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ninjadeathblade · 11 months

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Moulin Rouge Discotrain AU (part five)

Summary: (Post-game canon) The Conductor and DJ Grooves agree to finally work on a movie together. They come up with 'Moulin Rouge', a musical drama filled with romance. Over time the two directors grow closer and discover that maybe they don't hate each other as much.

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Word count: 1,070

Warnings: More Snatcher talking about being dead, Conductor remembering fighting Hat Kid, Conductor briefly uses a knife(?)

Author's notes: Not much Conductor and Grooves this chapter, sorry. But I do bring another enemy of Hat Kid to our cast of characters so that's something, right? Snatcher is back again to... do Snatcher-esque things.

"Who is it?" Conductor asked, looking up at the knock that came from his door.

"Harold Zidler. That is the name of the person you cast me as, right?"

"Come in Snatcher," he sighed, watching as the ghost opened the door.

Surprisingly, he didn't look the same as when they first met. He looked more humanoid, even if he was still purple with a couple yellow features. His regal looking attire made him seem even more out of place as he pushed long curls out the way of his face.

"I changed. Just like you said," Snatcher said, a slight grit to his words.

"You okay?"

"No, I don't really know how to look. I tried to look like how I did before I died and it's more than a bit unsettling," Snatcher admitted, fidgeting from one foot to another.

"Reminds me of my death which honestly isn't doing anything good for me. Lot of unresolved issues with that to be honest. No, I don't want to talk about it."

"I don't want you to."

"Great! Any suggestions?" Snatcher laughed nervously.

"The girl's bringing in a couple more possible actors today. You could make yourself look more like one of them?" Conductor suggested.

Snatcher nodded vigorously, eyes darting to look at posters on the walls of the office.

"Yeah, that could work, thanks," Snatcher replied.

The owl stood, walking over and placing a hand on the ghost's arm. "You seem pretty nervous lad. Wanna talk about it?"

"No, I already said I didn't want to talk about it," Snatcher growled, yanking his arm away.

"Alright. Do yer wanna go wait for the lass and her friends?" Conductor offered. Snatcher frowned, crossing his arms and looking away.

"Yes," he mumbled.

"Let's go do that then."

Conductor opened the door to his office, ushering the ghost out before leading the way to the reception.

Hat Kid jumped up and down and waved as the two of them entered, pointing at the large cat beside her.

The cat was probably the same height that Snatcher was at the moment, a scar crossing over the left of her yellow eyes. A mane of white hair swept behind her head, contrasting her face's dark grey fur. A red coat with a white fur collar was slung round her shoulder as her fur faded from grey to white, back to grey at her feet. Her two upper paws had rings on the fingers but were cuffed together.

"Finally, someone who looks like they have some sense of authority." The cat rolled her eyes, holding up cuffed paws. "Would you mind?"

Conductor drew a knife from his coat, slashing through the chain of the cuffs before putting it away.

"How long have you had that for?!" Snatcher exclaimed, looking with wide-eyed panic down at the bird.

Conductor shrugged.

"Generally or what? I've owned the knife for years."

"Are you okay?!"

"Probably not. But-" Conductor clapped his hands together, returning his attention to the cat. "You seem just the type for the role of the Duke! Yer hired! What's your name?"

"Empress," she replied. "Now, I just have a few questions."

"Of course. Fire away lass."

"Who are you, where am I, what movie are we making, and am I getting paid?"

"I'm the Conductor, I'm one of the directors. Yer in the Dead Bird Studio. The movie's called Moulin Rouge and yes, we can negotiate payment," Conductor responded.

Empress' tail flicked away from Hat Kid as the small person clapped.

"Do I have to work with her?" Empress spat the final word, glancing distastefully in the direction of the girl.

"You have history with her too?" Snatcher asked.

"Have history with her? I want her dead! The only reason I'm here is to get a reduced sentence! She's the reason I ended up in jail!" Empress raged.

"I get it, I really do. She wouldn't let me kill her once she became useless and then forced me to be her friend!" Snatcher added, nudging the small girl.

Hat Kid beamed up at him, giving him a thumbs up.

"God we really need to sign that contract that'll make you talk. It'll be the death of me- oh wait, it won't. Nessa did that and you screwed up breaking into her place!"

Hat Kid shrugged and giggled before walking over to a Moon Penguin.

"Can we get back on track?" Conductor sighed impatiently.

A flipper landed on his shoulder and the owl tensed, inhaling sharply.

"Who's this, darling?" Grooves asked, sunglasses tilted down on his beak slightly as he looked at Empress.

"We found our Duke," Conductor explained.

"Yeah, I still have no idea about what is going on, can I just have my money and a script?" Empress asked, ripping the cuffs off her wrists.

"Um, yes…Conductor, a moment please?" Grooves requested, dragging the owl aside a few feet. "Darling, is that a criminal?!"

"We can still hear you, you're not exactly being subtle," Snatcher pointed out.

"Besides, you hired me. I'm dead! How is a criminal much worse than that?"

Grooves sighed and walked himself and the Conductor to the other side of the reception.

"Darling, really, we should think this through," Grooves pleaded. Conductor looked away, crossing his arms.

"You heard her. She's doing it to get a reduced sentence. No criminal would compromise a reduced sentence. They'd have ta be mad to do that!" Conductor argued.

"Please darling. Can we just spend a while thinking about it?"

Conductor turned back to Grooves, staring into the penguin's star shaped glasses, just about making out the shadows of his eyes.

The dark lenses seemed to be breaking through his walls, staring at all his broken pieces.

The last time he'd felt afraid was fighting Hat Kid.

When he'd been terrified about what would become of his reputation, his life.

His family.

When he'd tried to steal a timepiece to correct what should've been his award.

Award 42.

Grooves' award.

A shiver ran down his spine again, that creeping feeling of fear. The ice cold realisation.

Thoughts of his family flitted across his mind.

His daughter, his grandchildren.

What might've happened to them?

He repressed the thoughts, burying them with other memories he didn't wish to think of again.

"Fine. We'll do it your way," Conductor conceded, looking away again.

"Cool. Shall we go review her actual acting strengths and weaknesses then?"

"I said fine didn't I?"

#ahit #a hat in time #hat kid #ahit snatcher #the snatcher #a hat in time snatcher #ahit hat kid #ahit au #ahit moulin rouge au #discotrain #a hat in time moulin rouge au #discotrain moulin rouge au #ahit empress #a hat in time empress #dj grooves #dj grooves ahit #ahit conductor #the conductor

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rcksmith · 3 years

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Mine — Kaz Brekker

(photo not mine)

Requests: “9 from the fluff prompts with Kaz brekker please? It could be where they're keeping it a secret and it slips out? Thanks”

“Could you possibly do a kaz brekker and reader imagine where they are both like in their mid twenties. Number 9 from the fluff prompts “So you're saying that girl is your girlfriend?" "No, that girl is my wife”, I could just imagine him with the smuggest grin saying it. Your a very good writer and thank you if you decide to write this.”

“Could I get a kaz brekker x reader secret relationship with fluff prompts 5, 7, 12, and 14 please?”

Fluff prompts:

5. ”Don’t smile at me like that. You know it drives me crazy.”

7. “I feel like i cant breathe when i’m around you.”

9. “So you're saying that girl is your girlfriend?!" "No, that girl is my wife!”

12. “I’m not jealous! Its just...you’re mine!”

14. “I don’t like to pretend we’re not together.”

Couple: Kaz Brekker/ Fem!Reader

Warnings: swearing, mention of fights, mention of post-traumatic stress, fluff too.

Word count: 2k.

A/N: Thank you💖 I hope you guys like. I changed some details a little, hope you don't mind

Normal Rules. Smut Rules.

English is not my first language, so I so sorry if have a mistake.

Requests are open. Love you❤️

— — — —

Fissure. That's what mercenaries, thieves, assassins and his enemies were looking for. A fissure to drive Kaz Brekker to ruin. Burn his empire, wood for wood, until there is nothing left but funeral ashes swept away by the winter wind. Even the most infinitesimal fissure would ensure that his enemies infiltrate, like hungry parasites, into the heart of the dungeon of his deepest secrets. Swallowing, absorbing, any hint of what could do the infamous the Bastard of the Barrel down to his own knees.

And Kaz Brekker feared that if they looked into the most secluded corner of his dungeons, where it was reserved to hide the greatest truths of his soul, they would find the one only thing to beg on his knees for would be something he would do without hesitation.

You.

You were like the last summer solstice in a world ruled by darkness, cold and empty. Which he kept in a chest locked with seven chains.

If he had to describe you with the five senses, Brekker would remind that, when he was in the bitter cold of the ocean, clutching the stiffness of dead and putrefying flesh like a lifeboat, a ray of sunshine, warm as the summer, it opened up through the thunderclouds and came down to his face, warming that spot of skin like a kiss from the sun.

And it would be with that memory that he would describe you.

Kaz Brekker shouldn't have fallen in love with you. He was the person who most understood the disastrous consequences if he let himself get carried away by the way his heart sped up whenever he saw you. If he allowed herself to taste the way all of your heat radiated into his body and made him feel alive. But he fell in love.

Everything was all too much. The feeling of life every time you said his name, like a devotion, something religious, lyrical. The sweetness in your eyes, the warm voice. Everything had been too much.

And what should he do? Tell you he missed you every time you went on a mission? Saying that he were jealous and envy of Jesper because the man managed to make you laugh with a silly joke and hug you tight, something Kaz still hadn't been able to do? Tell you it was almost religious the way he venerated your smile? Of course not. Because all these things would have been sensible, and Kaz couldn't do anything sensible around you.

Because when he saw life offering him, with such joy, the one thing that had been denied him all his life, and that he swore never to crave, his first impulse was anger. Stupid, irrational anger.

So, for the first few moments, his entire reaction to you had been cold, distant, almost avoidant. Because the way his whole body shook in hot spasms when, in that summery tone, you called his name, it was too much for Kaz to handle.

“Kaz!” You call, one night.

He heard your voice from across the crow club, and had to close his eyes tightly at the way his heart leapt in his chest.

"Hey, hey." You appeared beside him, your cheeks chased away by coral red, the happy smile and the sparkle in your eyes as someone who have the path to true happiness. "Jessy said you were wanting to find a new way to invade that bank."

Oh perfect. In the same way his body exalted when he heard the sound of your name and your lips, hearing you call Jesper by that infernal nickname had a much more destabilizing effect. And fierce.

Kaz raised an eyebrow at you, in a nonchalant gesture but inviting you to keep talking.

“I happen to know of an underground path.” For an instant, the pride in your smile made Kaz want to smile too. “You and I can put together a map today and we'll be right tomorrow to go.”

That was one of the times Kaz should have made some dry, disinterested, trivial comment, something that made you not want to spend time with him, something that made you turn around and walk away. He should have turned around and left. He had done this over a thousand times with other people and knew it to be one of the best outings.

Still, the acid comment didn't come and he couldn't turn his back on you.

So, like the idiot he became whenever it came to you, Kaz couldn't help but spend an hour in your company. Even if it resulted in him lying in bed at the end of the day, alone and feeling the guilt gnawing at him more and more.

So, before he even knew it, Kaz was already in his office with you, listening to you chatter about things he knew he should have been paying attention to. But the way the crackling of the fire flames in the fireplace flashed across your face was a distraction of unimaginable proportions.

“Jessy and I…”

“You want to stop.” He found himself saying before he even realized it. “That nickname is already exasperating me.”

“Why? Jealousy?” You joked, oblivious to the truth.

Kaz looked at you like your comment was the most pathetic thing he'd ever heard. He wanted to screaming: ‘I’m not jealous! Its just...you’re mine!.’ But he didn't. Instead, the words that came out were:

“No. It's childish and immature, and it doesn't fit with...”

"What if I call you ‘Darling’?” You rested your chin on both palms of your hand, your elbows resting on his desk in his office.

Kaz's heart skipped a beat.

“That way you won't be jealous of Jessy's nickname and…”

“It's not jealousy!” He countered, and too late realized that he didn't disagree in the first instance about the nickname, but about the green color that emanated from his body.

And you didn't let that go either.

Your eyes took on a caustic gleam that you quickly hid, turning to the map on the table and going back to drawing the paths. “Okay, Darling.”

After that night, Kaz's self-control began to crumble.

He gave you death glares whenever you called him that nickname, but he never dared contradict or scold you. Much less deny it. The truth was, the core of his soul wanted this. He wanted every part of your caress warm as summer. He wanted to appreciate how perfect you looked when you called him that way. As if that nickname was born just to be used between you.

Something unique.

Over time, his body's physical reactions began to be stronger, coercive and overwhelming. Kaz felt dry, burning, and you soothed and inflamed him at the same time. You were the breath of peace, and also a glass of hot brandy.

And everything that he once felt dead, frozen or putrefying, slowly began to blossom, reborn and shine.

"Darling." You said, going behind the chair Kaz was sitting in, submerged in the Krisha security system sheets in front of he. “You've been there for hours.”

He ignored you, though his body was all too aware of yours behind him, the way your breath hit the top of his ear, how your heat hit his back like a high summer breeze. Kaz swallowed hard, ordering his eyes to stay on the pages.

“What are you reading?”

Your voice rang out from the top of his head, and Kaz felt his heart race into a cardiac arrhythmia the second your hands went to the back of the chair and your face tilted, chin hovering millimeters from his shoulder, your nose almost brushing his cheek.

Fucking Saints! You were hot! It was as if you had sun bathed, swam in the flames of fire, and been born into the summer.

Kaz lost his breath. His sanity. His soul.

“Do not do this.” His voice was no more than a whisper.

You looked at him, the furs not touching but breath hitting each other's cheeks. Kaz followed your gaze, and suddenly the world subtly turned hot. Pulsing and muffled.

“What?” You whispered, your heart so fast.

This was the time for Kaz to use the touche in a very valid argument. To make you move away as fast as you approached. To nip in the bud any path this interaction between you could take. He should have said about the touch. But he didn't remember. Kaz didn't remember his limitation, his traumas, his demons.

In that second, of insanity and magic, you couldn't do that just because…

"I feel like I cant breathe when I'm around you." He said.

After that day, Kaz realized that life no longer made sense without having you by his side to share it. Money didn't have the same value anymore if you weren't there, the robberies didn't make sense anymore if he couldn't tell you how it was at the end of the day, or have you by his side to fight.

Very quickly, Kaz Brekker realized that he had lost the battle against his own feelings. Loving you was inevitable. And having you close to him was made as essential as breathing. That's when things between the two of you developed faster, more solid, more right. The weeks turned to months, the months to years, and your relationship fortified as gloriously as the hilt of a sword.

Kaz still had very difficult moments with touching, days when a single brush of fur was unbearable and the mention of a kiss was impossible. But you stayed there. Firm and unshakable. Giving your summer smiles,your warm winks, and his nickname that had the power to soothe every nerve in Kaz's body.

However, the more Kaz understand that he was need you to he still live, the deeper he hid any trace of public affection for you. Any clue that could sparked the theory in someone that you were the reason, for Brekker, for the sun rose every morning. He couldn't bear the thought of losing you. Never.

Kaz Brekker became very aware that his soul was harnessed to yours. And there was nothing in the world that would take you away from he. Not while he lived, and even seven feet from land, Kaz would still find a way to fight for you.

It was a logical decision when he said you two should get married. Kaz was still trying to maintain his serene posture as his soul burned in a fire too eager and excited to make official anything that said you were his. That he had finally managed to have that ray of sunshine in the midst of the atrocious ocean. You, unlike him, exhaled your happiness in excited squeals, little jumps of joy and a passionate, quick kiss on the man in front of you.

And Kaz understood, as perfectly as the sky are blue, that he would do anything, for the rest of his life, to be worthy of that overwhelming happiness that sparkled in yours smiles.

“Don’t smile at me like that. You know it drives me crazy.” He said, feeling himself smile because your happiness for the wedding was exorbitant.

And you, like the little tease you were who loved to make him piss off, smiled even more and hugged him. He love you. Unconditionally.

But, just like the ocean waves, Kaz and you have had your ups and downs. He wasn't a man who had a lot of patience, and you weren't the most obedient, calm woman in the world. You found him exasperating and he found you as stubborn as a door.

"I already said you can't do that!" And there he was, once again, lecturing you because you showed too much affection, in his mind, for him in a public situation.

And, as Kaz fucking Brekker liked to point out, ‘all walls have eyes and ears’.

"We've been together for six years, Kaz!" You tried to keep your blood calm, but you weren't a person to put up with sermons. “Is this going to be our life? Living as if we have the same connection as a boss and an employee?!”

“And what do you want, Y/n?!” He placed both hands on his office desk, looking at you from the other side “Want us to have a party and tell everyone?! Or do you prefer to hang a red target on your chest?!”

"I did not say that!" You were starting to get really angry. “I'm not asking for a billboard saying we're married and you know it! The only thing I'm saying is that you let me choose to sit next to you, take your hand, or tell you I love you when any of us go off on a dangerous mission!"

Kaz shook his head, impassable, his gaze flashing with anger. How did you not realize he was trying to save you?! Save everything you two built, your lives! And all this for what? Walking hand in hand on the street? It was ridiculous!

“This is indisputable!”

“Kaz…”

“I said no!” He slapped his hands on the table.

A less brave woman would have cringed. But not you.

“I don’t like to pretend we’re not together!”

“And I don't like a fucking girl who complains all the fucking time about something I do to save her! But it feels like I've been put up with it for six years, doesn't it?!”

The words hit you like a slap. Crackling, burning and electrifying. You felt yourself holding your breath and your shoulders instinctively tightening back. The room was silent. Loaded with tension, as if lightning had just hit the ground.

You looked at Kaz in amazement. And he pursed his lips when he realized what he'd said.

“Put up with? And you call me ‘fucking girl’ ?” You repeated, your voice low, serious and in a mixture of hurt and outrage. “Good to know.”

You turned your back, walking out of the office and slamming the door behind you hard, making the thud reverberate through the corridors of Kaz's soul.

"Y/n!" He called you, striding to the door "Y/n!"

But when Kaz pulled the doorknob and took a few steps down the hall, it wasn't you he bumped into. It was Nina, trying to hide, in a very terrible way, her curious and shocked expression. In female hands she carried a small stack of documents, probably something important that Kaz needed to check.

He had to check that out. But his eyes, restless and quick, wandered the great hall of the crow club below, watching your figure pass between the bodies, advancing towards the exit.

"Sooo…" Nina started, even though the attention wasn't on her. "Couple fights, right?"

But Kaz didn't think before nodding, trying to get past Nina to catch up with you. But of course the girl wasn't going to let Brekker get away with it that quickly. She was betting with Inej how long you two would pretend to have nothing. And now she was going to get the truth!

"So you're saying that girl is your girlfriend?" The smile of shock and excitement was wide open on her face.

Kaz muttered a curse, gently pushing the girl aside and moving towards the stairs, aiming to catch up with you. But not before answering:

"No, that girl is my wife!"

#kaz brekker fluff #kaz brekker imagine #kaz brekker fanfic #kaz x kruge #kaz brekker x you #kaz brekker x y/n #kaz brekker x reader #kaz brekker #kaz x jesper #shadow and bone imagine #shadow and bone #freddy carter x you #freddy carter imagines #freddy carter fluffy #freddy carter x reader #freddy carter

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clanwarrior-tumbly · 3 years

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Ok i got an monster tom x scientist reader au universe thing and no it does not take place in the red army base

Reader is a scientist and is asked to run some tests on a new specimen/monster they found, and when reader sees the specimen/monster they actually think it's kinda cute but then some other scientists shock him and even stick some needles in him and reader just feels bad for the specimen/monster at this point so nighttime rolls around and they hack into the cameras to shut them off and wear a mask so they won't get caught and go to the main room where the specimen/monster is they the reader introduces themselves to the monster the monster, thinking they're gonna hurt them, immediately backs off obviously scared and reader convinces the monster that they're not gonna hurt them and the monster shrinks as he's mostly human and says "your not gonna hurt me?" And they reassure him that they're not gonna hurt him and they sneak into the readers car and drives off the lab that the monster was in and reader asks what the "monsters" name is and says their name is "tom". Then reader makes a pit stop to a store real quick to get tom some clothes and then reader drives to they're home and introduces tom to their room and asks if they want some food/ take out or not an he says yes and they get some chinese food and watch some TV, after eating they both go to bed and reader suddenly finds themselves in Toms arms whimpering a little, and reader just kinda decides to pet his hair and rub his horns a little bit which make him purr then tom wraps his tail around reader and asks them to do it more and they do do that untill they notice that he's asleep then they both fall asleep.

Whew, I enjoyed writing this one ^^

Summary: Reader, a scientist, rescues Monster Tom from the lab that experimented on him and brings him home

...............

"Dr. [L/n], I'll let you oversee today's tests on TR-03."

"Alright, chief." You smiled awkwardly as your supervisor handed you the clipboard. It contained the subject's information: a one-eyed horned monster of an unknown species, though your colleagues have theorized it to be a demon. "What kind of tests are we running on it?"

"Resistance to electric shocks. There's evidence of uranium possibly circulating in its blood, so you'll be watching them extract samples as well."

As he explained, your smile gradually dropped as you looked over the information, seeing a ton of redacted information, including several incidents of the destruction it caused prior to its capture.

"So it's gonna be shocked and stuck with needles? Sounds painful."

"Its armor is thick, so it shouldn't feel a thing. Besides...I don't think you need to worry about whether it'll be painful for it." Your supervisor spoke in a rather condescending tone. "After all it's just an animal."

"I...yes, sir. I'll go oversee the tests right away." Not wanting to argue further, you just left his office and wandered through the building.

You were eager yet anxious to meet this monster.

Eventually you reached the area where the creature was being held, climbing up the stairs that led to the skybridge so you could look down into its holding chambers.

It was a massive dark purple creature, with two bright violet horns and a single black eye. Surprisingly it was allowed full movement, though judging from the many claw marks on the walls...it wouldn't surprise you if one day it was chained up to restrict such behavior.

You actually thought it was..kind of cute? It looked scary in pictures, but up-close it didn't seem as terrifying.

That only made you feel more pity for it as other scientists entered the chamber, clad in protective suits, with electric prongs and needles.

Almost immediately the monster seemed aware of what they were going to do, its eye widening as it stood on both feet and cowered in the corner. It growled in warning, only for a scientist to jab its leg with a prong in response, eliciting a roar of pain.

You physically flinched, feeling bad for the creature. But you took notes on its response to electric shocks.

Subject recognized equipment immediately, perceiving them as danger. Responded painfully to electricity.

Soon after being tortured, the monster seemed dazed, allowing another scientist in a hazmat suit to approach it and stick a needle into its hip. The vial of blood collected turned out to be red, with a glowing green aura.

As you took more notes, you heard a small whimper and looked down, seeing that the monster wasn't putting up a fight.

Instead it was...crying?

Sure enough, tears leaked from its eye as more of its blood was drawn, being electrocuted as some sick form of "sedation". It was hard to tell whether the people inside felt any sort of sympathy, but they just took their leave without saying a word to each other. Only a mere nod.

You didn't want to be here any longer than you needed to, so you finished your report and began heading back to your office.

Though you noticed the monster looking up at you, and you couldn't help but frown and murmur a simple:

"I'm sorry."

.............

After your shift was over, normally you'd go home for the night.

But on the ride home...you kept thinking of TR-03 and couldn't shake the images and sounds of its pain.

The way it responded to just seeing the prongs, and the way it looked at you as though it was begging for help, seemed far too human for it to be just a mindless animal.

Of course, you never questioned the secrets this lab kept--not wanting to be fired. But they seemed to be hiding a lot of stuff about this specimen, never speaking about its origins or even what it was capable of.

You may have only seen it for the first time today, but you wanted to know more about it. And you had a feeling that you won't get the answers you wanted by asking around.

Oh no..you were going to free it in order to find out the truth.

Not just to satisfy your own curiosity, but also because...the way it was being treated was far too cruel. To the point where it was crying.

You couldn't stand for this unethical treatment any longer. You had to do something..and be smart about it lest you got killed or worse.

After making a quick stop at a store, you found a mask and changed your clothes, completely disguising yourself. Then you got back in your car and returned to the lab, parking it somewhere far away so that you can sneak inside.

Fortunately you had security access in case any of the specimen breached their chambers. Thanks to your hacking skills you were able to disable every security camera you could find, putting them all on timers so they'd turn on later in the morning. You didn't want to rouse any suspicion.

That was the easy part.

The most important and difficult task lied ahead.

...........

As soon as you entered the monster's chamber, it woke up and grumbled with annoyance. Clearly it didn't like its rest being disturbed.

Though upon seeing you and the mask you wore, it tilted its head. "Grrrah..?"

"Shhh, it's okay." You whispered, removing the mask so it could see your face. While you were awestruck to actually see it up close and personal, you knew you had to keep calm.

But that might've been a mistake as it seemed to recognize you--the one who was watching it earlier today. It immediately backed into a corner, terrified as its chest began heaving with anxiety.

You couldn't blame it for its reaction, though your gently put your hands up and hushed it. "Please don't panic. I'm not here to hurt you. I wanna get you out of here."

"Hrrgrah?"

"Mhm." Smiling, you just pretended you could understand it. "I don't like how they treat you here. They call you an animal but..I know you're more than that."

The monster calmed down a little, before glancing up to the opposite corner. He made a noise of confusion upon seeing that the security camera's annoying red light wasn't blinking.

"I shut that off so nobody can hear or see us."

"H...ack..?"

You blinked, surprised that it could speak some English, but the fact it wasn't cowering like before was a sign it was trusting you. "Yep, I hacked the whole security complex. Now's our chance to escape, but..ah shit."

Suddenly, it never occurred to you: your mission was focused on getting to the monster, but you never considered how you'll get out with the monster.

"Damn..I'm not sure how we'll sneak you out without...." However, you trailed off as you saw it changing into a smaller form.

But it wasn't just shrinking, it was actually turning partially human.

How curious, nobody told you about that. Maybe that was part of the redacted information.

The monster turned out to be a human male, who still retained his horns, tail, and dark scales and fur, which covered his body. His brown hair was messy and spiky, and interestingly enough he had two black eyes.

He didn't have any clothes, obviously, so you took off your coat and put it around him. "So you're human, huh?"

"Your stupid friends' experiments wouldn't let me turn back for a while..." He grumbled in a slight British accent. "You sure you're not gonna hurt me?"

Understandably he got defensive, knowing you were working for the people who tortured him. But you shook your head. "No, I won't. I'm quitting this shithole and I'll take you with me." You took his hand reassuringly, noting that it was still clawed.

He gave you the tiniest of smiles in return. "Heh, glad we're both in agreement."

Soon you both quickly made your escape, luckily not running into any trouble. Your car was still parked right where you left it, so you got in and drove off.

You definitely won't miss working for that lab.

The roads were mostly empty at this time of night, so you were able to breathe easy knowing nobody's gonna chase you. Now seemed to be the best time to talk with the monster.

"So uh..do you have a name?" You spoke up. "I know they call you TR-03 but it doesn't feel right to call you that anymore."

"Tom." He answered as he looked out the window. "My name's Tom Ridges."

'Huh, that explains his code name.'

"I'm [y/n]." After noticing a nearby plaza, you saw a clothing store and decided to make a quick stop there. Tom seemed to be confused, and a bit worried when you left him in the car all alone, though you reassured him you were just buying some clothes for him.

He waited, trying to keep himself out-of-view in case any strangers got too nosy. But before long you were back, opening the driver's side as you peered in and sighed with relief, seeing him halfway out of the chair.

"Jeez, you scared me..thought somebody got you." You sighed, shaking your head.

"S-Sorry, not trying to get any unwanted attention. It's the last thing I need.." He sat upright, though he was surprised when you handed him a bag. Inside was a blue hoodie, boxers, and gray sweatpants. "Oh, cool."

'That's all he has to say?' His reaction was a bit underwhelming. 'Then again..maybe he hasn't processed that he's never going back to that hell chamber yet.'

You just shut the door and waited for him to get dressed, and when he tapped on the window you got back into the car. He definitely looked more comfortable now.

After giving him a smile, you continued on your way home, feeling glad that you rescued him from that place. You had no idea if he had any place to go, granted you don't recall seeing any information on his address nor any relationships.

So he'll stay with you.

...........

"Luckily I got a spare room. Excuse the mess." You chuckled as you showed Tom the extra room in your house, turning on the light. "You can stay here for as long as you'd like."

He nodded as he looked around, before feeling his stomach grumble. In embarrassment he put a hand over it, glancing at you. "Sorry..the food they had was shitty, I'm sure you knew."

"Yeah...you want takeout?" You took out your phone. "I don't feel like cooking tonight so I was gonna order some anyway."

"Sounds good."

"Alrighty, I'll call in the order. We can go watch TV while we wait."

Once more Tom nodded, following you into the living room space where you both sat down on the sofa. He sighed and leaned back, turning on the TV while you ordered some Chinese food.

This situation felt so...comforting and familiar..

For a moment he gazed at you, seeing you look through the menu.

He knew he wasn't the only prisoner back in that lab. So he couldn't understand why you'd choose him, of everyone you could've helped, but...he considered himself lucky.

For once he felt like he could let his guard down a little.

Some time later the food arrived to your house, and you both ate it while watching various TV programs. You asked Tom a bit more about his home life, though he didn't have much to talk about.

Whether he didn't want to say anything or forgot it thanks to the experiments was a mystery, but you wouldn't pry. You'll get your answers sooner or later, though not tonight.

Tonight you both deserved a good rest.

Afterwards you headed off to your own room, letting him know that he can knock on your door if he ever needed anything.

You got into your pajamas and crawled into bed, yawning.

It had definitely been an eventful day. You were eager to sleep in, knowing that you won't ever go back to your boring (and unethical) job.

But just as you had turned off the lights and dozed off, you heard your door creak open. With a slightly annoyed sigh, you sat up and turned on the lamp beside you, before seeing it was Tom.

"Tom? Your room is..."

Though you fell silent when you heard him...whimper? His eyes were white, indicating he was in some kind of distress.

But he crawled onto your bed, practically situating himself in your arms while making sure he didn't jab you with his horns. You were perplexed by his actions, though you finally realized..

He was just scared.

You held him in your arms, rubbing his horns soothingly and petting his hair, murmuring promises that he was safe. In response he nuzzled up to you, tail wrapping around your body as you both laid down.

You only stopped for a moment as he started purring, which made you chuckle softly. "Purring, huh? That's new."

"Can you keep doing that?" He grumbled, closing his eyes. "It was nice till you stopped."

"O-Oh right, sorry." You continued the previous motions, deciding to hum a small song as well to help him sleep.

Eventually you stopped once he dozed off completely, and your cheeks felt warm upon seeing how adorable he looked. 'And to think I was afraid of this guy?' You mused, before turning off the lamp light.

Soon enough you fell asleep as well.

If this is how Tom expressed his thanks...you'll take it.

#clanask #anonymous #eddsworld x reader #ew tom x reader #monster tom x reader #scientist reader

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ladyhaesoo · 4 years

Text

hotel blue moon

"There are a lot of people in this world who deserve to die. And some thoughtful freaks kill them for us in secret. That's why clueless civilians can sleep peacefully at night, completely unaware. Which one do you think I am?"

“Which one do you think I am?"

part 2 | read on page (not for the mobile app, but prettier)

There were a lot of things Moonyoung did not enjoy doing. Smiling unnecessarily. Being touched. Having to censor her books for the general public when their intended audience had no problems with her content. Meeting with obnoxious directors of large hospital chains that took advantage of people's suffering to make billions while looking like great philanthropists.

Ham and Gam hospitals hosted the largest paediatric wards in all of South Korea, with the country's best (highest paid, inflated, overconfident) paediatric doctors and surgeons on their staff. The ugly posters of smiling doctors (couldn't they have hired models?) and smiling children with assorted bullshit statistics stared at her as she sat there, doing one thing she hated so she wouldn't have to do another thing that she, unfortunately, hated more.

The earliest reviews of Zombie Kid were not looking good. Sangin was crying or yelling every time he spoke to her. The art was too gruesome, the story was too violent—of course it was too violent for the timid reviewers that read it from the safety of newspaper positions that afforded them the right to have no critical thinking whatsoever. Themes? Metaphors? These were the people who ate Cinderella up and pretended no feet were harmed in the making of this fairytale.

Still, she had a fanbase. Her books would sell, and, per Sangin, if she went to a hospital and read her books to children who needed money and medicine and possibly new organs, everyone would clap about her good deeds and forget all about the child that ate his mother.

If that had been all, Moonyoung wouldn't have minded. She liked readings; the terrorised but delighted little eyes staring up at her, eating up every word, learning something that a good many adults would never understand. The reading of this book did not have nearly as much drama as she would like, and any more cannibalism-based artwork had been ruled out, but it was still a good read. She made chewing noises as she read, and the children were delighted.

But it was not all.

And the truly generous Ham Kojeon had then had the audacity to postpone their meeting.

Moonyoung had nearly turned around and walked for the stairs, but Sangin was getting scarily fast at keeping up with her; his arm had popped up in her way before she could take a step down, and he'd dodged when she'd gone for her purse, then said something and gone to argue with the secretary.

"The director's been called into an urgent meeting," the secretary had told Sangin half an hour ago. "But the director has arranged snacks for you in the waiting room."

The waiting room in question surrounded the director's office, separated by frosted windows that gave a nice view into the room itself. Nothing was clear, but she could just about make out a pair of nice broad shoulders walking around the room. "Oh my," she said when the shoulders visibly walked around the desk to stare down at where the director was presumably sitting. "Has he delayed us to meet with a personal guest? How impolite."

Sangin glared at her. On the other side, his makeshift assistant giggled into her folder.

"Well, maybe I should go join them. Better view from inside. I deserve some entertainment too if he's going to keep me waiting."

Sangin hissed something about the people listening, even though it was just them and the director's secretary. Moonyoung rolled her eyes and turned away. Sometimes—just sometimes—she almost wished she valued her creative autonomy less than she did.

She shifted to relieving her frustration with all of this by grinding the metal heel of her boot into the metal leg of the chair and enjoying Sangin wincing every time she did it. The trick to something like that was variation. A few seconds of relief meant he wasn't expecting it when—

A thin distant alarm bell began to peal throughout the building, and Moonyoung laughed. "Can this day get any worse?"

Sangin groaned. "Wait a minute, let me go find out what's happened. Don't go anywhere!" he commanded, then gave the art director a look that said make sure she doesn't go anywhere. Then he ran off, presumably to interrogate someone poorly.

Moonyoung gave it a second, then got up and left. "Ms. Ko!" Poor little Seungjae called, but didn't make to follow. Moonyoung ignored her and went down the stairs. If nothing else, she needed a smoke break, especially if she was really expected to shake hands with Ham Kojeon after this.

She was halfway down the stairs when she saw it; a man in a patient's uniform dragging a child into what looked like a supplies closet. She followed at some distance, eyes narrowing, mind whirring uncomfortably. The girl was crying, but the alarm bells were loud enough on this floor that she wasn't audible over them—was that smoke she smelled? Had the man taken advantage of the fire, or had he started it?

When she slipped into the still-open closet door, the man was on his knees in front of the sobbing girl. "I'm your father!" he insisted. "I'm really your father! Why are you crying?"

"My father's dead!" the girl was repeating, eyes screwed shut, "You're not my father!"

"Listen to Daddy! I'm not dead! We both have to go together, do you hear me? Children can't live alone without their parents, that's why we both have to go at the same time!"

Moonyoung clicked her tongue. "What is this? Some kind of personality disorder? Delusions? I didn't realise it was that kind of hospital." She did hope the contempt came through. It worked; the man dropped the girl's arms, and turned to glare at her.

"Who the hell are you?" the man's voice faded between ordinary and not-quite-ordinary. Moonyoung frowned despite herself as his face seemed to shudder into something grotesque for a second—but when she blinked, it was just a grey-haired man with yellowing teeth. "This is between me and my daughter! Stay out of this!"

"She said she isn't your daughter," Moonyoung said. "If you want to die, die alone. If you want to live, don't steal others' children."

The man scrambled off his feet and came towards her. "Do you want to die? What the hell do you know? This is my daughter, and I'll do whatever the hell I like."

"Hearing problem?" she yelled, making an exaggerated gesture towards her ear. "I said, she—"

The man lunged towards her, and she slammed the hard end of her purse into his face, knocking him clean to the ground. The purse flew open, and her knife—too pretty for this place, with its carved handle and its surgical sharp tip—flew out of it to land somewhere beyond the man's hand.

He reared towards it, but he was on the ground, she was faster, and she stamped on his hand, keeping him from reaching the knife, and kicked it out of the way but somehow the man was up again. He jumped, and reached for her throat, grabbing her in a violent choke and banging her head onto the tile. A storage shelf crashed to the ground somewhere behind him. Her legs froze. The hands on her throat went from warm to cool to warm to cool to warm. "Die! Die! Why won't you just die!" a familiar face screamed. Hair floated in her vision, and the face blurred out.

The pressure on her throat lifted abruptly. She grabbed at her throat, air coming in way too fast, the imprint of cold—cold? warm—no—they had been cold, hadn't they?—hands around her throat still stinging, along with every uncomfortable nightmare they drew up.

When her vision re-adjusted, the man was wrestling with another man in a waistcoat. Consciousness returned. She was in Ham and Gam hospital. She was awake. She was an adult. And a piece of shit had just—fucking—strangled her—

She got to her feet and grabbed the knife.

Waistcoat had won, but that didn't help her. "I'll kill you all! All of you!" the man was shouting, even on the ground and clearly restrained by something. Her ears were still buzzing; the man's voice phased again, into something wrong, before it came back.

She lifted her arm, and brought the knife down—

It was a sharp knife. Moonyoung always ate her steak rare, red and raw enough to bleed if she cut into it too quickly—tough enough that no dull knife would cut through cleanly, without ugly ragged edges. This knife cut through her meat perfectly, even with little pressure. That was why she liked it.

It sliced cleanly through flesh, catching on bone too tough for it. She felt the fingers that closed around the knife in her own grip on it, surprisingly sensory. Blood dripped down a forearm and stained the cuff of a sleeve.

Waistcoat stared at her, and she stared back.

"I'd appreciate if you stayed out of this," she said.

The man with the knife currently embedded in his palm said, "Do you know how difficult it is to get stains out of a suit like this?"

"Are you with the hospital?" she asked. "There's a vermin infestation. I was just helping." she glanced down at the man whose arms were bound behind his back —by what, she couldn't see. He started shouting again as he realised her meaning, then promptly fainted, mid-word. She frowned, about to say something, when Waistcoat wrenched the knife from her palm, wringing his arm like a dog shaking water out of its fur. Little drops of blood landed around her heels. He began to wrap a bright silk handkerchief around the knife.

Moonyoung scoffed. "What, is the knife hurt? Why are you wrapping that around the knife?"

He didn't respond. She opened her palm in front of him. He looked up—finally. "Your hand," she said, "not the knife."

Waistcoat smiled. "Haven't you injured me enough right now?" he asked, and slipped the bandaged knife into his pocket.

"That's mine. "

"You tried to kill someone with it," he said.

She shrugged. "If he's Non-Compos Mentis, I can say I acted in self-defense. I was only going to give him a small cut with the knife, but you overreacted and injured yourself," she said, placing her unnerving smile on her lips. The man's lips quirked up, too—he had little dimples at the very corners, which made the smile far too cheerful for his otherwise unsmiling face.

"It landed in my palm, so it's mine now," he said, then cocked his head. "That was a lot of power for a small cut."

She smiled, and grabbed a handkerchief from her own purse. "There are a lot of people in this world who deserve to die," she said, grabbing his palm—apparently, she hadn’t injured him enough just yet. She began to wrap that around his hand, and it stained the red immediately, creating a deep blush in the center—blood in blood. "And some thoughtful freaks kill them for us in secret. That's why clueless civilians can sleep peacefully at night, completely unaware." She tugged the handkerchief shut, smiling when he shuddered. "Which one do you think I am?"

Waistcoat's smile widened. He looked to the unconscious man on the ground, then to his hand, and then to her. "Just a clueless civilian,” he said, after she had stabbed him clean through the palm, held hard enough that the steak knife would go through skin and artery easier than meat. “But which one do you think I am?"

#kdramanetwork #psycho but it's okay #it's okay not to be okay #it's okay to not be okay #pbio #mine #minefic #pbiofic #im so excited about this little plot bunny hehe #it's based on hotel delluna but like. soohyun's little cameo at the end there #significant credit for the idea goes to that manwol/moonyoung fmv on youtube #ik kangtae seems a little ooc. that's because he's hundreds(?) years old and has had some personality changes #i had fun writing this so i hope anyone who reads has fun with it too #pbio fic

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im-fairly-whitty · 4 years

Text

The Witcher Wolf: In Plain Sight

Two years have passed since Geralt was cursed with the ability to turn into a wolf whenever his medallion is removed, a curse that's turned into a blessing now that he and Jaskier are partners in everything they do.

It's no exception when they discover a Nilfgaardian army bearing down on Cintra, headed straight toward a certain child surprise. With Jaskier's help and Geralt's enchanted medallion they must find a way to get into the palace, make sure Princess Cirilla is safe, and get out with her in tow if needed, regardless of Queen Calanthe's orders.

[Chapter 1: Into the Fire] [Chapter 2: Old Friend] [Chapter 3: Bad Luck] [Chapter 4: So Much for Being Smart] [Chapter 5: Secrets] [Chapter 6: The Beginning of the End]

Chapter 7: Out of Time

As night fell, Geralt could do nothing as the siege began on the castle of Cintra.

As Nilfgaardian troops swarmed the city, burning everything in sight he could only sit by quietly. When Ciri was brought to Queen Calanthe’s deathbed (because Geralt could smell the death on her, it would be her deathbed) he could only stick by Ciri’s side as the girl cried over the news of Eist’s death.

He likewise stayed with her as they watched Mousesack’s doomed attempt to hold the castle gates with a wall of magic by himself at the queen’s orders, listening attentively to every nervous story Ciri told him in an effort to distract them, her distressed over-petting of his fur getting nearly painful as the night crept by. Not that he made any effort to dissuade her.

When Mousesack’s magic barrier finally fell in the dead of night and the three of them made their way back to the queen’s room Geralt was nearly shaking with furious impatience that they weren’t already all safely out of the city.

So when only Ciri was let inside the queen’s room, leaving Geralt and Mousesack outside the closed door with Calanthe’s spymaster who was reeking of Jaskier’s fear scent, Geralt could perhaps be forgiven for bodily lunging at the man with a rabid snarl.

“Has the queen given her permission or not?” Mousesack asked shortly, barely managing to haul Geralt back by his collar rather than allowing the wolf to sink his teeth into the royal spymaster.

“She has. She is saying her goodbyes to the princess as we speak.” Wilhelm said, looking altogether far too calm for a man in a burning city, despite the clearly evident exhaustion in his eyes. “The queen has given her official approval to have Princess Cirilla taken by Geralt of Rivia of Rivia. Please tell me that he is in the castle Mousesack, I haven’t been able to find him anywhere and we don’t even have seconds to spare now.”

“He is.” Mousesack said, releasing Geralt’s collar with an ironic flourish, letting Geralt’s front paws hit the ground again.

Geralt shook himself hard, then huffed a sigh as he collected himself, stepping forward and looking up at the spymaster sans snarl. Wilhelm looked down at him for a long moment, then up at Mousesack.

“He’s the Wolf.” Wilhelm said, his voice full of the kind of flat irritated weariness that only comes from solving a particularly complicated pun. “Geralt of Rivia is the wolf that the princess has had at her side for a week now underneath my very nose. Which you of course knew, and kept from me.”

Mousesack grimaced, shrugging.

“Well...all things considered I suppose it ended up being for the best.” Wilhelm said, shaking his head as he looked down at Geralt, already recovering from his shock. “Bravo getting past me Sir Witcher, I only regret the fact that I don’t have the time to hear the story of how you managed it.” He looked back up to Mousesack. “Am I right in assuming his Witcher medallion is what changes him back? Jaskier indicated that keeping the medallion safe was of utmost importance if I were to rely on his help tonight.”

“It is, he’ll also need any gear you seized from the bard. He’s not a Doppler, he won’t already have his armor and swords when he shifts back.” Mousesack said.

“Now there’s a pity.” Wilhelm said, his gaze focusing past the druid, looking as if he were making several calculations in his head before he snapped back to the moment, looking at Geralt.

“The castle has already been breached, we have only minutes to react properly and we will only get one chance.” Wilhelm said, as calmly as if he were explaining the rules of a tournament. He took a key from a hidden pocket in his doublet and handed it to the druid. “Mousesack you will accompany Geralt, Cirilla and Captain Cordova to my office to retrieve everything that was taken from Jaskier when he was arrested. You will find it all in a basket beside my desk, medallion included.

“Once you have retrieved everything you need, get to the back gates of the castle. I will meet you there with Jaskier as soon as I have retrieved him from the dungeon. It’s on the other side of the castle and I am the only one authorized to remove him from his cell, so splitting up accordingly will save us the most time with the most safety for the princess.” Wilhelm said.

They all paused as a distant soldier’s scream echoed down the stone hallway of the castle. Wilhelm looked back to them, drawing his sword from its sheath, a steel beauty Geralt recognized as having igni runestones set in the hilt, a rare sight indeed outside of a witcher’s weapon kit.

“If Jaskier and I are not there when you arrive you are to continue on without us,” Wilhelm continued. “Follow the sewers out of the city and into the forests. Three horses and a handler will be waiting for you. If there are no further questions I suggest we split up immediately. The princess’s safety is the highest priority any of us have and all of us will act in a way that protects her first. Is that understood?”

Geralt nodded grimly, not liking it one bit but seeing no other choice. His ears pricked forward as the door was opened and Ciri was brought into the hallway by a soldier that was presumably Captain Cordova. The girl was crying and threw her arms around Geralt’s neck, burying her face in his fur. Geralt whined softly, knowing all too well the pain of being separated from a parent, despite his relief at Calanthe finally giving in to reason. He only had to hope that she hadn’t given in too late.

“Come princess, we must move quickly.” Mousesack said, nodding to Wilhelm as the spymaster took his leave, moving quickly down the hall in the opposite direction, sword at the ready. “We have to get Geralt’s things, we don’t have much time.”

***

“This is the one.” Mousesack said when they’d reached the door Wilhelm had directed them to. “Captain Cordova, stand guard out here while we get what we need inside.”

The soldier nodded, allowed Mousesack, Ciri, and Geralt into the room behind him. Geralt was glad to hear the druid lock the office door behind them again after they were inside, the last thing they needed was an interruption by enemies halfway through his transformation.

Looking around Geralt saw that Wilhelm’s office was somehow full to the brim with enough fascinating artifacts to impress even Vesemir, while also being so strictly organized that it took only moments to find Jaskier’s packs in the basket by his desk, just like he’d promised. Jaskier’s lute in its case however sat on top of the desk, evidently where it would be safest, a detail that made Geralt dislike Wilhelm just a shred less.

Geralt grabbed the side of the basket in his teeth and knocked it over, spilling the loose contents of their packs onto the ground. He pawed through all his clothes and armor pieces checking if everything was still there, which they were. Even both his swords were still in their sheaths.

He huffed in relief when he found his Witcher medallion, snagged the silver chain in his teeth and bounding over to Mousesack with it. Bit of help, please?

“Ciri, turn away.” Mousesack instructed, checking to make sure the girl was obediently facing the corner before he slipped the medallion chain over Geralt’s head.

There was a flash of light and Geralt was sitting on the floor, restored to his regular form again after days spent otherwise. He groaned as he pushed himself to his feet, rubbing his human hands roughly across his human face as he tried to physically recalibrate to bipedal motion as quickly as he could, reaching for his clothing and armor almost before he was balanced. They didn’t have a second to lose.

“That really is an impressive piece of magic, isn’t it.” Mousesack said, whistling in appreciation as Geralt tugged on his socks and pants, helpfully tossing him his boots next. “When you transform can you actually feel your skeletal structure adjusting, or do-“

“Not the time, Mousesack.” Geralt said, pulling on his shirt. “Questions after escaping the burning city.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Mousesack relented, ducking around behind Geralt to help him with the buckles of his armor as Geralt started tugging all the pieces into place across his body as quickly as nearly a century of practice let him.

“Geralt?”

Geralt looked over to see Ciri staring at him, her eyes wide as she watched him buckle his double swords across his back once his armor was in place. He grimaced as he braced himself for whatever her reaction to his imposing Witcher form might be.

“You’ve still got your wolf eyes!” Ciri said, despite everything a bit of a smile making it through her worry and panic as she came right up to him, one hand absently taking hold of a strap on his armor as she craned her neck to look up at his face.

She wasn’t the least bit afraid of him at all. Utterly fascinated, if anything. Geralt couldn’t help the feeling of warmth and relief it kindled in his chest.

“Closer to a cat’s when I’m like this.” Geralt said, consciously narrowing his pupils a bit and smiling at the impressed gasp it got him as he pulled on his leather gauntlets and reached up to tie back his hair into its usual ponytail. “They’ll help me get us out of here in one piece, so stick right next to me, alright?”

Ciri nodded intently, her small hand latching onto his large one as he drew his steel sword with the other, the blade slipping out of its sheath with practiced ease.

“I’ll carry the rest.” Mousesack said, moving to pack up what was left of Jaskier and Geralt’s things scattered across the floor.

“Just take the lute case, leave the rest.” Geralt said, pulling Ciri along as he made for the door. “We’ve already used enough time. We have to move quickly to-”

He froze, pulling Ciri behind him as his hearing picked up commotion on the other side of the heavy soundproof door.

“What is it?” Mousesack whispered, following his stare, evidently unable to hear the sound of the struggle in the hallway, the clash of metal, or the unmistakable fall of a body.

Geralt shook his head, staying silent as he raised his sword.

He felt Ciri jump as the locked doorknob rattled, but she stayed quiet, even as a heavy armored fist pounded on the reinforced wood. There was some more fussing and slamming at the door for several heartstopping moments, but evidently the spymaster had spared no expense in security when his office had been made, the locked door not budging an inch. After a long minute whoever was on the other side seemed to grow bored and Geralt heard them moving on, doubtlessly in search of easier prey.

When the clanking footsteps were gone Geralt took a steadying breath.

“The castle has fallen.” Mousesack said soberly. “We’ll need to take the servant’s passages to the back gate, it will be our best chance at avoiding as many soldiers as we can.”

“Ciri I’m going to carry you so we can go as fast as possible.” Geralt said, crouching down to be at her eye level. “And I need you to keep your eyes closed, alright? We’re going to be moving quickly and passing a lot of things someone your age doesn’t need to be seeing.”

She was going to have nightmares aplenty for years to come after this, no use in adding more if they could help it. Certainly not starting with the sight of whatever was left of Captain Cordova on the other side of the door.

He half expected her to protest, but to his relief she instead threw her arms around his neck and hid her face against him as he picked her up, carrying her in one arm. He took a moment to marvel at how much she trusted him, a trust he would do everything in his power to deserve.

“Alright, to the back gates.” Geralt said, adjusting his grip on his sword and nodding for Mousesack to unlock the door. “We get Jaskier and then we get out of this blasted city.”

***

The castle was already crawling with Nilfgaardian soldiers, but Mousesack had been right in guessing the servants passages would keep them mostly out of the way. They only encountered a few lone enemy soldiers on their way out, all of whom had all been more or less easily slain, even with Geralt fighting one handed.

But once they made it outside the castle and into the night air there was no spymaster or bard to be seen.

“Are you sure this is the back gate?” Geralt demanded, the dark pit in his stomach already knowing the answer as he looked around him.

“It is.” Mousesack said grimly, wiping at the blood that was trickling down his face, the result of a cut he’d gotten above his eye from the last soldier they’d run into. “Wilhelm said to keep going if he wasn’t here by now Geralt, I’m sorry but we can’t stay.”

Geralt felt a snarl rising in his chest as he hesitated, feeling helplessly torn and knowing he had only moments to decide.

The night air around them was dark with the smoke billowing from the burning city beyond the castle walls and yells and shrieks echoed through the night from all sides. The dark corner against the castle that the three were currently tucked into wouldn’t shield them for long from the eyes of the Nilfgaardian soldiers that were hurrying past.

They still had to cross the wrecked courtyard and get to the sewers that would lead them out of the city. The longer they waited the worse their chances got of getting Ciri to safety.

“We can wait for Jaskier.” Ciri said, loosening her terrified grip around Geralt’s neck just enough to look at him. The smell of her fear was nearly overwhelming, despite the brave face she was putting on. “We have to stay to make sure he’s okay too, right?”

Geralt looked at Mousesack but the druid merely looked back at him, waiting for him to decide.

In the near distance there was the booming crash of a battlement falling, followed by the piercing screams of both horses and men. The smoky sky lit up brighter for a moment, as if a burst of flame had grabbed on to new fuel on the other side of the castle wall.

“We’re going on.” Geralt decided, casting a shielding quen sign over himself and Ciri as he raised his sword. “Mousesack stay close, I’ll get you both out safely and then come back for Jaskier after.”

The druid looked as though he wanted to add something, but instead nodded silently, adjusting the strap of the lute case over his shoulder to keep his hands free, sparks of chaos shimmering over his fingertips as he looked warily across the courtyard.

“But what about Jaskier?” Ciri asked, voice shaking.

“He can handle himself.” Geralt said, gritting his teeth against the ill feeling inside him.

He shifted to hold her more securely against him as he started forward, ducking them behind an overturned supply cart, hiding momentarily in the deep shadow it cast in the light of the fires all around them. He grimaced as the sight of what used to be a Cintrian soldier at his feet.

“Ciri, close your eyes again until I say so, alright?” He said, rebalancing himself and checking for Mousesack beside them before moving again.

And she hadn’t closed her eyes a moment too soon, Geralt realized as he darted from behind the cart toward a shadowed corner along the city wall. He muffled a curse as he spotted the crumpled form of what could only be the queen of Cintra on the dusty ground. He glanced up. She must have flung herself from her own bedroom window when enemy soldiers got too close.

Geralt traded a hurried silent look with Mousesack who looked stricken, but to his credit stuck by Geralt as they pressed on. It couldn’t have taken them longer than a few minutes to weave their way across the courtyard—Geralt’s senses and timing keeping them hidden from the scattered troops left ranging about the courtyard, torching everything they could reach—but it was a relief unlike any other when they finally reached the dislodged sewer grate that would lead out of the city.

Geralt heaved the grate aside and nimbly dropped down into the darkness, quickly swapping his steel sword for silver to hold at the ready as he started down the tunnel. Cintra wasn’t known for having monster infested sewers, but for their own safety he had to assume they’d come across at least a few before they reached the outlet on the other side of the city.

“Lead the way.” Mousesack said, voice hoarse from smoke and grief as he rejoined them, conjuring a ball of light tonight their way down the tunnels.

Geralt nodded, trying his very best not to think about where Jaskier was at that very moment, afraid that if he did he’d go rushing right back into the flames after him before the others were safe.

***

Wilhelm had promised three horses and a handler, but when they emerged from the sewers two easily slain drowners later there was only one saddled gelding to be seen. Geralt cast a hurried axii on the nervous animal to calm it, grimly noting the blood stains on its hocks. Human blood. There was no time to figure out exactly what had happened to its handler and the other horses, but Geralt had a pretty good guess.

“Mousesack, take Ciri and head due south for two miles.” Geralt said, grabbing the dazed gelding’s reins and setting Ciri down. “You‘ll hit a crossroads with a hanging tree on either side, and after that a clearing by a stream where I’ve hidden my mare. Get to the clearing and wait for me for twenty minutes. If I’m not there by then take Ciri and ride hard for the Morhen mountains, keep off the main roads and use false names at inns, the empire can’t know you’re heading to Kaer Morhen.”

The druid nodded. “I’ve only been up your mountain once years ago, but I should be able to track the path with summer weather instead of snows. What shall I tell Vesimir if we arrive without you?”

“Geralt, you can’t leave!” Ciri said, clinging to his side. “Please, don’t go back!”

“The truth.” Geralt said, giving the gelding’s tack a quick once over as Mousesack heaved himself up into the saddle. “Tell him everything starting with Pavetta, he can’t turn away a child surprise owed to the Wolf school.”

“Geralt! You can’t go, don’t leave me, please!” Ciri cried, her hands latching onto his armor. Geralt’s eyes widened as the desperation in the distressed girl’s voice edged with enough chaos to make his medallion shiver.

Geralt looked up at Mousesack as memories of Ciri’s mother flashed through his mind, of a scream laced with enough elder blood magic to level the very castle that was now burning in Nilfgaardian flame. Mousesack looked back with a grim silence.

Well, that would have to be discussed later. What mattered now was that Geralt had a twelve year old girl to protect and comfort in a situation that made comfort near impossible, and that he would still try anyway.

“Ciri, Mousesack will take care of you.” Geralt said, his voice softening just a bit as he dropped to one knee in front of her, gently loosening her grip on his armor. “I have to go back for Jaskier, but we’ll catch up with you as soon as we can.”

“Promise you’ll be okay?” Ciri demanded, wiping at the tears on her face.

“Witchers don’t make promises like that Ciri, but I can promise you I’ll do everything I can.” Geralt said solemnly, resting a steadying hand on her shoulder. “I need you to promise me that you’ll obey Mousesack so that he can protect you, alright?”

“I can try.” Ciri said, making a valiant effort to keep her voice from shaking as she threw her arms around Geralt’s neck, just like she did when he was a wolf.

This time however Geralt was able to hug her back, holding her just as tightly for a long moment while she buried her face against his neck. He could feel her trembling.

She had lost so much so quickly. Her grandparents, her home, her city. Of course she would be terrified of Geralt too disappearing forever in the smoke of Cintra if he went back into it, and just when she’d gotten him too. Geralt could still remember the pain of losing his mother and home centuries later, he couldn’t imagine how much worse it must be for Ciri in this moment, but he could guess.

Geralt pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against hers, looking her in the eye, a gentle hand on the back of her head. “I’ll catch up to you as soon as I can, but you have to leave now. I need you to be strong and fast and brave, alright?”

Ciri swallowed and scrubbed tears from her eyes, but nodded.

“Good.” Geralt said, standing and helping her up into the saddle in front of Mousesack who had watched their exchange in sober silence. He knew as well as Geralt did that every passing second lowered the chance of him coming back alive, let alone with Jaskier.

The men nodded to each other and then Mousesack took the reins, pulling the horse around and digging his heels into its flanks. Geralt watched the horse disappear into the night, then turned back to the sewer entrance. He pulled a bottle of swallow and a vial of cat from his alchemy pouch, downing them both in quick succession as he dropped back into the darkness with his blade drawn. Without Mousesack’s enchanted light he’d have to see in the pitch darkness on his own.

He growled as he felt the toxins course through his veins, already sharpening his night vision and eating away at any fatigue he’d already collected that night as he started moving back toward the burning city as quickly as he could.

He’d gotten his child surprise to safety, but he wasn’t going any farther without Jaskier.

And if he didn’t find him alive and well, he was going to find out how to burn a city down twice.

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

For whatever reason my brain was really squirrelly getting this chapter written and decided to write the final chapter before this one, then made me hopscotch backward to write the rest out of order. Regardless of the chaotic approach it's gotten the job done, so I can't complain too much at having been broken out of my usual start-at-the-beginning-then-write-to-the-end writing style.

This also means that I will be publishing the final chapter one week from today, next Tuesday evening. I look forward to seeing you all then, and until then I look forward to reading your comments and tags! Re-reading them between chapters always helps me get back in the writing mood, so thank you all for every one of them. :)

#jaskier #geralt #geraskier #ciri #mousesack #wilhelm #the witcher wolf #witcher wolf au

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marithlizard · 4 years

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Ace Attorney: Rise From the Ashes (Day Two, Trial Former) (part two)

I feel like screenshots would add zing and be helpful, but it’d be a pain to do my own for technical reasons. Does anyone know of a good image gallery for RftA? Google didn’t turn up much.

Anyway. Day Two, and it’s time for the trial of the already-confessed suspect.

"How did the investigation go yesterday?" Lana, you could tell us something yourself. Even if you're lying through your teeth it'd give us something to work with.

Ooh, barbed little exchange between Lana and Phoenix. "Never believe your client, they're probably a lying scumbag." "See, being a defense attorney requires some basic faith in humanity. Unlike Mia, you don't appear to qualify."

Huh. We’re given an upfront ambiguous warning from Edgeworth, right in front of the court. Yes, yes we know personal feelings are icky and you don't want them near your tailored waistcoats, but why do you feel the need to disallow them right now? Phoenix has no personal emotional stake in this case. Unless...Edgeworth thinks the proceedings are going to rebound on him.

Ema, this is not the time for sexy cross-examination fantasies. You can go home and write fic after your sister is safe.

The dominatrix lunch lady is a "professional" witness? Edgeworth I hope you didn't mean that the way it sounds.

Edgeworth is unmoved by your rice. Take that, lunch lady. (If only the judge had as much dignity.)

OH I misread that completely. She's a former detective! (And Jake Marshall is a demoted detective. Connection?) And while Edgeworth accords her due respect by calling her work first-rate, she's openly hostile to him.

And she arrested Lana herself? If this crime was as staged and performative as I suspect, was that all part of the act? Yeah, I don't think you were alerted by a sense of destiny or your finely honed instincts, lady. Or that you were there to bring lunch to your boyfriend.

Would the stabbing have been as easy as Angel Starr describes it? Didn't Goodman put up a fight at all? Sadly our autopsy report has all of two sentences in it.

Ooh, she just opens fire on Edgeworth with both barrels. And she offers a motive, the first one we've heard so far, that Goodman was killed for knowing too much about corruption of evidence.

My goodness. Evidence is sacrosanct, but sexually propositioning the judge while giving testimony is fine? Got it. (Phoenix at least tries to call out her obvious bias.)

Here’s a photograph, which the lunchlady so very thoughtfully took. Lana with a bloodstained trenchcoat draped over her, wearing gloves, seemingly about to close the trunk of the car. This was clearly taken after the stabbing. But...if you witnessed the crime itself, and arrested the suspect on the spot, would you really have had time to take this picture? You'd be busy trying to reach Lana, surely. (Smartphones were not a thing yet, were they? Did Angel just happen to be carrying a camera? ....She did. A lunchbox camera. Perhaps for spying on prosecutors.)

Edgeworth why do you even own a knife like that? And how did Lana supposedly get ahold of it?

Yes, thank you, that cannot possibly be a photograph of the moment of the crime, given the lack of either victim or weapon in it.

"Are you trying to test me? I sell box lunches for a living, you know." The translation team was having SO much fun with these.

Aha, so the knife was in the trunk. Unless Lana knew it was there, she didn't have a weapon prepared, which seems off for a premeditated murder.

...actually why aren't we hearing Lana's own confession account on the stand instead of the lunchlady's? I know, I know, it works better for the game to force us to reconstruct it all from clues, but what's the in-story reason?

"Mommy, are prosecutors bad people?" Yeah, this whole thing is definitely at least partly staged to smear Edgeworth's reputation. (also why are small children in the audience for a murder trial)

It doesn't seem to have affected his spirits, though, since he can make lunchbox jokes. And oooh, he's firing back at Angel. He doesn't care if it's premeditated or not, but she does. (Why does she care so much? it's the death penalty either way in this system, isn't it?)

Wait why is she testifying about Lana calling Goodman out to the Prosecutor's Office? She has no personal knowledge of that at all. (Indeed, it turns out there is no evidence it even happened.) Annnd here we go, she's perjuring herself. Purple prose about "plunging the knife in again and again" that directly contradicts the autopsy report. She hates Lana so much it's really clouding her judgment.

Edgeworth is holding Angel strictly to account on her testimony even though it favors his case. And he's getting distinctly sardonic about her lies. It's nice to see that the truth does matter to him.

Ooh, he points out the contradiction with the autopsy report himself, stealing Phoenix's thunder! That would never have happened in previous AA games. He's really changed, or perhaps he feels so under threat that there's no point holding back.

She...thought she saw repeated stabbing because Lana had a red scarf on? That doesn't make a particle of sense. And wait, in the photograph Lana wasn't wearing the scarf at all. Why are we listening to a thing this woman says?

For the second time in a row, Edgeworth interrupts and takes over Phoenix's objection for himself. He's demolishing her quite satisfyingly. Perhaps it's not a desire for the truth so much as finally getting to strike back, after having people speak ill of him for years.

"After the murder, the suspect attempted to run behind the partition". Yeees, that absolutely fits with your picture of a cold-blooded (yet enraged) stabber committing premeditated murder in a public place with evidence all over.

You climbed a nine-foot chain link fence, in your negligee, fur coat and heels (you are definitely wearing heels), so fast that you were able to apprehend the fleeing suspect after stopping to take a picture first. Riiight.

Lana said "muffler"...like the car muffler? On the phone? That means Ema has lied twice now - first she hid the fact that her sister called her right after the murder, then she claimed her sister hung up without saying anything.

Ah! So Lana wasn't attempting to hide at all, she was attempting to make a phone call. Like you do when you've discovered a body.

Hah! Phoenix points out that Angel just claimed to be able to look straight through the concrete partition. I didn't actually pick that up. And he's no longer taking anything she says at face value - he believes her statement that she saw Lana try to use the wall phone only because it's a pointless detail that no one would bother to lie about.

...So he's willing to believe she saw what she says, but from a different location? I have to agree with Edgeworth, that also sounds pointless. Why claim to be standing somewhere else? "Where" isn't hard - she must've been in the pointedly-mentioned and clearly labeled security room, looking down from above. Why not say so?

And the judge FINALLY chastises her for lying, if only mildly. She freely admits she'll say anything to take down Lana. And it sounds like she has a reason, beyond personal hatred. (A justified reason?)

Good for Ema, she points out there's no obvious benefit to the location lie. And Phoenix is the first to say the p-word. What benefit would be worth that?

"I swear it on my finest plastic spork!" A bible would surely be redundant.

Yes, five minutes between murder and arrest is a TON of time. Lana could easily have escaped if she'd wanted to. Angel surely made enough noise to alert her, running around and even taking her picture. And Lana just apparently stood there? Why?

YES boot her off the stand, judge! Don't let the caviar lunch sway you!

Court is adjourned, but there are still so many questions. We still don't know what- huh? Angel isn't ready to stop talking yet?

"I... might be able to save you." Now isn't THAT an interesting statement. It sounds like she's offering to save Edgeworth himself somehow, not just his case. Even though she hates his guts.

The judge very politely tells her to feed her new claim of "decisive evidence" to someone else. I approve, though of course she'll end up having her say anyway.

NOW you bring up a bloody shoe? Which was, I'm going to bet, not in the police investigation report? Why do you have Lana's shoe, and what does blood on it prove that the blood on her coat and gloves doesn't?

I was right, Edgeworth did not know about the shoe. And he brings up "evidence law", that new evidence can't be introduced without the approval of the police department. Which is weird, because I certainly remember Phoenix producing all kinds of new evidence during former trials. Not infrequently hidden or stolen from the police. (Does that mean the victim's ID card which Phoenix pocketed is inadmissible? I bet it does not mean that. Edgeworth just doesn't want to accept evidence from this annoying person who hates him.)

Too bad for him, because she got it approved by the police department on her own...today? I know Edgeworth is the opposition here, but that does not seem fair to him. People who are not Phoenix need time to prepare their cases. (Mostly because, unlike Phoenix, they actually have cases.)

Huh. I don't know if this will be called out as a plot point, but a fundamental difference in approach just struck me here. Edgeworth claims there could have been some bloody footprints that just didn't happen to be in the picture. He doesn't know, because unlike Phoenix he doesn't go to crime scenes. He relies on the police reports given to him. That seems like it could come back to bite him in a much bigger way than just this shoe.

Lana kicked over a water-filled oil drum while struggling with Angel. ...Apparently no one but me finds this highly implausible. Oil drums are heavy! Even when empty, kicking one over is a stunt for a martial artist, and when full...I can't picture it.

"Ah, yes, I will perform this feat of strength to wash away the bloody footprints, removing all the evidence against me. Except for my bloody coat, gloves and shoes, the murder weapon, the body, the eyewitness, and the photo." Edgeworth why does this seem logical to you? I an almost see Lana rolling her eyes in the prisoner's dock.

Hah. At the moment of failure, Ema stumbles on the one sure way to get Angel Starr pissed off enough to derail the trial again - accuse her of being on the side of a prosecutor in any way, shape or form. She obviously *is*, in that she and Edgeworth want the same verdict, but she can't stand to hear it said out loud.

NOW of all times, she produces a photo of the body?? ...I guess proof that she withheld even more evidence from Edgeworth, against both their interests, is supposed to be proof that she isn't on his side?

The ghost of Mia appears in Phoenix's mind, telling him not to give up. And indeed, that photo shows something sticking out of the car's muffler. I was right, Lana meant that when she said "muffler" on the phone.

The trial has to be suspended while someone goes and looks to see what the thing in Edgeworth's car muffler is. (Which really should've been noticed by any competent police investigators. As should the fact that the suspect's shoe was missing on her arrest, and nowhere to be found. Is the cowboy not actually very good at this?)

Next time: trial part 2, in which the judge is hopefully so stuffed as to no longer be susceptible to lunchbox bribery.

#ace attorney #rise from the ashes #ace attorney spoilers

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fandom-imagines-stories · 5 years

Text

1 Quid Pro Quo

Fox Mulder x Reader

Words: 1543

Part 1 of 3

Summary: When a serial killer that Mulder helped put away escapes the institution, he decides to pay a visit to his favorite FBI behavioral analyst. You educate yourself on all the disturbing facts of the case. When the killer begins to take an interest in Mulder’s pretty little partner, you become more entangled than you could have imagined.

Notes: This is for @bensolocanbesaved and I’m taking a ton of inspiration from The Silence of the Lambs. Let me know what you guys think and if you’re excited for part two! This is going to be the first in my Halloween imagines and I’m so excited for what’s in store for this season. I don’t know if I’ll have all three parts by Halloween, but keep an eye out!

Warnings: Ridiculous amounts of gore over the course of the series and overall creepy themes.

The other inmates in the van avoided all eye contact. Even the most vicious killers feared the very sight of him. And while they could not bear to look at him, his glare itself seemed to have lethal qualities. The way his dark eyes almost looked red when they hit the light would make anyone recoil from his gaze.

The truck jerked as it stopped suddenly and Lee Sange looked up at his surrounding victims.

“Why the long faces, gentlemen?” He wondered the innocent tone of his voice betrayed by the villainous look in those black eyes. Still, none of the other prisoners dared to look at him. He listened to the men transporting them open their doors and walk around to the back of the van. “They’ve brought us breakfast.”

Sleeping on the couch made it nearly impossible to move, but you’d gotten used to it. Your back was pressed against his chest and his arms were wrapped around you, making that stupid leather sofa the safest place in the world to you. So when the shrill ringing phone interrupted that peace, you groaned and slid off the couch, crawling to the phone as Fox started to wake up as well.

“Hello?” You greeted sleepily.

“Y/L/N, it’s me.” Scully’s voice responded. “Is Mulder with you?” You looked over at Fox as he started to get up, only to flop back onto the couch, hiding his face in a pillow.

“Physically, yes,” You snickered, “Mentally… well, he hasn’t had any caffeine yet.”

“Tell him he needs to get over here.” The urgency in her words broke through the grogginess.

“What’s wrong?”

She took a deep breath. “Lee Sange escaped.”

“Who’s Lee Sange?” The name sounded familiar, but you couldn’t decide where. Mulder’s demeanor changed and he held out his hand for the phone. Confused, you gave it to him and anxiously waited as he talked to Scully.

“You’re sure?” His voice was grim. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Yeah, we’ll be right there. Thanks, Scully.” He hung up and turned to you with a blank expression. “We have to go.”

“Who’s Lee Sange?” You asked again, changing into your work clothes, Mulder doing the same.

“He was a serial killer I helped catch back in 1990,” he began, “he, uh… he killed almost twenty people.” He lifted his eyes to yours and you noticed a look of disgust. “And ate fifteen.” You vaguely remembered him telling you about a case about a serial cannibal that he’d helped catch, but you’d always assumed that Lee was dead.

“And this guy escaped?” You gasped, a cold shiver running down your spine. “He’s back out there?”

“Not for long,” Mulder promised and the two of you headed out to catch the killer.

The transport van was stopped in the middle of the road. Chains littered the ground next to the body of one of the guards- his keys used to free the prisoners after they’d beaten him to death. The other guard, however, made this one look fortunate. His body was stuffed under the vehicle with seven of his ten fingers bitten off and his eyes apparently gnawed out of his skull. Even Scully looked queasy.

“I want every man you have after this guy,” Mulder ordered. “We leave no stone unturned until he’s either brought in or dead.” A panic drove his determination, knowing that he would likely be Sange’s first target. He turned to you, your face pale with a look of disgust. "You don't have to be here, you know." He muttered. "Scully and I can handle it. I'd prefer that you go back to the office."

You looked at him with your usual fire and determination.

"Not a chance."

Once the bodies were wrapped up, the two of you followed Scully back to the bureau's morgue where she would perform the autopsies. You didn’t usually stick around for this part. Your specialty was the mind, not the body.

“I’m going to go back to the office and see what I can dig up on this guy.” You told Mulder.

“What for?”

You smirked. “You’re not the only behavioral analyst in the room, Mulder.” He took your hand.

“You don’t want to get in this guy’s head, Y/N.” He warned. You rubbed the back of his hand with your thumb, reassuring him with your smile.

"I'm just going to see if I can find patterns to figure out his next victim,” You weren’t going to let this psycho get to Mulder more than he already had, “because he will go after someone else." Mulder gave you a reluctant look but nodded and you walked to your shared office.

After some searching around in violent crime case files, you finally found Sange’s case. He was suspected to have involvement in the disappearance of a high school boy named James McCathy. The boy had been missing for nearly three months and the local authorities were giving up hope. Without enough evidence, they had to let Sange go. That is until McCathy’s body was found a few weeks later, most of his organs and flesh carved away. It was later discovered that Sange had eaten them.

When he was arrested, they began to find more bodies. It took a little more digging to find the coroner’s report. You took a deep breath and looked over the photos. Each body was already decomposing, but you could still see the tears in the flesh from where their organs were removed, later to be consumed by Sange. It took all your years of training not to shutter.

Meanwhile, Mulder was voicing his concerns about you getting involved to Scully as she dissected the body of one of the guards.

“She doesn’t understand how dangerous he is.” He sighed.

“She’s a grown woman and an excellent agent, Mulder.” Scully reasoned, slicing down the center of the dead man’s chest.

“You don’t understand, Scully,” Mulder ran a hand through his hair. “This guy… wants me. He said that after his trial. He said that ‘our story wasn’t finished.’ I’ve been threatened by almost every psychopath I’ve helped put away, but I was never afraid any of them would actually do it until him. What if he takes that out on her?”

“If it makes you feel better, I’ll keep an eye on her.” Scully offered. Dana knew you almost better than Fox did. She knew that if you got too involved, you would get yourself into trouble. Mulder put a hand on her shoulder.

“Thank you.” Mulder was never this worried. He was really afraid of this guy. Scully gave him a supportive smile and kicked him out of the lab.

Mulder met you back in the office amongst piles of old case files each filled with photos more gruesome than the next.

“This guy is like Hannibal on steroids!” You called out from behind a stack. Mulder maneuvered around the office to find you. “But I think I might know where he might be going.”

“He’s coming after me,” Mulder replied, finally finding you in your desk surrounded by the files. You shook your head.

“I don’t think he is. Not yet.” You disagreed. “From what you’ve told me, he definitely has you as a target. But he doesn’t go for the main prize right away. He builds up to it. Each of his victims had reported strange things happening around their apartment. Some of them found little recipes on the kitchen counters others found dead rats in their showers. He’s going to play with you before he attacks.”

“Can’t wait.” Mulder scoffed, leaning against the desk.

“We’re not going to let him get that far.” You promised. “We’re going to catch him.” He grabbed the file in your hand and set it on top of the pile.

“It’s been a long day, maybe you should head home.” The more involved that you got the easier it would be for Sange to find you. You stood up and grabbed the lapel of his suit.

“I am going to be fine.” You assured him, pulling him in for a kiss. “But I do need a shower.” You smirked and grabbed your keys and your bag. “I’ll see you in the morning, okay?” He nodded, reluctant to watch you go off by yourself. He should have told you to stay the night with him. Maybe you would have been safe.

Your apartment building was quieter than usual. Usually, there were some drunk college kids or an arguing couple in the stairwell, but tonight it was just quiet. Maybe you were just being paranoid. The trek up to the third floor felt longer. As you reached your floor you noticed a strange smell. From the end of the hall, you could see something hanging on your door.

Slowly and cautiously, you walked towards your apartment, the rancid smell getting stronger as you got closer. You stopped as soon as you could see the full shape and tried not to scream. A line of blood ran down the front of the white door, mixed with matted orange and white fur. The body had been spread out across the door using hooks and string. There was no mistaking the message. It was a fox.

#happy halloween #spoopy mulder #spooky mulder #stay spooky #fox mulder x reader

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dcarevu · 5 years

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Batman TAS: Moon of the Wolf

“If it’s a fight you’re looking for, try starting one with me!”

Episode: 43 Robin: No Writer: Len Wein Director: Dick Sebast Animator: Akom Airdate: November 11, 1992 Grade: B

This is perhaps one of the more infamous episodes of Batman TAS, being grouped with episodes like I’ve Got Batman in My Basement on several “worst” lists I’ve seen. But I don’t know, I didn’t think it was that bad the first time I saw it, and I don’t think it’s that bad now. Not a classic episode by any means, but it held my and Char’s attention, giving us some excitement and a pretty cool-looking villain. I can’t speak for everyone, but I think the werewolf-factor may directly affect people’s opinions, even though we’ve seen very similar through Tybrus and Man-Bat. If we can accept a giant cat-like creature created in a laboratory and a human-sized bat that flies around and turns back into a human, why is a werewolf suddenly just too much to believe? Probably because of how the story presents all this, which we will get into in just a second, but I did want to drop the bomb that I like this one, and all the complaints I have are pretty light.

So when the title card drops, we get some weird electric guitar that sounds like no other music the series has played. Think along the lines of The Last Laugh with how foreign that hip hop felt at the time. But now we’re more than 40 episodes in, and we’re so used to the orchestral stuff. On top of the werewolf, a lot of people seem to have a problem with the instrument choice, and I think that the episode could have gotten around it if the electric guitar was slowly inducted, reaching its most intense during the climax. That would have given us a little time to get used to it. Even though I like it, it was jarring to hear right away, right after the theme song we get to see every time.

After the title card, we start out at the Gotham zoo. Umm.. Okay. We’re starting at the zoo again? For the second episode in a row? The zoo really isn’t that interesting of a Batman location in my opinion. If I were writing this show, that would be a last resort setting. Y’know, not only is this the second episode in a row to start at the zoo, but it’s also the second episode in a row that deals with a human-sized creature of the night like this. Was this because of the time of year? Were these originally both planned for an October release? They must have had animals on the brain. Anyway, at the zoo a security guard’s dog starts going a little crazy, and a werewolf pops out from the shrubbery. This werewolf is incredibly awesome-looking, with gross slobber, these glowing eyes, and a very high intimidation factor. The werewolf gives the guard a hard time, but then Batman arrives on the scene, kicking the thing away. Batman does not typically pop up this early without some setup, so jumping into this type of action was a nice change of pace, even if other aspects we have seen recently. Batman fights off the werewolf, but it eventually gets away of course, because we’re still early in the episode. Going back to the Batcave, Batman tells Alfred that he fought a mugger wearing a werewolf mask. Looking at the creature, it’s pretty evident that this is no costume (or at least, no costume that your average mugger would likely be able to afford to run around and get into fights in), but more importantly, I don’t know why Batman doesn’t just assume that the creature is what it is. Bringing up Tyger, Tiger again, he just fought a humanoid-animal. It’s already been established that this kind of thing can happen in this world. Let’s move on from this! Batman notices some wolf fur on his gloves, and he actually ends up testing it, revealing it to be legitimate wolf-fur. But Batman thinks that it could just be an incredibly expensive costume. Look, guys, superheroes get brain-farts too. “What if that guy wasn’t wearing a mask?” Oh, I don’t know, I guess it would be exactly like what you’ve already experienced!

We get to see the identity of the werewolf as it arrives at this little shanty, and it turns out to be some guy named Anthony Romulus. The person in charge of him, forcing him to do his bidding, is Dr Milo, someone we saw in Cat Scratch Fever. He was honestly the last villain I ever expected to see again, and had no memory of him showing up here. Um. Welcome back, Milo? Dr Milo is a smug son-of-a-gun, and is using Anthony to…well, I think he’s just using him for money, as far as I can tell, and for doing his errands and chores (like killing the security guard). I don’t know why he wanted the security guard dead, because the security guard had no idea who he was anyway, but maybe he’s just tying up loose ends. Anthony explains (after turning back into a human) that Batman got in the way of the mission, and Dr Milo arranges a plan to get rid of the caped crusader before trying to deal with anything else. The plan is for Anthony (who is a star-athlete with plenty of money) to announce that he’s doubling up on a donation to a charity if Batman receives the check. We get a little more chatter on this in another scene where Bruce Wayne is shown to be working out with Anthony at the gym. I found this part to be fairly unnecessary, but it was harmless enough. Funny, though, how some of these characters that we’ve never seen before are all of a sudden shown to know Bruce when it’s their episode to become the villain. I like how they handled Two-Face much more, establishing him before the tragic episode. Now knowing about the check, Batman shows up to Anthony’s and is knocked out with gas. Dr Milo takes his utility belt and chains him down in this open area, which is to act like an arena where he will be torn apart by Anthony’s wolf-form (I’d love to know why these criminals always take his belt before taking his mask, by the way). While Batman is still unconscious, we get some exposition on why Anthony is the creature that he is through flashback, and this flashback is a bit confusing. There is a moment where is fakes you out because the flashback Dr. Milo starts narrating, and then it goes back to the present Dr. Milo. This makes it a little harder to follow in one watch, but I think Char and I handled it okay. Anthony’s werewolf origin is okay, but I did find myself questioning a few things. Not necessarily the writers, but the characters. Like, Anthony, why were you so quick to drink that substance which would ultimately transform you? Dr Milo said it hadn’t been tested. It could have immediately killed you. And for what, some gold medals? This puts a bad taste in our mouths over this character because of his willingness to cheat to succeed. He has his face in cereal commercials, being exposed to tons of people around the country and acting as a role-model to many of them, but he’s a filthy, rotten cheater. I also have to question Dr Milo. His plan is insane. Tricking someone to drink a solution that turns them into a werewolf so you can then control them by dangling the antidote in front of their face, getting free work and cash from it? I mean, whatever works for you, but there’s gotta be something a bit more inconspicuous. Throughout this, it’s hard to tell who to cheer for, but I think that at this point, Anthony has learned his lesson. It’s obvious that he finds Dr Milo’s work reprehensible. Dr Milo has absolutely zero redeeming qualities.

Shout out to the director (the show does little Easter eggs like this all the time, keep your eye out!)

Anthony changes into the wolf once the moon comes out (Milo’s scientific explanations never explain how the hell this works) and attacks Milo, throwing him through the wall of the shanty. Damn! Batman, before being attacked, comes to and finds a pin on the ground, using it to pick the locks that are keeping him restrained. I hope Milo provided that on purpose, and for the sake of me liking this episode, that’s what I’m gonna imagine. Otherwise, that is just way too convenient (and allows the writer to dance around Batman actually finding a clever solution). Now free, Batman and Anthony have a fight which moves to a rooftop where they are visible to the Gotham police force, being led by Bullock. It’s a really intense battle, and I couldn’t help but get into it. Oh, I’m aware that this episode is all style and very little substance, but hey, if it works it works. Not every episode needs to make me question morality and life itself. Just give me some dumb action every now and then with an awesome soundtrack and spooky vibes. Unfortunately, the fight comes to a close when Anthony is struck by lightning, and falls into the water below. Pretty stupid way to close out.

Oh, a highlight that I forgot to mention is when Bullock is interrogating the zoo security guard about the missing timberwolves. He pushes the dude right up against the cage, and we can see their jaws snapping, clearly getting agitated by the ruckus. “I want the truth before I decide to feed ya to your furry friends here.” Apparently the term “furry friends” can sound intimidating as hell if it comes with a slick accent like Bullock’s. Not only does Bullock get this moment, but when Batman and Anthony are on top of the roof, Bullock yells at the officers to not fire, and to let Batman handle the situation. This may have been to avoid conflict considering that, well, it’s a scary god damn werewolf which could easily eat all of them if it wanted, but I also like to think that after 40-ish episodes, Bullock develops the tiniest hint of faith in Batman. He’ll probably always be the cocky, sleazy oaf that we’ve known from the start, but it’s nice to see a little bit of development from such an unlikely episode. And that’s not worth nothing.

Oddly, looking back, Batman was never clued in on the entire steroid-situation like we were. I don’t even know if Batman figured out the identity of the werewolf. What an odd feeling. I don’t want to call it an oversight on the writing side of things, but this must be the first time that Batman just didn’t solve the mystery. Huh. Maybe Dr Milo is right, then, and he’ll get away scot-free. Then again, Batman is pretty smart. There are sure to be all kinds of clues lurking within that shanty.

I know I complained a lot, but that’s mostly because the logic was certainly not all there. I don’t grade these episodes based on anything but my enjoyment-level, though, so…

Char’s grade: B

Next time: Day of the Samurai Full episode list here!

#dcau #dc animated universe #moon of the wolf #btas #batman tas #batman the animated series #werewolf #halloween #batman #wolfman

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angorith-arts · 5 years

Text

Shur’vahkiin

Part one: Origin Story

When Celina said she wanted action, that was not what she meant.

The dark elf hybrid squeezed her eyes shut as the axe came down with a savage smack, slicing the Stormcloak soldier's head clean off his shoulders. She opened one gleaming crimson eye just a crack to peek at the carnage, and had to suppress a wave of bile rising in her throat. She had a snever wanted to actually see the inside of someone's neck. She shuddered, a movement that had nothing to do with the chill wind biting at her through the thin prisoner's rags she wore, and everything to do with the decapitated corpse staining the cobblestone street vermillion.

Rising up around the town square were long one story houses made of logs and stone. A large keep could be seen behind the houses, separated from the main part of the town by a thick stone wall. Two circular watchtowers stood guard over the gates that surrounded the city and the center of the town, where four wagon-fulls of rebel soldiers and other criminals stood in line for the chopping block.

Personally, Celina didn't think she needed to be there. She was hardly a wanted criminal, and she certainly wasn't a rebel Stormcloak. And yet, these imperial soldiers felt the need to chop off her head over the simple matter of a stolen trinket.

Okay, so it was a very expensive magical trinket. So what? Had these soldiers never heard of jail time?

Celina's crimson gaze was dragged harshly to her left as movement flickered in her periphery. A tall Nord man stood off to one side of the group, surrounded by Imperial guards with a rough cloth gag tied over his mouth. His fur cape was made of bearskin, and his attire simply screamed royalty. His blonde hair and fair skin fit right into the Nord stereotype.

This man was Ulfric Stormcloak. The leader of the rebellion, and the reason Celina was trapped here. She cast a sidelong glance at the rebel soldiers gathered on either side of her. The group was predominantly made of male Nords with bulky muscles, stringy blonde hair, and bushy beards, although Celina picked out a couple oddballs like herself in the line.

A slim Khajiit with dark grey fur and merchant's clothes stood off to the left, three people away from the scrawny elf hybrid. His teeth were bared and his ears pinned against his head as he stared in horror at the headless soldier on the block. Celina could vaguely see him shaking. The poor cat was probably there for the same reason as her: petty thievery.

Next to the Khajiit stood a massive orc with a partially shaved head and enormous tusks. Her shoulders were broader than even the strongest Nord warrior in the line, and her neck looked like it was the width of Celina's waist. She glowered at the Imperials as they walked by, and they kept every single eye and blade trained on the orc, no matter what happened. It must have taken several men to take her into custody, as her armor, size and intimidating demeanor simply screamed berserker. Her weapons were taken away, but it didn't look like that would stop her from tearing her enemies apart with her bare hands. Her hands were bound with chains rather than ropes like the rest of the prisoners.

Wedged between Celina and a female Stormcloak officer was a tall, muscular Altmer in blue mage's robes. He stared straight ahead with steely resignation and a hardened expression. Dark brown hair framed his tanned golden face and tumbled down to brush his shoulders. His sharp features were set in an unwavering scowl, his green eyes hard and cold. Celina shuddered and inched away from him.

In her haste to move away from the intimidating high elf, Celina bumped into a long-limbed Nord warrior on her left. He started and caught himself before he overbalanced and started a domino effect within the lines of prisoners. A questioning look was sent Celina's way, and the hybrid elf shrugged in reply.

Celina herself was short and willowy, with long limbs and a slight frame. Her crimson eyes shone out from underneath a long curtain of dark red hair that cascaded down her shoulders to her mid-back. It was riddled with braids tipped by small clay beads that Celina had scavenged off of a broken necklace that had once belonged to her mother. Her skin was not quite the same tone as the skin of most dark elves, instead being more of a pale peach color, courtesy of her bosmer father. A small scar ran from her nose to her lip. She had gotten it when she still lived in Ivarstead, from when she was holding a knife in her teeth and her adopted brother bumped into her.

"Next!" The Imperial captain called in a harsh voice. Perhaps she was prepared for one of the prisoners to step forward, ready and waiting with a snarky remark on their lips like the dead rebel on the block, because she looked a little put out when she had to call the next unlucky prisoner up to the block.

"You! The odd little Wood Elf! Come here."

Celina's heart stopped for a moment before resuming its beating at a frantic pace. It pounded against her ribs in a desperate attempt to keep itself going.

Forget the chopping block, the young woman thought, just let me stand here. My heart will give out in a just few moments.

Her hands started shaking in their binds, and the blood drained from her face, making Celina look like a starved vampire. The young Nord next to her gave her a sympathetic look as Celina froze in place, rooted to the spot out of pure terror.

A screeching roar rent the air around the prisoners, making the hair on the back of Celina's neck stand on end. Her crimson eyes shot upwards, searching the morning sky for any trace of what could have made the foul noise. The only anomaly she saw in the vast expanse of blue was a cloud shaped uncannily like a mudcrab.

Startled mutterings erupted and tore through the ranks of prisoners, and even the Imperial guards. An exceptionally loud, raspy voice dragged Celina's attention from the clouds and down to the cruel world below when the Khajiit stepped forward and hissed in fear. "What was that?!" His tail lashed angrily and he sent a challenging look at the Imperial soldiers that shoved him back into line with their metal shields.

"It was nothing." The Imperial captain insisted, waving a hand in the general direction of the distant mountains, where the sound had come from. "I said, next prisoner." She ordered. A subordinate saluted and turned to Celina.

"As you wish, captain. To the block, elf. Nice and easy." He said. This man was the one who had seemed so merciful, who had questioned Celina when the town guards had dragged her out of the prisons and shoved her into the line of rebels and other criminals. It had seemed like he would be willing to let her off easy, and with her head still attached, with a few more days in jail. But apparently, the Imperial Captain wasn't messing around, and had ordered Celina's execution anyway.

Damn. Celina pressed her lips together and bit her tongue to keep from choking on her own fear. Too much to hope that they would forget about her, she supposed. She tried to take a step, but her legs were shaking so badly that she couldn't move for fear of falling flat on her face.

An Imperial solder marched up behind her and shoved Celina forwards towards the block, his rough hands pushing her forwards so hard that she stumbled and fell to her knees with a small shriek, scraping her knees and elbows on the cobblestone street. The soldier growled and picked her up by the scruff of the neck, grasping her ragged tunic and dropping Celina in a messy heap in front of the headsman.

"Get on there, unless you want the headsman's axe to be wetted on the street." The Imperial captain hissed, glancing quickly at the General presiding over the execution, General Tulius.

What difference would it make if they killed her here or on the block? Celina dragged herself over to the block, using her scraped elbows and knees to crawl over the last few inches it took to get herself over to the bloodstained piece of wood. She knelt next to the oh-so-still body of the last person to kneel in her place.

Despite the raw terror coursing through Celina's veins, she managed to lift her chin high and say in a voice that quivered only slightly, "What a strange world we all live in, where the guards in a town are perfectly happy to behead a woman for taking someone's bracelet." Celina wasn't exactly sure what she expected to happen, but a kick to the gut with a metal-toed boot wasn't it.

The breath was knocked out of her as the Captain sent a swift kick Celina's way with her Imperial officer's boots. The woman's foot connected with the elf's rib cage and sent her sprawling across the ground, completely breathless. Celina landed hard on her right shoulder, gasping and trying to inflate her empty lungs. Her cheekbone scraped against the cobblestones, and Celina felt wetness creeping across her face as the cut began to bleed.

"You insolent piece of filth!" The Imperial officer screeched. Celina heard the orc guffawing off to the side, while the Khajiit merchant hissed angrily.

The captain drew her steel knife from its sheath at her belt, advancing on Celina as she lay gasping on the street. "I'll kill you myself!" She stormed over to Celina and grabbed a fistful of the elf's auburn hair. The Imperial lifted Celina up by her hair, sending spikes of pain through her scalp, and Celina found a steel dagger held against her throat. The woman bent down and whispered menacingly in Celina's ear, "You are nothing. What in Oblivion did you think you could do? Make someone think otherwise? Ha!" The knife pressed harder into Celina's throat, and she started to struggle to get breaths in and out of her chest.

She managed to bare her teeth in a defiant smile though, and choke out a few choice words at the woman. "Go ahead. Do it, n'wah-" another loud roar cut Celina off abruptly, and she heard shouting and the screech of metal as swords were drawn and arrows nocked in bows, ready to fire at the source of the sound. The captain dropped Celina face first into the cobblestone and her steel dagger onto the ground, instead unsheathing her imperial sword and turning to shout orders at her troops over the sudden raucous noises that broke out among every guard, prisoner, and citizen of the town. A great shudder ran through the earth along with a massive boom, and the stones on the tower groaned, as if an enormous weight was suddenly slammed onto the top.

Celina rolled over just in time to see a massive black monster send a ball of fire down to the people below. It was huge; its size was almost too big to process. Celina could compare it to a large keep for size, but that wouldn't be doing the beast justice. It was completely black, like a starless night under a dense cover of storm clouds. Red eyes glimmered angrily from beneath spiked eyelids and rows of sharp black horns on its brows. Two curved horns grew from behind its head, black and terrifying. The entire dragon- for that's what Celina assumed it was- seemed to be covered in spines of varying length and width, all ending in sharpened points that could impale a man wearing steel armor without any effort whatsoever. Its teeth glimmered from underneath curled black lips and red gums, each the size of a sword, or maybe longer. The dragon's wings were immense, almost three times the size of its body- minus the tail, which was long and ended in a spearhead-like point. The wing membranes were as black as the monster's obsidian scales, and each wing finger was tipped in a long, curved ebony claw.

It was horrific.

Celina stared in terrified wonder at the beast as it roared, and the skies opened up and rained fire down upon the village. Her daze was broken by a strong arm wrapping around her torso and lifting her off the ground as if she were a sack of flour. She was abruptly put on her feet, and kept from swaying thanks to the arm still wrapped around her middle. Celina looked upwards to see the lanky young Nord man she had been next to in line supporting her as she struggled to find her footing.

"Come on, now." He said, looking to the fiery sky for a moment before starting to move forward towards an open door in a guard tower that was being held open by several of the Stormcloaks. Celina managed to regain her footing, and the two of them jogged over to the other prisoners inside the tower.

As soon as they got inside, a wooden beam was locked into place over the door and the Nord warrior left Celina leaning against the doorway as he joined Jarl Ulfric, who's hands had been unbound and his gag removed. When he spoke, the man's voice was deep and gravelly, as if he spoke loudly all the time. If the legends about him were true, that didn't surprise Celina at all.

The young hybrid elf finally caught her breath and looked around the circular tower, clutching her side where she had been kicked. The Stormcloaks were all gathered in a group off to one side, helping the two warriors that had been wounded during their flight from the dragon and cutting off the bonds around each other's wrists. Celina's rescuer stood next to a bulky blonde Nord and Ulfric Stormcloak, conversing quietly at the door. The orc berserker, khajiit merchant, and altmer mage had already freed themselves of their bonds and were standing away from everyone else, each their own isolated island of solitude. Celina flinched as the orc approached and slapped Celina on the shoulder- the less beaten up one, thank Azura.

"That was either the stupidest or the spunkiest thing I've ever seen anybody do, little fighter!" She guffawed. Her voice sounded like she gargled with sharp rocks every morning as she ate a breakfast of gravel.

"Uh, thank you, I think." Celina wheezed, using the wall for support.

"Oh, it's a compliment, little one." The berserker insisted, smiling despite the massive tusks protruding from her bottom lip. "That took guts."

"Can we talk about how brave our friend is elsewhere?" One of the soldiers asked, glancing back and forth between the doorway and the staircase that spiraled upwards through the tower. Another massive roar shook the stonework and dust rained down from the ceiling.

"Yes, we need to get out of here, now!" Ulfric agreed, urgency coloring his accented voice.

Ulfric's companion, the muscular blonde Nord with a full beard, shouted for all of the gathered prisoners to head up through the tower and to the top landing. All the soldiers and prisoners scurried off, surrounding Ulfric in the middle of the pack of rebels while the other prisoners trailed behind. The two Stormcloak soldiers that had been injured were slung across their comrades' backs and carried carefully up the stairs. Celina's rescuer approached holding the Imperial officer's steel dagger, and with a deft flick of his wrist, he sliced off the binds holding her hands together.

As the leather straps fell away, Celina thanked him, and rubbed her sore wrists. He offered her the steel dagger, which Celina took gratefully, and spoke to her for he first time.

"How badly are your ribs hurt?" He asked, looking at her with concern. Now that she got a good look at him, Celina saw that the Nord's eyes were dark blue, like the deep waters of the ocean. He had a strong jawline, but it wasn't extremely wide. A thin scar ran from his hairline down to his opposite brow, starting on the left side of his head and going diagonally to the right in a jagged line. He had wavy brown hair that was cut shorter than most Nords would shear their hair. His eyes were wide, questioning and worried. Celina dragged her gaze away from the blue and looked down at the stone floor.

"They're bruised, but I'll be fine. Let's get out of here before the tower collapses on itself." Celina muttered, still clutching her ribcage. The Nord nodded and started up the stairs behind the others with Celina in tow.

They jogged up the stairs in time to the sound of roars and screeches from outside, along with the shouting of injured and dying soldiers and the crackling of flames. As they neared the top of the stairs, another massive boom shook the tower. The staircase shook, and Celina staggered backwards, managing to catch herself and keep from falling by grabbing onto a protruding brick in the tower wall.

With a thunderous crash, the black dragon's head plunged through the wall, leaving a massive hole in the side of the tower. Its jaws opened wide and sprayed fire from its gaping maw, driving the whole group back down the stairs to escape the raging inferno. The dragon finally retracted its massive head and flew away, leaving the ragtag group of soldiers and prisoners in the structurally failing tower.

They rushed up the stairs as soon as the fires died down, jumping over the two charred bodies of a pair of Stormcloaks that hadn't managed to get out of the way in time to avoid the fiery blast. The way up to the top of the tower was blocked by fallen debris from the dragon's intrusion, but fortunately for the escapees, there was a halfway crumbled inn next to the tower, accessible by jumping down from the opening in the wall.

"My men and I have to stay here and help our injured brothers to safety, but the rest of you have to jump!" Ulfric called, yelling gruffly over the chaos below.

"Are you crazy!?" The Khajiit replied, his grey ears pinned against his head. Celina had to agree with him on this one, that building was already partially collapsed, structurally unsound, and the area directly underneath the tower opening was engulfed in flames. If they didn't judge their jump just right, the prisoners would fall either all the way down to the ground, or into the fire.

"You can stay in here if you like, fur-face," the orc berserker shouted hoarsely, "but I'm not escaping the chopping block just to get smashed by a falling tower!" With that, she took a running start and launched herself out of the hole in the tower wall, and landed heavily on the top floor of the inn. The orc rolled to soften the impact of landing, and when she stood, she was baring her enormous canine teeth in a grin.

The khajiit and altmer prisoners, seemingly comforted by the fact that the orc made it across the treacherous gap, took running leaps and jumped across to the relative safety of the broken down inn. Celina looked out over the steep drop to certain death and reeled back with her hand pressed to her mouth to prevent a wave of bile from surfacing.

She hated heights.

But as a roar echoed around the already chaotic and partially destroyed town, Celina decided that she hated that dragon more. She took a running leap.

Celina landed with a sharp thud on the creaking wooden floor of the inn, rolling to a stop in a messy heap to one side of the room. Her elbow hit the crumbling wall, sending a sharp stab of pain through her before a feeling of numbness spread up her arm.

"Nicely done!" The orc cheered, "although the landing could use some work." Celina straightened and ran her fingers through her messy red hair to get it out of her face, and rubbed her elbow grudgingly. She started when a loud thud sounded next to her. She whipped her head around, almost giving herself whiplash, and saw the brown haired Nord next to her recovering from his jump and straightening his dark leather armor. The corners of his mouth twitched upwards, and he offered Celina a hand with a minuscule smirk on his face.

"Need a hand?"

"I can stand up just fine on my own, thank you very much." Celina snapped back, using the wall to pull herself up onto shaking legs. She stood up straight and crossed her arms after regaining her balance. The Nord was holding back a smirk, and Celina could tell it was taking great effort.

He opened his mouth to speak, but Celina held up a hand to stop him. "I said I could get up. I never said I would do it gracefully. Now let's go." She stormed off to one side of the inn, her face flushing in embarrassment. Celina had never been all that graceful, which was why she wasn't exactly a master thief. She'd been caught several times during missions for the guild, until Vipir the Fleet decided that he was sick of bailing her out of jails every other mission and gave her lessons in sneaking.

Celina maneuvered her way down a set of crumbling stairs on one side of the inn, dodging the charred and splintered parts. She joined the orc berserker, khajiit merchant, and altmer mage downstairs, with the Nord warrior following behind her. As they entered, the orc raised an eyebrow at the Nord behind Celina, giving him a thoroughly frightening but also questioning look.

"Shouldn't you be with your comrades, Stormcloak?" She rasped, her gravelly voice even huskier because of the smoke in the air.

"I'm not one of them." He replied simply, his voice strained and his jaw set. The orc let it drop for now. She quickly gestured the pair over to where the others stood, peering through gaps in the wall to see the outside.

"Look here," she began. "Some Imperial soldiers. We should go bash their-"

"Or," Celina put her hand up to interrupt that thought, "we could always go around them and avoid any unnecessary bloodshed. Besides, they're more than likely going to get killed by the dragon, and so will we if we don't get moving." She snapped as the walls and ceiling gave a mighty rumble. The ragtag group hustled out of the collapsing building and into the chaos of the destroyed village.

In front of them was a lone Imperial soldier, the one that had checked all of the prisoners off of the list no less, a young boy, and an old warrior who had donned his old armor once again. The Imperial turned to face them, his face set in a concerned frown. Celina gripped her 'borrowed' dagger tighter and the berserker bared her fists to Celina's right. On her left, a flicker of flame danced around the altmer mage's slim fingers.

The Imperial soldier narrowed his eyes at the motley group of escaped prisoners, but didn't attack. Suddenly, the massive dragon descended, shaking the earth as it landed mere yards away from them.

An unknown voice shouted, "look out!" As the beast landed, and Celina looked to see that it was the altmer mage that had spoken. His voice was strong and clear, and accented in a similar way to many of the other high elves that Celina had met.

"By the Gods, get back!" The Imperial ordered. Celina and the others obeyed, rushing behind a large stone as the dragon sprayed fire in their direction, sending a wave of heat crashing over them, before flying off and continuing its reign of destruction.

There was a tense silence between the Imperial soldier and the prisoners, but eventually, the lanky Nord strode up to the soldier, smiled brightly, clapped the man on the shoulder, and said far too loudly, "good day to you, sir!" Before sprinting off in the opposite direction. The Imperial looked at the remaining prisoners incredulously, but Celina jut shrugged and jogged off in the same direction, following the Nord that had saved her. The clank of armor and padding of feet on the cobblestones behind her let Celina know that the other prisoners had followed.

As the hybrid elf rounded the corner of a building in a back alley, she nearly smacked right into her rescuer as he sprinted around the bend in the opposite direction. Instead of colliding, the pair did a funny sort of pirouette and faced each other in the alleyway, panting and sweaty.

"The way's blocked over there. We'd better try going around these houses." He suggested.

Celina raised an eyebrow at the brown haired man. "What in the name of Nirn was that about?"

He smiled and rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, "I panicked."

The others joined them in the alley before they proceeded to weave in between houses and dodge fireballs and Imperial soldiers clumped together and trying to fight the dragon's unceasing onslaught. Eventually, they made it to a small side street across the main road from the gate that lead out of Helgen. The khajiit turned to the rest of the group, grimacing apologetically at them as he said, "we will have to cross the open road to get to the gate. But after that, I know that there is a cave nearby that we can take shelter in until the dragon leaves."

"Are you sure, cat?" The orc questioned, and the khajiit nodded assertively.

"I visited this town several times with my caravan. We often camped in that cave so we didn't have to set up our tents. There might be a skeever or two in there now, but that's all."

"That's perfect. Let's go." The Nord reassured, giving Celina a gentle push forward to get her to move. She took a deep breath, then sprinted across the street, followed closely by the khajiit, orc, Nord, and finally the high elf. They reached the gate and scrambled through, choking on the smoke and ash that billowed around them from the burning buildings. They made it through the splintered wooden gate and fled from the destruction, the sounds of distant roars and the cracking of flames echoing in their ears.

They ran for what seemed like miles-though the distance was rather short, their throats stinging and lungs burning from all the smoke, but they eventually reached a small opening in the side of a stony mountainside. The khajiit stopped just outside, panting with his hands on his knees for support. Everyone was exhausted, panting and gasping for breath and trying to get air into their lungs.

The khajiit merchant gestured to the crevice and panted, "this is it. We can rest here until we're sure that the dragon has left." The others nodded and trudged into the cave entrance, squeezing through single file and collapsing against the walls.

Celina sagged against the wall and sat for a while, just breathing and enjoying her newfound sense of freedom. The others plopped down on either side of her, and even the stoic altmer visibly relaxed.

"Alright, I do believe that some introductions are in order." The Nord said, giving a tired grin. Everyone else nodded in quiet agreement.

"I'm Mzada." The orc began. "I come from the stronghold Largashbur, near Riften."

Next, the khajiit spoke up, placing a clawed hand on his chest and nodding in greeting. "I am called Akmor'ro by my people, but most others call me Morrow."

Then came the high elf in his strong voice, "My name is Nurrior, I am an apprentice mage from the college of Winterhold."

Celina spoke up next, pushing her tangled red hair out of her face to reveal her striking crimson eyes. "I am Celina, daughter of Andretha and Zendrys. Pleasure to meet you all."

"I'm Reeve." The Nord said simply, holding out his right hand to Celina to shake with a crooked grin. "Pleasure to meet you all."

Celina chuckled slightly, but wrung Reeve's hand anyway. "Nice to meet you, Reeve."

They sat for a while in comfortable silence, just catching their breaths and coming to terms with the fact that they had almost been killed by a monstrous dragon mere minutes ago. They were all quite content to sit in silence together, as there are some situations where one can't get through it without developing some inkling of comeradery between the other people involved. Escaping a dragon attack is certainly one of those situations. After a long while, Akmor'ro stood and peeked out of the opening of the cave, then gestured for the others to follow him out.

"Come, everyone. I believe the dragon is gone for good now." He squeezed out of the opening, and the others followed. During the hours they had all spent in the cave, night had fallen, and the moons of Nirn were bright overhead, illuminating the landscape in a soft silver glow. The sky was clear and the air fresh, and Celina felt like she could finally breathe after the moist, musky smell of the cave.

She inhaled deeply, standing straighter and taller, although she was the shortest member of the group. "It's a lovely night, isn't it?" It truly was, the sharp tang of smoke from the burning town had faded, although there was still traces of it: whispers of the scent on the wind when it swept past their cheeks, and the distant crackle of smoldering wood could be heard when the forest was absolutely still.

"Yes, a very nice night." Reeve agreed. "We don't get this kind of weather in Markarth. It's usually much more humid."

Celina turned towards him with a questioning look. "You live in Markarth?"

"I used to. I've been roaming around Skyrim for a while now."

Celina nodded and turned back to the woods, which were silent and dark in the night. The only sound to disrupt the quiet was the sound of wingbeats on the air.

Wingbeats.

With a tremendous crash, the immense black dragon landed behind the group, shaking the trees and knocking boulders off the mountainside.

"Tuul kraad nil vahl lok!" The dragon roared, his voice forming strange words in the dragon language. "My thuum will burn you like I did that pitiful excuse for a town!" The dragon threw his head back and bugled to the sky, shaking the clouds and the sky itself.

With one swift movement, the dragon's massive head snapped forward, his jaws wide and searching. Foot long fangs protruding from blood red gums whizzed through the air and closed with a momentous snap. It happened so fast, Celina might not have known what had happened if not for the sudden spatter of dark red liquid across her face.

The dragon recoiled, and Reeve collapsed. A great throaty chuckle rose in the beast's throat, and he spread his gargantuan wings, before disappearing into the sky with another booming shout.

"Ruzah wundunne, Dovahkiin. Goodbye."

Next to Celina, Reeve gave one last hacking cough before growing still, his chest coated in blackish red blood that flowed from the holes in his chest left by the dragon's teeth.

5225 words

#eragon #inheritance cycle #skyrim #crossover #fanfic #elder scrolls #dragon #long fic

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fierypen37 · 6 years

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The Oasis: Chapter 11

The wound didn’t look good. Rakharo was bleeding, a steady trickle of bright red. The warm brown skin of his face was ashen, lips parted to suck in noisy gulps of air. The bullet had probably punctured his lung. Selmy was unconscious, wounded, though Jon could see the steady rise and fall of his chest. Still kicking.

“You have to go. You have to go now,” Rakharo said. Jon could hear the wail of sirens. The paramedics would be there within minutes. Thank the gods.

“No, we’ll wait until the paramedics get here, the Watch--” Dany said, pressing the wadded-up fabric of her torn sleeve to the wound. Soaked almost black with Rakharo’s blood. Even smeared with soot and blood, shaking like a leaf, she was still a spitfire. Jon hovered behind her, anxious and twitchy that she was out of touching distance.

“No, Miss,” Rakharo tried to shift position, winced, then lapsed back against the SUV bumper, “T—They found us on without cell phones, without a paper trail. Miles from your apartment. If they can do that, they might have contacts with first responders. You have to go. Now.” Jon’s shoulders bunched, unnerved by the accuracy of the words. A fresh jolt of adrenaline chased away the looming exhaustion. Stress hormones pumping through him, sharpening his senses.

“But you and Barry--” Dany said, her brow forked.

“I’ll keep the old dog alive until the cavalry comes,” Rakharo said with a travesty of a smile. Daenerys scowled, but nodded. She braced Rakharo’s hand against the bleeding wound, ignoring his groan.

“Fine. I’ll go. Use firm pressure. If you think you’re going to pass out, take deep breaths in through your nose.”

“Yes, Miss,” Rakharo said, looking up at her with black eyes blazing with ferocity, “Cash only, find a fresh burner if you can.”

“Of course,” Daenerys said. A yank pulled her bag from the SUV with a petulant tinkle of glass.

“Leave it! They might have smuggled a tracker on your belongings,” Rakharo wheezed. Daenerys huffed out a breath, her shaking hands the only indication that she wasn’t quite as calm as she seemed.

“Ok. I’ll go then,” she said. The warble in her voice hurt. A blazing thought pierced the fog: she said ‘I’ not ‘we.’ Jon grasped her arm, loosening his grip when she bit back a cry of pain.

“You’re not going alone.” She gave him an anguished look, tears standing in her eyes.

“Jon, you’ve already suffered so much because of me, I couldn’t--” Jon yanked her close to him, swamped by a strong storm surge of emotion. Anger or fear, love or desperation, he wasn’t sure.

“Get this through your head: I’m not going anywhere,” he rasped. He bit down on more dangerous words like ‘I’m all in’ or ‘You’re mine.’ It wouldn’t do to throw his heart at her feet. He wasn’t sure if she’d treasure it or inadvertently stomp on it.

“Let’s go,” she said her voice strong and steady. Jon folded Daenerys’ hand in his own. Beneath the grimy slick of blood, her steady warmth comforted him. The siren’s shriek grew louder, coming down the road from the direction of the Street of Sisters.

“This way,” Jon said, tugging her toward Visenya’s Hill, where Ghost circled on his lead.

“You brought Ghost here?” Dany asked incredulously. Jon’s back went up.

“I heard gunshots and came running,” Jon snapped, untying the lead with a sharp yank. Even that cut too close to an admission, so Jon kept his gaze on what his hands were doing. He felt the weight of her eyes, and rolled his shoulders. Gods, he was a damned fool. Chasing after her, wanting to be her hero. It would get him killed. The smart thing would be to back away slowly. It was passing thought that just barely punctured the thick grey fog. Ghost nosed Dany gently, whining at the smell of blood. Dany crooned, petting the soft fur behind his pointed ears. Who was he kidding? He was in way too deep for that.

“Come on,” Jon said, ushering both Ghost and Dany through a narrow winding alley. Jon crouched beside a dripping faucet and washed the blood off him. A twist of his shirt and the flap dangled between his shoulder blades. There. Semi-presentable.

Dodging grimy puddles and reeking dumpsters, they wove through backstreets until they found a small tenement house.

“Where are we?” Daenerys asked.

“A friend’s. I need a place for Ghost,” Jon said, shooing her to stand out of sight. Daenerys Targaryen stood out in any circumstance, but looking like a warzone survivor stuck in a person’s mind. Jon rapped on the door. Faintly he heard the stomp of her boots.

“Who is it?” she asked through the door.

“Jeyne, it’s Jon. Open up!” he said. A twist of the deadbolt, a rattle of door-chain and Jeyne yanked the door open. Her utility scrubs were in King’s Landing Veterinary Hospital’s colors of plain black, with high, work-scuffed boots. Her long dark hair tied in a bouncy ponytail, her hazel eyes wide in her lovely round face.

“Jon? Is everything all right? Come in!” she said, with an ushering gesture. Jon’s smile was stiff and uncomfortable. Weariness sapped his strength along with his patience.

“I can’t stay, Jeyne. Something came up suddenly, and I have to leave town. Can Ghost stay with you a couple days?” Her brow furrowed, but she automatically reached for Ghost’s lead. Jon knelt and scrubbed Ghost’s furry sides. His tail wagged uncertainly. Poor pup, he was confused.

“Anything, Jon. Are you sure everything is--”

“I’ll explain later,” Jon interrupted, glancing over his shoulder, “I owe you. Thank you. I’ll call you later. I’ll pay you back, I promise.”

“O—Ok. Call me later, then,” Jeyne said with a hopeful smile. Shit. Not that kind of call. Jon finished his goodbyes with Ghost and stepped off the stoop. That was a problem for another day.

Daenerys was uncharacteristically quiet as they took a meandering path to the train station. Jon shoved away the thought, focused. One: Getting Out of the Fucking City Safely, Two: Smashing Any Bad Guys in their Path, Three: Calling for Backup. Thankfully, Number Two proved unnecessary as Dany slipped into a seedy thrift store to buy Jon a new shirt. Meeting him around the corner, she tore open the plastic sack. A black button-down for him—wafting a strange mix of must and mothballs—and a baggy drab green army coat and cricket cap for herself. Jon shrugged on the shirt over his torn one, wincing as it stretched the scabbing cut on his chest.

“How do I look?” she asked with wide-eyed glance. Jon gave her a once-over, some of the tension bleeding away. His grimace softened. The coat swallowed her, the cuffs hanging past her fingertips. Her distinctive hair was shoved under a King’s Landing Crowns hat and flyaway strands fell in disordered curls. His chest felt tight.

“Beautiful.” A smile bloomed on her lips, so gorgeous his heart twisted inside him. The light died in her eyes as the smile fell.

“I don’t look like a fugitive businesswoman running from a multinational crime syndicate?” she asked.

“Nope, just another poor slob,” Jon joked weakly. The smile he earned was cooler, but no less beautiful. Jon cleared his throat.

“Come on, let’s go.”

The warm moment carried him through the tedium and nerve-shredding anxiety of joining the monitored masses of King’s Landing’s busier thoroughfares to hail a cab. Waiting under the orange glare of a streetlight, Dany made an abortive gesture, the army coat’s sleeve pooling around her wrist. Her nervous habit of chewing on her fingernails. They were still rimmed black with Rakharo’s blood, despite their hasty wash. Jon’s teeth ground together.

“Where to, gents?” the cabbie asked in sharp intonation of an Iron Islander.

“Stone Heights, corner of Queen Street and South 127th,” Jon said, as Dany slid into the seat. He felt the curious pass of her gaze, but he didn’t want the cabbie to overhear his plans. Bad guys bursting out of nowhere made him twitchy.

“In this traffic, that’ll take over an hour,” he whined.

“You’ll get a good fare then,” Jon said, slamming the door shut.

And that was that. One of his buddies Pyp, who worked with Tormund lived in Stone Heights, a semi-respectable neighborhood outside the city walls. The ancient walls of where the medieval King’s Landing stood was preserved, the reddish stone and crenellations lit up with floodlights. Past the wall sprawled suburbs and businesses, neighborhoods and office buildings, absorbing the old town of Rosby into an extension of King’s Landing. Jon drummed his fingers on his jumping knee, jittery energy shredding his insides. Creeping in metal box, just like before, with only him left to protect her . . . Dany stilled his knee with a touch of her hand.

“Breathe,” she whispered. Jon offered a weak smile, taking a deep breath in through his nose. Jon covered her hand with his. So warm, the bones of her hand so delicate in his grip.

“Thank you by the way,” she said, her gaze turned toward the window. “For what?” Jon asked.

“For saving my life. Again.” I couldn’t stand it if something happened to you. But he didn’t say that.

“Don’t mention it.”

Gods, Ramsay loved his work. The two men on security detail offered a challenge. Both were smart and fierce. So refreshing. The second in particular, was strong as a bull and had nearly broken his arm. Ramsay repaid him, though. The .22 was his favorite weapon. It wouldn’t kill, not unless at a lucky angle or point-blank range. No, instead the small bullet would ping around like a pinball inside, doing all sorts of delightful damage without killing the victim. It made things much more interesting. The silencer took care of the pesky side effects of ‘witnesses.’

All that was left now was his favorite part: interrogation. And such a pretty victim too. Not Westerosi, with those dark, exotic eyes. She huddled in her closet, clutching a butcher knife. Mm, she has some fire, then. Good! He liked that. A part of him wished there was time and space enough to take her home, play with his dogs. Such vicious things.

“Hello, Shae. I have some questions for you about this . . . Jon Snow.”

The hours trickled away. Like a Monday afternoon, where time seemed to move at a snail’s pace. Daenerys glanced at the car clock: past midnight. Her thoughts drifted, nodding against Jon’s warm strong shoulder. The cab smelled of stale cigarette smoke and old takeout. A wilted chicken salad had been her dinner, washed down with weak iced tea. Jon’s arm tugged her close, a warm clasp at her hip. Thankfully the cabbie had the radio switched to a classical station. The second attempt on her life would be splashed all over the news. She sent up a brief prayer for Barry and Rakharo’s well-being. Gods, I hope no one else was hurt. At least Vis was safe, as was Dragon in Tyrion’s hands.

The two of them switched cabs at Stone Heights, and again in Rosby. Jon paid the third cabbie with a brusque gesture, herding her out toward a cheap motel. The promise of quiet and rest, a shower and a bed—no matter how dubious—was heavenly. The train station was within sight.

“We’ll board a train north in the morning. Let me make a quick call,” Jon said, pointing to an ancient pay phone languishing outside the motel office door. Daenerys trailed after him, bleary-eyed, a headache pounding behind her eyes. Every inch of her ached and she stretched subtly to ease it.

“Robb, thank the gods. I know, I know, my phone broke. Listen—” Robb, Jon’s stepbrother. The handsome face she’d seen on so many magazine covers. Wealthy, goodhearted, dating Margaery Tyrell, the gorgeous actress. The press ate up their story like candy.

Daenerys’ attention drifted. The night was warm and soft, with the rhythmic screech of trains in the background. Sweat dewed on the back of her neck, under the thick canvas coat. Crickets chirped. A niggling sense of déjà vu prickled. She dismissed it, shivering at being out in the open. What eyes watched from those distant windows? Knives and guns in the dark. Daenerys checked the impulse to lean into Jon. She’d done enough clinging to him already. Gods, seeing him bloodied and frantic on Loom Street would be forever burned into her memory.

“Thank you. I’ll pay you back, I promise. Give Marg my love,” Jon said, before hanging the phone on its cradle with an inward tinkle of change. Jon found a tired smile.

“I’m sorry about the rough accommodations. Dad had an old place on Silver Lake. The train will take us north tomorrow.” Daenerys gave the motel a scrutinizing glance.

“Looks like my first apartment,” she said. That was it. The sound of trains and a maze of broken concrete reminded her of the squalid apartment she shared with Vis while working her way through college. Always she came home feeling the same way she felt now: exhausted, lonely and heartsick.

Their room was on the third floor, interior hall. Yellowed wallpaper peeled off the walls, the dark green carpet worn thin and grubby. Jon locked the door behind them and set Barry’s spare gun on the nightstand. The microfiber blanket on the sagging mattress was patterned with gold roses. Jon clicked on the bedside lamp, washing one side of his face in the garish white light. He sat at the head of the bed, his expression closed and grim. No doubt ruing the day he’d ever laid eyes on her. He rubbed his eyes.

“Take your turn in the shower. I’ll stand watch,” Jon said, with a jerk of his chin. Daenerys was too tired and wrung out to argue.

The bathroom echoed the motel’s general sense of neglect: hard water stains on the shower glass, mildew growing between the chips in the countertop, an age-fogged mirror. The woman who stared back at her in that murky glass had her features, but the eyes were smudged and haunted. A woman hunted, running, running, running. How long before they caught up to her? What about Jon? He’d already risked his life for her. Twice. How long before he decided it was enough? Or worse, they hurt him?

Daenerys twisted the tap on full blast. With a throaty gurgle, rust-tinged water burst from the showerhead before running clear. There were no good answers, and flogging her tired brain wasn’t helping. One simple thing she could do was get clean. Daenerys peeled off the musty coat, the bloodstained shirt, the torn jeans, and stepped under the pounding spray. One thing in the motel’s favor: the water was blisteringly hot. The beat of the water and swirling steam were soothing, even the tepid water pooling from the slow drain didn’t bother her. A soak for her achy feet.

Three little vials of cheap shampoo and conditioner worked the worst of the tangles out of her hair, along with ground flecks of broken glass. A washcloth and bar soap scrubbed away all memory of the day. Soot and blood, fear and grief. Only the thought of Jon not having enough hot water kept her from spending the whole night under the hot deluge.

Daenerys wrenched the tap off and wrung out her hair. Sound echoed strangely in the shower stall, water a hollow drip. Daenerys scowled at the heap of her discarded clothes as she toweled off. No way. She would rather sleep naked than climb into those clothes again. Through her tiredness, a tendril of heat flickered to life. If Jon could comfort her, make her forget the madness of the day with the patented heat and skill of his loving . . . then they would both feel better. Predictably, her busy brain listed alphabetically how and why he would reject her, and she chickened out. Instead, Daenerys swathed herself in a towel, gathered her clothes in a wadded knot, and emerged in a cloud of sweet-scented steam. Jon looked up, the same fierce scowl plastered in place.

“I’ll take my turn,” he said in a voice as hard as his expression. Something inside her quailed a little. That too tickled a memory in her brain, of nights Vis staggered home drunk from the pub down the street. Daenerys sank down to sit on the bed as the door clicked shut behind him. It would be better, kinder if she slipped out the door and out of his life. The hiss of the shower bled through the door. She would have to hurry.

#fp37fic #the oasis #massuer!Jon #CEO!Dany

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kootenaygoon · 5 years

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So,

I wasn’t supposed to groom Muppet myself.

Buster’s fur seemed to remain the same length, and didn’t require upkeep, but Muppet’s messy mop quickly got out of control if neglected for too long. The haircuts I gave her were sometimes sloppy and definitely uneven, but they were also better than nothing. I’d promised Paisley I would stop, but sooner or later I wouldn’t be able to resist the tangles and knots I inevitably discovered on my girl’s little white body. The fact was we didn’t have enough money to go to the groomer, so what was I supposed to do? Just let her go around undignified like that, in need of a trim?

It was a father-daughter bonding experience, holding her pinned in my lap while she squirmed. I snipped carefully with a pair of old scissors, murmuring reassurances. A few times I nicked her, and felt tremendous guilt about it, dabbing apologetically at the little droplets of her blood while she shot me betrayed glances. We always hurt the ones we love. She was a little manic, my Muppet, and overwhelming to strangers, but in her calm moments she had a wise glow to her. Sometimes it felt like there was a human soul inside her body, gazing knowingly from behind her canine eyes, keeping close watch.

Muppet loved the mountain breeze. During the summer months we slept on the deck every night with Paisley and Buster, feeling the wind dance over our faces. In the morning we’d be woken by the sunlight, opening our eyes to a rustling canopy that slowly changed colour over the course of the season. Sitting up there among the trees felt like being at the prow of some great flying ship, one that could transport me to fantastical realms far beyond the Kootenays. With Muppet as my co-pilot I could smoke a huge bowl and hurtle off into the milky chaos of oblivion, just like at Shambhala.

All that summer I’d been listening to Hozier and his lyrics drifted from our living room’s open window as I sipped coffee on an ethereal Sunday morning. Innocence died screaming, honey, ask me I should know, he sang. I slithered here from Eden just to sit outside your door. I stroked my fingers through Muppet’s fur and propped my slippers on the railing. Lately I’d been talking to dead people, but I didn’t feel especially alarmed by it. Spirits just came to me from time to time, shimmering into focus like they’d come through the teleporter from Star Trek. Today it was Ryan Tapp, clutching a shotgun in one hand.

“You know, they say hating a person is like burning down your house to kill a rat. All the negative energy you’re pouring into this thing with Cam Carpenter, it’s going to come out at some point,” he said, gazing out at the morning. His sunglasses dangled to the tip of his nose.

“I’m just worried it’s turning you into a hateful person, man. And that’s not who you are. We both know that.”

I took another drag off my pipe, then coughed. “He thinks he’s better than me.”

“Will, he doesn’t even think about you. Don’t you get that? This whole conflict is in your head, you’re just projecting your baggage on to this guy. You’re burning down your own house and meanwhile his place is pristine and undisturbed. You know how many friends he has in this town?”

“I don’t care. Fuck him.”

“Trust me, man. This isn’t a road you actually want to travel down.”

After my mini-catharsis at Shambhala I’d gone back to the Star with the full intention of turning the other cheek, of making peace with Cam, but circumstances just seemed to be against us. The latest debacle centered around an anti-abortion protest called Life Chain, which I covered without the right swing slant he was hoping for. The issue had bled over into the advertising realm, where they didn’t want to be associated in any way with the accompanying ad they were being asked to create. One of the designers came to me in tears, asking me to intervene on her behalf, and I went ranting off to upper management, but things remained simmering and unresolved. There was a tension in the office whenever Cam walked in, a low boil of stress, as we dreadfully anticipated another Carpenter surprise. Tamara was getting especially fed up, and had gone to human resources to lodge her complaints, but so far the Black Press response was nonexistent.

So we just kept going, because what else were we going to do?

“Do you ever wonder if you’re sabotaging yourself on purpose? It really seems like you’ve got a bit of a self-destructive streak,” Ryan said, balancing precariously along the railing with his arms out. He clutched the shotgun by the stock in one fist.

“The best thing you’ve got going is this Star gig and you’re not just biting the hand that feeds you, you’re fucking feasting on it.”

“If somebody doesn't stand up to Cam, then nobody will.”

“But why? Why is it so important that you stand up to some small town businessman? Why is he even relevant to you? You see him what? Like once a month?”

“Bullies, man. It starts with John Dooley and it runs all the way down through Cam Carpenter and all the rest of the Baker Street Bandits. They’re stockpiling all the wealth while there’s this affordable housing crisis, while people are dying in the street...”

Ryan sighed, and squatted down to face me. Behind him Elephant Mountain dominated the view, while around him the trees sashayed in time with the wind. His sunglasses made him look like an Ibiza DJ, his sleeveless shirt tucked into his jeans and his multi-coloured baseball cap tipped back on his head. When he smiled, I saw why so many women were in love with him. The dude was a fucking legend.

“If you don’t like the world how it is, then it’s within your power to change it. Hating the people you disagree with doesn’t contribute anything, don’t you see that? All this left-right bullshit, it doesn’t get us anywhere.”

I shook my head. “But it’s about more than the left and the right. These people want to criminalize being homeless, they want to put people in jail for taking medicine, they want to control women’s bodies. It’s fucked.”

“Maybe. But what’s a better way to spend your time: criticizing them, or worrying about yourself? Like how are you living that’s so superior to how they’re living?”

“I’m not saying I’m living better. I’m saying their morals are wrong.”

He laughed. “Says you! Meanwhile they think your morals are fucking wrong, you stoner. They’re teaching their kids not to grow up like you.”

He wasn’t wrong. Somewhere along the line I’d become the person I used to warn my kids about, back when I was a Christian camp counselor on Vancouver Island. Back then I knew exactly what I believed, and who I was, and I had no idea this is what I would become one day. As I sat there I pondered, not for the first time, everything I’d lost along with my faith. I took another long drag of my pipe, pumping the choke with my thumb, and blinked through visions of church pews, stained glass, firesides. All those countless hours of sermons and bible studies and private Christian school, all that shit was still carefully filed away in the library of my mind. Eventually my thoughts maneuvered to my youth pastor, who had been arrested in 2005 for molesting a child in Mexico. They were releasing him from prison soon, and I didn’t know how to feel about it.

“You still don’t believe he’s guilty, do you?”

I shook my head. “I can’t know until I ask him myself.”

“Where there’s smoke, there’s fire. They found child pornography on the dude’s computer, Will. How much more evidence do you need?”

“Even if he is guilty, even if this shit is true, I still love him.”

Ryan blinked. “You know how strange that sounds, right? Going around saying you love a pedophile?”

“He’s still a dude, drawing breath, just like you and me. He was like a second father to me for years. When I really needed something in my life. We used to joke that one day I would owe him my first born child for all the lunches and pool trips and movies.They say he’s moving to Lethbridge, and I was thinking I’d fly out there to see him. Everything I knew about God I learned from him. ”

“And what are you going to do when you get there?”

I took a deep inhale through my nostrils and closed my eyes. When I opened them Paisley was wedging through the door with her hip, holding two steaming plates. She passed me one as Muppet jumped down from my lap, as Hozier continued to croon. The way she tells me I'm hers and she is mine, open hand or closed fist would be fine, he sang. The blood is rare and sweet as cherry wine. Things had been going well with us lately, and her health concerns had dissipated. I was feeling strangely optimistic despite everything. Here I was with a warm meal and a beautiful partner, so what was I complaining about?

“Did I hear you talking out here just now?” she asked, as she bit into her first forkful. “Were you on the phone?”

“No,” I shrugged. “I was just talking to myself, duck.”

The Kootenay Goon

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alchemisland · 5 years

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Moors Mutt IV - Old Stone

Lar had set plates of milk and egg on the exterior ledge in tribute to the fae folk said to inhabit the ancient mounds. Ah, how rugged tradition. Despite innumerable era-defining events happening daily across the world, for the village of Sperrin it was just another day when the sun rose and, with luck, set again in the evening. They hadn't time for dullards in tailed suits dictating tastes, but they had still team to tend the interspecies relations their ancestors cherished. By all accounts I have heard, to spurn the giving of tributes and gifts incurs great penalty from these entities, with many a workman rising with thorns in his bed after rooting out on the old Hawthorns, which are so revered entire networks and key routeways, which I say should serve to modernise this place a bit, are diverted from their course to leave the old fairy trees in peace. Even now I puzzle at this strange practice, at the contrast between past and present evident in all things once you leave the big cities. The fae, I have since learned, are a race of otherworldy beings driven beneath the furrows as the plague of mankind spread; its boils gaping swordwounds, its pus the belch of industry, and always fatal. Thackeray's 'Sketchbook 1842' spake thusly on the practice; "Crude as their barn religion seems to the imperial beholder, there is yet intricacy in this practices and archaic wisdom therein. If a faith's claim to true institutional status is the number of adherents, there are more worshippers in these bog towns, who bear saints names, than ever had Patrick driven toward the tide." Thackeray made no mention of an egg dish though.

A scarred moggy had the scent hot on his nostrils, thought he what fine folks we to leave a sup for me. I watched him furtively take the decking and slink toward the dish. First he tapped the rim to glean what consequence he might incur, but seeing the clear craned and began to lap its contents delightedly, soaking its whiskers. Fergus thundered out the door, beelining towards the cat which he had spied through the window. He lifted a knee with all grace of rusted Talos and swung the appendage toward the hissing feline. Bold, but not careless, the moggy bailed, zipping from sight before Fergus' hobnail hit. I supposed it a tad overreactive, but when one considers the fae as a true belief system, that cat was essentially gobbling up our good faith, and I thought with another opportunity I'd have done the same.

Lar seemed smaller inside. The barframe served to deemphasize his ample stature, a kingly six foot one stood stock straight; more kingdom keep than tavern keep, and a fur mantle he wore most Heraclean. He took great stomping strides, as in a childhood tale my mother fireside imparted of a giant who wore seven league boots. His ever-bailed fists hung like cudgels by his side, two loyal hounds never stumped for purpose. In his great shadow, one felt a gratitude for civilisation; a concept voluntary for men like Lar. Every second a short man, like me, spent not being torn limb from limb by a man like him was a second lived by his decree.

I swanned to his side, eager for revelation, suddenly taken by the spirit of adventure. Not quite the long walk to the docks before an age on the high seas, for indeed the only thing Sperrin had to resemble the rippling sails of farbound triremes were the sad slanted fabric roofs in the central square still hanging from the Christmas Market, but it was no less a proud moment and a little death; the death of office and oath, of duty, of tedium; for that day I was no longer a swaddled urbanite, good only for council meetings and book reviews, I was reborn in renown; I set off toward the unknown with all the zeal of a whorebound sailor, as of old heroes had.

'Lar, a moment if I could. In the house yesterday I found a bill of sale for an old church somewhere in the demesne. Do you know it?' I asked.

'Know it? Took my first communion there. As did he.' Lar nodded toward Fergus who jostled delightedly, pulling the second of three bags across his vast flank. 'Everyone did. Before she got her toxic claws in.'

'You're joking? I didn't think to ask last night, I thought you wouldn't be interested. This is most fortuitous. Oh, lash me for assuming. What age were you when it closed?'

'After first Communion.' Lar said, concealing his question.

'I'm not Roman Catholic. Happy? My father was a man of intense private faith. Very distrustful of institutions. He encouraged us, and others, to think for ourselves, not to puzzle overmuch the mysteries of man's making.'

'That explains a lot.' said Lar, papist to the root.

'I'm no heathen.' I exhaled my irriation. 'I know my bible well as any bishop; better even. My father wanted to join the priesthood, alas it was not to be. A noble ambition, even unfulfilled. Does that satisfy your piety?'

'What stopped him?' said Lar, unsatisfied. I saw glinting around his neck a pendant freshly clad, its chain lightly linked, an effigy of holy Saint Anthony sun-crowned acentre against a gold rondure.

I shrugged my shoulders. 'Insitutions? He didn't talk about it. So enlighten me if you will; what age is Communion? Twelve - or is that Consternation?'

'It's Confirmation.' Lar spat through gritted teeth. 'Communion is the unleavened bread. Usually the ceremony takes place when the child is seven or eight.'

'Right. And Lady Sizemore, you would not deny she was a woman of means?'

Lar scoffed, loosening phlegm. 'I would not.'

'I had presumed so. Her estate is vast, her house lavish, its contents irreplaceable, its memories priceless, but she was not ostentatious in herself. Lar, I know we're out for the beast and don't worry, I still intend keeping up with the thing, but my heart is really set on figuring this church business. See, I have had cause to see her financial records, public and private. Aside from maintenance costs and the occasional queenly feast, she seemed positively a pincher of pennys, a scrimper.' When our eyes met Lar squinted suspiciously, waiting for more. 'I mean to say Lady Sizemore seemed modest despite her earnings, yet enormous costs were incurred purchasing the church and moving the cairn. I want to know why it's so special.'

'You'll soon find out. Where do you think we're going?'

'Truly? An angel. Art thou an angel? Thou art, truly. Who else so cherubim in cheek and lobe!' I nearly clicked my heels. 'How serendipitous I should inquire. Let me ask another question; what's there now?' We had slowed, each of us, in anticipation of local colour. If trips to the outdoors had purpose, twas this, tramping blind and giving life to what has passed, and perhaps in gratitude, if a higher place exists than this, the dead will bid us good fortune.

'Nothing much anymore. There's been a church on that ground since before any Bishop in Rome ever lied. The first Christians arrived, little more than farmers, armed with twisted staves. Stone by stone they built a temple for their desert god, refuse from the cold of the islands. The Gods of ancient Albion were not of the sun, blithe were they to effulgence. Came they from beneath the clod. Slithered out from eel bores and swam the narrow estuaries like boneless longships. Worshippers twisted as their idols took every chance to spurn the advances of the interlopers, but such savagery cannot be upheld. Hate is not enough. Hate is the infernal speed, the thud of knuckles, the thunder at the antler crash of rutting stags, but it is a fickle thing, a false security, sapping and parasitic. By generations, these savage men became curious. They had killed so many, sundered their doings and mocked their skygod, yet still the missionaries adhered his tenets. Perhaps, they thought, this God is some powerful thing. And with that, the spell of the old ways was broken. Already as the tribesmen made their first ginger steps up the slopes, the slopes we ourselves will ascend, the suckered whips and shadowed protrusions of the old ones retracted to the otherworld, down into the deep dells and dark delvings and the dwindling darks of earth. Came they curious and unarmed, bid the missionaries impart this wisdom worth dying for. This site was not alone chosen for its useful vantage and strategic defensive position. The arriving zealots had observed natives worshipping standing stones, more ancient than the predeluvian cultures of hyborea and Tartaria. Such megaliths were known to hold great arcane power. The priests need only convince the tribes that power was theirs, a demonstration of their gospels infallibility, done easily within a generation. Priests controlled education, taste, oversaw cultural changes, discarded blasphemous and mysterious rites. Soon the brood knew nothing of the traditions held by their forebears. An epoch of strife began.'

'Ah. So the priests came, withstood the assault and incorporated existing idols into their own pantheon? How cunning, deceitful and a tragedy I should say too.'

'All-seeing though their God was, people will always do as they please. The old ways survive unchanged, even to this day the older townsfolk meet for the mysteries. When Fergus and I were bairns enormous crowds travelled from far afield to celebrate the imbolc, until she rooted out the cairn and left the church to rack and ruin. It shouldn't have been allowed.' Lar nodded, the ire of its sundering still upon him fresh, running like new fire in his veins and I saw with each clumping step he drove the point of his boot into the soft ground, like a knight's lance in a fallen pikeman's back, spending his annoyance in this manner.

When I saw his shoulders raise with tension lifted and gait restored, I probed further. 'Do you know the priest?'

'Er - yes. Tarbuck I think his name was.'

'What about Talbot - as in Talbot Church?'

Lar raised a suspicious brow, like a furtive otter arching from the swell, they were thin, brown and sleek, I'd say manicured if I didn't know him better, but I suppose I did not know him well at all. His mouth began to turn and I watched him, trying to clear my mind in anticipation of inquest. At last he spoke most considered, rising to be heard over Fergus' hyucking. 'Yes I suppose that sounds right. Talbot. Couldn't tell you more. Why are you asking if you already know? If I didn't know better, I'd say you're withholding information, partner.'

'You wouldn't believe me if I told you.' What could I tell him? That I had seen a faceless priest with mucky vestments out for a midnight walk? Where did I see him? Funny you should ask, in bed. In bed? Well, yes. I was in bed, but my mind was to the church called be the peal of silent bells. No, it was best to withhold until I knew more, and still all this time there was the beast, presumably furious at having been picked second.

I was met with silence. More space came between us. Knowing Lar and Fergus would soon disappear from sight, I was forced to shout over the wind, 'Why did she move the Cairn?'

Lar shrugged again. True to his word, he could not tell more than that. 'Winter.'

I had thought much since waking from the dream, about the church and lady Sizemore, about the familiar priest and the sympathetic plight implied in his step and dimmed blue eyes. I had forgotten much of the dream's stark imagery. Only this impression of the man burying his secrets and his spade daubed in clay remained. I found most curious the cairn's relocation. Lar had not seemed confident imparting the reason for its transfer, that Lady Sizemore was told the house wouldn't stand another winter despite having done so two hundred years; to me, that seemed a spurious motive and something worth inquiry.

Dawnflame pulsed in seductive ruby, splintering to a prism that dazzled in its royal array, from bold scarlet to princely vermilion, and in that sanguine bank we found hopeful portent. Other larks stirred from roadside redoubts to wave passage. Husbandmen mostly, any whose labours were bound to the rueful star's whim. Breaking from the road we made for pasture, cutting due Northwest across the plain. Dawn's jewels, stars of morning which are night's silver sisters, sundered underfoot, brittle things past season returning to aether.

Lar and Fergus scouted ahead, rudely parading superior vigour. They whispered among themselves. Fifty years old the pair of them, they still moved like Herne the hunter through all terrains. Fergus gave credence to the theory empty vessels howl loudest, guffawing at every ribaldry Lar conjured from the sewer he called a brain. With spare breath I might have cursed them, but my fury came a decliate whisper, peeling like nighttime bells; loudly and to no one. I wished barren the bellies of the sows that held them.

Ego as engine, for a furious mile I kept pace, propelled solely by a need for petty victory. Predictably, for those bones had long been cast, I quickly slowed back to a sad trudge, slower than my previous languid pace.

Themselves ramblers taking long walks for leisure, Lar and Fergus waited at each fence feigning to check their watches, teasing with so many rests between arrivals a man might never tire. Gladly I obliged, quipping Aesop's lessons were lost to them. What else had I but meek agreement. Nod and smile, chaste to make a Roman wife blush, icily injecting scorn where possible unnoticed.

At length the naked path yielded to thick woodland more typical of the region. We pushed through the system of unbowed oaks, which cast snake haired shadows where light could penetrate. Further the branches enclosed to a dome, stealing our brave shadows. Little rest we took in the maze's darkest sectors. Badger, fox and mole strode brazen, unfamiliar and unafraid. At the helm, Lar thought himself Alexander in Hanyson, immortal thirst his guiding star. I remembered how ended that tale.

How hard it seemed rising after only a moment stilled. How quickly a hard-earned graceful step replaced by rhythmless clomping. It was not until several minutes treading passed that semblance of form returned, and soon after, the next reluctant stop, the mossy bank where last we halted still visible shortly behind.

For a time there was sun. Golden fire, faint and pale beyond a tattered veil. The aperture seized before our eyes until only A crescent of light remained, the golden torc of Ulaid.

This terse land existed long before man's dominion and would reign unchanged in the wake of our expiry. Here she gave no quarter. Gaia dressed for war in all her plate. All twisted briar and stinging barbs, long tunnels of night giving to treacherous muddy groves where a man might be taken by the bog and the old things therein.

'Where in jezebel's saucehole are we?" I planted myself. Thought I of Ephialtes leading Persians through the pass, cursed by the gods to wear his inner treachery outwardly.

Fergus deferred to Lar's judgement. Solomon-like, Lar waved our wagons halted. He tossed the empty skins to Fergus. 'Fill these' he said, miming drinking.

While the Giant fetched pales Lar prodded the scant briar. 'Say Lar.' He bid me sit upon a raised bank.

'You look like shit.'

'Not so bad yourself' I wheezed. 'Truly do we have to go so fast? Is it so far we can't mosey, even just for a mile? I've done walking but this is hoplite stuff.'

'Deal.' Lar wanted to sit but he didn't. He stood, knees taxed, breath compromised, but he stood. Nothing to prove and still at attention. One could not deny his character.

We watched Fergus' return, arms extended like some horror out of Jotunheim. Wet cloth clung to his forearms like setting plaster, arousing suspicions he had endured some minor aquatic tragedy. My dry mouth prevented inquiry. I snatched the skin and quaffed generously, muttering thanks. Quite unsympathetically, I had to force myself not to ask 'Water we going to do now?' or comment that it was growing colder the further we went up, in fact 'ri-very cold.'

I produced a flask. Cursed with muteness, Fergus could not explain what manner of calamity had befallen him. Louder his teeth clacked. A mirror pool formed about his feet, spreading wider until he stood aft a glass plinth. I offered a lash. The whiskey shot fire through his veins. His eyes bulged as the water of life reignited the dampened kindling of his passions.

Lar, hitherto predisposed with watering of a different sort, emerged fastening his trousers and immediately noted something awry. He lifted his chin an inch, gave us the once over and bounded towards Fergus. He took a clump of wet tweed and squeezed until it wept through his clenched fist. 'Christ. What happened?'

Lar claimed little of Fergus remained. A friendly shade of what once he was. He assured me what others perceived as emotion was mere instinct. Nerves and twitches, mimicked gestures. Still I swore he had recognised his own foolishness at having fallen into the stream. How shyly he stared to his feet, if only for one moment of divine clarity.

Lar was concerned about Fergus' garments. Wet clothes would spell disaster for the burgeoning expedition. I offered my scarf. Lar followed suit. Like a freed condemned, he slipped the coarse rag from around his own neck. Flattened parallel, they formed a hugging shawl around his sodden shoulders. Gently, by degrees, we warmed Fergus. He took another swig from the flask. In his gargantuan hands, fingers like rolling pins splayed across its scratched surface, the flask appeared little more than a doll's trinket.

Upon imbibing the second drop, revelling its minor anaesthetic quality, his cheeks flashed pink, rouge to blush a whore. When great cities crumbled and ancient wisdoms were lost, when mankind regressed to a baser form, bestial and philistine, beloved of ignorance, the denizens of ancient Ireland had brewed this potent potable, and on its warmth resisted the great debasement. Fire exhumed ice in his veins. The fire of life; the fire of the elixir I had given him, which of old the anointed ones consumed seeking arcane knowledge, devolving their mind to its primal state, therein discovering secrets lost to time.

Ahead the vanguard, Lar spied him first. A shambling form moving quick through the trees. With a limp wave he halted us. Behind we mimed his stoop. On haunches he held the order with a trembling hand, for which we never blamed him. Everyone had reached the same conclusion; the beast was upon us. We had wished without proper consideration. Now our twisted desire was made flesh. From the underworld the beast reeking of acrid smoke had clawed, toxic miasma from the foundries of hell in heady tendrils about its paws.

Gradually the amorphous form revealed contours most corporeal; those of an older man, sweeping towards us at a markedly unsupernatural pace. He moved furtively, shoulders raised to his ears protectively, eyes deep set and impatient. Closer he came until he stood before us on the crest of a mossy embankment. He stood still for address, unsure if we were brigands, bounty hunters or worse. He cast a long glance over each of us in turn, tracing our brows, testing the mettle behind our eyes, down the chest to the navel, to our stained feet and upward again. He shoved a letter into his pocket and I saw on his ringfinger he wore an enormous golden signet, though I could not discern any detail in the dimness.

With his green gillet stained polkadot and wild sideburns adjoining beard and hair, he appeared more victorian eccentric than hiker. I soon learned that his name was Dalliard, a local with roots deeper than those from which his wiry gruaig sprang, a mad albino nest atop his wisened head. He spoke with a thick lilt, a strange medley of gaelic and slang, almost saxon sounding if I didn't know the name Dalliard wasn't Northon. He was assuredly a kill-your-son-and-live-with-your-wife-in silence-for-twenty-years-over-the-lend-of-a-spade type.

Beneath his snowy bristles lay zit red cheeks. I imagined his mouth when it moved as a bubbling postule, his tongue glorious pus emerging like a curious worm's head. As he elbowed past I caught his eye, or rather disturbed him rudely staring. Next I wondered whether the creases on his brow were newly formed, ever present or mere projections of my exhausted, possibly delirious state. No, unmistakably this Dalliard recognised me. Something he saw worried him. Probably some pervert up to no good in the old churchyard, worried we would stumble upon his vile derelictions. Perhaps some looter of antiquities, wondering if I'm here for the same. All this passed in a moment, soon he was long passed and speaking overshoulder.

'Up ahead' he panted, mopping his brow with an overworked handkerchief, 'it levels out. Push on. No more'n a mile. If the kirkyard is left, you've got it. If it steepens again, ye've strayed.'

'The light fades quick. Careful on your way. Don't dally.' Lar called after sardonically.

Emboldened by closeness we came on fast to devour the remaining track, leaping from ledge to mossy shelf with educated precision like trained fleas. How quickly one became accustomed to difficulty; it was not hard to see how we proliferated across every inch of the globe, until even the secret and sacred places of the world were sullied by our refuse; their tranquility strangled by our inanities. Without fire to christen me, mine had been a baptism by stone. Keeping in pace, I turned to Lar and Fergus. 'Know that Dalliard chap well, do you?'

'We don't send cards at Christmas. Lives on the other side of the valley. Different schools, different everything, same parish. Posh eccentric sort. Had some affiliations with the good lady. Why? I'm sure he'd love to take a lovely lass like you for a stew any evening of the year.' Lar bellowed.

'No, it's nothing. Curious

is all. Seemed a bit sketchy to me. Is he all there?'

'Oh yes, quite. Seemed sensible the few times we chanced to meet. Put it from your mind. We're almost there. I've thought of a question all of my own, fancy that, what's your name?'

'Aha.' I smiled. 'I thought you'd never ask.'

'Thought you'd never tell.' Lar smiled, for once unteasingly.

'It's Bastable.' I answered with surprising pride.

'What Bastable?' Lar asked.

'Mr. Bastable will suffice, thank you.'

#Folk horror #Folklore #Myths and legends #Horror #Horror writers #Horror writers of Tumblr #Writeblr #My words #WIP #Writing goals #Plot #Dialogue #Prose #Amwriting #Spilled ink #Writers of Tumblr #Irish writers #Writers of ireland

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ofstarsandvibranium · 6 years

Text

Us Against the World

Fandom: Star Wars (Childhood Best Friends AU)

Pairing: Poe Dameron x Reader

Summary: You and Poe have been best friends since preschool. At that young age, Poe made a declaration, a promise. One that he intended on keeping. Based off of this post.

Age 4

You were nervous entering the preschool. When your mom said she’d be leaving you there for a couple of hours, you were scared. You didn’t want to be alone.

“Don’t wanna go,” you said with a whimper as you clung to your mom’s hand.

She knelt down, “Y/N, it’s gonna be okay. You’re gonna have so much fun! You’ll make friends and you’ll forget you’ve been gone for a while.” You still had a scared look on your face. Your mom sighed, “If you’re good, I’ll take you out for ice cream, okay?”

You smiled softly and nodded. She walked you into the classroom and was instantly greeted to a woman about the same age as your mom, “Hi there. I’m Mrs. Organa. And who might you be?”

“Y/N,” you said shyly.

The woman smiled, “Hi, Y/N. Nice to meet you. Do you wanna go play with some toys?” You nodded and hugged your mom good-bye before heading towards the toy chest.

You spotted a big fire truck and grabbed for it, but so did another kid. You looked up to see a boy with tan skin, black curly hair, and brown eyes. He picked up the truck and look at you, “Do you wanna play with me?” As if feeling your apprehension, he smiled, “I’m Poe!”

“I’m Y/N,” you said shyly.

“Wanna play, Y/N?”

“Okay.”

After that, you and Poe could not be separated. You both always got upset when you weren’t in the same groups for play time. You always wanted to lay next to each other for nap time, and you two always shared your snacks.

One day in class, Mrs. Organa asked what everyone wanted to do when they grow up. Poe immediately stood up from his chair, “When I grow up, I’m gonna marry Y/N!” he said proudly. You blushed as all the kids laughed and made noises of disgust. Poe immediately got upset, “It’s not funny! Y/N is my best friend and I wanna be with her forever!”

Age 10

You and Poe sat in the principal’s office waiting for your parents to arrive. You and Poe held each other’s hands as Ms. Tanno looked at both of you disappointedly.

Your dad and Poe’d dad, Kes, walked in frantically, “Is everything okay?”

“What happened?”

“Is anyone hurt?”

Ms. Tanno held up her hand and they all silenced, “The only person who got hurt was Mrs. Organa’s son, Ben Solo.”

“What exactly happened?” Kes asked.

Ms. Tanno gestured to you, “Go ahead, you two.”

You sighed, “Ben was making fun of me. Saying I was ugly and that no one would like me.”

“Then I was defending her and told Ben to buzz off!”

“Then Ben called Poe stupid and knocked him down. Poe looked like he was about to cry and then...”

You looked at Poe’s who’s eyes fell down to his lap and were filled with hurt, “He said ‘What are you gonna do? Cry to your mommy? Oh wait, you don’t have one anymore.” Poe started sniffling and you tightened your hold on his hand.

“So I punched Ben in the face.”

Kes knelt down in front of both of you, “Y/N, I appreciate what you did for Poe, but violence isn’t the answer.”

You looked down in shame, “I know, but after Ben mentioned Aunt Shara, I just..I just couldn’t help it.”

Your dad looked to Ms. Tanno, “So what’s going to happen?”

“Well, since Y/N punched someone, I’ll have to suspend her.”

Poe’s head shot up, “No! Suspend me!”

Ms. Tanno shook her head, “But you didn’t punch Ben, Poe.”

“So? I-It’s my fault that Ben got punched! I interfered! I should get suspended, not Y/N!”

“I’m sorry, Poe. It’s not how that works.”

Poe frowned and crossed his arms over his chest, “Well if Y/N is suspended, then I’m not going to school until she’s back.”

“Poe, stop,” you tried reasoning with him.

He looked at you, “No. Best friends forever, remember? They can’t separate us no matter what.”

Age 16

Poe was anxious. He stood by your locker, waiting for you to get out of math class. He kept muttering to himself, “You can do this. She’s your best friend. You got this, Poe. You got this.” as soon as the bell rang, he tensed. It was now or never.

He stared at his shoes, his old beaten up Converse, waiting for your arrival. He tried not to let his nerves get the best of him. He’s known you for his whole life. He shouldn’t be afraid, he shouldn’t-”Whatcha starin’ at?”

His head slowly raised and his brown eyes met your Y/E/C eyes. He smiled, “Nothin’. So, uh, I have something to tell you.”

“What’s up?” you asked as you switched your math book for your English book. You closed your locker and looked at Poe expectantly.

Poe gave a deep breath, “I like you. A-A lot. L-Like more than a best friend kind of like.”

A smile formed on your face, “Really?”

“Well, uh, yeah. I mean, you’re smart, funny, beautiful, fun. What’s not to like?”

You blushed, “I like you too.”

“R-Really? Like how I like you like me?”

You laughed, “Yeah, Poe.” You leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, “Now let’s get to class, yeah?” you slipped your hand into his.

Poe looked down at your intertwined hands with a big smile on his face, “Yeah. Okay.”

Age 18

You had Poe had graduated high school. Despite it being a joyous occasion, both of you were saddened. Poe had be recruited to the Air Force. Within a week, he’ll be shipped off to training. So you two spent as much time as you could together.

He took you out on dates, he slept over your house, you two went on a day trip out of town, and Poe had gotten you a puppy.

“He’ll keep you company while I’m away. Right, Beebs?” the little corgi-shiba inu mix wagged its tail as Poe pet him, “Oh!” Poe pulled out the necklace he always wore: his mother’s ring hanging from a metal chain, “Keep this safe for me, yeah?”

You gave him a sad smile, “Okay,” you said sheepishly.

“I’ll think of you every single day. I’ll try to write as much as I can. But you have to promise me something, sweetheart.”

“What?”

“Don’t push everyone away. Don’t isolate yourself. This is your summer before you go to college. Don’t waste it crying over me.”

You began to sniffle, trying not to let the tears fall, “I’m gonna miss you so much,” you whimpered.

“I know, baby.” Poe kissed your cheek, “I know.” then he hugged you. He held onto you as long as you needed him to.

Age 21

You were typing away on your computer when you received a Skype call from Poe. You immediately answered it, “Poe?”

The grainy image of him appeared. He waved, “Hello, my love. Whatcha doin’?”

“Working on my novel.”

He nodded, “Ah yes. Our love story.”

“It’s not our love story! It’s Oscar and Angela’s love story!”

“Uh huh, which is based off of our love story, which technically means you’re writing about us. You even used our own descriptions for the characters!”

You looked at him surprised, “You actually read some of it?”

Poe scoffed, “Of course I did, baby! And you’re not subtle at all about the parallels between our story and theirs.”

You chuckled, “There are some differences...”

“Oh yeah, like how Oscar is taller and has more abs? You tryna tell me something, baby?”

You laughed, “No! You’re fine just the way you are.”

“Uh huh. Suuuure.” You both giggled, “Anyway, I got permission to visit next month.”

Your eyes lightened up, “Really?!”

Poe nodded, “Hell yeah! Can’t wait to see you, kiss you, hug you, fu-”

“POE!”

He giggled, “I’m kidding! Maybe...not really. Anyway, let’s see our lil fur baby!”

You called Beebs over to you and lifted him to your camera, “He’s doing well!”

Poe leaned closer to the screen, “He’s gotten fatter!”

“But he always whines when I don’t give him enough food! I feel bad!”

“You’re making our baby fat, Y/N!”

“Okay! I’m sorry! I’ll take him out more to work it off.”

“Yes. Sounds good.”

You sighed, “Well, I better get this chapter finished up. Talk to you later?”

“Of course. Bye, sweetheart. I love you bunches!”

“Bye, babe! I love you bunches more!”

Age 26

You and Poe socialized with your family. It was your dad’s birthday and your mom threw a barbeque for him. You stood next to Poe as you spoke with your neighbor and long-time friend, Rose. Meanwhile, Poe talked to long-time friend and Air Force pal, Finn, while his arm was around your waist.

It felt so good to have Poe back, even for a little bit. As time passed, you’d gotten used to his temporary stays. Despite that, you two had gotten an apartment together. Something that was your own. It was a big step for the both of you, but it was a long time coming. As was this.

“Everyone! May I have your attention please?” Poe called out.

You looked at Poe confusedly, “What’s going on?” Everyone circled around you as Poe pulled you closer to him.

“Y/N, when I was four years old, Mrs. Organa, our preschool teacher, asked us what we wanted to do when he grow up.”

“Oh my God.” you held your hands to your mouth, already knowing what was about to happen.

Poe chuckled, “Don’t get ahead of me here, sweetheart!” He cleared his throat, “My answer to that question was that I wanted to marry you. And this is me keeping my word.” He pulled out a ring and knelt down on one knee, “Y/N L/N, you’re my best friend, my soulmate. In front of our closest friends and family, I’m here declaring my never ending love for you. Will you do me the honors of becoming my wife?”

With teary eyes you nodded, “Yes!”

Poe took your left hand and slid the ring onto your finger. He then gave you a kissed and picked you up, spinning you around as everyone cheered.

Age 30

You were wringing your hands together as you paced back and forth in the hall. Rose, Phasma, Kaydel, Jess, and Rey watched you.

“Why are you nervous? You’re marrying the love of your life?” Rey asked.

“Oh, I’m not nervous about marrying Poe. Fuck yeah I wanna marry him! I just don’t wanna trip down the aisle or stutter my vows. You know how I am with speaking in public.”

Rose shrugged, “Don’t think of it as talking in front of a couple hundred people. Just think of it as talking to Poe. Making your promise to him and declaring your undying love and all that lovey dovey stuff,” Rose said. The other women agreeing with her.

Your dad approached you, “You ready?”

You sighed, “Yup. Let’s do this!”

Meanwhile...

“Oh God. What if I stutter? I don’t wanna sound stupid!” Poe whispered anxiously to Finn, his best man.

Finn shook his head, “Man, calm down. Whether you stutter or not, Y/N will still love you.”

The doors to the venue opened and in walked the flower girl, ring bearer, and bridesmaids. They all joined Poe and Finn at the end of the aisle. Then the wedding march began to play and everyone stood. Poe gave a deep breath and then turned towards you. He was floored.

You looked absolutely stunning in your wedding dress. You looked angelic even! You joined Poe at the end of the aisle. You chuckled as he wiped his eyes.

“Sorry, you’re just so beautiful.”

“Thank you and you look even more handsome.” you nodded to his formal Air Force uniform. You loved when he was in uniform.

Poe chuckled, “Thanks, babe. So, together forever?” he asked, intertwining your fingers with his.

You smiled at him, “Together forever.”

“Us against the world, baby.” he whispered as he faced the officiant.

#poe dameron #poe dameron x reader #poe dameron imagine #star wars #au #childhood best friends au #modern au

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sidpah · 6 years

Text

The Ugly Stuff

Two of us tracking shotguns through the woods. Or one shotgun and a small .22 rifle. We hunted squirrels, birds; we hunted rabbits but never once found one, I’m pleased to report. We could tell the squirrels by sound. They chattered, yes. But their voices echoed, rendering them unreliable. The rustle of their food, however, did not. We’d stop and listen for the crackle of falling pine cones. Red squirrels perched in branches chewing at them like corn from the cob, letting their thin desiccated middles tumble to the waiting bed of leaves and needles below.

A second later, our feet in motion, seeing ourselves as commandos, proud, dangerous, nothing less than religious figures on the offensive against the defenseless. We were the righteous heroes of a film no one saw fit to produce…

I repent every bullet I ever fired. Well, that’s nearly true... Had I not experienced it, seen the ugly side of swinging deer carcasses being stripped of skin by revving pickup trucks, I’d never have developed this extreme distaste for violence that turns on my tongue like spoiled citrus rind.

It was the chase, not the actual moment of murder I found alluring. Following the dark blur, the alien shadow, bounding from limb to limb, tree to tree… Our rifles leveled, safeties flicked off revealing a small red dot of which I never understood the true implications. Or the barrels sweeping across treetops following the frantic silhouette, ready to pierce the world, our violent rape of flora, fauna, the very Sun if our bullets could’ve reached that far... A game of dominance. A race, a test of eyesight and stamina. If only they could’ve played along, (let all the animals in on the game!) so they could concede, bow down to our immaculate budding manhood, us herbivores who clawed our way to the top of the food chain with thumbs and axes, with all the fierce warrior heads of ancestors I’d never known crowned then above my greasy knotted hair… And I could say “Bang, I gotcha!” and the animals, the birds, all manner of mammal and reptile and amphibian, could toss whatever appendages were most like our hands into the air and clutch at their chests in mock fatality. And as they righted themselves they could say, “Yep, you got me that time. Good work, guy. You’re sure the dominant species, you are… Well, I’m gonna go back to my little rodent/frog/blue jay family now. Nice playing with you.”

Our interactions with the wild natural world never could be so neat...

One or two shots through the shoulder joint or flat of skull, peeled open. Panting beaks clutching at the final dregs of early morning mist; scents of dew and decay… A missing eye is the sign of a true marksman. Tiny red spots on a white belly of ruined fur. A demon’s voice, sounding like that of a stepfather, in my ear stressing that the squirrels, the pests, the new red menace, were damaging the trees… and their numbers were rising steadily higher, blindly humping out descendants to the detriment of the frail woodland.

“So cull, young warriors, cull! Do your duty to Mother Earth and thresh her children to the bone!” Having been duly abdicated, merrily we went upon our slaughter.

As if I ever gave half a damn about the trees I splintered with tacked up bull’s-eyes and barrages of lead, or tore apart looking for caterpillars to send spraying in the ten directions with firecrackers and lighter fluid. Oh, how the ugliness does multiply…

Any atrocity can be rationalized, and the mind, fragile, worrisome, hell-fire-fearing coward it is, flounders for justification, for appeasement, for someone to forgive us our trespasses without asking us to alter our well-trodden path. The Word has come down from an elder, an officer, a certified scholar, so the Word is Good and we may relax, and be lulled to slumber away the decades in its fetid arms...

It took more than a year of this ritualized killing before the distaste started settling in. Cole, my partner in primitivistic crime, and I would proceed with less and less enthusiasm, each trying to appease the other because we were too insecure to admit that our stomachs had turned.

So to keep up appearances, we would hunt; but I began playing a new game. I would aim not at the squirrel, but at the branch a foot in front of it. I wanted to scare it away so it would survive. And I could say, “Shit, I missed; fast little fucker,” and be perfectly happy that my marksmanship saved its proportionately-sized life. Of course, Cole started doing the same without my knowing, so we would leave the woods with hands unstained, relieved, but too embarrassed to say so. I wish there was only that neat tapering off of nastiness, but that’s hardly ever how it happens.

One incident ended it for me. Never again would I raise a weapon in hostility or intentionally harm a living being. A grey squirrel, chased with great fervor, would be the last…

All the starving tribesman of antiquity again sent charging through my veins... Maybe I missed at missing; maybe that sick hunger had returned a little… The copper tip of a .22 Viper entered his body through the tight musculature of his back as he scrambled up the side of a large fir. Through the scope I could see the quarter-inch red hole immediately to the right of his spine. His back legs gave out; I must’ve clipped a nerve, but he grappled with panic-stricken claws to pull his bleeding half-paralyzed self up the trunk. To safety. Away from me and my loud, angry thunder.

I was the threat of death that all creatures fear.

I shot him again. This time in the left shoulder blade. The poor creature, in all his suffering, his pain, his very real, hot, screaming terror, kept scraping higher up to find cover in thin needled branches. I swear I could see his face through the lens and through that lens I knew his every thought. The afternoon had become that clear…

The Sun was kind enough, or malicious enough, depending on your perspective, to give each hair its own shadow and eternal soul. And that same Sun with her heart full and demeanor stolid, showed me my own reflection in his black pearl eyes, and it was not a reflection I would have recognized or chosen to claim ownership of. The anguish he was experiencing, physical and so clearly mental, horrified me. The anguish I was inflicting on him for absolutely no reason at all… I wondered then just what kind of fucking ugly crust of a thing I had devolved into.

Who was I? When had I grown so callous to the pain of others?

When at last his fingers could grip no more, and he tumbled like a discarded pinecone cob to the unpadded ground, twisting, jerking, his palsied legs sending up plumes of dust that hung round his form, bones broken, holes perforating his little stuffed doll’s body, I approached him.

I have never been one to cry, but my vision blurred; wetness burned on my cheeks. At that moment I had no one to ask for guidance. I had no tools but mercy and confusion and the bitterest self-anger… With no clearer option, I placed the hot barrel of the rifle against his tiny head, and for the time being at least, ended his misery…

His, but not mine. I was sickened by the whole episode. Resolve filled me to never again play these barbaric games. I still mourn that poor little family man.

How can any reasonable adult do this evil shit for fun? And it was that day that I vowed never to harm another sentient being. And I have never once looked back, except to strengthen my resolve.

Sometimes it’s necessary to remember the ugly stuff...

#vegan #veganism #animal rights #trophy hunting #fiction #memoir #origin #hunting

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