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saintsandsinnersarg · 2 years

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Year 1, Dry Season [2/2]

The clans first death, and more pressing dangers. [Apologies for lateness.]

– The first moon or so of the second half of Truthseeker’s first dry season is relatively uneventful. The clan is approached by another group of cats who seem friendly, but at the Saint’s behest, Truthseeker turns them away.

Abuk discovers some friendly bats who seem to be willing to guide cats through the caves; with their help he ventures into the caverns and discovers a nest of moles. He’s able to catch a few, and brings them back to the clan with his head held high. Fierce especially praises him.

– Awiti, Mosi and Pili’s concerns grow about Opal. One day they go to talk to them in their den, saying that their interrogation is only hurting Baobab; they apologize and decide they should stay away from her in the future. Opal goes on to explain that their entire life they had dedicated themself to finding the truth about this world and the Alusi, and they didn’t mean to get so overzealous. Awiti accepts the apology; Mosi is still paranoid, and Pili is unsure.

– Opal sends Igha out on a quest to find ingredients for a charm to bolster the Saints’ power enough to face down the Alusi. Igha returns a moon later with a bedraggled 6-moon old cat whom they have dubbed Yewande, explaining that he found her after she was orphaned by raptors. Yewande is greatly impressed by Igha and by magic in general, given that they saved their life, and opts to become their apprentice.

– Igha is very excited about this, becoming more involved in clan life as a result; however, Fierce still holds a grudge, especially with how much she talks about her during council meetings.

– Yewande seems to integrate well into the Truthseeker clan. She grows especially close with Baobab, and they often help each other through their nightmares. Jerboa is happy for her sister, but also feels a bit sad that a stranger is better at comforting her sister than she is.

– Perhaps the reason she can't soothe her sister's fears about monsters is that she is one.

– Speaking of Baobab, she has been blessed by the Saints with the wisdom to understand and process what happened to her. Finally coherent once more, she tells Opal the creature she encountered was seemingly a bunch of ancestors, fused together via means unknown. Igha adds that during their quest inside the tunnels, they encountered gigantic piles of bones with words carved on them, which validates Baobab’s words. Opal seems deeply intrigued, and resolves to investigate further.

– Jerboa begins to hang out with Opal and Moonflower more often, deciding to learn how to heal; she seems almost afraid of her own paws these days. One day, she goes wandering out on the territory with Chikondi and comes across the strange cat the Alusi was carrying, from before. Her owner is nowhere in sight, and her wound festers, rot creeping up her limbs. The stranger tries to cringe away when Jerboa appears, but is too weak.

Horrified, Jerboa asks what happened, and the cat explains this is their punishment for trying to run away. Jerboa dashes off, gathers herbs, tends the wound as best as she can, and Chikondi brings her water. They go to check on her a day later, but she’s gone…

– One day, Abuk takes Eri for a walk; he’s been complaining of aching bones more often. Abuk and Eri come across a group of broad flat rocks, perfect for sunning themselves on. Eri settles on with a purr, and just as Abuk is about to join her, the wind changes–and shark catches the scent of fox. A pack of them, red bristling brutes, charges the elder, grabbing him by his tail and slamming him against the stones over and over again; Eri, who is relatively proficient in combat magic, tries to invoke their mushroom consumption ability; but the magic only seems to empower them. Eri is torn to shreds and devoured before Abuk’s eyes, and all shark can do is watch.

Abuk runs home, fear wild in sharks eyes, and is an inconsolable bloody mess. Pili tries its best to gently groom off the blood and console shark, but similar to how shark couldn’t help Chikondi much, Abuk is unresponsive. It isn’t until the suns go down that Abuk finally speaks, shivering as shark explains what happened to Awiti and Pili, who share a moment of hushed whispers and scared looks, before urging Abuk to sleep.

And thus dry season ends, with fear and first death.

-=-

Cats

Opal - 33 moons. Golden and black gem studded cat with a torn ear. they/them. Studious, diligent, dedicated, but strict, blunt, uptight. Feels awkward around Baobab after their discussion with Awiti, Mosi and Pili. Has gifted them a small mouse as an apology, at Awiti’s suggestion.

Awiti - 54 moons. Brown spotted molly with a light underbelly and a clouded tail. she/her. Engaging, tactical, kind, but anxious, distrusting, short-tempered. Has been on edge since the attack, and has been up late at night keeping watch.

Fierce - 42 moons. Small tan tabby cat with smokey eyes. she/her. Active, neat, investigative, but nagging, conceited, fretting. Has been out of camp for longer and longer periods of time, often accompanied by Mosi. Only returns to drop off prey and attend Opal’s council meetings.

Igha - 23 moons. Black and white bi-color cat with a water edged tail. she/he/they. Curious, cunning, relaxed, but unhelpful, lazy, deceptive. Is reignited with passion. Loves being a teacher, and has formed a mentorly bond with Yewande.

Moonflower - 136 moons. Calico cat with a flower crown. any pronouns. Careful, caring, intelligent, but secretive, irritive, low-energy. Despite being shocked at the news of Eri’s death, he has gotten over it quickly.

Mosi - 44 moons. Tan gem-studded tom with heavy scarring. he/him. Protective, hardworking, intelligent, but dramatic, short tempered, paranoiac. Seems to be talking to Fierce more and more now. Doesn’t hang out with his brother as often.

Pili - 44 moons. White gem-studded tom with torn ears. he/it. Energetic, talkative, open, but narcissistic, blunt, overwhelming. Wonders why his brother has been out of camp so much lately. Is preparing to confront Fierce about it.

Abuk - 17 moons. Blue spotted tabby cat with dolphin tail. shark/sharks. Active, empathetic, protective, but rash, stubborn, absentminded. Can be found in Eri’s old nest, sniffling and sobbing. The repeated cracking of bones ring through shark’s mind like a broken record.

Chikondi - 13 moons. Brown torbie cat with a clouded tail. he/they. Excitable, verbose, pleasing, but pesky, egotistical, sensitive. Overheard Fierce talking about their lack of hunting recently. Afterwards, he has an easy catch, and is worried they are disappointing the clan. Debating on whether or not to ask Fierce, Mosi or Pili for lessons.

Baobab - 8 moons. Black molly with white spots and mushrooms. she/her. Dignified, altruistic, empathetic, but uncanny, uncomfortable, neurotic. Shares a nest with Yewande, which has helped her with night terrors. Has started to nibble on her own mushrooms.

Jerboa - 8 moons. Calico molly with mushrooms. she/her. Independent, imaginative, playful, but mean, clumsy, thrill-seeking. Is very somber compared to before, and has taken to pacing around camp. Accidentally bit off a claw whilst grooming.

Yewande - 7 moons. Off-white tortiseshell cat with blue mushrooms and blue eyes. Pleasant, agreeable, well thought, but shy, nervous, and reluctant to share. she/they. Has taken to magic like a fish to water. Whilst working, they have chatted to their mentor about love. Hopes to finish their first charm soon.

-=-

Issues

Apology?

Fierce’s leave.

Danger is imminent.

Vote on these issues here. Joining the discord allows for further delicacy with issues, which you can join here.

#year 1 #update #dry season #khaosmor #saints and sinners

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nyoschief · 3 years

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Heart Of The Darkness

This was a Secret Santa that I never posted for @Nikki!

Rating: Mature Characters: John | KryozGaming/Jaren | SMii7Y, Eddie Gluskin Tags: Outlast, Panic Kisses, Secret Santa Warnings: Violence, Minor Character Death, Creepy Motherfuckers Words: 2,135

It’s only when John turns around, looking as though he’d been in a dozen fights and is still ready for another, that Jaren feels hot tears spill over reddened cheeks.

“I’m sorry, I’m so fuckin’ sorry! Are you okay? I—No, you’re not okay.”

{Read here on AO3}

Three simple words keep Jaren quiet. They repeat like a broken record, a mantra that increases with every blood-curdling scream and fresh wave of iron-laden air that floods the damp room. He’ll return once the exit is clear. Shaky hands flatten against rusted metal, taking comfort in the cool chill as he peers into the gloomy area, straining to see human-shaped demons in the shadows.

“Darling!” a sultry voice crows from the right, singing sweet lullabies.

‘No, fuck, not him.’

Every muscle tightens, lungs clenched and breath held, but frantic eyes refuse to close. Pleading cries respond to unnervingly saccharine words. A dull thump preludes a sobbing groan, hoarse and crying with desperation as nails scrabble against moldy tiles.

“What did I say about keeping your stress levels down? No child can be borne like this.”

The stomach-churning memory of mangled bodies cut apart and sewn together, a mockery of a carrying woman, has Jaren silently gagging, a palm covering his mouth and nails cutting into his cheek.

They should never have come here. ‘Abandoned’ mental asylum, his ass! No power doesn’t mean the crazies inside are gone.

“No, no, no, please, please!”

“I warned you and you didn’t listen!”

A wet squelch spills into the air, Jaren choking at the possibilities. His eyes grow wet, face turned against his torn and muddied sleeve.

“Oh?” the man purrs, a childish laugh bubbling beneath. Jaren freezes, swallowing and peering between the metal slits of the locker. “Have my followers… brought me another bride?”

He’s a deer in headlights, a hare hypnotized by a stoat, a hen frozen in fear of a fox. Fingers twitch, useless when his arms can’t even push the door open.

He has no chance when a body slams against the front, jostling him within. Manic eyes stare back at him, lips pulled into a grin. Can’t breathe, can’t scream, can’t move.

“There you are, dear! The perfect gift after… a terrible tragedy.” Yeah, tragedy. He can only imagine the leftovers, the body slit and covered in gore and blood, still warm. Something metal tracks across the front of the locker. “But don’t worry, I’ll fix you up, make your body a welcoming vessel.”

Voice cracking, he lets out a shaky, “Fuck you.” A crazed laugh echoes through the grotesque room, head thrown back as he smacks the rusty locker. Barely illuminated, he looks like a dirtied man from the mall, covered in blood and grime, bowtie falling off. Palms sweating, Jaren smacks his hands against the door, only for the rattle of metal to trap him within. “Let me out!”

“Nooo, no, no, my love, I can’t let you out in this state, you’ll only hurt yourself!” Blood pounds within his ears, rushing like a torrent, an uncontrollable stream. Jaren slams his fist harder against the metal, the growl in his throat fading into a desperate whine.

He’s not getting out of here alive.

A blade scrapes across the locker, barely glistening in the light shining through the window. Jaren shrinks away, knees buckling, ducking down from the slits in the door. He’d rather not have a scalpel in the eye.

“Now, I don’t want to ruin your perfect body,” he begins, voice dropping with warning, “but I will if you keep fighting me.”

Tongue dead weight, Jaren swallows and scrunches his eyes shut. ‘Where is he?’

“Why would I fight you?”

A coo spills forth, hair standing on end and spine rigid. “Much better, sweetheart,” he hums, taking a step backwards. Metal scrapes again on the locker, hinges squealing and revealing the crazed man’s horrifying appearance. It takes every single ounce of self-restraint to stop from running, hands shaking and gaze darting, searching for an escape route. “Look at you, the perfect vessel, don’t you think?”

Jaren’s stomach twists over itself, tightening up like a knotted rope. A shake to every word, he whispers, “Okay.” His stare lingers on the blade in the other’s raw-knuckled grasp, the weapon raising when he takes a shaky step forth.

“You want this, don’t you? Want to become beautiful, to pave the way for our loving family.”

‘No,’ he thinks, ‘I want to leave with John.’

He refuses to let this psycho know of the other’s presence. Fingers crossing behind his back, Jaren hopes to at least have his body recovered before it’s mutilated beyond recognition like the corpses of earlier.

“Okay…”

The hand against his elbow has him jumping, strung taught and on edge. “Come, my love, I’ll show you the way, the truth…”

Movement catches his eye, moonlight glistening against silver.

Jaren snaps his gaze away, movements slow and steady, gaze tracked onto the blade. He needs to get the weapon away, get the scalpel out of his white-knuckled grasp, so John has a winning chance. They won’t get out of this alive if this fucking maniac still has his weapon.

He stumbles.

The man’s face twists into a grimace and he lunges.

Jaren yelps and finds himself slammed backwards against the wall. His head pulses, skull smacking against the tiles as metal stings at his throat.

“Wait!”

“You scared me, darling, you shouldn’t try to escape like that,” he pants, leaning in closer. Nostrils flared, dark eyes soak in his appearance, leaning closer. His stench alone has Jaren swallowing bile, flinching at the hand caressing his cheek. Shaky hands grab hold of the man’s elbow, struggling to keep him at bay, to squirm his way to freedom. The blade digs into his throat, bringing him to a halt as a strangled cry spills forth. “Maybe it’d be better if I just cut out your voice box. Wives are supposed to be seen, not heard.”

Frantic, Jaren rushes to say, “I’ll be quiet, I’ll be quiet, please, I promise.”

There’s a flicker of movement over the man’s shoulder.

Jaren looks for a moment too long.

“What—”

The man twists in time for a grazed elbow to slam into his unsightly face, flinging him aside.

Jaren jumps away, grabbing his own throat, feeling a thin line of blood beneath his palm.

The stumbling form snaps his head up, scowling and frothing with broiling hatred. “How dare you—”

“How dare me?” John spits, backing up and glancing over a shoulder at Jaren. Upon realizing the other isn’t in immediate danger, he glares at the crazy man and huffs, “Stay the fuck away from him!”

“You can’t come between us!” he shouts, posture menacing and looming. The blade in his hand draws attention like a magnet, dragging their eyes towards it as he flicks the weapon within gnarled fingers.

Jaren flinches when the man steps closer, hip bumping into a table laden with jars of intestines. A whimper slips out, capturing both of their attention for a split second.

John positions himself between them, shoulders hunched and fingers clenched, shielding Jaren. The blade raises. John flinches, balancing on the balls of his feet, teeth clenched and eyes narrowed.

“No, no, nothing is as strong as… as the bond we form—”

A boot slams into the man’s shin, dragging a shriek from raw, bloodied lips. Jaren’s head whips to the side, spotting a door and quickly running towards it. He freezes in the crooked doorframe, looking back, spotting John grappling with the bedraggled man, mouth pulled back into a sneer. The silver scalpel wavers, tip nicking at John’s clothing, held back like a snarling dog.

No warning, the man yanks himself away, pulling his arm free, only to slam the blade downwards.

A scream tears free of Jaren’s hoarse throat, the metal sinking into John’s arm, drinking rich scarlet blood.

Wild eyes scan the room, flicking between the garishly cut body on his right to the mess of broken furniture to his left.

Jaren latches onto a metal rod, breath rapid and uneven, yanking it free from the wooden debris.

No hesitation, he runs closer and swings, a sickening crunch filling the air as it connects with the man’s skull. He tumbles to the side, leaving John scrambling free. When he freezes up again, staring at the blood already dripping from the damage he’d caused, John takes the weapon from him and wastes no time in bringing it down directly on the deranged man’s neck.

He falls to the ground and goes limp. Air slides free from rattling lungs as haunted eyes grow dull.

‘Oh god.’

Jaren hiccups, eyes locking onto John, on the fucking handle still embedded in his bicep. Tears well within green-blue eyes, brows furrowed and lips parted. “Your arm,” he gasps, stepping closer, hands raising, only to freeze when he realizes he doesn’t know what to do.

A yell reverberates through the dusty air, a low growl following, filled with hunger and desperation.

John grabs him by the elbow, already yanking him away. It doesn’t matter where they’re going, as long as John’s with him, they’ll be fine.

They’re red-faced and panting by the time the shouting dies down, inaudible. John shoves them both into a shadowed room and slams the rattling door shut. A metal cabinet serves as the perfect blockade, stopping any unwanted visitors from entering their makeshift safe room.

It’s only when John turns around, looking as though he’d been in a dozen fights and is still ready for another, that Jaren feels hot tears spill over reddened cheeks.

“I’m sorry, I’m so fuckin’ sorry,” he whines, stepping closer and staring through bleary eyes at the weapon still in John’s arm. “Are you okay? I—No, you’re not okay.” Every inch of John is tensed, frozen as he keeps glancing at the door, breathing through his nose. He flinches at the hand on his shoulder, finally meeting Jaren’s watery stare. He’s still ready for a battle, on edge, antsy to keep them both safe. “Fuck, John, your arm, oh god…”

“It’s fine,” he grits out, still standing there with a doctor’s scalpel sticking out of his sleeve, careless of the blood soaking his shirt. Jaren’s instincts are screaming to run, to get away, John’s a threat. But every other part of him is desperate to help, to ease his pain, make him better, and repay his kindness.

Jaren takes hold of his good arm, leading him towards the unsteady table against the wall. “Let’s just… fix it up, yeah? Make it better. We can fix this—” A loud crash from outside has John jolting, pushing himself to his feet, despite Jaren’s attempts to get him seated. “It’s fine, they can’t get in, let me—”

“They’re close—”

“Don’t worry about them—”

“How can I not worry when they’re—”

“You’re bleeding!”

“I can make more blood.”

Fingers snatch hold of greasy hair, snapping John’s gaze towards him for long enough that he can press a desperate kiss against his bloodied mouth. The wildness in his eyes fades, returning to his familiar stare.

Jaren relaxes his hold, eyes flickering to the side.

“You can’t make another you,” he counters.

John licks his lips. “What was that for?”

Jaren backs up, mouth twisting to the side, failing to hide his embarrassment. “You weren’t listening and I—” He swallows. “I’m scared we won’t get out of here and I just—I just wanted to, just once, sorry, I shouldn’t have…” The silence that ensues has Jaren’s fingers itching, staring at the blade which, now that he looks at, isn’t all that deeply embedded into John’s arm. Swallowing, he clears his throat and says, “Let’s get this—”

“Better be more than just once.”

A frown embeds itself on Jaren’s face, blinking at John. He’s met with surprising determination.

He doesn’t even ask before John’s explaining, “We are getting out of here. That better not just have been a once off haha joke.” Jaren doesn’t have a response to that, letting slip a confused little noise followed by an awkward laugh. When he says nothing else, John asks, “You gettin’ this knife outta me or what?”

“Wh—Yes! Yeah, hold on, I…” Jaren fumbles for a moment before shedding his overshirt, figuring it’s cleaner than anything in this place. “Can you—” John grabs hold of the scalpel and yanks it out, a grunt and hiss following. Crimson spurts out, seeping quickly. Jaren gasps and hurries to wrap the fabric around the wound to stop the bleeding. “Fucks’ sake, John.”

A bloodied hand against his chin has Jaren freezing, allowing his head to be tilted upwards until he can meet the other’s gaze. “We’re gonna get out of here,” he states firmly. His hold shifts, resting against the side of Jaren’s face. Warm concern and conviction replace the earlier rage. “We will, I promise.”

The knot of unease wrapped vice-like around Jaren’s heart unwinds, loosened by trust and belief. On his own, no, he wouldn’t believe that, but with John here…

“I know we will.”

#krii7y #kryozgaming #kryoz #smii7y #bbs #writing #fanfiction #outlast #secret santa #nikkitheduck #listen i love horror and stressy times!!!#:D

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themanicmagician · 4 years

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Shipwrecked [1/4]

[AO3]

Summary: When Redd's boat crashes upon the shore of Bastion Island, Tom reluctantly takes him in while he recovers. Tom despises Redd for his past deceit, but when he has no choice but to spend time with him, Tom is reminded why he fell in love with the wily fox in the first place.

The wind blew fiercely enough to rattle the windows. The rainstorm, which had begun as an insignificant drizzle that afternoon, had since evolved into a deluge.

“Oh goodness!” Isabelle’s exclamation was punctuated by a jingling of the bells in her hair. She was peering out the dark window. “Alex is outside in this awful weather!”

Tom followed Isabelle’s gaze. Bastion Island’s resident representative, Alex, tromped across the muddy grass. She wore a raincoat, boots, and hat, and clasped a fishing pole in one hand. She was evidently unbothered by the downpour.

“Oh, we should do something, shouldn’t we? She’ll get awful sick, won’t she?” Isabelle fretted, wringing her paws.

“She’ll be alright.” Tom assured her. Humans were remarkably hardy compared to animals. Even if something did happen, the Cranny was well-stocked with medicine.

Alex soon disappeared from their view. Isabelle returned with reluctance to her desk.

Tom found himself wrapped back up in work in short order. He was overlooking expense reports that’d been submitted to him by Timmy and Tommy. The twins were doing remarkably well handling the shop on their own. His oversight was minimal, and more a formality than anything. But the Nooklings wouldn’t have him out of the loop, and Tom had to confess to himself he didn’t want to give up this last tie to the Cranny. Owning a shop had been a dream of his for so long, it had never truly left him.

A jangling noise broke the peaceful quiet of the office. Isabelle fished out her phone from her pocket. A delighted grin lit up her face.

“Digby!” She flashed a look to Tom. “Do you mind if I…?”

Tom gestured wordlessly for her to go ahead.

Isabelle accepted the call, and spoke rapid-fire back and forth with her brother. Digby had recently switched professions from gatekeeper to a member of the renowned Happy Home Academy, and was evidently eager to apprise his sister of further details.

He watched out of his peripheral vision as Isabelle chatted merrily away, and felt a pang of loneliness. Everyone, it seemed, had someone. Isabelle had Digby. Timmy and Tommy were inseparable. Sabel still had Mabel, even if Label had left to strike out on her own. Tom was an only child, and then an orphan. There had been another, once. Someone he’d thought he could trust, could open his heart to. It hadn’t ended well.

Tom dove back into his paperwork to chase away the melancholia. He was writing a series of calculations in the margins of the Nooklings’ report when the doors to Resident Services banged open.

Tom startled and drew a line through his work. Isabelle yipped, and hurriedly said her goodbyes and hung up on Digby.

Alex and Del were carrying an animal between them. It was a fox, with bedraggled, matted fur, Alex’s jacket thrown over his small shoulders.

“I found him by the dock. His ship was all smashed up on the rocks, I had Del help me get him out.” Alex explained. “I think he’s hurt!”

“Lay him on the table,” Tom ordered. He shoved papers and pen cups off the surface to clear room, uncaring where they landed.

Alex and Del placed him carefully on the table. The fox groaned feebly, but didn’t stir. Up close, there was no mistaking the newcomer: it was Redd. What on earth was he doing here, on a near-deserted island of all places? There was no time at present to think it over.

Tom checked Redd over. The fox was miraculously unhurt, save for his left arm. The limb was twisted at an odd angle.

“Del, get medicine from the Cranny. Alex, we’ll need straight sticks and cloth to set his arm.”

The two darted out to fetch what Tom asked. Isabelle found a towel from somewhere and started drying Redd’s sodden frame.

Tom bent over Redd’s face. He tapped his cheek, trying to rouse him. There was a tight ball of anxiety in Tom’s chest, that wouldn’t abate until Redd stirred to crack some dumb joke.

“Mr. Nook, is this who I think it is?”

“It’s Redd, yes.”

Isabelle’s knowledge of him was scarce. She knew him only as the sketchy merchant who set up a tent on occasion in the plaza of their old town. Tom had not divulged any of their past history to her, in spite of their friendship. Indeed, Sable was the only one of his acquaintance who had full knowledge of the situation, in part because she had witnessed the sad finale. Tom had watched Redd erect his tent in the plaza, peddle his often-fake wares, and scurry off before villagers could come after him with their complaints. At the time Tom had considered intervening, of forcing Redd out of town, but he hadn’t been able to confront the fox directly. Instead, he posted a missive on the town bulletin board, warning villagers not to buy from him. If they chose to be taken in by Redd’s wiles after the fact, that was on them.

“But what could Redd be doing all the way out here?” Isabelle echoed Tom’s earlier thoughts.

“What indeed.” Tom could only imagine. Doubtless some new elaborate scheme of his to swindle more animals out of their hard-earned bells.

“I’m back!” Alex declared, arms full of supplies.

“Excellent.”

Tom aligned the sticks in the proper position, then requested Isabelle and Alex hold the branches still as Tom wound the cloth around them to secure the splint. Redd shifted and whimpered as his broken arm was inevitably jostled, and Tom was glad now that Redd hadn’t awoken earlier.

As they finished splinting Redd’s arm, Del arrived with what looked like eight or nine bags of medicine, all slightly damp from the rain.

“I wasn’t sure how many he’d need.” Del said, dumping the pile out onto the table.

Tom opened up one of the paper bags. Inside was a flask of medicine, stoppered with a cork. Tom tipped Redd’s head up slightly, and trickled the vial down his throat. The fox swallowed reflexively. When Redd drained the flask, Tom set it aside. A stray drop of medicine had landed on Redd’s muzzle. Tom thumbed it away unthinkingly.

“I can take him back to my house,” Alex offered. Tom started, his paw quickly dropped away from Redd’s face. “I have the room.”

“No, thank you. That won’t be necessary. Redd and I are...old acquaintances. I’ll look after him, if you’d help me get him home.”

Alex was a touch bemused, evidently wanting to ask more about their connection, but merely agreed.

“Oh, just a moment!” Isabelle scurried back to her desk. She rooted around the drawers until she produced a folded, unused rain poncho. “So he doesn’t get a chill on top of everything else.”

The poncho was a pink plastic, with daisies printed on it. Redd would absolutely hate it, so Tom took some satisfaction in dressing him in the thing.

Moving Redd was a joint effort. Tom and Alex carried Redd, the latter being careful not to jostle the fox’s bad arm. Isabelle held her green gingham umbrella over them, shielding Redd from the worst of the rain. And Del hurried alongside them with the excess parcels of medicine.

The group made their way to the Cranny. The first floor was where the Nooklings served customers, and they and Tom all lived upstairs on the second level.

Tommy was just locking up the shop as they approached, smothering a yawn with one paw. His eyes widened at the sight of them.

“We’re taking him upstairs.” Tom said.

Tommy nodded and scampered to the side door that led to the second floor. He held the door open, and they carried Redd inside.

The Nook family lived modestly here. They had a quaint living room, connected to a kitchenette. There was a single bathroom, and two bedrooms. One for Tom, and one for the boys. (They shared a bunk bed. Tom frequently heard them through the wall at night, bickering good-naturedly about who got to sleep on the top bunk that evening.)

They deposited Redd on Tom’s bed. As Tom tucked the covers around him, he was struck by how small Redd was. Redd had always been the more angular one of the pair of them, but when they’d first met, Tom had been much younger, and still growing. He’d been a head shorter than the fox, whereas now he was a head taller. Redd hadn’t changed at all. He looked so small and pitiful in Tom’s bed, that an instinctive urge to protect him welled up within Tom. He squashed it.

Del left the medicine piled on the nightstand. After assuring them all he could take it from here—yes, Isabelle, he would call if he needed something, yes, he promised—the villagers left.

“What’s going on?” A small voice piped up. Timmy emerged from the bathroom, dressed in his pajamas, complete with a nightcap that had a dangling pom-pom on the end. He was holding his toothbrush.

“Redd is going to be staying with us for...a little while.” This was absolutely not a long term plan. Tom would shelter and feed Redd while he recovered, because it was the right thing to do. But once Redd was well again, he was being sent back to the mainland—whether he liked it or not.

Tommy went to his usual place at Timmy’s side, and the duo turned their inquisitive eyes upon Tom.

“So is Redd your friend?”

“...friend?”

“No.” Tom denied, a touch more curt than he’d intended. Softer, he explained, “We tried to go into business together, once, when I was very young. It didn’t work out. Our philosophies differed too much.”

Tom had hoped his explanation would curtail any further comments, but, on the contrary, the Nooklings were now nearly vibrating in place with curiosity.

“It’s late. You should both get ready for bed.” Tom said, before they could pepper him with additional questions.

Once Timmy and Tommy were settled in for the night, Tom returned to check on Redd. He had moved some in his sleep, now curled on his uninjured side. He was panting lightly. Tom pressed the back of his paw to Redd’s forehead. He was a little warm, but not alarmingly so.

Tom left him then, assured he’d be alright throughout the night. He stretched out on the living room couch and resigned himself to a bad back the next morning.

~*~

The city was bigger than Tom had dreamed. Buildings towered overhead. Tom craned his neck and still couldn’t see the tops of the skyscrapers. He paused a moment, just to drink it all in.

An eagle bumped into him. The bird squawked, dropping her coffee on the crosswalk.

“What are you doing?” She griped. “You can’t just stop in the middle of the road!”

“Sorry, sorry!” Tom rested his suitcase on the ground and hastily opened it. “I have some bells—I’ll pay you back for it—crap!”

Tom yelped as his business proposal notes were lifted up by the wind, and scattered out of his suitcase. Tom scrambled to snatch them up before they could blow too far away. None of the passersby noticed, or cared. They just kept walking. One deer even left a hoofprint stamped on one of the sheets.

“Ugh, I don’t have time for this!” The eagle complained, and stomped off without her coffee or refund.

“Wait, just a moment—!”

She had already vanished into the throng.

Tom sighed. He stuffed his papers back in his briefcase and pressed on. All he owned was collected in the small case. Two spare sets of clothes, some pencils, his business proposal he’d printed off in the town library, and a sack of 10,500 bells he’d painstakingly scraped together running various errands for his neighbors. He didn’t have much, but he clung to confidence. He had a knack for business, his school teacher had been adamant about it. Tom would make it. Even though the city seemed a bit more...unfriendly...than he’d hoped it would be. He was intelligent, he had good, fresh ideas. He just needed to get himself in front of the right animals to pitch his proposal.

Tom’s stomach growled. First, he needed food. And a place to stay.

The convenience store food was more expensive than he’d anticipated—no way a sandwich would cost 500 bells back home!—so he purchased a peeled orange from a girl selling them outside the store for 15 bells.

Tom polished off the last wedge as he entered the Hollyhock Hotel. A chestnut mare in a dapper suit stood behind the front counter.

“Hi there!” She beamed. Hers was the first friendly face he’d encountered. He wondered if he could count a smile that was paid for. “Welcome to Hollyhock Hotel, sir. How can I help you today?”

“I’d like a room, please.”

“Of course!” Her hooves clacked on the keyboard. “And how many nights will you be staying with us?”

“I’m not sure yet. Could I just go night to night for now?”

“Sure. Let’s see now...I can put you in the Greene Suite, that’s 5,000 bells a night.”

“5,000 bells?!” Tom squeaked. He’d be broke within three days! “D-Do you have anything more affordable?”

Further keyboard clattering. She grimaced. “The best we could do is the Acorn Suite, that’s 3,500 a night, but it’s rather cramped.”

Tom gulped. He thought he’d stay in a hotel as he got acquainted with the city, and then in time find an apartment to move into. Now the first step of his journey seemed impossible.

The horse eyed him. “New in town, are you?”

Tom flushed. Was he so obvious? His jacket sleeves were short, stopping two whole inches above his wrists; he hadn’t had the opportunity to buy new clothes in some time, and he’d been too proud to ask Sable to sew scraps onto the ends of the sleeves. He tugged the hem of his sleeve down self-consciously.

She sighed. “Look. Things are pretty pricey here. You��d have better luck further downtown. Past 10th, I’d say.”

“Thank you,” He said politely, and turned to leave.

“Wait!” She called. He turned back. “Just...be careful, alright? That area can be a little rough. They’ll be able to tell you’re an out-of-towner with one look. Don’t go trusting any suspicious characters, alright?”

Tom nodded, and left.

He was on 50th street now. He wasn’t sure if he could afford a cab, or even the proper method of hiring one, so he walked.

It took ages. The streetlights were never in his favor. He’d cross one block and get held up at the next, over and over and over.

An hour later, the sun was starting to set, turning the skyline orange and pink. His feet and legs were stiff, and his arm ached from carrying his briefcase for so long. But, at long last, he had made it down to 10th street. The differences to uptown were stark. The crush of animals had thinned out to near nothing. The pavement was cracked and potholed. More stores were boarded up than open for business. Disheveled-looking animals slept on top of heating vents.

Tom squared his shoulders, and continued on. It wasn’t until 6th street that he caught sight of a potential lead: a motel. The ‘t’ was burnt out on the sign, but the vacancy marker beneath it was lit.

The front door was half off its hinge, the window cracked. Tom eased it open dubiously. Inside he spotted a sallow-looking pig, bickering with a fox. The fox looked out of place here. His red fur was neat and shiny, and he wore a freshly-pressed black blazer. He was slouched over the counter with an easy confidence.

“No, no, no. It’s a good way to get me in trouble.”

“You’re overthinking it. It’s simple, Cobb, really. All you’ve got to do is bet on the other fellow. We split the profits 30/70. It’s easy money, cousin.”

The pig—Cobb, evidently—caught sight of Tom.

“You checking in?” He bellowed, leaning to look past the fox.

The fox turned to face him, and Tom saw then that the fox wasn’t wearing a shirt underneath his blazer. It was half-buttoned from the bottom, the top gaping open to reveal the fox’s chest.

The fox saw him looking. Tom went scarlet.

He smirked. “What’s your name, pretty?”

“I-It’s Thomas. Nook.”

“What are you doing here, Tom?” The fox purred, slinking closer. “This dinky den doesn’t seem your style.”

“I’m looking for a room to stay in while I look for an apartment.”

Cobb opened his mouth to talk, but the fox was faster.

“Why not come stay with me for a while, instead? Just until you get on your feet. I won’t charge a single bell.”

Tom shot him a look of heavy skepticism.

“What, I’m supposed to believe you’d help me, a complete stranger, out of the goodness of your heart?”

Cobb snorted. “Goodness, now that’s a joke…” He muttered.

The fox’s grin widened; evidently, he liked being challenged.

“I wouldn’t extend such a generous offer to any old stranger, no. But I can tell who you are with one look. You’re fresh in town, flat broke, and clueless about how the city runs. But you’ve got ambition, I can smell it. I was like you once. I want to help you, to, what’s the expression? Pay it forward. Plus, Cobb doesn’t even have hot water.”

“Oi!” Cobb protested.

“So, what do you say?” The fox extended his paw.

After a moment of deliberation, Tom reached out and shook it.

“Right, we’re off then! Think about what I said, Cobb.” The fox held fast to Tom’s hand, and tugged him back out onto the city streets.

“Wait,” Tom was tripping to keep pace with the fox’s longer strides. “I don’t even know your name.”

“It’s Redd. Just Redd.”

~*~

Tom awoke to the jangle of his phone ringtone. He blearily crammed his paws between the couch cushions, searching for the infernal device. It must’ve fallen out of his pocket during the night.

He found it, and squinted at the screen, which was overbright in the darkness. It was 5:52 a.m., and Blathers was calling.

“Yes?” Tom answered him, tiredly.

“Tom, you simply will not believe the evening I have had—in Bastion, of all places! Who would have thought it! I am ever so grateful you coaxed me out here, old friend, I simply must—”

“Blathers.”

“Right! Right. Alex stopped by last evening, told me all about our new guest. She wrangled some of the villagers together afterwards to search the boat wreckage. There was—Tom, you simply must see it all, you must! You need to resist that unceasing urge to work and spend a visit. There was a veritable treasure trove inside the ship. Priceless artwork. The majority of the paintings, unfortunately, were water-damaged. I am doing my utmost to repair them—I don’t think I’ll even catch a wink of sleep today, hoo-hoo! But the statues, they fared much better. They’re in near-perfect condition, all of them! I wonder if our guest may be persuaded to part with them. For the museum, of course! Though I would like nothing less than to add these pieces to my personal collection...”

Tom mentally sifted through the dump of information Blathers had bestowed upon him. Blathers was a smart owl, with a ludicrous amount of degrees. If he was coveting the art, it couldn’t be fake.

“You’re saying all the art is authentic?”

“The statues are, most assuredly. Indeed, I wonder how our guest managed to obtain them all. They must have cost a fortune. Alas, the paintings have been marred. It’s impossible for me to say with one hundred percent certainty, but to my eye the paintings appear to be authentic as well.”

This was rather unusual for Redd. Not the art and artifact scheme, he’d been pulling that for years. But almost always he sold animals nothing but forgeries and fakes. On the very rare occasion he sold a genuine piece, inevitably within months the true owner came to town to reclaim their stolen artwork. It was baffling, but Tom pushed down his curiosity. It didn’t matter to him what new scheme Redd had devised. Tom was not going to get involved in any capacity.

Tom thanked Blathers for his information, and said his goodbyes before Blathers could keep him on the line for an hour. He sat up, and winced. His back was definitely sore from a night on the couch. Isabelle had gotten him into yoga lately, so he stood to perform a few basic stretches. His routine was interrupted by a thud from his bedroom: Redd.

Tom hurried into the room. Redd had fallen from the bed in a tangle of sheets. Had he tried to get out of bed on his own?

“Owch,” He grumbled, rubbing the back of his head with his good arm. He looked up, and spotted Tom. Redd’s mouth curved into a too-familiar smirk. “Just couldn’t wait to get me in your bed, eh Tom?”

#reddnook #tom nook #redd #animal crossing #animal crossing new horizons #ac #tom/redd #my fic #enjoy #not my most polished fic #this is just some fluffy romance/drama

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damienthepious · 4 years

Text

i’m going to instruct you, right now, bplease listen to the podcast Inn Between and then maybe read this fic lmao

the dragon had really good penmanship

[ao3]

Fandom: Inn Between

Relationship: n/a

Characters: Princess Marie, Lydda, Seri, Min

Additional Tags: Character Study, Canon Compliant, (wrote this because i'm obsessed with marie basically she's so INTERESTING as a CHARACTER), (Mentions of canon violence), (implications of marie still bein' a bit... dragon-y), Friendship

Summary: Three little girls are in the dungeon. One little girl awaits the throne. None are free, just yet.

Notes: Title from the song Dragon, by Breathe Owl Breathe

Marie is thirteen, and she knows many things. She has been stolen, and cursed, and orphaned. She knows the taste of char, the feel of magic fire between her teeth. Her tutor says her skill for brewing poisons is remarkably promising, she knows two languages well besides her native tongue, and is studying a third. Her penmanship is impeccable. She knows what her own body looks like, with an ax embedded in her neck. She knows that Seri still wakes calling out for her father, most nights.

Marie is thirteen, and so is Lydda. Lydda, who knows many things of her own. Strange things, like how to predict the day’s weather by the sight of the clouds and the direction of the wind. Lydda, who is polite but speaks her mind regardless, who writes nearly as well in common as Marie does, who purses her lips and squints when she’s unsure, who can scoop her youngest sister into a piggyback without needing to look at her to do it.

Lydda, thrown into the dungeon with her sisters because Marie’s father is so steeped in fear that it is the only tool he still understands how to use. Marie knows that this is not her fault. The choices her father makes are not her own. She knows she has no true power, here. Marie knows, also, that guilt doesn't always follow logical paths.

There are some words, Marie now knows, that can only be passed in whispers, passed above hands clasped between the cold interruption of iron bars.

Lydda has freckles, a scattering of even darker skin across the bridge of her nose, her cheeks, her shoulders. Most of the nobles wear such thick layers of cosmetic that Marie isn’t sure she would even know if they had such marks. Marie has no freckles of her own. She does, on occasion, still feel markings on her skin, however. When the nights are dark, when she shakes with fury, she feels (or thinks she feels) the tightening of her skin, the rippling echo of scales, too familiar and too strange.

Lydda's freckles fade, the longer she and her sisters remain in the dark of the dungeons. Time shows its passing in strange ways. Lydda's freckles fade, and Marie imagines her former scales more and more often.

It isn’t that Marie is ungrateful, for having been twice-saved from her curse. The adventurers brought her home, and then they returned her to her own true form. She will remember that. She will never forget that debt, nor the debt that follows- her father’s knife-twist betrayal, the way he sent them away again-

Not Marie's fault, not Marie's mistakes. Guilt does not follow logical paths.

She does not think the adventurers know that they were never meant to win against the Bone King. She does not think they know that they were meant to be a distraction, the battering ram at the front gate to draw eyes away from the passages in the back, where her father’s own forces were meant to slip in like the fox into the coop.

(This is not a simile she would have been likely to use, before Lydda. It is not as if the castle is overwhelmed with foxes.)

It almost makes the betrayal worse, she thinks. Twice, the adventurers saved her. Twice they were betrayed. The false quest, and then-

The sisters. Stolen, held in trust. And then (as if merely keeping innocents as collateral were not cruel enough), then came the coup, and the dungeon.

It isn’t that Marie is ungrateful. It truly isn’t. But Marie thinks, perhaps, that if it just so happened that she were still under the curse- well.

No one would have dared attempt to behead the father of a dragon. She could have turned Lord Denetrah into nothing more than bone and ash.

Min always flinches from the rats that scramble along the edges of the cell, and Seri asks each day for news of their brother, her voice so very small and so very brave, and Lydda’s eyes are as tired as Marie feels, and Marie remembers what it was like to have claws. Remembers fire in her lungs. Remembers enormity, of both feelings and form. If she pulled the proper strings with the right degree of care, Marie could have Denetrah as dead as her father within the day, but it would not solve the true problem.

(It would not be as satisfying as the taste of the fire.)

Nor, Marie knows, would it guarantee the sisters' freedom.

They are as worthy as any princess, Marie thinks. She thinks this rather often. Lydda only ever stands like a rampart, noble and upright and still with the flash of humor in her eyes, despite the exhaustion, despite the weight of responsibility that Marie recognizes on her shoulders. Seri nearly thrums with excitement with each new book Marie smuggles in, her delight at the new stories nearly as vibrant as her relief at the distraction from her captivity. Min's laugh (rarer and rarer still) bounces and squeaks, echoing through the hollow stone chambers, far beneath Marie's home.

Marie knows they are her subjects, deserving of safety and freedom in her kingdom. Marie knows, in a way that feels much more urgent, that they are her friends, and she wants to see them safe, and free.

She burns with waiting, despising the way Lydda's freckles nearly disappear entirely in the gray of the dungeons, but Marie is patient. She knows which strings need plucking, and she knows when, exactly, the right time is to pluck.

The adventurers return, triumphant and bedraggled, and are turned summarily away, and in the dark of night Marie pulls on a too-large cloak, and pulls open the old servants' passageways.

Marie knows many things, and Lydda knows many things, and their areas of knowledge barely seem to overlap at all. Marie is fond of that fact, because it means that they always seem to have something to teach each other.

Marie teaches Lydda, Seri, and Min how to cross her city, silent and unseen.

Lydda, Seri, and Min teach Marie exactly what a reunion looks like, in a family built on love.

It is nearly dawn, when they finally part. Marie cannot afford to be discovered, of course, and it is only a small pain that she cannot say her goodbyes to the sisters in the daylight, or in anything but a furtive whisper.

Min, earnest and unselfconscious, throws her arms around Marie in the sort of hug she is unsure she has ever shared, before. Lydda laughs at Marie's surprise, not unpleasantly, and then she and Seri fold around her as well.

One last lesson, before they part.

It is better, wiser, that the sisters will be far from the city, now. It is unsafe, here. Marie stays because Marie has no choice. Because to abandon her throne is- unthinkable. Marie is thirteen, and she knows her duty, knows her responsibility. Helping Lydda and Min and Seri escape this place reminds her of that, in a way. Her father was always so afraid, and so angry. Lord Denetrah is worse.

Marie thinks that there is something, perhaps, to the idea of being afraid when one is a ruler, though not in the fashion of her predecessors. She is afraid often, though she is not the sort to dwell. Marie hopes that when it is her turn to rule, her fears will be noble. She hopes that she will still hold close to the fear of disappointing the people who rely on her. She hopes that her rage will be noble, too. Her own little dragon-fire, under her own control, this time. She hopes she will not rule like those who rule now, like those who ruled before.

It is safer for Lydda and her sisters to be far away, though Marie will miss them dearly.

Lydda will write, however. Lydda will write, and Marie still has people enough that she trusts in these walls. Lord Denetrah pays little attention to the servants and chefs and such help, but Marie knows them. Knows the servants passageways in all the castle, not only in her room, and she knows other secret places as well. She knows which of her handmaidens are loyal, which will help, and she knows her missives and the ones she receives in return will be passed without interference.

Marie writes the first of these letters by firelight, careful and precise with the familiarity of flames making her brave.

She does not write of her fears. She does not write of Lord Denetrah, except to mock him with all the attention of a roll of the eyes and away. She does not write of her guilt, for sending Lydda’s brother away from her again, of sending her family away to help restore her own. Lydda knows all of it already, regardless. It is better, to leave certain things unwritten.

Marie writes of small things. She writes of the way the city sounds from above. She asks if Seri has finished her latest book. She writes of the new inks her tutor gave her to practice with, and she sends some to share. She nearly asks if Lydda's freckles are returning in the sun, but this page she removes, and rewrites. She asks Lydda when the next rains will come, instead.

Marie’s penmanship is impeccable, but when she receives Lydda's first reply, Marie cannot help but think that Lydda’s quick and tidy scrawl is so, so much more beautiful.

She refolds the letter, careful as if holding a recently sharpened blade, and then she tucks the parchment in behind the false brick beside the hearth, in among all her most valuable secrets, the most coveted jewel in her hoard.

#elle's fanfic #inn between #princess marie #lydda innbetween #seri innbetween #min innbetween #shrug!!! shrug!!!!!!

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mistress-audios-babies · 4 years

Text

Elijah Phillip Rizzo (Gang 1)

Basic Character Questions

First name?: Elijah.

Surname?: Rizzo.

Middle names?: Philip.

Nicknames: Eli, Ja Ja, Italian Sherlock, Eagle.

Date of birth?: 30 May 1986.

Age?: 34.

Physical / Appearance

Height?: 158cm.

Weight?: 84kg.

Build?: Slightly toned but mostly average.

Hair colour?: Black with some grey patches.

Hair style?: Hugh Grant style.

Eye colour?: Cognac.

Eye Shape?: Hooded.

Glasses or contact lenses?: Glasses.

Distinguishing facial features?: Defined cheek bones. Inverted triangle shape. Facial hair.

Which facial feature is most prominent?: Cheek bones.

Which bodily feature is most prominent?: His limp.

Other distinguishing features?: Scars on his face/hands/torso/legs. Right glass eye. Missing fingers.

Skin?: Scars. Brown skin tone. Rough.

Hands?: Missing fingers. Paler palms. Palm scars.

Scars?: Scars on his face/hands/legs/torso.

Birthmarks?: Pinkish patch on back of neck.

Tattoos?: Detailed compass on the inside of his left wrist (coloured).

Physical handicaps?: Limp. Missing fingers. Glass eye.

Type of clothes?: On job: Charcoal twill storm system bespoke car coat. White dress shirt. Black dress pants. Pinstripe tie. Black fedora with feather. Comfortable black leather boots. Black silk gloves. Christian cross necklace. Silice.

How do they wear their clothes?: They dress neatly in public, especially in work, but is more casual at home, most times looking bedraggled from the constant stress.

What are their feet like? (type of shoes, state of shoes, socks, feet, pristine, dirty, worn, etc): Comfortable black leather boots while in public. Plain white socks while home. Boots worn but sturdy. He has multiple of the same type of boots. Feet leathery, perpetually sore.

Race / Ethnicity?: Italian.

Mannerisms?: Has Australian colloquialisms and slight Australian accent, but mostly Italian. Dark sense of humour. Mostly stoic. Slight stutter. Sometimes cannot think of English words.

Are they in good health?: They have high blood pressure, and PTSD.

Do they have any disabilities?: Limp. Missing eye. Missing fingers. High blood pressure. PTSD.

Personality

What words or phrases do they overuse?: General army sayings mostly.

Do they have a catchphrase?: Houston, that’s your problem.

Are they more optimistic or pessimistic?: They struggle to remain optimistic, but tries to be.

Are they introverted or extroverted?: Introverted mainly. Somewhat of a shut-in.

Do they ever put on airs?: He vents when he drinks, and so he avoids drinking until he feels he cannot take it any longer.

What bad habits do they have?: Smoking. Swearing in inappropriate situations. Putting his cigarette between his fingers to create a makeshift middle finger. Joking in inappropriate situations.

What makes them laugh out loud?: His humour runs between overly childish to darkly mature.

How do they display affection?: Small physical gestures, like squeezing hands.

Mental handicaps?: PTSD. Depression.

How do they want to be seen by others?: A mix of the silent and strong and a positive influence.

How do they see themselves?: He sees himself as made of darkness, and he doesn’t want anyone else to see this. He desperately wants to regain the happy-go-lucky person he was before his army stint, and so tries to be as optimistic as he possibly can.

How are they seen by others?: Cold and formulaic. Stoic. Emotionally aloof. Unpleasant yet strangely infectious.

Strongest character trait?: His problem solving and ability to put aside emotions for facts.

Weakest character trait?: His desperation to remain optimistic that can get in the way of remaining in the moment.

How competitive are they?: He generally lets his actions and work speak for themselves rather than asserting for validation.

Do they make snap judgements or take time to consider?: Take time with his work, but is prone to snap decisions outside of work.

How do they react to praise?: They remain stoic on the outside but inwardly love it.

How do they react to criticism?: They remain stoic again, and usually has a smoke afterwards to ponder it.

What is their greatest fear?: Anything happening to his family, or Private.

What are their biggest secrets?: He never killed anyone in combat.

What is their philosophy of life?: No matter the blackness in your soul, only put out light into the world.

When was the last time they cried?: The last time he drank, which was months ago.

What haunts them?: His time on the battlefield.

What are their political views?: Generally middle-based, more left leaning.

What will they stand up for?: Everyone’s right to justice.

Who do they quote?: His drill Sargent.

Are they indoorsy or outdoorsy?: More indoorsy.

What is their sinful little habit?: Smoking.

What sense do they most rely on?: Touch and smell.

How do they treat people better than them?: He treats everyone with equal respect, except for people who hurt others in any way.

How do they treat people worse than them?: He treats everyone with equal respect, except for people who hurt others in any way.

What quality do they most value in a friend?: Honesty and compassion.

What do they consider an overrated virtue?: Courage. Courage disabled him.

If they could change one thing about themselves, what would it be?: His need for approval of his character.

What is their obsession?: Cartoons.

What are their pet peeves?: Needless negativity.

What are their idiosyncrasies?: Rising early. Constant tidiness. Perpetual attention. Always at attention in some way. Self-flagellation.

Friends and Family

Is their family big or small? Who does it consist of?: Big family, but only he, his parents and three younger siblings immigrated to Australia. His mother, his father, two younger sisters, and a younger brother.

What is their perception of family?: He makes an effort to keep in contact with them all, and he has a very good relationship with them all. His family are the ones that mean most to him.

Do they have siblings? Older or younger?: Two younger sisters and a younger brother (Bella, Luna, and Mattia).

Describe their best friend.: He doesn’t have one yet.

Ideal best friend?: One who can make him feel happy, not just exude it. One who will stand by him through everything. One who he can trust and rely on. One that makes him comfortable to be himself.

Describe their other friends.: Right now he only has work friends, and they are mainly surface level.

Describe their acquaintances: He considers baristas at local coffee shops to be his acquaintances as they are some of the only people he sees on a regular basis other than work friends.

Do they have any pets?: He has a blond fox terrier named Private.

Who are their natural allies?: His colleagues.

Who are their surprising allies?: The people he works for.

Past and Future

What was your character like as a baby? As a child?: He was a giggly ball of energy for the longest time. He matured once he got to high school, especially once they immigrated to Australia, as he saw himself responsible of getting his baby sister through the ordeal, who was the only sibling he had at the time.

Did they grow up rich or poor?: They were fairly well off, not breaching either term.

Did they grow up nurtured or neglected?: There was no neglect nor abuse, but they weren’t particularly sheltered.

What is the most offensive thing they ever said?: He developed quite a degrading sense of humour in the army, and would constantly say discriminatory things to everyone he deemed beneath him. He grew out of this.

What is their greatest achievement?: Obtaining his Associate Degree in Criminology.

What was their first kiss like?: He had his first kiss while on a movie date with his then girlfriend, it started as nervous and shaky, but evolved into a make out session filled with passion.

What is the worst thing they did to someone they loved?: After returning home after his deployment, he hit his girlfriend while having a flashback, and the relationship ended up terminating as his aggression was too much for her to handle. This is why he tries so hard to be better now.

What are their ambitions?: At this point in his life, he doesn’t aspire to be anymore than what he already is. All he desires to do is to get through life as best he can.

What advice would they give their younger self?: Don’t be a hero.

What smells remind them of their childhood?: The smell of spaghetti cooking and the smell of rain in the winter.

What was their childhood ambition?: To be like those heroes he saw on tv, to really make a difference in the world like they did.

What is their best childhood memory?: Coming home from school everyday to his baby sister being so excited to see him, and getting to play with her and be almost as much a parent as their actual parents were.

What is their worst childhood memory?: Learning what death was when he found out his favourite teacher had been murdered by her ex wife. This started his interest in forensics and justice.

Did they have an imaginary childhood friend?: It was more like he pretended actual objects were people and he had a rock collection he acted was his fan club for when he was a big hero in the future.

When was the last time they were crushed with disappointment?: When his relationship ended up terminating a few months ago.

What past act are they most ashamed of?: The night his fiancée left him, when he had gotten outrageously drunk and had broken down, throwing things around the room and trashing their flat, screaming for Reggie to duck. He had thrown a vase at her and had cut her badly, and she packed her things and left him, leaving him to wake in the morning on the floor with a trashed flat, and his fiancée gone with no recollection of what happened apart from a voice message she had left him at a pay phone. This was the last time he drank.

What past act are they most proud of?: As much as he regrets it, he is proud of taking the brunt of the explosion for his mate Reggie on the battlefield. They were sneaking past enemy lines to try and free some Iraqi girls they had befriended, and in doing so they had been target for concentrated attack. But while he is proud of his actions and showing of morale, he is also ashamed that they had captured Reggie, thus making his actions basically nought. He never saw him again, and the only way he wasn’t captured as well was the girls dragging him to safety. For all he knows Reggie is still being held prisoner.

Has anyone ever saved their life?: The Iraqi girls who dragged him to safety when he and Reggie had gone to rescue them. And plenty of his mates had taken literal bullets for him during their deployment.

Strongest childhood memory?: Immigrating to Australia. He remembers being woken up late at night to be told his father had been told to station there with the Carabinieri, and he remembers excitedly packing his things with drooping, sleepy eyes, wondering about the new possibilities he would be faced with. He remembers being able to sit first class on their way over, eating his first croissant (it was filled with gooey chocolate and topped with sweet raspberries). He remembers being carried to their new temporary accommodations after not sleeping the whole trip over, and then proceeding to sleep for a straight 16 hours.

Love

Do they believe in love at first sight?: Not particularly; he feels there needs to be an intimate connection beforehand for the love to actually be meaningful.

Are they in a relationship?: He recently broke up with fiancée, and is looking more for companionship rather than an actual relationship.

What is their sexuality?: He’s not really sure; he’s had girlfriends before, but he feels he like men as well. He’s not overtly sexual (he does have sex and will passionately do so when in the moment, but his libido is low at all other times).

How do they behave in a relationship?: He finds himself acting rather awkwardly no matter how long he has been with the person, and he behaves pleasantly until he’s been drinking, which is a major problem for him that he is now trying to fix by not touching the stuff.

When did you character last have sex?: He picked up a stripper from a local bar not long after his breakup and took them to his flat to pay them for their trouble.

What sort of sex do they have?: It’s usually rough and violent. It’s what could be considered orthodox.

Has your character ever been in love?: He considered himself to have been, but he sometimes wonders, if he really had been, why had he ended up hurting them? He hadn’t wanted to, but why did it take just drinking for that to come out? It must have been waiting under the surface. He hates himself for this.

Have they ever had their heart broken?: His first girlfriend had been told by her parents to break up with him as they didn’t want her to be around him. He used his first cigarette afterwards.

Conflict

How do they respond to a threat?: Mostly he tries to stay level-headed, but certain situations leave him terrified and unable to think or act rationally.

Are they most likely to fight with their fists or their tongue?: Mostly he fights with his words, but tends to react physically when those he cares about are put into question.

What is your character’s kryptonite?: His family, most notably his siblings.

If your character could only save one thing from their burning house, what would it be?: From his childhood home, his siblings, and from his current flat, his dog Private.

How do they perceive strangers?: He tries to see them as potential friends, but truthfully sees them as potential threats.

What do they love to hate?: America ( in a playful way).

What are their phobias?: Waking up back on the battlefield. Loud noises. Anything approaching him fast.

What is their choice of weapon?: Beretta Model 1915-19 pistol.

What living person do they most despise?: The man to have set off the grenades that disabled him.

Have they ever been bullied or teased?: He was lightly teased for his accent when he attended the rest of his primary schooling and his secondary schooling.

Where do they go when they’re angry?: To a park close to his flat where he turns up music loud and runs along the path, always leading to the gym.

Who are their enemies and why?: Many of his clients view him as an enemy, as he can be what gets them in jail.

Work, Education and Hobbies

What is their current job?: Forensic Criminologist.

What do they think about their current job?: It’s a meaningful passion to him, but it can be rather stressful.

What are some of their past jobs?: He had an eight year stint in the army, and then worked as a barista and a janitor while studying criminology in university.

What are their hobbies?: He enjoys drawing and working with paints. He enjoyed training his dog to be a serviceable disability working dog. He enjoys dead lifting and going on runs with Private.

Educational background?: He started school in Italy and then continued with it until Grade 12 while in Australia, and then undertook study in Criminology at the University of Queensland.

Intelligence level?: He is highly intelligent, as evidenced by his career achievements.

Do they have any specialist training?: The History of Crime and Abnormal Psychology.

Do they have a natural talent for something?: He’s incredibly skilled at painting and drawing, and he uses this to his advantage by selling them at some markets and conventions.

Do they play a sport? Are they any good?: He enjoys dead lifting and running, and he’s very good at it.

What is their socioeconomic status?: Middle upper class.

Favourites

What is their favourite animal?: Goats, especially the ones with the biggest horns, and deer.

Which animal to they dislike the most?: Any type of snake.

What place would they most like to visit?: He would like to go back to his hometown, Treviso someday.

What is the most beautiful thing they’ve ever seen?: His baby sister being brought home for the first time.

What is their favourite song?: Bernadette (IAMX).

Music, art, reading preferred?: Music: Electronic dance and jazz. Art: Realistic paintings and cartoon-y style. Reading: Mystery and thriller.

What is their favourite colour?: Orange.

What is their password?: The combination to his old school locker.

Favourite food: Anything gluten-containing, and anything green. He’s not generally a picky eater, but really the only thing he won’t stand are frozen meals, reminding him too much of MRE’s.

What is their favourite work of art?: The Creation of Adam.

Who is their favourite artist?: Michelangelo.

What is their favourite day of the week?: Thursday.

Possessions

What is in their fridge: It’s stocked with fruit and vegetables mainly, and other general items.

What is on their bedside table?: A digital clock, a picture of him in his army uniform, a pocket watch his dad gave to him, letters his family sent him while in combat, his current book, a pack of cigarettes, his cilice, prescription pain killers, and his phone.

What is in their car?: He keeps his car rather clean, but does have some old coffee cups in there along with a cross hanging by his mirror that he touches every time before driving and some old CD’s.

What is in their bin?: Rubbish, failed notes and sketches.

What is in their purse or wallet?: Money, driver’s license, debit card, his work ID, a pack of cigarettes, some chewing gum wrappers, other’s business cards, lip balm, over-the-counter pain killers, caffeine patches.

What is in their pockets?: His phone, a pack of cigarettes, chewing gum wrappers, spare change.

What is their most treasured possession?: The family letters sent to him while in combat.

Spirituality

Who or what is your character’s guardian angel?: He considers Reggie, his younger sister Bella, and Private to be.

Do they believe in the afterlife?: He believes in Heaven and Hell.

What are their religious views?: He has Christian faith.

What do they think heaven is?: Whatever Heaven would be to the specific person, exactly what it is they’ve always wanted. A perfect version of their happy place. For him this would be back in his home town with his family.

What do they think hell is?: Whatever Hell would be to the specific person, exactly what they can’t stand. For him this would be him trying to escape from enemy lines, having to disabled over and over again.

Are they superstitious?: Not really.

What would they like to be reincarnated as?: He fancies the idea of coming back as a deer stag.

How would they like to die?: Either to die of old age, or murdered on the job. He would more than happy to give his life for justice.

What is your character’s spirit animal?: A woodpecker that he repeatedly hallucinated seeing on the battlefield, native to Italy but nowhere to be found in Afghanistan. It gave him the strength to keep going, to one day be able to see one in person again.

What is their zodiac sign?: Gemini.

Values

What do they think is the worst thing that can be done to a person?: Take away their dignity.

What is their view of ‘freedom’?: To do as the white male can. They are free in most every aspect of life, and while there are some things that shouldn’t be tolerated from anyone no matter what race, he sees freedom as everyone having the same right as ‘the desirables’.

When did they last lie?: When he told Bella he had been cutting back on his smoking on their biweekly phone call a few weeks back.

What’s their view of lying?: He wishes to be seen as such a beacon of positivity that he would rather lie to keep that charade up. He hates how many times he has been the cause of other’s pain, and even for smaller things, he never wants to be the one to make someone hurt if he can possibly help it.

When did they last make a promise?: He promised the last victim of the crime he was working on that he would do everything he could to make sure they got the proper justice they deserved.

Did they keep or break their last promise?: He was successful in testifying against the criminal, and getting the victim the appropriate treatment and help.

Daily life

What are their eating habits?: He eats cleanly on most days and has a cheat day on Thursday.

Do they have any allergies?: He gets hay-fever and gets sinus infections easily.

Describe their home: His flat is a very good size and is kept mostly clean except for his study, which is always chaotic as this is where he brings all his case work when he goes home. He decorates conservatively, but does have some personal flares around the flat, such as framed TV show posters in his lounge area, some assorted knick-knacks on the kitchen counter, plush pillows on his lounge etc.

Are they minimalist or a clutter hoarder?: He’s more minimalist than clutterer, but he’s not really either.

What do they do first thing on a weekday morning?: He prays on the floor and applies his cilice.

What do they do on a Sunday afternoon?: This is the time he sets aside for his artwork, and so goes to his tiny studio to paint/draw.

What do they do on a Friday night?: He goes to the gym for an hour, jogs home, takes a shower, and makes dinner, eating it in front of the TV and heading into his study to pour over his work from the week.

What is the soft drink of choice?: Lemonade.

What is their alcoholic drink of choice?: He tries not to drink, but Rum and Coke, or White Liquor.

Miscellaneous

What is their character archetype?: The Caregiver/The Optimist.

Who is their hero?: His dad.

What or who would your character dress up as for Halloween?: The Cat in the Hat (lol).

Are they comfortable with technology?: He has to be with his job.

If they could save one person, who would it be?: Bella.

If they could call one person for help, who would it be?: His work friend, ‘Dr’ Michelle Rodney.

What is their favourite proverb?: Far d’una mosca un elefante (To make an elephant out of a fly).

What is their greatest extravagance?: He likes to live modestly, but it would be all of his art supplies and his studio.

What is their greatest regret?: His army stint.

What is their perception of redemption?: When the actions speak louder than their words. Talk is cheap and tell nothing of disposition.

What would they do if they won the lottery?: Take a trip first class back to his hometown to spend a few months with his family, and Private would have only the best toys and treats~

What is their favourite fairytale?: The Three Billy Goats Gruff.

What fairytale do they hate?: The Little Mermaid.

Do they believe in happy endings?: The idea of happily ever after doesn’t really exist, and while he accepts that once you’ve gotten that ‘fairy tale ending’ things will most probably never be that happy again, it also doesn’t have to be downhill from there. A large part of happiness is what you make, and waiting for the hill to slope in the sun is sometimes as bad as tumbling down it in the dark. Every day counts, and right now he hopes his best day isn’t for years to come.

What is their idea of perfect happiness?: Where he is adapted to his new physical circumstances to where it’s like he’s not disabled at all, where he can think back on his stint and not panic, with his family, with Private, living in peace at last.

What would they ask a fortune teller?: Did Reggie ever escape, and is there any chance of him meeting someone and not fucking it up?

If your character could travel through time, where would they go?: He would go back to before he left his family and hold them a little bit longer. Get their scent to hold stronger in his nose for when he would later need that reassurance.

What sport do they excel at?: Deadlifting.

What sport do they suck at?: Swimming.

If they could have a superpower, what would they choose?: To be instantly competent at everything he attempts first try.

#elijah #gang 1

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wickedsrest-rp-archive · 4 years

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Name: Hideki Inoue Okamoto Species: Kitsune Occupation: Professor of Mythology Age: 74 Years Old Played By: Psyche Face Claim: Tony Thornburg

“In the end, we’ll all become stories.”

Hideki was born in the Aomori prefecture of Japan on a mountainside that had been owned by members of his clan for centuries. His mother was a descendant of the Inoue’s, who had come to live with them on their land when her husband was summoned to fight against the Americans. Hideki never got the chance to know his father; as far as he knows, he was killed in combat. In fact, the only fatherly presence in his life was his great grandfather who was a Tengoku Kitsune whose fur was already shifting to gold. He adored Hideki and loved regaling him stories of a Japan long before the air raid sirens, or the screaming of trains, or even the explosions of gunfire. More important than those history lessons, though, were the family’s archives. His great grandfather had documented much of what he’d seen, including documents on other supernatural species he’d encountered throughout his lifespan. These stories instilled in Hideki a lifelong love of lore and mythology.

Part of the Inoue clan’s ability to thrive was a pact that they had made with an equally long and prosperous group of hunters who also resided near their mountain. In return for not targeting any member of the Inoue clan, the Kitsune would offer up their healing abilities to any hunters injured during their conquests. While not all clan members agreed with their shaky peace with the enemy, none would dare defying their patriarch, Hideki’s great grandfather.

Hideki may have grown up in a time of horribly shaky peace, but his clan encouraged him to get an education when his appearance caught up more appropriately. He took it upon himself to pick up English. Not only was it a popular language, but it opened the avenue to new resources to study his passion of mythology as he grew more proficient. He ultimately decided to major in history and excelled in academia. He fell in love with researching and found writing theses to be enjoyable.

Yeah, his friends thought he was weird too.

While the Inoue’s had the blessing of time, the hunters they had made their pact with did not. Low on money and leads, they were tired of knowing exactly where they could find plenty of Kitsune coats to sell. While Hideki and his family celebrated his acceptance into a Doctorate program in New York City, they formulated a plan.

Hideki’s first mistake was ever boarding the plane.

As soon as hunters received word that he had left the country, they hired a powerful witch who was all too happy to place a curse on Hideki that would prevent him from ever crossing any large body of water ever again. The hunters, who weren’t too keen on any loose ends, were quick to dispose of the witch the second the curse was completed. Then, they were off to the Inoue’s mountain. By the time the kitsunes realized that they were betrayed, it was far too late. They had intended there be no survivors. All pelts that could be collected for a good price, were. Only one, particularly stubborn, invisible old man remained.

How Hideki’s great grandfather contacted him from across the Pacific is a mystery to him. All he knew was that that conversation was the beginning of the end. His elder said the hunters intended to frame Hideki for the murder, so he was going to burn the place down before they realized he was still missing. He reassured his prodigy that the archives would be safe from any ‘cleaning’ that might occur after. All he asked was that Hideki, who had time on his side, might one day return to add on to the collection with his own findings.

And who was Hideki to say no to a dying fox’s last wish?

Despite his great grandfather’s attempts, police officers showed up at Hideki’s door. Thankfully, mountains in America were about the same as in Japan. He took off, heading East. He grew his hair and his beard to help cover his appearance, as well as changed his last name to Okamoto; he’d learned how to forge documents believably decades ago. Soon, his trail went cold and he was left to wander in peace.

He learned quickly that he was unable to cross any body of water deeper than he was tall, else he’d start drowning. It didn’t matter if he used a tree trunk or rocks or a boat, his lungs would fill the same. Unsure of where to go or who to turn to, Hideki continued until he could go no further East to a place known as White Crest. When he saw that there was a college in town, he decided to see if there were any openings. It seemed as though the opportunity to be the Professor of Mythology practically fell into his lap. After so long on the run, he missed academia with every fiber of his being. A few more forged documents and he had the position. White Crest appeared like a safe haven from the storm. Now, he can only hope it will stay that way while he continues doing what his family has done for centuries: record everything.

Character Facts:

Personality: Determined, curious, resourceful, direct, demanding, judgmental, tunnel vision

Hideki somehow always looks equal parts bedraggled and suave; he cares much more about his appearance than spending money on groceries.

It is all too easy to derail him from whatever subject was supposed to be covered that day in class, but his exams are brutal and he has minimal mercy.

He is not a big fan of owning a car and just walks from his apartment to campus every day. Every coffee shop along the way is a potential stop for him.

#retired

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the-foxes-fangs · 5 years

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I Wish I Was the Moon: Epilogue Pt. 3

Read the fic here and interludes here

Tagging @otomediary, @you-mass-effect-my-dragon-age, @louveau, @wingedtreecookiesludge with a special shout out to @vhaena who has been graciously waiting for this particular part of the story

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

He toweled himself dry meticulously, took stock of the austere little room he had been given and allowed himself a solitary sigh of frustration. He had expected Kenshin to have his little revenge for Sasuke but it was unpleasant seeing the flash of trepidation in her eyes just the same.

He went to sit on the veranda and stared idly out into the well tended garden. The guard had told him to wait for an attendant to show him back to the audience hall for a welcoming banquet in a tone that told him he’d be catching up on his foot dangling for awhile. He had made some tea and found whatever was at hand in the kitchen, and had settled in to wait.

The rain had passed into weak afternoon sunshine that gave everything a freshly scrubbed look, with the grime of winter rinsed away. He watched a few white rabbits poking around the greenery, apparently quite tame.

Too tame to notice the narrow face of a small, equally white fox poking through a hole in the wall that had been widened by the storm. He sat quite still, observing the little drama unfold as it squeezed its thin body through and slunk quietly and cunningly toward a particularly oblivious rabbit.

The fox looked bedraggled and more than a little hungry, which was probably why it didn’t notice the maid who came around the corner and catching sight of it gave chase with broom in hand.

“Get away from Lord Kenshin’s rabbits you vermin! Pest! Out! Get out!” She cried, chasing the poor creature around the garden until it squeezed back through the hole. She stomped away huffing, and silence fell on the garden again.

He glanced down at the dried fish he had been nibbling on, and sighed again. “I really am getting soft as hell,” he murmured to himself as he stood and made his way to the wall, crouching down to stick his arm through, fish in hand.

He waited patiently as the wet grass tickled his feet, and was about to give up when he felt a cold nose on his fingertips and smiled to himself as the food was snatched away. “Let’s both protect our reputations and pretend this never happened,” he said softly as he felt the brush of soft whiskers across his empty hand.

He withdrew his arm and rose to return to his seat. When he turned he found the creature had followed him, sitting just out of reach watching him with exceedingly hungry eyes.

“Well I’m not getting up again. If you want to eat you’re just going to have come over here.” He said, smiling as it cocked its ears and watched him with sharp, narrowed eyes.

“Do I look like I’m in need of a mangy fur?” He asked, waving a fish invitingly. The fox slunk forward cautiously, pausing to sniff the air and study him until it finally reached his feet and looked up at him expectantly. “Already plotting, I see. Well, I can respect that, but you’ve really got to learn the art of subterfuge, my little friend.”

He tossed it a fish, which promptly disappeared, as did the next two. “You know, Hideyoshi would’ve just given you a lecture on not giving up when things are difficult and sent you on your way, you’re lucky I’m such a soft touch.” He said softly, blinking in surprise as it jumped nimbly up onto the veranda, eyeing the basket of fish thoughtfully.

“Now see here, I respect your ambition, but these things require subtlety, my would be vassal.” He said, sliding the basket a little further out of its reach but passing it another fish. “First you earn my trust, and then you commit your inevitable betrayal. There’s an order to these things.”

He was withdrawing his hand when the maid came back around the corner muttering to herself, causing the fox to panic and dive for the nearest hiding hole, which happened to be right into his sleeve. He caught it by its scruff and folded his arms to his chest, slouching over as she passed by.

It poked its head out cautiously when he loosed his grip, but didn’t seem in any hurry to depart. “No. Absolutely not. That was strictly a fox to fox favor. Unless you’ve got a wishing jewel hidden in that muddy tail, no deal,” He said, shaking his head at it. He could feel its ribs as it shifted to look up at him questioningly.

“You audacious little beggar,” He said, laughing despite himself, as he laid the basket on his lap with a welcoming gesture. Upon closer inspection it was a young vixen, her tail waving happily as she devoured the food. She finished it and sniffed at his other sleeve inquiringly.

“Listen, just because I can’t taste it doesn’t mean I’m willing to share it. A little mouse made it for me.” He said, pulling out the carefully wrapped chimaki dumpling and unwrapping it and taking a bite. She had learned how to cook dumplings to the exact chewiness he preferred, despite swearing up a storm in the kitchen. He smiled at the memory and then looked at the expectant fox with a raised brow.

“Fine,” He said, dividing the remainder of the dumpling in half, “but I’m only sharing this because she’d want me to.”

The vixen licked her whiskers daintily after she finished her half, and looked at him with a curious sniff, before bounding down to make a dash back out of the garden.

“There’s just no loyalty in this world,” he complained with a laugh, and rose to return to his room and change into more formal clothes.

He heard the shuffle of vassals heading toward the hall as the shadows lengthened into early evening, and opened the door before the wide eyed attendant could knock. “Yes, fine, spare me the announcement. Let’s go,” he said with an impatient gesture and followed the man.

“…Lord Shingen and Lord Yukimura arrived just an hour ago! It will be like old times!” He heard an enthusiastic retainer say as they passed, and groaned inwardly.

Kenshin was bad enough, but Shingen was a canny bastard with a sense of humor and an axe to grind.

She was nowhere to be seen as he entered the hall, already abuzz with low conversation, which dropped even lower in his presence. Kenshin waved him over and gave him the seat his rank demanded with a curt nod of greeting.

“Well if it isn’t the great spy himself, out before sundown, even,” Shingen said with a broad smile that didn’t touch his eyes.

“The peaceful life does wonders for one’s habits and health,” Mitsuhide replied smoothly, “How’s Kai treating you these days? No problems governing?”

“We’re still recovering from the occupation.” Shingen shot back, curtly.

Their exchange was cut short by the sound of excitement when she appeared at the door with Sasuke behind her, looking so lovely that for a moment everything else receded except the smile she gave him alone, and the light in her eyes as they met his as she came to take her seat at Kenshin’s side.

“Seeing a goddess grace us with her presence was more than reason enough to make the trip, but besides that, it’s delightful to welcome you as new family to an old friend,” Shingen said smoothly, elbowing a blushing Yukimura.

“Uh… what he said.” Yukimura mumbled and nodded.

“We’re not friends. I’m still going to kill you both.” Kenshin interjected with a frown.

“Now, now, let’s keep the conversation pleasant for the lady,” Yoshimoto admonished with an amused smile directed squarely at Mitsuhide.

She glanced between them with raised brows, until Sasuke leaned in to whisper something to her, handing her a flask to pour for Kenshin, who acknowledged her with a polite nod and filled her cup.

“Let’s drink to the princess of the Uesugi,” he said, and lifted his cup to a surge of noisy approval as all of his retainers followed suit and drained their cups. The general consensus appeared to consider it a score against the Oda to have adopted one of Nobunaga’s favorites.

Mitsuhide drank and gave her the flash of a smile, drinking in the sight of her in an elaborately beautiful formal kimono bearing the Uesugi crest. “Why, you make that drab shade of blue look positively lively, my dear.”

She laughed softly and looked him over approvingly as Kenshin glowered at him, hand drifting toward his sword.

“I think it’s a lovely shade of blue myself. Not so different from the one you favor,” she replied graciously, her expression neutral except for the faint rebuke in her eyes. “I’m honored to wear something so beautifully made.”

Kenshin relaxed and the color returned to Sasuke’s face as Shingen snickered into his cup and Yoshimoto watched with detached amusement. Yukimura clicked his tongue in exasperation as a maid brought Shingen a plate of sweets.

“I thought you promised–” he began, cut off by Shingen’s airy wave.

“Yuki, it’s an occasion! We’re here to celebrate!” Shingen said with a charming smile.

“Yes but you haven’t even eaten dinner yet!” Yukimura replied with a defeated sigh as the rest of their food was served.

“Ah, but we’re already drinking, and you know I can’t bear to drink without something sweet. Never trust a man who drinks without a snack, Yuki. He’ll stab you right between the ribs every time.” Shingen countered, glancing meaningfully at Mitsuhide.

“I’m not sure how that sugary garbage counts as a snack anyway, the only proper snack for drinking is a good pickled plum.” Kenshin said dourly.

“Nonsense! Sweets are the best with sake, isn’t that right, princess?” Shingen asked her with a flirtatious wink that set Mitsuhide’s teeth on edge.

“There’s merit in everyone’s personal preferences I’m sure,” she answered courteously, giving Shingen a polite but bland smile as they began to eat.

“You’re my daughter as of tomorrow, you should take my side.” Kenshin said bluntly, holding his cup out to her.

“A lifetime of seeing the beauty of diversity will be difficult to overcome, I’m afraid,” she answered sweetly, “but I’m deeply grateful and honored at the favor you’re showing me.”

Mitsuhide kept his expression fixed, but felt a surge of pride at her adroit navigation of a situation that was surely more than a little surreal for her.

“You should be grateful that someone with such a fine sense for diplomacy is even willing– what on earth are you doing to the food?” Yoshimoto said, recoiling at the sight of Mitsuhide mixing everything together in his bowl.

“Oh dearest me, I didn’t mean to shock your delicate sensibilities, my lord. This is simply the most efficient way to eat.” Mitsuhide said with a sharp smile.

“Well that’s just plain weird,” Yukimura muttered.

“I can, much to my dismay, confirm that lord Mitsuhide is acting entirely consistently and means no insult. He always eats that way,” Sasuke interjected with a despairing gesture.

“What was it you said, you’d rather not waste time eating when you could be drinking? I’m sure that you can appreciate the sentiment, lord Kenshin,” she said with an encouraging smile.

“I can respect a man who appreciates the finer points of a good brew.” Kenshin said, with the faintest hint of a thaw in his tone.

“Well if nothing else it will be fun to watch these two try to drink each other to death, which leaves me to bask in the company of a beautiful woman on a lovely moonlit night.” Shingen said, with a dreamy look in his eye.

“Why, bad or good, it’s all the same to me. As long as it’s cold in the summer and warm in the winter I’ll drink anything,” Mitsuhide said, pointedly ignoring the bait that Shingen was waving.

“That’s an insult to the art of brewing sake, you know,” Yoshimoto said, needling him in tandem.

“Is it? I rather think it’s a compliment. Those who make swill need to live just as much as those who make elixir.” Mitsuhide answered levelly.

“I’d almost like to see you two duel, just to see who could actually lift a sword,” Kenshin remarked dryly.

“The best victories are the bloodless ones, my lord.” Mitsuhide responded ignoring the flash of heat in his chest at the sight of Shingen leaning close to her to fill her cup and practically breathe down her neck.

“Eccentricity is novel for awhile, princess, but the peculiar soon becomes grating. A man can be unconventional without straying into the uncouth.” Shingen said rakishly.

“Bloodless? What kind of rot are you talking? There’s no glory in that!” Kenshin exclaimed with a sharp gesture.

“I’ve always favored outsiders myself– the more everyone picks on and dislikes someone, the better I like them and the more I take their side,” she said demurely, and took an elegant drink.

Mitsuhide downed his cup quickly and hoped that they’d blame the flush on his face on the alcohol and not the lovesickness that had him firmly in its grip. He prided himself on his self-discipline and patience, but it was all he could do not to take her by the hand and drag her to the nearest bed to show his appreciation of her unnecessary but perfect defense of him.

“Here’s to outsiders,” he said quietly and raised his cup to her.

“I always thought you were kind of a dummy, but that’s actually pretty nice.” Yukimura said, oblivious to the hangdog silence that had descended on the others.

“Yukimura, please don’t throw your life away like this.” Sasuke mumbled, holding his hand to his forehead despairingly.

Shingen flicked him hard on the forehead with a rueful smile. “Y-u-k-i what have I told you about how we talk to women?”

“Ow! Why would I listen to you? You flirt with anything that moves!”

“Well, the delivery was rough, but I appreciate the intent, lord Yukimura,” she said with a beneficent smile that brought a bright blush to his face.

“Well I’m glad to see that you can keep up with these fools.” Kenshin said, casting an approving glance at her with unusual softness in his sharp eyes.

“I learned from the best,” she answered with an affectionate nod at Mitsuhide.

“Why, that’s a bald faced lie, you were exactly this adept at getting your way from the moment I saw you,” he countered fondly.

“Watch your mouth, Akechi, think about who you’re calling a liar.” Kenshin said sharply, the ice back in his tone and face.

Sasuke sighed, shoulders sagging defeatedly. “They’re flirting, my lord. Trust me, this is that man at his sparkling best.”

“Hmmph.” Kenshin said, studying her happy expression curiously.

“Flirting as a concept has been buried in a shallow grave tonight, in that case.” Shingen said with a shake of his head.

“Someone explain why it’s fine when he calls her names, but I get a smack to the head!” Yukimura muttered moodily.

“There are certain cosmic mysteries best left unexplained, Yukimura.” Sasuke said, and patted his arm fondly.

#ikemen sengoku #ikemen sengoku mitsuhide #ikesen mitsuhide #cybird mitsuhide #mitsuhide x mc #ikesen kenshin #ikesen yukimura #ikesen sasuke #ikesen shingen #ikesen yoshimoto #thefoxesfic #hey this time there's an actual fox!

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pariahfox · 9 months

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I just followed a kind stranger's advice (thanks again, @madegeeky !), and posted to r/TumblrAcctTerminated. On a seemingly ongoing thread from someone claiming to be with Support here, and who has apparently reinstated some accounts from there.

I guess we'll see if anything comes from that. Next step might be to try bugging them more directly on the site formerly known as Twitter. Which I haven't so far, because I didn't think it would do much good.

#personal #tumblr #the bedraggled fox returns

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clatterbane · 9 months

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Also very glad to see a couple of mutuals already, whose exact URLs I could not remember exactly enough.

#personal #tumblr #the bedraggled fox returns

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tk-duveraun · 6 years

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We all remember what happens directly after that gif cuts off, right? : ]

How dare.

Also, have some Teenage Runaways fluff.

Fox was grooming Enasie when Ada came up to him. Enasie’s coat never had the chance to develop tangles and Fox removed any burrs almost immediately, thanks to his animal empathy. The halla rubbed his face against Fox, but otherwise held still as he tied ribbons in his antlers. Fox scratched the top of Enasie’s head when he looked over at his wife. “Having a good day, Belovèd?”

Ada blushed at the endearment, the way she always did, nevermind that they’d been married for a few years already. She cleared her throat. “Yes, thank you. Um, I just wanted to come and see if you knew what Tani is up to?”

Fox blinked at looked down at Enasie, but the halla had no answers, just an affectionate headbutt for his trouble. “What’s he doing?”

“He keeps disappearing and then when he comes back he looks like he’s up to something,” Ada said.

Fox laughed. “He’s a cat. Of course he’s up to something, but I can charm him if you’d like.”

Ada bit her lip and then nodded. Fox gave Enasie one last pet before stepping away. He kissed Ada’s bitten lip and then followed her through Skyhold until they reached there room, where Tanithil was busily kneading the blankets in the center of their bed. Fox leaned in the scritched the cat under the chin, which made him purr loudly.

After a few more gratuitous pets, Fox started channeling his animal charming. Tani meowed discontentedly as the first effects started, smart cat. The animal charming wasn’t quite speaking with them, but Fox was able to let the cat know what he wanted. ‘Why are you acting strangely?’

Tanithil made a few circles on the bed before deciding that he trusted Fox enough to tell him the answer and he nimbly hopped down onto the floor. He headbutted Ada’s legs before winding his way between them and out of the room. He padded along through Skyhold’s halls with his two humans in hot pursuit.

Ironically, he lead them back to the stables where they’d just been. Enasie made a quiet sound of greeting when he saw Fox. Fox made a mental note to get him a scratching post for his antlers when he was done with Tanithil. Speaking of, he mrowed angrily to get Fox back on track. With a laugh, Fox gestured for Tanithil to continue and followed along past all of the stalls and over to the half-built kennels where all of the rescued mabari puppies were roughhousing. Well, they were more adolescents than puppies by that point, but the idea was the same.

Myr ambled up to Fox and drooled on his boots before ambling over to Ada to be picked up and kissed. Myr would soon be too big for most people to casually pick up, but Fox’s wife could probably lift the Iron Bull if she wanted, so Fox wasn’t concerned with convincing the mabari that being picked up was going to have to end.

Tanithil meowed again.

Fox ignored the chorus of play with me, throw the stick, hungry and other cries from the mabari that beat on his charming magic and followed Tanithil to the far end of the kennel where the oldest mabari were stand in a semi-circle around the corner. They stared Fox down, not quite growling but protect, protect, ours, protect to whatever they were hiding. It took quite a bit of magical coaxing and meowed orders from Tanithil for the guardians to stand down. Finally, they back off enough to reveal a slightly-bedraggled and very dirty cat. It stared defiantly up at Fox, who then switched the target of his magic.

The cat took a few hesitant steps forward, but allowed herself to be petted. Fox used his magic to check her for parasites, but despite how unkempt her appearance was, she was free of pests. Though it took a lot of coaxing, Fox convinced her to allow him to pick her up. He turned to Ada, who was still holding Myr as if the mabari weighed nothing. He couldn’t help but smile at her. “Right. I believe Tanithil has decided this is also our cat now.”

Ada laughed and tossed her hair as best as she could with her arms full of mabari. “Alright, if you say so, Tani.”

Once the new girl was washed and dried, she had a fluffy, white coat that nearly shined. Tanithil, of course, proceeded to rub himself and his smell all over his girlfriend as soon as Fox set her down. She seemed to like the attention and even sat patiently as Ada scratched under her chin and behind her ears. “I think Sylmae is a good name for you. Very dignified.”

Sylmae purred for the first time, so they took that as acceptance.

She settled in quickly, though she didn’t deign to sleep on the bed with Tanithil. Instead, she ensconced herself on top of the sturdy armoire Ivan had acquired for them. Sylmae surveyed them from her perch as the weeks passed, occasionally consenting to pets and scritches. Fox left her in charge when they joined the Inquisitor on a mission in the Hissing Wastes.

When they returned, however, Tanithil was acting oddly again. Not in the way he had before, with stalking around and meowing and being a general nuisance, no, Tanithil was always at Syl’s side and even slept up on top of the armoire. Ada put on a brave face, but Fox could tell his wife was privately rather upset over the entire affair.

“We were only gone for two weeks! That little traitor. I hate him,” Ada said a few days later. She bit angrily into her fruit pie - its existence was Fox’s doing, an attempt to cheer her up.

“I’m sure he’ll come around. It’s only been a few days.”

“But he’s my baby. He’s never done this before.” She finished the pie and alternated between pouting and fretting. “You checked him, right? He’s not sick?”

“Yes, Belovèd, I checked him,” Fox said, but even the endearment couldn’t pull her out of the funk. “Maybe Syl has a bit of a sniffle. You know how he gets when we’re sick.”

“Yes! Good. Check her.” Ada physically pushed Fox half of the way back to their room.

Though he wanted to laugh, Fox held himself in check. He didn’t want Ada to think he thought her concerns were trivial or funny, even if they kind of were in this case. Back in their room, Sylmae was curled up on top of the armoire. Fox started using his magic before he was even particularly close to her. Sylmae flicked her ear in his direction and turned her face away, uninterested.

“Come now, little one, what’s going on?” Fox asked, sort of. That’s what it sounded like to him, but Ada had told him several times it came out as complete gibberish.

Syl meowed in his face, but stood up and stalked toward his outstretched hand. Even to his animal magic, she didn’t communicate the way most animals, did, no, the little diva walked herself back and forth so that Fox’s hand brushed her side repeatedly. Fox frowned, trying to figure it out for a few moments, until… “Oh! Of course. Congratulations little one.”

She didn’t take well to being called little and bit him gently before laying back down in her spot.

Fox backed up and turned his smile on Ada, who blushed for a moment under the attention. He kissed her nose. “You blush so much sometimes.” Of course, his words just made her blush more.

“You’re just so handsome when you smile at me like that,” Ada mumbled.

“Only because I love you so much.” Fox pre-emptively cupped her cheek, knowing she’d immediately blush harder and try to look away.

Instead, she just stammered. “Stop-stop saying stuff like that!”

Fox did chuckle that time, before leaning in and kissing her softly. “Never, Belovèd.”

Ada blushed and mumbled and kissed him a few times before shoving him back with both hands. “Right. Enough. What’s going on with the cats?”

Instead of answering immediately, Fox moved behind Ada and put his arms around her. He lowered his head next to hers and turned them both to look at the cats. His voice was low and warm in her ear. “It seems like our cats are going to have some little cats of their own.”

“Oh!” Ada exclaimed. She clapped a hand over her mouth. “Kittens! This is wonderful!”

“Mmhmm.” Fox nuzzled behind her ear. “We’ll take good care of them and then Tani and Syl will take good care of ours when we have one.”

#teenage runaways au #fox companion au #elashorei lavellan #apparentlyaveline

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sussex-nature-lover · 3 years

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Wednesday 10th February 2021

Snowy Garden

We’ve had it bleak and very cold. This was yesterday across the field.

although we had some sunnier spells too.

This morning, earlier on was quite bright with blue sky...

what a contrast - but now it’s back to the first photo and snowing again.

The past two or three days it’s been pretty much like the Animals of Farthing Wood here as everyone knows they’ll be looked after well.

Morning visit by a Fox

A lonely Rabbit came up from the woods and was amongst the female Pheasants, watched over by a Squirrel who was perched in a tree right down the garden with some kind of treat.

The girls are still numbering seven,but our excitement at the missing boy returning turned out to be misplaced, as it’s not the same male

We’ve called the new guy Slim Shady. He’s got amazing tail feathers, although with all the snow he did look somewhat bedraggled.

Three Robins in a line with the Pheasant and a couple of Sparrows - although you can hardly see them for the mud

So we’ve pretty much had it all and spent a lot of time snug indoors watching the wildlife, or venturing out with more food and fresh water.

I took photos in the snowy moment and the brighter ones, like when I caught this Nuthatch feeding in the sunshine.

The big thing of note is how many Robins we have in the garden at the moment and I want to write more about that but for today, I’ll just comment about the food. Robins have really struggled to eat from the hanging feeders and so I tried chopping up the fruit flavoured suet balls as I said the other day and putting the crumbs out on an old plate. The colour’s stood out well against the snow and it’s proved quite popular, although it hasn’t stopped one Robin having a go.

‘I wanna be like youhoohoo’

If at first you don’t succeed, try, try and try again

WHAT DID I LEARN TODAY?

Why don’t humans have tails?

Once upon a time, we did – but it’s a case of use it or lose it. When our ancient ancestors started walking on two legs, they no longer needed a tail for balance; in fact, it was probably more of a hindrance, so humans (and all apes) evolved to be tailless. Interestingly though, human embryos still grow a tail. It’s quite distinct for the first month or so of gestation but after that, the tail disappears and we are left with a tail bone but nothing to show for it.

All About Tails from the Sussex Wildlife Trust.

#snow nature Robins garden birds naturephotography

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malllladeimaginaire-blog · 6 years

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Aliain

Gift for Nidarosisart. (Aliain is her character). I really hope you like it <3

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The little village sat in the lee of a rocky hill, covered with pine trees. Rain pattered down from an overcast, gloomy sky, turning the fields of the farms to mud and driving all of the villagers inside. Between rows of corn the scarecrows drooped, their straw arms hanging down sadly. A loose shutter banged fretfully in the wind. In the village square a lone, wet dog wandered aimlessly, sniffing at puddles.

One farm, slightly larger than the rest, stood closest to the forest, almost in the shade of the trees. It had a vegetable garden, a barn, two paddocks and a large corn field, all beautifully kept. Sheep usually grazed in the fields, though now they huddled together by the gate, and bedraggled chickens pecked around the yard. Despite the weather a cat sat on the porch in front of the house, her yellow gaze turned disapprovingly on the rain.

This farm had been in the same family for generations and was now the loving home of an elderly couple, their widowed daughter and her little girl. The child, Aliain, was a sweet, shy girl, the favourite of everyone in the village. She was hard-working, quiet and kind and had a wonderful way with animals. All agreed that she was a credit to her family and one day would grow up to be something very special.

Most days the family could be seen working happily together in the fields, but today the rain had kept them inside. The curtains of the house were closed to keep out the draught and smoke curled lazily from the chimney. Early that morning the grandfather had taken their cart over to the neighbouring village to sell some wool and he was expected back late, so a lantern had been left on the porch to light his way.

Inside Aliain sat on the faded hearthrug, her rag doll in her lap, turning the pages of an old and tattered book. It belonged to her grandmother and was filled with the old lady’s tiny, cramped handwriting detailing her amazing collection of flowers and herbs. There were beautiful ink drawings too and Aliain pored over these with delight, tracing her little fingers gently over the lines.

Her mother and grandmother stood together at the kitchen table, one kneading bread, the other chopping carrots for a stew. They worked in a comfortable silence, occasionally glancing up to check on Aliain or to listen out for her grandfather’s return. An old sheepdog lay curled at their feet, raising his head now and then to look hopefully for scraps.

Slowly the afternoon wore on. The rain drummed gently against the windows, the fire crackled merrily in the grate and outside the sky, gloomy throughout the day, began to darken towards evening.

After a while Aliain’s grandmother paused in her work and wiped her floury hands on her apron. ‘Time to feed the animals,’ she announced cheerfully. ‘Your grandfather said you could do it today, Aliain.’

On the hearthrug Aliain looked up from her book, her little hand still poised over the page she was studying, and beamed at her grandmother. At only six, it was a big responsibility for her to be asked to feed the animals by herself. It gave her a warm glow of pride to think her grandfather trusted her when he was away. She did not like to mention that she was afraid to go outside alone when it was getting dark. She would have hated to let down her grandfather when he was counting on her. So that was how Aliain found herself slipping out of the back door, a bucket of corn in her hand and a carrot in her apron pocket, as darkness began to fall on a cold, dreary day.

Behind the house the forest loomed, the trees dark and dripping with rain. The light was already fading from the sky and the evening was turning prematurely to night. In the grey gloom shadows massed under the trees, making the forest look forbidding and dangerous. A cold wind whistled down from the hills, carrying with it a fresh wave of rain. Somewhere in the distance a fox barked, a mournful sound in the gathering night.

Shivering, Aliain drew her grandmother’s shawl tighter around her narrow shoulders and hurried across to the barn. She did not run for fear of tripping on the rutted track, but she scampered with the nervous haste of somebody who would rather be doing anything else. All the time she felt as if the forest itself were watching her, an ominous, lurking presence, and she was relieved to reach the safety of the barn.

Her grandfather had left an oil lantern hanging on a nail by the doorway, well away from the hay and straw. It was too high for Aliain to reach it without help, but it cast a soft, warm glow over the stables, welcoming her inside. She let out the breath she did not realise she had been holding and was greeted by the scent of damp horse and fresh hay. Relaxing her tight grip on the wool of the shawl Aliain stepped inside and pulled the door shut behind her.

The barn was probably Aliain’s favourite part of their little farm. Always peaceful and warm, she liked to sit there on cold days, talking to the animals. Sometimes, when she had time, her grandmother would come and join her and tell Aliain stories about her own childhood while she knitted, their old sheepdog lying at her feet.

Aliain put her bucket down by the door, calling softly for the chickens to come and they did, running on their funny, feathery legs, pushing and barging to reach the food first. The little girl laughed as they swarmed around her, pecking at her hands to see if she had their corn. She reached into her bucket and sprinkled the grains over the floor around her. Immediately the birds began pecking and scraping, chasing after their dinner.

Once all the corn was gone and the chickens were eating happily Aliain turned to the stables at the back of the barn. The family’s horse was away, taking her grandfather to the next village, so his stable stood empty, a thick bed of straw ready for his return. That meant the only other current occupant was the elderly donkey. Aliain had learnt to ride on him and he had once worked on the farm but now his joints were getting stiff, so he had retired to live a comfortable life.

The stable door was so high that Aliain had to stand on tiptoes to reach over, but she pulled the carrot out of her pocket and offered it to her old friend. But as she was holding out the carrot to the donkey, stroking his velvet nose, Aliain heard a strange noise from outside. She stopped, suddenly feeling anxious again. Listening very hard all she could hear was the sound of the donkey rustling the straw of his stable and the chickens clucking around after their corn. There was nothing there.

Shaking her head she was about to go back to what she was doing when she heard the noise again. It sounded like a strange, little cry, like something in pain. Without thinking Aliain rushed to the door, leaving the bucket behind, and dashed outside.

Evening had fallen properly now and it was getting so dark that she could barely see where she was going. The trees loomed ominously, black against the dark sky. The rain had eased to a drizzle and the wind had dropped to be replaced with an almost eerie stillness. Again, the sound came from somewhere behind the barn and Aliain stumbled towards it, her boots slipping on the muddy track.

Her heart was pounding and her breath came in short, nervous gasps. Really she knew she should have gone back for her mother or her grandmother, but at that moment she was filled with worry and the need to help and she did not really think of that. It sounded like some animal was in pain somewhere and needed help and Aliain would never leave an animal to suffer.

She was under the trees, stumbling over roots before she even realised where she was. Water dripped down off the branches above, catching in her hair and soaking through her shawl. A fine, clammy wetness clung to her skin, making her shiver. Her hands were already so cold that she could barely feel her fingers, but Aliain was not going to give up. The sound came again, just ahead, and she hastened after it, her teeth chattering from cold and fear.

She had never been into the woods alone before, especially not at night. There were bears and wolves in the forests and hills around the village and it was dangerous to go wandering off alone. Aliain’s pace slowed slightly. She had done an incredibly stupid thing, coming out here, and she should turn back immediately. For a second her conscience warred with her common sense and fear. She could not go away without at least trying to help, but this was a very silly thing to have done.

Dithering, unsure of what to do, Aliain was not paying attention to where she was going. As she stepped forwards the ground suddenly gave way under her and she was falling, sliding down a muddy, rocky bank. She screamed as she fell, tumbling over and over in the dark, terrified that at any second she was going to hit her head on a tree. Her hands scrabbled uselessly around her, tearing her nails, but there was nothing to catch hold of.

Her fall came to an abrupt halt as she crashed painfully onto hard, wet ground. The air was driven from her lungs and an agonising pain shot through her right leg as it crumpled beneath her, twisted at a strange angle. Her hands were scratched and bleeding and one side of her face ached, though she could not remember why.

For several minutes Aliain just lay, shaking where she had fallen, tears slowly leaking down her cheeks. It was dark and she was cold and she had no idea where she was. How was anybody ever going to find her here? Her leg hurt so much that she was afraid to even move to see how injured she was. All she wanted was to be at home again, safe and warm, and she wished more than anything that she had never come into the forest.

Somewhere to her right a twig cracked in the darkness. Aliain whipped around, her heart pounding, only to cry out in pain as she moved her injured leg. With a sob she crumpled back to the ground and wrapped her arms around herself, as though that could protect her. There was a rustling in the undergrowth nearby and another twig snapped. Thoughts of bear and wolves, attracted by the noise she had been making, crowded into her head and she stuffed her fist into her mouth to try and stay quiet.

The noise came again, closer this time, accompanied by a strange glow. Aliain squeezed her eyes shut and just hoped that whatever it was would miss her, that it would go away and leave her alone. She hardly dared to breathe and it felt as though iron bands were crushing her chest, strangling her with panic.

Then suddenly a wave of calm washed over her, gentle and reassuring, and a soft voice spoke. ‘Stay still, everything will be alright now.’ It was not a voice that Aliain had ever heard before, musical with a strange accent, but she did not feel afraid. She believed the stranger and trusted him, he was going to help her. With a sigh she followed his instructions, letting her head fall back onto the ground.

The glow seemed to be coming from the stranger himself as he approached, almost as if he held it in his hand. He was wrapped in a long, travel-worn cloak and carrying a leather pack on his back. Under the cloak he wore a robe that, though beautifully made, was splashed with mud around the hem. His boots were stained with mud too and it looked as though he must have walked a long way. Aliain noticed these details in a distant sort of way as he came to crouch beside her.

He smiled, a warm, friendly smile, and reached for her injured leg, very slowly as though talking to a frightened animal. ‘It will be alright,’ he repeated, in a soft murmur as she tried to flinch back, afraid her would touch it and make the pain worse. ‘I am going to help you.’ Close up, he had strange shiny eyes and long, pointed ears, but this did not strike Aliain as strange until much later.

The stranger held one glowing hand out over her injured leg and closed his eyes, seemingly in concentration. At first nothing happened, Aliain’s leg ached and burned as it had done before, but then slowly she began to notice the pain receding. Her cut hands stopped stinging, the pounding in her head lessened and then disappeared entirely, her chest felt lighter and she could breathe again. The little girl stared up in wonder at her rescuer, as her leg healed over as though nothing had ever happened to it.

‘How did you do that?’, she gasped when he finally opened his eyes. ‘You made the pain go away.’

Smiling he got to his feet and offered her a hand up. Aliain took it, amazed that she was able to stand. She felt fresh and well, better than she had before her fall. She was not even afraid of the dark woods any more.

‘I am a priest,’ he explained kindly. ‘I used the Light to heal you.’ He held out his glowing hand to her and Aliain took it, peering at the strange Light that washed over his palm. ‘And now I should take you home. Do you live in the village?’ He pointed away through the trees.

Aliain nodded. ‘Yes. My name is Aliain.’

The stranger did not introduce himself, just smiled and offered her his hand. ‘This way.’

The walk back through the trees felt like it took no time at all. The stranger lit her way for her and even though he did not talk to her Aliain did not feel lonely or scared. He helped her over rocks and trees roots, always finding the easiest path for her. In no time Aliain saw the trees were thinning and soon she could see the lantern by the barn winking. She could even hear her mother and grandmother calling for her.

‘I will leave you here.’ The stranger stopped and let go of her hand.

‘Thank you, oh, thank you so much.’ Seized by a sudden, overwhelming surge of love and thankfulness Aliain threw her little arms around the stranger. ‘Thank you.’ She squeezed him, wanting to convey the full extent of her gratitude. When she let go he smiled at her kindly.

‘Light be with you, Aliain, child of Lordaeron,’ he said and as she looked after him he turned and vanished back into the trees.

#world of warcraft #fiction

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some-cookie-crumbz · 7 years

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Needles and Skin

Needles and Skin Fandom: AoT/SnK Pairing: YumiKuri Summary: Modern AU. Christa decides to do a little something to show her girlfriend how serious she is about her. AN: Part of my Spooky Snippets story dump. For more details please see this post.

She had been thinking about it for a few weeks, admittedly, but even still she was nervous. The vinyl seats of the shop feel more uncomfortable than she remembers from her previous visits. The picture tucked into a plastic case to keep it safe in her hands feels oddly stiff and heavy as well, despite having looked at it so often she may as well have memorized the look and feel of it. She had commissioned it from her friend, Jean Kirstein, back when she was first turning the thought around in her head. The bell on the door chimes and she flinches in surprise. Relief washes over her and she beams at the figure that enters, approaching her immediately. “Mikasa, you came!” She breathes excitedly.

The dark haired woman smiles and settles in to the seat beside her. “Of course I did, Christa. You asked me to, after all,” She muses gently, setting one hand on the other’s shoulder. Mikasa Ackerman was one of Christa’s best friends, having known each other for a little over five years now, and the only one that was aware of her plan for the day. Due to her reserved nature, many people saw Mikasa as cold or indifferent, but those close to her knew how false that was. She was one of the most loyal, compassionate individuals once she warmed up to a new face, often playing the role of a mother to the members of their group.

That was probably part of the reason she had asked Mikasa in specific to come along for this.

She nods, offering over the page in her hand to the other. “What do you think? Does it look okay?” She asks.

Mikasa hums lightly, her brow furrowing just a smidge. “It looks wonderful, but it’s larger than I expected. Are you sure you want to do something so big?”

Christa looks at the picture again. She hadn’t really given Jean any specific size limitations and, while it wasn’t a particularly large picture, it was bigger than something a first timer might want to go with. On the other hand, she had no choice but to ask a friend to draft this up for her due to not having any other options. The combination she needed was strange and not one that most places had at the ready. “I can handle it,” She says seriously, meeting Mikasa’s gaze.

The other nods her head, lips twitching with a smile. Perhaps she’s reassured, a bit, by her insistence that she can handle it. One of the shop runner’s walks out at this point, face blank and blonde hair tugged back in a bun. “Which one of you is Christa?” She asks.

“M-Me!” Christa squeaks while rising to her feet.

The employee cracks a smile at her nerves, finding her jitters amusing, most likely and nods here head. “Nice to meet you, Christa. The name’s Annie,” She says while offering her hand.

Christa smiles back, taking her hand and shaking it in return meekly, before turning to look at Mikasa, and then back at Annie. “I hope it’s okay that I brought one of my friends with me for support.”

“Most customers do. Some people just get so uneasy around needles,” She shrugs before nodding her head toward the corridor she’s just entered from. “Well, enough of the pleasantries. Let’s head to the back and get this underway, shall we?” Christa takes a deep breath as Mikasa rises from her seat and they follow Annie down the hallway.

…

Ymir, as Christa had learned two years ago when she rolled into the city, was from an honest-to-goodness rural town with a populace lower than three hundred. “It’s the kind of place where you basically know everyone,” Ymir had said, her head on Christa’s lap and one arm thrown over her eyes, her words a bit wobbled and slurred from the five consecutive shots she’d just slammed down. Christa had tried to warn her it was a bad idea, but Jean and Eren were having another one of their stupid pissing matches and Ymir just couldn’t resist the chance to outshine them both. Ymir had moved her other arm up, previously splayed across her chest, and flapped it about in the air. “It was such a fucking pain. Especially when I went with my cousin to the next town over and got my first bit of ink done and my parents found out before I was even on my way back to town.”

The ink she was referring to was the tattoo on her back, right between her shoulder blades, of a bright purple lotus blossom. The work was absolutely stunning; rich, dark purples bleeding inward on the petals to a softer, almost pastel hue. Everything about the tattoo was absolutely wonderful, in Christa’s opinion, and she loved when Ymir, once they’d reached that level of comfort with one another, would indulge her desire to stare. The other would pull her hair up higher and either pull her shirt down or just take it off, even letting the blonde woman trace the outline every now and again.

And the closer they became, the more of Ymir’s tattoos she was permitted to see.

The lotus blossom would always have a soft spot in her heart, as it was the first one she’d ever seen and been permitted to touch, but she also adored the intricate weaving of vines that went from just above Ymir’s left knee up along her thigh. The vines were actually shaded to be realistic – which was most likely expensive and time-consuming – but highlighted the excruciating attention to detail by the tattoo artist. There were leaves and thorns all the way along, with a few scattered buds and bloomed honeysuckles along the vines. Ymir’s latest tattoo was that of a hummingbird above her naval; the tattoo that Christa probably enjoys the most, considering it was done in honor of her, as hummingbirds are her favorite animal.

It was most likely because of Ymir that tattoos became so appealing to Christa; they were, in a way, a sign of freedom Christa had never had.

Despite living in the city all her life, Christa hadn’t really experienced much that the large place had to offer. Most of her time had been spent sheltered in boarding schools with strict rules about boys and curfew. The boy factor wasn’t a particular issue for her, though, since she preferred courting other girls, but not being allowed to actually go out on weekends with her friends drove her up the wall. Compounding that issue with the fact that she was restricted in regards to where she could go, who she could be out with, for how long she could go and with the stipulation that she always have her phone on and respond to any messages or calls within three minutes? Her life was mostly just studying and not much else. College, however, had been a breath of fresh air.

It had taken some finessing to convince her parents – as they wanted her to remain under their watchful eyes and oppressive thumbs - but in the end she managed to coax them into allowing her to be a dorm student. It was through this that she first met Ymir and Mikasa, the two girls being assigned to the room across from her, and her own roommate, Sasha Blause. She and Mikasa hadn’t become friends immediately, but they bumped into one another frequently enough at the gym on campus that they began doing their workouts together and spotting for one another. It was from there that their friendship blossomed and Christa became integrated with the rest of the group; and, as such, she ended up getting to know Ymir and eventually started dating her.

So, she figured, what better way to show how much Ymir meant to her than by getting a little bit of ink of her own?

The area is still a bit tender two days later, when she knocks on the door to Ymir’s dorm, but she feels giddy and excited to show her. Ymir had been stuck working long days at her job so she had been unable to show her sooner, but she can’t help but think it worked better for her. She’s had time to let some of the swelling and redness dissipate and feels more comfortable with how it looks. Ymir opens the door, looking bedraggled, in nothing but a tank top and a pair of shorts. She blinks before a sleepy smile comes over her lips. “Hey, babe,” She purrs, reaching out with one hand and settling it on the other’s left hip, much to Christa’s relief.

“Hey yourself,” She hums back, leaning forward and gently pecking her on the lips. She let Ymir leads her inside, keeping her hands settled gently on her shoulders, as she leans in for another kiss. Ymir shut the door and pressed Christa lightly against it, her other hand coming up to lightly tangle in her hair. When they pulled apart she smiled up at the other, leaning forehead and kissing her nose. “I have something I want to show you.”

“Oh yeah?” She muses while leaning back, twisting a few gold locks around her finger.

Christa giggles a bit before reaching up and calmly undoing the buttons of her blouse. Ymir is whistling lowly at the actions but it stops the minute the buttons are all undone and the shirt slips off, revealing the skin beneath. She steps backs a bit, eyes wide, and her hand detangles from the other’s hair.

Etched on her skin, above right hip, was a red fox sitting profile. The whole fox was in view, its fluffy tail curled around to cover the bottoms of its front paws. Its ears were up and alert, and it was staring sideways with the visible eye. Said eye was a bright gold that popped and accented the lovely hues of red and orange that made up its coat, as well as the vivid flowers wreathed in a necklace around its neck. The flowers were pastel pink and purple and yellow and very familiar; a flower necklace made unmistakably of lotus blossoms. The entire thing was a beautiful piece of work and had to have been by a talented hand.

“Y-Ymir?” Christa squeaks out softly, nervousness starting to get to her. Did she not like it? Had Christa made the wrong call and should she have gone with something else?

Slowly, Ymir lifts one hand and gently traces the outline of the tattoo with just the tips of her fingers. Christa manages to not flinch or whimper, the gentle touch still being a bit painful. “Is this real?” She breathes after a pregnant pause.

“I wanted to do something special since our anniversary is coming up,” She admits gently, a bit relieved that her girlfriend is speaking. She’s still staring at the tattoo with a look that she can’t quite place, though, so she isn’t completely at ease. “I wanted to get a tattoo for a while, and I thought that I wanted to do something to represent you. I had Jean draw the design up. I mean, there were plenty of fox designs at the parlor I could have picked but I wanted something really unique. So, I thought, why not get a design that combined your favorite animal and your favorite flower? I didn’t really give him any specifics other than that it needed to be a fox with lotus blossoms incorporated somehow and I think he did really well but I probably should have given him an actual size to go with since this was a little bigg-!”

She falls silent when Ymir kisses her, abrupt and greedy, and she falls into it. She can feel how Ymir’s lips are quirked up slightly in the kiss, wearing a grin, and her heart swells. One of the taller woman’s arms weaves around her waist, pulling her closer, while the other remains by her tattoo, gently caressing the new ink soothingly. “You’re something else, you know that?” Ymir chuckles when they part, resting her forehead against Christa’s.

“So does that mean you like it?” She asks softly, a shy smile on her lips.

“Does that question even need an answer?” She responds, leaning down to swipe another kiss.

#shingeki no kyojin #attack on titan #christa lenz #ymir #yumikuri #my fics #spooky snippets

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2bitnoir-blog · 5 years

Text

Kitten Island

First he noticed the noise. Tiny eeks, like squeaky baby birds. Birds were all over, different birds, and they squeaked but not like this.

The veranda was long and low. Jutted out the back of the house like an afterthought. Stubby tree ferns squatted the length.

At the tank-stand end a rabid bouganvillea threw purple and green up onto the corrugated tin wave of the roof. Unsatisfied and still reaching it tried to hook tendrils onto the sky.

There was a bald spot of ground by the back door that was dead and smelled of piss.

Straight from dim indoors, his eyes squinty. The bright was broken glass.

Almost afternoon now, his morning was wasted.

Splat flat on the lawn, he listened. Slim grass tongues licking his toes. Bright yellow dandelions smearing sunny paint onto his face.

Wondering at the sound.

Sunlight stenciled prison bar shadows onto the dirt through the cracks in the boot-worn boardwalk. The noise came from somewhere under.

He crawled closer.

Many indignant insects in his face. Buzzing and clicking and skittish.

He could see movement like the swirling grey on black when he closed his eyes at bedtime. Something moving in the underhouse.

A stray thought to be turned and examined like something found. Could he make the same sound?

He had a talent for it. For mimic. He could give the three-bell ‘all’s well’ signal to the rosellas. Match the laconic caw of the greasy black crows.

Maybe this was another he could do. A new one.

He drew his lips across his teeth and squashed his tongue. It was a kind of squeaky-yowling he made in the back of his throat. It was “Yew, Yew…”

Wrong.

Close, but not the same.

He shushed. Listened.

No noise. No movement. No swirling grey, just black.

He pressed his fingers hard into the corners of his eyes. Scrubbed at his eyeballs, a trick to bring the sparkling fairy goldies. Friendly twinkling lights, sometime companions that came when he stood up too fast or sat too long on the toilet.

They didn’t appear.

A cloud blotched the sun, shat dim light over all.

He waited for it to fly by in the sky.

Frogs gronked down by the creek. Blowflies farted and zoomed. Cicadas tore strips off the air.

His heart thudded. Distant marching soldiers, louder the longer the cloud lingered.

He tried again. “Eew, Eww…”

It was closer. Almost there.

He worked the sound around. Chewed on the shape of it.

“Ehew. Ehew…” He had it. Spot on like a lyre bird, or near as.

Again. “Ehew. Ehew…”

He waited.

Nothing. Just screaming insects because it was so hot.

He drifted for a while under the warm and blue.

Hmmmmmmmmmmmm... The afternoon hummed.

“Ehew. Ehew…”

Piercing, the noise stabbed the still.

He was swimming, swimming in the creek with the platyp-.

“Ehew. Ehew…”

Awake now and aware. Under the ferns, with a crook neck and itchy mosquito bites.

He responded.

“Ehew. Ehew.”

Two blue eyes peeked out at him through the gap in the boards. He saw them and they saw him.

“Ehew, Ehew…”

It wanted something. He wasn’t afraid though. It was something good.

“Ehew, Ehew…” He spoke to it.

“Ehew, Ehew…” It answered.

This was great.

It was joined by another. Then another.

They too said “Ehew, Ehew…”

“The bloody heck?”

Grey on black swirling. Blue eyes peering at him through the cracks.

“Ehew, Ehew…” he said.

“Ehew, Ehew…” the underhouse things said, then ventured out into the day.

Raggedy kittens, as many as the fingers on his hand. They blinked flinty eyes. Tried to focus on everything at once, swaying their little heads.

Grey tabbies with stripes like tiny tigers, crooked tails hoisted.

Impossibly cute.

Fragile magic, delicate and exposed.

The boy grinned from happy. “Ehew, Ehew…” he said.

They looked at him in unison. It was funny. Then they looked at each other.

They were wary of the stranger who spoke kitten.

He was like nothing they knew.

Tempted to flee, follow instinct and scatter, run, hide.

He made his new sound, rising like a plea. “Ehew?”

The kittens stared at him, afraid to move and afraid to come closer.

He could wait.

He would wait.

He could smell the sweet grass, the moist earth slightly cloying.

He thought about all the things that lived and grew and died there.

Slugs, seeds, caterpillars, weeds.

Harlequin beetles, grasshoppers and lizards.

Butterflies, stick-insects, bugs, lots of different bugs.

Bugs in your face, bugs in your eyes, eat a horse manure pie.

Too many things to count.

A cold shock dabbed briefly his hand. Silk brushed past his elbow like a whisper.

He lay still as a dead rabbit.

A wet kiss in his ear, startling.

The kittens were there, soft and suddenly all around. Jumping, climbing, scrambling over him. Scratchy claws catching in his t-shirt. Paws poking into his back, trotting down his spine. Whiskers swiping his nose and tickling his legs.

An adorable patchwork menagerie, stuffed toys come wonderfully to life.

“Ehew, Ehew, Ehew, Ehew, Ehew, Ehew, Ehew…”

A head picture flickered, took form, played like a movie. He was the hero, the star, an idea that literally moved him.

Carefully so as not to alarm, he sat up.

The kittens looked up at him wide-eyed.

He slowly stood. They were unsure, but still squirming on the grass.

Then he moved quickly. He didn’t look back lest the magic vanish.

The shed was peeling weatherboards on an exposed wood frame and a dark mouth yawning.

Shabby white sheets nailed to an elephant’s skeleton full of spiders.

Hanging waving cobwebs and the strong smell of rats.

Moldering piles of junk almost to the roof and sprawling across the crammed gravel floor. Stuff and more stuff.

There were lead pipes and a bicycle pump.

Gamey horse blankets, horse ropes and leather bridles, horse medicines, horse shoes, horse stuff.

A metal bucket, a selection of birds nests and a big tractor tyre.

An untouched packet of ratsac and a half-full bag of super-phosphate.

A butcher’s knife, a fishing pole, a kerosene lantern.

A bunch of thick maroon books, pages slowly fleeing their bindings.

A stringless tennis racket, a box of nails, a mangy or moth-eaten fox’s tail.

A bunch of empty plastic bags, brittle and disintegrating.

It was resting on its side close to the back of one of the smaller piles.

Woven by some deft hand, the cane basket Mum used to haul fruit up from the orchard.

Peaches, pears, apricots, apples. Whatever the coddling moth or possums hadn’t got to first. He was pleased; it would be ideal.

He grasped the handle and hoisted.

It felt good in his hand and smelled faintly of lemons.

It was dusty so he wiped the inside of it with his shirt. Now he was dusty too.

That shirt would be big trouble later with Mum.

Sunlight fingers felt through the cracks in the shed wall. Motes swished in the shards, swirled, slowly fell.

The flattened patch of grass by the veranda was empty when he returned.

He sat and called to the kittens. “Ehew, Ehew…” he said. “Ehew, Ehew?” he asked. There was nothing.

“Ehew, Ehew…” he said louder. “Ehew, Ehew?” he asked louder.

The emptiness ached a bit, so did his stomach.

He called until at last they answered, little mouths opening to show little pink tongues.

Little inquisitive faces poking out from the gloom.

“Ehew, Ehew…” Up from inside the basket, a swinging pendulum from the crook of his fingers. Rock-a-bye-babies, his responsibility now.

Panicked blue eyes, they couldn’t get out.

He couldn’t see Mum. That didn’t mean she wasn’t watching, but he didn’t think so.

There was no yell to “Get here right now.”

He wasn’t doing anything wrong, but she wouldn’t understand.

She would take the kittens away. Hurt them, kill them.

Ferals.

This was no place.

He carried the basket like a secret up the garden path.

Grey concrete pavers, fragrant roses along the way.

At the end a wrought iron gate, ornate but exhausted. Old paint flaked off like dandruff.

Its hinges complained bitterly when he shoved through with his hip and into the back paddock.

It was ill, he should show more respect.

He wasn’t supposed to be in the back paddock, there were bulls.

He couldn’t see any but Mum said so. He’d never seen any but the fear was there all the same.

Bulls were all big horns and snorting fury.

A lone crow wheeled above and decided on the bony remnants of a gum.

Brooding and dreadful it sat in judgement. Then with a flap and dismissive “Waark…” it was gone.

A cockatoo shrieked and for a second he thought it was Mum.

No, not her.

Just a bird.

The sun baked the side of the hill. The air wavered in the heat.

Thump, thump, thump.

His feet determined thumps in front.

Over short crunchy stubble, summer-scorched pasture parched and beaten. Mainly kikuyu, some dock here and there.

Crunch, crunch, crunch.

The kittens weeped, their eyes pleaded.

He made the sound to them. “Mhew…” It didn’t help.

Reaching the base of the hill, he approached with caution a crowd of scotch thistles, most standing taller than him.

They were menacing, alien things. Huddled in groups, dire needles sharp and glinting.

Vibrant purple crew cuts sprouting from faceless heads held together in nodding conference, watching, whispering.

He picked his way through, feeling an occasional quick sting to his legs. They tried to grab the basket but he wouldn’t let them.

He was relieved when they thinned out and he spotted the creek fence, bedraggled posts struggling to stay upright under the constant duress of standing. Two strands of barbed wire hung red-brown and speckled with bird shit, drooping like a low clothes line.

He stooped and lifted the top wire, careful of his fingers, careful of the tet-nus.

Tet-nus meant big needles in his belly Mum said. Doctor’s needles, bigger and sharper than even thistles.

The kittens begged him to stop.

He squatted through into the rudely lush foliage edging the blasted paddock.

It was a riot of green.

Patches of clover, milkweed and waving bracken.

Long grass probably full of snakes.

Bunches of turnip gone wild, a hang-over from earlier days when the farm was still being properly worked.

Sweet yellow wattle. Ragwort, also yellow but sour.

Clumps of slicing razor tussock, innocuous enough but with hidden bastard blades.

He couldn’t see the water, but he could smell it.

The only way down was a steep narrow cow-track scar worn into the slope by generations of hooves. He used his free hand to grasp tufts of whatever; anything to steady.

He dug in his heels and slipped straight onto his arse, still holding the basket but quickly sliding out of control.

A jarring stop at the bottom and he saw the goldies at last.

It felt wet where he was sitting. The kittens were frantic, spitting and trying to climb out.

“Ehew, Ehew…” he said to them.

“We’re here now. Calm down. Don’t cry.”

He stood on the edge of the squishy bank and dipped his toes just into the water.

The intrusion stirred the silt.

Brown clouds drifted.

He stepped in up to his ankles.

Brown clouds billowed.

The basket was heavier now than when he’d left the yard. The handle seemed to strain in his hand just from the sheer weight.

Paddling water-clocks tilled the surface and left expanding Vs in their wake.

They paused occasionally to make the crazy ticking circles that gave them their name.

Weeping willows trailed golden strands from above, languid in the drowsy breeze. Tangled limbs embraced, rubbing and knocking, their gnarled bark skins as tough as tonka.

Friendly guardians of the creek, his favourite trees by far. Tall and stooped like Grandad, nicer even than oaks or poplars.

He would sometimes swing on them with a big handfull of their hair, out over the water, feet kicking, before returning safely to shore. Sending haphazard leaves spiralling down. Miniature yellow gondolas that settled to drift untethered, race trills and currents, or float helplessly caught on some piece of jetsam.

The sky, blue like no other colour, reflected up at him from the water.

It was a mirror. In it he looked small and weak.

It wasn’t right, it wasn’t fair.

He looked at the wriggling kittens. They were small and weak too.

It was easy to get lost watching the water.

Time flowed gently down the stream. The creek was beautiful, but not to be trusted.

There were deep holes with snags where kids could drown.

Slippery black eels hungrily patrolling the depths, bellies white and fleshy.

Crayfish with snipping claws and beady eyes on stalks in hollow-log lairs, scuttling under shelves of wormy willow roots or flipping their tails and shooting backwards through the murk.

Mesmerising sounds, hypnotic ripples, boggy traps of sucking quickmud, dangerous crossings…

Once in winter he had seen a platypus playing.

The water was brown and fast, right up the sides of the creek and spilling over.

Mum told him falling in meant dead as dead so to stay away.

The platypus was rolling on its back, bobbing and diving, having fun in the speeding flood.

Dead was dead though, so he’d just watched until eventually it bobbed under and didn’t come back up.

The bridge to the island was a half submerged root, like a pale wet bone reaching.

The island itself no more than a bump.

Two slow roads flecked with whitish foam flowed around.

Cress and water-weeds fringed the shore. Baby gudgeons bulleted, flashed, sucked at the waving strands.

Fishbone ferns gave an impression of solidity, alongside blanched drifts of disintegrating leaves.

Piles of wattle baubles - no longer golden but gritty soaked orange.

He tried not to think and just did.

He walked the root.

He jumped at the end, planted his feet and landed with a splotch.

He stepped forward. He hadn’t fallen in.

Tawny water seeped shallowly into his left-behind footprints.

At last they had arrived. Kitten Island.

A place away from all the bad things in the world.

A place he could visit any time he wanted.

A place where he could watch them grow, his beautiful secrets.

Tenderly he tipped the kittens out of the basket. They toddled onto the ground, lost and frightened. They were not where they thought they belonged.

He was sure they were wrong though.

They would be happy here, safe and privileged and private.

The way back was easier without the weight of the kittens in the basket.

It felt so much lighter.

He felt so much lighter.

Epilogue.

After a sweaty night he wakes still tired.

Rags of lucid dreams. Something about his stuffed toys attacking him, circling with bared teeth.

Then he remembers the kittens and leaps from the bed.

A hurried bowl of coco-pops and a disapproving scowl from Mum.

He smiles and tells her he’s going outside to play.

“Alright,” she says. “But stay in the yard.”

He steps off the veranda into a scalding wind.

No noise from the underhouse.

The insects scream about the heat. He doesn’t care, lets them scream.

He feels a sort of thrumming anticipation, the twitching tug of a line running to his guts and pulling at his insides.

How happy they will be to see him.

They’ll purr and rub his bare legs with their chins.

Little darlings.

A blowfly buzzes by. Fat and slow, patrolling for a feed or somewhere to lay its eggs.

It diverts to the plum tree, attracted by the soggy bombs that sticky the ground dark red with juice.

He avoids going over there this time of year. Hates the disgusting feel of the plums under his his bare feet. Imagines walking across a field of bloody eyeballs.

Spring is better. Petals cover the ground in pink snow.

He makes his way up the path and through the gate. It’s still sick and lets him know.

Mum is wrong, the back paddock has no bulls.

He isn’t afraid. He’s yelping and rushing forward, his feet quick thumps in front.

Thump, thump, thump.

Whacking the thistles with a picked-up stick, laughing.

Through the fence, the green curtain, sliding down the slope easily.

His heart drums fast-marching soldiers. The blood sings sugar in his ears.

Nothing could be better.

The creek is a shiny silver worm, a dark mirror over which iridescent dragonflies skim and linger.

The weeping willows groan and sway in the hot gusts, tossing leaves to the cool water below.

He looks to the island and his smile sinks like a clod thrown into a dam.

It sinks like Mum’s smile when he’s again broken something.

“Ehew, Ehew..?” he asks.

Kitten Island is empty.

The kittens are gone.

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