laugh at his stories or ask him more. 

Soon the dawn’s pale light cut open the sky and filled it with color. Sakura stood from their table and he watched her move, marveling at the way she seemed more like water than flesh. 

“Where are you going?” he asked, standing to follow her. She stopped at the edge of her oasis and pointed. 

“I will show you where to go. Three days hard ride from here there will be a humbled king who speak to you. Be kind and listen, for he will tell you what you need to know,” Sakura said. 

“What about you?” Gaara asked.

Sakura smiled coyly and cupped two hands around her lips. She cried out, loud and clear a whistle that cut the desert air in half. A moment later Gaara heard the whinny of his favorite mare. 

“Look, she approaches,” Sakura said of his horse. “And with her she brings Temari’s hunting hawk. Take them both with you.”

“Sakura.” When she didn’t respond Gaara touched her hand, drawing her attention once more. “What will happen to you now?”

“I will go to where I always go. Should you be in need of me again, call out at nightfall and I may just appear.” 

“Promise?”

“Never,” Sakura laughed before she melted under his hand into water foam along with the rest of her oasis. 

Gaara reached for her desperately, trying to gather her up, but the foam dissolved on his fingers and even the scent of her was a memory.  

“Sakura?” he tried calling. Only the wind tickled his face, teasing him as his mare whinnied for his attention. 

After calling and searching, Gaara realized Sakura really was gone and that he had best do as she instructed, so he mounted his mare and turned the horse in the direction of the humbled king. Fed and watered his horse carried him over vast distances until dusk fell and he turned in for the night, taking shelter under the stars. 

He made a fire to fight off the desert cold and ate and drank of his goods. Before the stars could come out he dared one more call to Sakura. 

At first there was nothing. He watched and waited but no oasis bloomed. There were no flowers there was no water and no Sakura. 

“Was it a silly dream?” he wondered aloud.

“Dreams rarely feed us, Gaara,” Sakura teased, sitting down beside him. 

He nearly jumped when her arm brushed his. “Sakura? Wh-what are you doing here? You didn’t come when I called.”

“I am not your servant, young lord,” she teased, batting at his face when he came too close. “I shall come and go as I please. You are lonely, you need company, don’t you?” 

“I am quite lonely out here. Who else would listen to my voice but the wind.” 

“Oh the wind makes horrible conversation, all it talks about is the same dull things.”

Gaara smiled and settled back into place beside the fire. “Will you tell me things tonight?”

“Hmm?” Sakura arched a single brow in question.

“I’m sure I bored you plenty with all my useless chatter. Tell me about yourself this time,” he said. 

Sakura’s smile was coy and teasing. “Oh, you wish to know my secrets, do you?”

“I wish to know more about my friend.”

 Sakura froze, utterly still as her eyes stayed wide, fixed on him. Then her lips moved but there was no sound, no voice to match their shape. Gaara knew what she meant to say.

“Yes, my friend, if you’ll allow it. I could also worship you, but i’m not sure how appropriate that might be if you think me a heathen. But, I think we could be friends if you will allow it.” 

After another moment Sakura stiffly nodded, seeming more human in her hesitance.  “A friend… I don’t think I’ve had one of those in a long while,” Sakura breathed.  “I’ll allow it.” 

Now it was Gaara’s turn to smile and Sakura’s turn to be thrown by the sight of it. “Now, will you tell me more about yourself? Do you have brothers or sisters?” 

“I have neither, or if I did, I do not remember them.” Sakura glanced towards the fire before waving her hand before it. The flames rand higher and thicker, casting long shadows. “It’s been a long time since I could remember my human days.”

“You were human?”

“Once.” 

Sakura waved her hand again and Gaara saw images in the fire begin the manifest. A small girl chased after a golden ball that fell into a hole. She cried and promised anything if only she could have her ball back, as young ones are bound to do. 

The flames shifted until a serpent came along, asking for a favor in return for the retrieval of her golden ball. ‘Anything, anything,’ the child promised. The serpent returned with her ball and promised her it would return for his favor when she came of age. 

The girl returned to her grandmother and learned the arts of her lineage until it was time for her to wed. That is when the serpent returned with his son, a prince who she would wed.

The story was pretty enough to be a fairytale children listened to before bed, but the serpent prince was not the hero he dressed himself to be. Instead of taking the girl as his wife, he took her to his city in the desert and dressed her in jewels before enchanting her along with the rest of the city. 

Before the enchantment could freeze her in place she begged her husband for the reason behind his crimes. He revealed himself to be a wicked creature, a demon long since freed from his ancient seal. The city was his trap, stocked with gold and treasures of the earth and flesh for whoever could find it. 

Many men tried, but the city was made by demon hands and trapped with trickery and evil. No one made it very far into the city before their sins consumed them. Men went mad on the walls, listening to the songs of siren voices. Adventures went insane at the sight of such treasures. The few who made it to the girl’s final resting place saw her on a throne and dripping with jewels. Those who reached for her with lust in their heart were struck dead by her bronz servants. 

And all the blood that ever flowed only fed the demon underneath the city further. 

“Then how are you here?” Gaara asked, looking away from the fire. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” Sakura joked, her shoulders sloped down and heavy. “If you mean the girl in the City of Bronze, well, I can’t speak on that. We’ve all been enchanted not to. See, what happened was-” 

Her voice was cut off, stolen away from her as she gasped aloud and shook her head, side to side. She waved to the fire and it turned blue with magic and then a new picture arose. Gaara saw the city of bronze collapse, crumble into the desert and be no more. 

Sakura breathed heavy and turned her face away. “There are too many sad stories, and I can tell you none of them. Only know that I am here now as real as I can be because of so much blood.” 

Her voice was tired and sad, making Gaara itch to pull her close and comfort her somehow. Whenever his sister was upset he would send her a plate of her favorite candies, or her favorite coffee. She was weak to good food. When his brother was upset he would send him something fine, a new javelin, a trusty steed, a fancy saddle. Kankuro was always cheered up by gifts. 

How could he lift Sakura’s spirits? 

“Is there anything I can do to help?” he pleaded. 

“Tell me a funny story,” Sakura said, glancing towards the fire as the blue flames bled red again, her magic sapped. 

“Have you heard the story of the old woman and the devil?”

“Is this a funny story?” 

“The devil doesn’t win,” he answered.

“Then tell it to me,” Sakura laughed. 

So he did. 

The next day Gaara raced across the desert and at night he summoned Sakura again, and the dined on desert flower win and told more stories. 

The third night Gaara called for her again and Sakura was there, highlighted by the star’s light. 

“Is that the reason you can only come to me at night?” he asked. 

Sakura nodded along. “I borrow the star’s magic to leave and manifest this form. I haven’t been human since oh, since too many years ago, but even before then I knew the secret histories and their languages. I knew how to steal and to siphon and how to borrow the magic left in this world.” 

Something in her words made Gaara pause. “What’s wrong?”

“There’s so little magic left in the world. It’s getting harder and harder to appear each decade. The stars are never changing in their nature, but what of it if there are no hearts to behold their beauty and marvel at their wonder.”

“How does magic work?” 

“How does science work?” Sakura countered instead.

Gaara bristled. “Science makes sense. There is a reason for every reaction. There are formulas and reason.”

“Of course there are. Why is magic any different? I can reach out and touch the very atoms of a creature or object and direct them to the desired change with language. You may use oxygen and fuel and heat to create combustion, but I just excite the log into burning.” 

“If magic is so easy, why is not more prevalent among the people?”

“Did I say it was easy? How many centuries did I have to perfect these wretched words, tell me my friend!” Sakura laughed, clapping. Her hands rang out a sound that echoed in the sky above her, turning the clouds over into thunderheads in the desert. “Oh, but I’d trade it all to be a girl again.”       

“Why can’t you?” Gaara asked. 

“I don’t know the words for such a thing, but maybe one day I will discover them,” she said. “Breaking free from another creature’s enchantment requires knowing the nature of their spell or their true name. Once you know that, you can undo all their magic even if they’re dead or gone from this world.”   

“I’ll free you.” 

Sakura went still. Gaara moved closer and touched her arm, startling her. “No,” she breathed. “There is nothing left to free. That city is nothing but rubble. The bodies all gone. Please, don’t. Be content with this.”

“Do you know how many friends I have in this world?” Gaara argued. “I have you and I have my family. I have traveled and nearly died for my sister and brother. You think I wouldn’t do as much for you?” 

Sakura’s face fall with a soft sadness that made her look so old even if her face was as smooth and youthful as her first day at eighteen. “Sweet friend, please forget me and sleep instead.”

“Sakura I-”

But he was already falling, sliding sideways off the log. Up overhead the stars spun in circles before winking out, one by one by one…..

When he awoke in the morning Gaara roused his mare and led her the rest of the way, discovering the humble king resting under a palm tree. He was kind to the old man and listened to the story of a young boy and then his sister who came through seeking the same thing.

“You must travel there, to the base of that black mountain. There you will hear a great many voices that taunt and cajole you to turn around but you must not, for once your head is turned you will be just another black stone at the foot of the mountain.”   

“Even with inhuman willpower I still might turn around if I’m startled,” Gaara said. “I should probably just stuff my ears full of cotton or pig fat to keep from hearing anything-whoa, man!”

“What brilliance!” the old king exclaimed. “How ingenious-never have I heard such a plan in all my days. You may yet be the one who saves the talking bird for his own. A man of science for the ages, woe to the mystics.”

There was the ghost of a memory in his brain about a conversation he had with...someone about magic and science...but that memory was from so long ago, it wasn’t worth remembering.  

Gaara grimaced at the old man’s volume but didn’t say anything else. Instead he bowed in thanks and did just that. He approached the mountain and heard the first voices, though there were no bodies and, like the king said, the voices could do nothing to him. He stuffed his ears full of cotton until he could hear nothing and then began his trek. 

At the top of the mountain there was a golden cage. He grasped it firmly and pulled until it was free. The bird inside the cage roused from sleep and spoke with the voice of a human, clear and polished. 

“You have pulled me from the mountain. In thanks I will tell you where you may find the golden water and where you will find the singing tree.” 

“That’s all well and good, but I just want to find my sister and brother. Where are their bodies?”

“They have been turned to stone and one stone is as any other, I can not tell. But, I will tell you how to revive them. The water under my cage, take it and sprinkle it on the black stones before you. It was free them from their curse.”

“Like a chemical reaction,” Gaara murmured. 

He moved to do as the bird bid him and the first few stones were transformed back to their human bodies, breathing and alive. They thanked Gaara and praised him even as he ignored them in favor of finding his sister and brother.   

The sun moved across the sky and in time he came to the last two stones who were his dear sister and brother, alive and breathing! He gathered them up in his arms and cried again, too happy to have his dead siblings back from the grave to care about treasures or riches. 

That day the three of them left with the talking bird, the branch of the singing tree, golden water from the fountain, and a small army loyal to the one who freed them.��

In short time Gaara’s fame at the head of the Wind tribe grew. The conquests of his private army turned on tribe into two, and two into four, and four into fifteen, until an entire country looked to him for leadership and wisdom.  

The talking bird was a creature of legend, star crafted from the days of old and knowledgeable of a great many things. With his council Gaara guided his people and grew his tribe into a successful country that eventually swallowed even the sultan’s lands.

And yet the more of his days he spent, the lonlier he became. 

What was he missing?

What couldn’t he remember?

There was something… something he needed to remember. What was it?

“Bird, tell me the thing I seek.” 

“You seek a memory, my sultan,” the enchanted bird sang, flying about in his cage. 

“What is the memory I seek?” 

“One that is forgotten!”

The way the bird laughed provoked Gaara to anger, so he shook the cage to rattle its contents. “Speak, creature, as you are compelled to do, and release me from this pain in my chest.” 

“I am compelled to speak only truth and to answer my master, but the memory will only bring you more grief. Do you wish it, still?” 

The pain in Gaara’s heard was fierce and the only thing he could think of from one day to the next. His sister and brother ruled more than he did by this point, and the only thing his advisors needed him for was an heir. But the thought of marriage made him…

“I need this memory, speak it, bird!” he all but growled. 

“Very well then. Her name is Sakura. I shall tell you how to find her.”