#white glacier bear

[lovekia]

[taxi-davis]

MICHELANGELO SETOLA

“Nightfall over the Bearing Sea”

[suguwu]

gn!reader x childe, identity issues, predator/prey.

minors and ageless blogs dni.

You have always loved crocuses.

Snezhnaya is a brutal winterscape at the best of times, but the crocuses never fail you. They pierce through sheaves of snow, bearing spring in their hardy stems. They bloom into dark purple bruises, their golden stamen hidden away between the petals, something precious and protected. 

It’s a promise imbued into a flower, small and hardy, the beginning of the Snezhnayan winter’s long goodbye. 

They are coming later and later, these days. 

The village whispers that there may be a day they never come. That winter will stake its claim on your land forever, leaving naught but desolation in its path. 

You will not let that happen.

“That rite is ancient,” the elder says, her brow furrowed. “And that god—”

“Still lives,” you say.

“—is dangerous.”

You fall silent. 

The elder’s eyes gleam in the firelight. You think of the dark stones of the river under moonlight, how they shine. “Yes,” she says. “He lives. But it is too perilous to invoke him.”

“He protected us once—”

“That does not mean he will protect us again.”

“What choice do we have?” you ask. “What more can we lose before it is too late for us to recover? The winter begins to have no end.”

“And who will be sacrificed, then, to fulfill this rite of yours?”

You take a deep breath. “I will.” 

The elder watches you for a moment, her expression giving away nothing, as impassive as the glacier that rises beyond the village. You meet her gaze. She sighs.

“You are certain?” she asks.

No, you think, a chill fluttering down your spine, a spiral of winter. 

“Yes,” you say, and if your voice trembles a bit, she is kind enough to say nothing.

“Very well.” The elder leans back in her chair, her dark eyes keen. “We will help you with the preparations.” 

You dip your head. “Thank you, elder.”

“Go,” she says. “Make ready.”

You turn to leave and pause as she murmurs your name, as soft and warm as the spring sun. When you glance over your shoulder, her eyes have a glassy sheen to them.

“May you come back to us.”

You give her a small smile.

You go to meet your fate.

—

Snow is falling as you leave the village, the fat, fluffy flakes spinning in the breeze. They catch on your eyelashes and melt away, beading there like crystalline diamonds, sending the sun refracting through them, nature’s favorite prism. 

It’s a half a day’s walk to the ritual grounds. The path is almost gone, lost to the passing years. The snow hides it, too, thick drifts of it piled high among the sapling ribs of the forest. You follow it as best you can.

You see the first crocus around midday.

It blooms through the snow, a bruise against the pristine white, and you stumble towards it. From there, you spy the next, the bloom unfolding towards the sun, an acolyte at an altar. 

They only grow thicker from there, sprouting up in bunches as the snow thins, little markers of purple as deep as the night sky, dotted with blooms the color of the sun. 

Soon you have to step around them carefully, leaving a path of swaying flowers in your wake, rippling like a river. They come to an abrupt halt at the edge of a snowless clearing, where thick tufts of grass are verdant against deep, dark soil. There are tiny flowers dotted in the grass like stars. 

In the center of the clearing, a riot of flowers spills over, from massive peonies almost buckling under their own weight to tall, proud irises rising high. There’s something to the shape of them. It prods at you, but you can’t make sense of it.

You take a deep breath and step into the clearing. 

Something sweeps through you, a frisson of power long dormant, fizzing across your nerves. Gooseflesh rises on your skin. 

Nothing happens.

You step forward again. The sun shines boldly here, the rays soft against your skin. It is nothing like the bleak winter sun that has accompanied you on your journey. You close your eyes and turn your face up towards it. It plays over your skin like a lover and you bask in it. There is a sweet scent lingering in the air; it mixes with the fresh smell of the grass crushed beneath your heavy boots. 

For a moment, you simply stand there, nestled in this little pocket of spring. 

Ice trickles down your spine. 

Your eyes pop open as your breath catches in your throat. You glance around wildly but nothing has changed. 

“Hello?” you call out.

“Hi,” comes echoing back to you, obscenely cheerful, and you stumble back. A shiver rolls down your spine. “Over here,” the voice says, full of laughter.

You follow the sound of it up to a tree on the very edge of the clearing. It’s half in bloom, one side thick with lush leaves, while the other is barren and dusted with snow. 

The god is sitting on a branch, tucked up against the thick trunk. His long legs are crossed and resting on the branch; he’s the picture of relaxation. 

You suck in a sharp breath as he peers down at you, his head cocked to the side. It lets you see the very edge of a crimson mask jauntily perched on the side of his head. It gleams in the sunlight, wine-dark. You frown for a moment, wondering if there’s a mask you should be wearing—you don’t remember reading about one. 

“Whatcha doing here?” the god asks.

You pause, thrown by how flippant he is, by the wide grin on his lips. Something cold settles behind your ribs, digging sharp teeth into the softness of you, a warning bite. You shudder.

“Well?”

You shake off the oppressive feeling that’s layered over your skin, coating you like oil. “I’ve come to invoke the spring rite,” you say. “The winter—it’s gone on too long. The growing season should have already begun.”

The god hums.

“Please,” you say, “the village won’t survive.” 

“There’s usually a sacrifice for these types of things, isn’t there?”

Your hands tremble. “I’m here,” you say. “I offer myself in the spring rite.”

The god’s eyes gleam. “You give in easy, don’t you?”

You pause. “I don’t understand.”

“Tell you what,” the god says, hopping down from the tree gracefully. He lands on his feet without a wince despite the long drop. He prowls closer to you and the air thickens with something you can’t name. You choke on your next breath.

“You know the lake?” he asks.

Bewildered, you nod.

“You run to it. I’ll follow. If I catch you, you’re mine. If I don’t, I’ll help the village. Sound good?”

“I—I don’t understand—”

He prowls closer still. His orange hair catches in the sunlight and you think of a crackling fire, of the snapping bite of the flames. Your stomach turns.

“Do we have a deal?”

You square your shoulders. “Yes.”

He smiles; ice spirals down your spine. 

“Run, little mouse,” the god says, sounding far too cheerful. His eyes—blue, blue, blue like the ocean’s depths, and just as cold—are sharp. “And c’mon, make it a good chase, won’t you?”

You turn and run.

Behind you, the god laughs, the sound young, almost boyish. 

The flowers of the clearing smash beneath your heavy boots; you all but throw yourself back into the snowy grip of the woods, dancing between the massive oaks. 

Your pulse is already singing in your ears, a thundering crash of waves. A branch catches your cheek, a sharp bite of pain, but you don’t even slow. You know you don’t have a second to lose, not with the snow slippery beneath you, not with the sound of laughter echoing behind you. 

The air is humming, shot through with something you can’t name, something that settles deep in your bones, an old and terrible thing. You shudder with it as it shrouds you, weighing you down. The hairs on the back of your neck rise.

You dart right just as a hand skims the flaring end of your furs; you feel the slight tug of it and throw yourself forward, pushing harder despite your already-screaming legs. 

“Good,” the god says, sounding deeply pleased. 

You veer away from the sound of his voice, almost slipping on a patch of ice hidden beneath the snow. You can practically feel him behind you, keeping pace with you as if it’s child’s play. He dogs your steps, his very presence oppressive and heavy. 

You lose precious time ducking around trees and weaving your way through the forest, but you know he’ll catch you if you simply run. The winter wind nips at your cheeks and nose; it burns your throat as you take in huge, gasping breaths. 

Behind you, the god is humming.

The tears burn at the corners of your eyes. It feels like they freeze on your cheeks as they trickle down. But the trees are starting to thin, the lake not far off beyond them. 

You push yourself, thighs and feet screaming as you leap over a tangle of roots, and then the lake is in your view, glimmering under the bleak winter sun, the water shifting like a mirage. 

You’re almost there.

You put on another burst of speed, your heart in your throat, lengthening your stride as your pulse hammers.

“Game over,” the god says in your ear.

You go down before you know what’s happening.

The god takes you to the ground in one fell swoop. He’s warm against you. You barely catch yourself; pain sears through you as you hit the ground. Still, you take advantage of his loosening grip to wiggle out from underneath him, dragging yourself free by digging your hands into the soil and scrambling forward.

You’re almost on your feet again when he catches you by the ankle with one big hand. 

You kick on instinct, something carved into your bones coming to life inside you, a desperation passed down in your blood. You catch him just below the ribs, in the softest part of his stomach. Air leaves him in a billowing gust. His teeth clack together, bone against bone, a graveyard sound. 

But he doesn’t let go.

He laughs.

It’s a crow of delight, bright and merry, echoing off the barren trees. His blue, blue eyes crinkle at the edges. 

He drags you to him with an ease that makes something in you go cold, like the darkest part of winter, when the night swallows up even the smallest hints of the sun. He flips you over onto your back. 

“Not a timid mouse after all,” he says, baring his teeth in a wide, thrilled grin. There’s blood shining on them. “You kick too hard for that, right, little hare?”

You try to kick him again; he pins you in place under his body weight, his eyes darkening. 

“You can do better than that,” he says. “C’mon. Hit me harder. I know you can.” 

“What kind of god are you?” you whisper.

He blinks. “God?” he says. He stares at you for a moment with those eyes, dull and deep, and then he throws back his head with a laugh. “Do you mean the god of that little clearing? You think I’m him?”

“I don’t understand,” you say, dread welling up inside of you, spreading through you like poison. 

“I’m no god,” he says cheerfully. “I did kill that one, though. Tsaritsa’s orders. He was weaker than I thought he’d be.”

You think of the mass of flowers in the center of the clearing. Of the odd shape of them.

“I thought you were him,” you breathe. 

“Nope.”

“You—” you start, before your tongue fails you. “You’re not a god?”

“Afraid not.”

You buck beneath him, trying to throw him off, wiggling around in the snow and trying to get leverage.

He tightens his grip until you go still. 

“Still, a deal’s a deal,” the god—the man—says cheerfully. He leans down and brushes his lips over yours, a whisper of a kiss. 

“You’re mine.” 

[musingmelsuinesmelancholy]

Some things I’ve been thinking about. At times being an American trad witch is incredibly frustrating and at others it’s absolutely exhilarating, rewarding. Reconnecting with my ancestral ( primarily french and scottish ) lore, magical practices, witchcraft etc has and will continue to inform my practice but I’ll never be a “french” witch. I’ll never be a “scottish” witch. I can find a lone hawthorn or a sacred tree guarding a hidden spring to tie the cloutie to, I can divine via a snail’s mucus trail, Fly to the Sabbath to meet The Abbess, heed the Dame Blanches, pluck the golden bloom with songs to St Columba, safeguard me and mine via silver, spring water and juniper. Yet there’s many things I’ll never know or be able to do. Whether that’s because these things are so tied to the land or a specific place, language barriers, ( working to overcome this one ) or due to the ( well warranted) gate keeping of lore and practices.

This used to be a source of great confusion for me. I think because I was afraid( due to my previous new age fuckwittery ) to experiment, do anything other than what I understood as “traditional”. My understanding being too rigid at the time; the pendulum swung from one end of the spectrum to the other. This delayed my progress and “froze” me. I was left wondering what an “American” trad craft would look like; most our books do come from a European POV. Learning of our own magical traditions as well as those of my Canadian family ( still working on that one haha ) helped. Reading Robin Kimmere helped. Reading Schulke, him being an American and writing on American plants, helped too. I’ve come to know Sugar Maple and Plantain as powerful spirits. Both teaching important lessons on how to rectify my ancestors mistakes, to foster relations with the First Peoples and how to incorporate the magic of this land into my craft. Rather than being frustrated by my being American I see it as a challenge now. I get to explore spirits, plants, places, animals, spiritual/physical ecologies ( is even really a difference between these?) completely unknown to my ancestors. I get to reconcile the old and the new. To learn from Spirit Direct. Tradition isn’t the worship of ashes, it’s the preservation of Fire. New wood must be added to keep The Fire burning. The Devil of this land certainly is a spirit of the unknown.

I am the land, the land is me.

I don’t own it, to it I owe all.

To it my body will return, the tithe paid.

I’m not rolling hills of heather, white chalk cliffs, the monk’s island nor the azure coast. The memories of these places echo distantly in my blood, sung alive by my ancestors shades. Part of me they’ll always be; yet it’s not who I am. Not what I am.

I’m craggy shores, dull-jade waves bearing down upon the tired rocks. I am musky pine forests veiled in mist. Sun-venerating oaks hugging the shoreline. Bleeding alders in damp ground swelling. Proud maples sustaining generation upon generation with their boiled blood. Death-grey clay, exposed by running spring.

I am the kudzu, the itching moth, the knotweed, the Norway maple, the ivy wrecking havoc upon the land. My surname and light skin proof of a genocide ongoing. I am my ancestors sins; the specter of the Old Growth forests, their grief hanging over the land like a fog. Every interaction with The Land tinged with sadness, loss.

I am my maternal side’s copper curls. Melusine’s pride. Ave Landry! Ave Gauthier! Forebears mine.

I am my paternal side’s grief. The end result of decades of cultural warfare. The Jesuits stole our name….my hair will not be cut.

Never will I libate these glacier carved valleys with booze.

I am the plantain, learning a kinder way. The sumac reclaiming the orchard.

My Februarys, my Marches aren’t snow drops and daffodils peaking through the frozen ground. They’re steely skies and walls of sleet. Bloodroot heralds winters wane; not Brigid’s flower.

My June isn’t fields of poppies, it’s seas of crimson staghorn blooms skyward reaching.

My augusts aren’t golden shafts of wheat, swaying in summer’s last breaths; they’re explosions of neon-violet and honey-yellow. Corn ripening on the vine, supporting the climbing bean. The cicadas song reverberating.

Old Michaelmas marks harvest’s end, October potatoes long buried in soils darkness finally exhumed. The Devil his Rosy Briar to ascend and plunge.

With Novembers first snows the Dead come in.

I’ll never process around a standing stone nor know what it is to live and eat off the land my dead lay in. Finally, I’m learning to be at peace with this. To love and know the land I live on. I’ll always be a stranger here, a guest. I hope to be a good one.

[therentyoupay]

hiii kris! i am a long time fan and your fanfiction is probably the only fanfiction I still follow to this day because your right is just TEWWW GOOD. i wondered if you have ever envisaged what Astrid/Elsa meeting for the first time would be like? either modern AU or a crossover within their universes? i recently watched HTTYD 2 and noticed a lot of parallels and also a lot of differences between them - but ultimately thought - what would they even think of each other? how would they interact?

HI thank you so much. 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭🙏 ilu 💕💕💕💕 thank you so much for this super sweet ask and your SUPER SWEET WORDS.

also, GAH, i love this idea. i had definitely considered their potential interactions in the context of rotbtfd settings (and i briefly briefly played around with a modern/magical-realism/mermaid!au take on this in frosted sea glass, but as those who have read the story already know, elsa has a very complicated dynamic with the others, astrid included). but now that you've brought up this idea, with a specific focus on the two of them in particular...? how might a friendship begin? an alliance? i am intrigued, i am intrigued, thank you for this. 💕

I DID NOT MEAN TO WRITE ANOTHER FICLET/ONE-SHOT AHHHHHHHHHH

also, FULL DISCLOSURE, to be absolutely honest, if you’d asked me this question 4 days ago, i would have had a completely different vision/response. (maybe i’ll still write this other version one day???) however... 3 days ago, i reblogged a fanart of elsa with her own ice dragon, and it’s been living RENT FREEEE in my head ever since, so, therefore, my reply to this ask, in this moment, is HEAVILY INFLUENCED and very much inspired by this gorgeous fanart on twitter/X from @Kiddo_hah (which i found from a re-post shared by @humongoustreemoon). i, too, have reposted the fanart inside this ask for dramatic effect™ but PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE be sure to GO TO THE twitter/x POST (linked again at the bottom of the ficlet too) and like, reply, and share this glorious creation, especially since i don’t have a twitter myself, thank you thank you 💕💕💕💕

//

only honor ;

//

“I know, I know!” Astrid urged Stormfly forward, patting her neck and gritting through the unnatural chill, the sharp-like blades of wind on the skin not protected by her armor. “Almost there!”

Stormfly cried out—willing, trusting, but cold, and she ain’t happy about it—charging forward, her powerful wings slicing through the frigid air as they neared the towering ice fortress.

Her eyes catalogued potential weaknesses, entry points, barriers. It’s not like Valka’s old hideaway… The structure loomed on the horizon, its crisp spires piercing the bright white sky. It’s so… unnatural… 

Unliked the Ice Beast’s jagged spikes, these constructions were symmetrical—crystalline. 

Hiccup—where are you!

Astrid decided on their entry point and swooped down to surge through the crevasse —for better or worse.  

The biting winds were replaced with a bone-deep chill, and with a screech, Stormfly instinctively slowed their pace to mitigate the burn. Astrid’s armor was not comfortable, but removing it was not an option. What is this place? The deeper they ventured into the glacier, the more Astrid’s breath crystallized in the air. Impossibly, the bright ice around them shifted and shimmered as they flew past—as though the ice itself was breathing. 

As if it were alive. 

“I know, I know,” Astrid soothed Stormfly, but they couldn’t leave, not yet. “Don’t you feel that?”

And she knew the Nadder could; there, at the center of the structure, a pulse of power—something ancient and formidable.

Another Ice King?

Stormfly slowed to nothing more than a glide as they slipped into what could only be the deep core. This far inside the glacier's cavernous heart, there was no wind, no sound; only eerie, imposing, suffocating silence… save for the occasional cracks and bending twangs of the glacier, in the haunting song that only ice sing.

“Hiccup!” Astrid called out, unable to bear it, but although her voice echoed through the ice tunnels, there was no response. Astrid carefully surveyed the walls, searching for breaks, for sign of weakness, but the ice was immovable, vast. Astrid swallowed down the fear, the instinct to stay quiet, lest the ice respond, and crack, and break.

Was this a mistake?

—no. You’re here now. 

Face it.

But what she found within the heart of the glacier was neither the hulking form of an ice beast nor the hollow emptiness she had feared.

What she found—was a face.

At the core of the glacier was a throne of ice upon a frozen dais, delicate yet commanding... atop which sat a figure draped in flowing robes as pale as the snow. Her garments were soft and flowing and light—better suited for autumn or spring, rather than the deepest core of a glacier. Astrid knew, beyond all doubt, that this creature… was not human.

Not human, not human, how, how, not human—

Stormfly drew back, screeching a warning, as Astrid's keen, analyzing, calculating gaze took in the sight of the woman—a monster in disguise?—at the center of this impossible fortress. The woman—this being—stared back.

Despite the Nadder’s every instinct, Stormfly followed Astrid’s formidable will and took them to the icy floor before the impossible throne. Without letting her nerves overwhelm her, before she had the chance to doubt, Astrid dismounted in a single fluid motion, her axe at the ready; this deep into the glacier’s core, the metal was already showing signs of burgeoning frost.

Although she wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting, exactly, she still hadn’t believed that the figure would rise from her throne. The woman lifted herself, her movements graceful yet commanding. Unnatural.

Astrid tightened her grip on her axe, ready to defend.

“You are lost,” said the woman. Her melodious, soft voice carried all throughout the cavern, against and through the reflective ice. All at once, the walls and floor seemed to shimmer with sunrise hues—glimmers of soft pinks, light blues, fresh lilacs. 

Her hair, as white as the frost itself, cascaded down her shoulders, crowned with intricate icicles that sparkled in the dim light. But it was her eyes—cool, piercing blue, as light as the glacial ice itself, and glowing with the same unnatural power—

“I am seeking someone,” Astrid announced loudly, fiercely, with more bravado than she felt. Not human, not human, not human— “A man, riding a black dragon. His trail led me here.”

The woman’s surprise seemed genuine, but Astrid wasn’t ready to trust.

(Who are you! What are you!)

“I’m sorry,” the woman said, with soft confusion, with (feigned?) sympathy. Astrid’s gloved hand, her cold and aching fingers, tightened over the wooden handle of her axe. The air was so cold, Astrid half-wondered if the metal blad might simply shatter at first contact. Stay calm, stay calm, not human, not human—

The woman's expression softened slightly, as if hearing Astrid’s very thoughts. 

“You are safe from me, warrior,” she promised, and Astrid carefully eyed the sympathetic slant of her brows, the reassuring tilt of her smile. Astrid inhaled, unsure, and exhaled, determined. “But you should not be here.”

“I’ll be on my way,” the words left Astrid’s throat before she could piece the puzzle together, “as soon as you explain who… and what… you are.”

The woman’s smile disappeared; the soft line of her mouth flattened into something stiff, her gaze hardening, sharpening. The air seemed colder.  

“You must leave,” said the woman, soft yet unmistakably a command. “Your friend is not here. Leave at once and forget this place. I shall not be here if you return.” 

Thousands of questions begged to spill from Astrid’s lips, but the woman—the queen?—turned her back on her—Astrid’s hackles instinctively raised at the slight, at the offense, at the dismissal—and she glided across the perfect, unmarred ice back to her throne. Astrid stepped forward, compelled into action, as the woman lowered herself on the seat with an unnatural, eerie grace. 

“Please!” Astrid’s face twisted with confusion, with indignation, with annoyance, and—although she’d never dare—perhaps a tiny bit of trepidation. “You may not have sensed him, but I know he’s here. We were—that is—our home is under attack.”

The woman—she must be a Queen, she must have been, she must be—looked on, her eyes widening, as Astrid dared move even closer, approaching the dais. Astrid hesitated, unsure of how much to reveal. But there was something in the Queen’s presence—a strange, cold purity of truth that persuaded her to speak. 

Her instincts had never steered her wrong… so far.

“The carnage led us north, where we found destruction all through the frozen lands… There was a sign of struggle, a great battle—we thought… we thought the damage was borne from an Alpha—an Ice King,” she admitted. 

The queen’s smile was faint but genuine—and a little bit sharp.

“I am no Alpha. And I am no King.”

Astrid was in no danger, but its prospect hovered in the air, tingling on her skin, threatening the possibility.

“Please,” Astrid insisted. “I’ll leave you be,” she declared, not knowing if it was a lie. “Tell me what you know of the battle that took place outside these walls—who you faced, and how—so that I can find him. I’ll never return.”

From the way the woman’s brow raised archly, it seemed both of them seemed to sense the mistruth in Astrid’s claim; the Queen’s chin raised, considering; her keen eyes, defiant. Sharp. Astute.

Damn. Only honesty, then. No trickery.

Only honor, and duty, and valor.

“I will tell you what I know,” said the ice Queen. “But you will not like what you hear.”

Astrid swallowed, brow furrowed, and nodded. Her armor was growing frost, and it was starting to sting.

“I am bound to the ice,” she declared, and her expression slipped into something cold, something aloof. “As I have been, for an age… I know nothing of your politics, your land disputes, and I no longer care for anything beyond these walls. But I can confirm that when unwanted visitors encroach upon that which is mine—I shall respond in kind.”

“So… it was you?”

Behind her, the air itself seemed to shimmer, and then crack—like a frozen lake underfoot. 

Astrid’s breath hitched as she watched the very essence of the ice condense, swirling like a storm gathering strength. 

From nothingness, a massive form began to materialize— 

Astrid gasped escaped her, as Stormfly shrieked, as the unnatural surge of power took shape, coalescing into the distinct outline of a dragon.

Its form—its body?—a thing of haunting beauty, shimmering with unnatural, almost ethereal light as it slinked forward. The dragon's head was massive and menacing, its piercing eyes glowing with an intense, cold light. 

Its mouth was filled with sharp, ice-like teeth, lined within a jaw no doubt capable of unleashing a blizzard with a single breath. The ice demon of a dragon let out a piercing, shrieking warning call—to Astrid, to Stormfly, who was furiously cowering and spitting at the stranger’s might, unable to summon flames in so deep a cold—but from its horrible, beautiful maw, the ice dragon spat frost like sparks.

Astrid breathed hard, trying to keep her heartbeat steady as it leered forward, curling itself protectively around the throne and the woman upon it, its mighty claws never once gauged the perfect ice beneath. The beast's wings expanded, curling about the dais, each membrane almost translucent, laced with veins of ice.

Astrid was highly aware of Stormfly’s extreme displeasure, of Stormfly’s fright and distrust, even with her confidence in Astrid’s steady presence.

Look, Stormfly, look, she willed silently to the Nadder behind her, as she stared at the ice dragon's scales—a deep, frigid blue, glistening like frozen crystals in the pale light, rolling from deep indigos to pale lavenders. Don’t you see? Maybe this is what we were looking for—maybe she’s…

The ice around her rippled with power and, Astrid realized, in that moment—

She was the ice.

The ice dragon—is her!

Astrid’s heart raced. Is this—is she—an Alpha, after all? (A new, unknown species? Is she the dragon, or is it a part of her? An extension of her? The power emanating from this Queen and her dragon was unlike anything she had ever encountered. Hiccup! Did you see?

Were you here?

Do you know!)

“What are you? Who are you?” Astrid demanded, breath shaky, awed and alarmed as the ice dragon coiled more fully around the Ice Queen, radiating calm menace—and a deep, deep core of protection. Stormfly growled lowly, still clicking her displeasure, but fell briefly subdued when the veil of danger lessened... despite the ice dragon's dark, eerie presence. 

This is it! Astrid's mind whirled through the possibilities, the calculations. If they could convince her to join them—if Astrid could convince her that they should be allies—

The Queen’s gaze held hers, steady and calm, as she folded her hands delicately atop her lap, resting upon her knees. 

“I was once known as the Snow Queen,” she intoned, her voice steeped in quiet, ancient power, now impossible to ignore. “But those days are lost to time… and you, Dragon Warrior, stand in my domain. If you wish to find your friend, you must listen to the counsel, and the warning, I shall grant you.”

Ignoring her better judgments, yet heeding her instincts—

Astrid did.

//

please go like/repost/comment on, etc. this gorgeous fanart on twitter/X from @Kiddo_hah (which i found from a re-post shared by @humongoustreemoon). PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE be sure to GO TO THE twitter/x POST and engage and spread the love, especially since i don’t have a twitter account myself, thank you thank youuuu~💕🙏🙏🙏🙏✨

[ass-deep-in-demons]

never the same river

Fandom: A Song of Ice and Fire Pairing: Ned Stark x Catelyn Tully Stark Tropes: developing relationship, arranged marriage, fluff and spice, mutual pining, idiots in love, dirty talk Rating: T+ Words: 2k Summary: Ned learns Catelyn used to be fond of swimming. He has no idea what he's doing.

for @nedcatweek day 6 prompt: "I want you to feel at home" [AO3]

“It is beautiful here,” Catelyn said, looking around. Ned observed her as she dismounted and gave the reins away to one of their host, before they were left alone. The weather had reached this sweet spot on the cusp of high season, when it was warm, but not hot enough to become unbearable. Late though and tentative, summer had indeed come to the North. The ice floe on the river had long melted, the flowers were yet in bloom, but the trees had for some weeks now been clad in the most verdant foliage, making one forget that the Winter was, indeed, coming. (Because Winter was coming. Tomorrow, or in twenty years, it was always coming, Ned knew.)

The idea to come here had arisen in Ned’s mind during the cold months. He had to bear Catelyn’s nostalgic looks on Harvest Day, then her barely visible flinches and chills in response to the cold drafts in the castle during winter. Though she might hide it well, Catelyn did not feel at home.

“What are we to do now, my Lord?” Catelyn asked and looked at him. Would that he could find his words easily. Alas, he’d never been skillful in conveying his meaning. Why had he brought her here? What were they going to do now? He wasn’t sure himself.

He wanted her to feel more at home. The Sept that he’d commissioned for her two winters prior hadn’t been enough, if her wistful sighing and withering glances were anything to judge by. Ned blamed himself. If only he’d made her feel more welcome. He had tried to keep her company whenever he could, but he wasn’t sure if his quiet, brooding presence had been any help, or if it had only made things worse. (Because he’d been brooding, Gods help him. He knew he’d been.)

With the first vestiges of spring, Ser Brynden Tully had come to Winterfell, bearing greetings and letters from Lord Hoster. The Blackfish had stayed in their Castle a fortnight and spent most of those mornings observing little Robb at play, and most of the evenings trying to get Ned to drink with him. Ned had very good reasons to not over indulge (what with the secrets he carried), but he would indulge a little, on occasion. And so he had played the gracious host, indulged a little in the cups with his guest, and had used the opportunity to pry subtly about Catelyn’s life back in Riverrun. One of the memories shared by Brynden had struck him as a particularly happy one. It was that of young Catelyn and Lysa going swimming in the Red Fork River in the summer. So, Catelyn liked river swimming… This seemed to Ned an extravagant passtime, but what did he know? He was from the North; he did not understand southern customs, and therein lay the whole problem.

“I thought we could go swimming in the river,” he said simply. 

“... Swimming, my Lord?” she asked. Had he announced he was going to re-paint the walls of Castle Black bright crimson, her eyes could not have gotten any rounder. Taking her swimming had been his plan, ridiculous though it might now seem. The swift currents of White Knife, sure to be carrying the chill of northern glaciers even now, did not seem particularly enticing, he had to admit.

He regarded his Lady. She looked beautiful when surprised. To be precise, she looked beautiful at all times and all moods, to Ned at least. He would admire her quietly when she would glide through Winterfell, swishing about in her gowns, which she took to tailoring according to Northern fashion, but which retained the elegance and lightness of the worldly South. She would brighten his dour abode with her mere presence, but here, among nature, with the warm sun glinting in her teal eyes and setting her hair aflame? Catelyn Tully took his breath away.

“Perhaps the hot springs near your castle would serve better for that purpose, my Lord?” Catelyn asked, when he prolonged his silence. Her surprise had turned into visible amusement. “You know you can call for me whenever you want for company in the pools…”

Ned felt his ears turn red at the memory of their last time at the hot springs. He had noticed the cold did not serve his Lady well, and proposed they visit the caverns in the Godswoods, where the temperature in the pools was particularly high, so that she could warm herself and forget about the snowstorms that had been plaguing Winterfell. Catelyn had accepted this offer, but, instead of an endeavor towards the betterment of her health, she thought it primarily an effort to introduce some variety to their marital duties. And so their hot spring experience quickly turned… steamy. 

Not that their bedroom needed any more steam. Ned would visit Catelyn’s chambers regularly, although never without her prior invitation. And she would invite him often. Every other night, in fact, whenever she was not through her menses. Ned knew this was what Maester Luwin advised her in order to quicken again, as Catelyn was bent on giving him another son.

Thing was, Catelyn had already given him one perfect son. Whenever Ned even looked at little Robb, he could not help but wonder. He had never thought he would ever get to be this happy. Not after… After… More still, she had given him another child, a sweet little babe, a daughter. Sansa favored her mother, and that made her beautiful to Ned’s eyes. Still, his Lady wanted to bear him another son, and it didn’t seem likely she’d give up before achieving that goal.

He could not help but feel guilty. Was it because of Jon? Was it that because Jon existed, she felt like one legitimate son wasn’t enough? Oh, he did feel guilty, after Jon, unworthy of those constant invitations to her bedchamber of wonders. For all his guilt, he’d never suggested that one heir was enough, though. He wondered if he maybe should, for her peace of mind, but then their nighttime activities would likely cease, and he just couldn't give her up. Wretched as he was, he came to rely completely on the reprieve that her touch offered. He would not show it, but most days he lusted after her, he awaited her signal impatiently like a man starved. It took a lot of effort on his part to not lose himself utterly with her, to not bite her soft, creamy skin, to not yank her lush red hair, not to take her a little too eagerly. She seemed so delicate, so refined. Ladylike.

He had earned the nickname the Quiet Wolf, because in his boyhood he’d been perceived as calm, in contrast to Brandon. Ah, Brandon… How his brother would now mock him, if he could see him so… lovesick. Ned had always been the sensible one. The reserved one. But not with Catelyn, he wasn’t. Not after having tasted her. Sometimes he thought one look of her eyes alone could make the wolfblood in him awaken. The wolfblood that he had used to doubt he had a drop of, but that he could now feel cursing through his veins whenever she lay under him. He restrained himself, fearful of offending her and losing her good graces, losing the privilege of sharing her bed, that he had nearly forfeited when he had brought Jon in. So he tried to remain calm during their couplings. Calm, gentle. Attentive to her whims and needs. He made sure she had her pleasure too, because Gods knew he had his aplenty with her.

“What is the true purpose of this outing, my Lord?” Catelyn asked, snapping him out of his musings. She was getting impatient, Ned knew. No wonder - they had spent the entire morning on horseback to get here, on his urging, and he’d kept her in the dark as to their destination. “Why have you brought me here?”

Ned sighed.

“Ser Brynden has told me you were fond of the river as a child,” he said. He could not bear to look her in the eye, so he instead looked at the murmuring crystalline waters. “I wanted you to feel more at home…”

Catelyn’s expression darkened visibly, at that. This was, apparently, the wrong thing to say, though for the love of the Old Gods, Ned could not figure out why.

“You do not get it, do you?” she grumbled, and he could tell she was bitter. He said nothing, as was his way, and let her speak. “I’ve lived here for four summers already! Winterfell is my home! Would that you saw it. Would that my welcome here was warmer.”

“What do you mean?” Ned was alarmed by her outburst. “Have I not seen to your comforts, my Lady? Has anyone in the Castle mistreated you?” Whoever had wronged her, Ned would not let them get away with it.

Catelyn sighed and shook her head, dejected.

“The truth is, I do find the North so very… cold,” she said quietly. “And not for all the snow and winter winds… I know I am unlike the women around here. Not as… hardy. The glances I sometimes get... I am a foreigner in everyone’s eyes. And, worse still, in your eyes…” She looked so sad that Ned’s very heart clenched painfully. “Sometimes I feel like I shall never belong.”

“No,” Ned rushed to appease her. He took her hand in his, hoping she’d turn around, hoping she’d look at him. “Of course your place is here! You are my Lady. My wife!”

“That I am…” She uttered a mirthless chuckle. “And you are ever so dutiful a husband. So stern, so focused, when you come to my chambers.”

“Have I been amiss with my attentions towards you?” Her comment, offhand as it was, stung deeply. He prided himself on doing his very best whenever they lay together.

“I do not deny that you are.. attentive,” she whispered. “Yet I always wonder if you even want to be there. With me.” The vulnerability in her voice rendered him near speechless. He hated himself for making her feel this way, for letting it come to this. 

“Wherever else would I be?” he asked, genuinely bewildered by the very concept.

“You tell me,” said Catelyn and finally regaled him with a look. Though her words were quiet and her face ablush, thunder and lightning danced in her eyes.

Ned was frustrated. He was well aware of his many social shortcomings, and of how much Jon’s presence had soured things between them, but he had been trying his very best to be a good husband to her. He’d made many attempts at conveying how much she meant to him, but all of his efforts had failed, it seemed. He felt his temper rise, for the first time perhaps where she was involved.

“Then what would you have me do, my Lady?” he asked, not trying overly hard to smooth his speech this time. “Would you want me to grab you by your beautiful, downright sinful hair and take you roughly against the wall? Would that convince you of my commitment?”

This was, shockingly, somehow the right thing to say. Catelyn’s entire face brightened momentarily and it made something in Ned’s stomach stir in anticipation.

“You would want me like that?” she asked, breathless. Contrary to Ned’s every prediction, she did not look appalled nor frightened by the idea of them coupling roughly.

“I have… thought about it,” he admitted carefully. Her expression softened further, so he allowed himself to reveal even more. “In truth, I have been thinking of little else for many months now…”

“And you like my hair?” she asked.

Ned did like her hair, Gods help him, and he liked how her voice vibrated with excitement. He’d suddenly got many more ideas on how to make his wife feel more at home…

This is my contribution to NedCat Week 2024. Thrilled to be part of it and in awe of all the awesome writers making it happen <3

[my fanfiction masterpost]

[definegodliness]

Truths in electric blues

I dreamt you Past the tundra. There, past the green frontier, Where electric blue Paints the whites of polar regions Where all is doomed To freeze.

I dreamt a search party For 'the girl', Organized by a tribe alike the Inuit Who rushed ahead of me, Swiftly slipping through Glacier cracks and crevasses; Narrow paths connecting their Subterranean homes, so creating an Icy Labyrinth.

I got lost, as I do.

I always get lost in dreams.

I always lose the one I love, And spend my nights, searching Frantically.

Imagine my surprise That I should be the one to find 'the girl'. Imagine my surprise To actually find someone In a dream.

You... you...

Above the icy maze, upon snowy hills, Flowing gently.

I sought the skies, And I found you.

You snuck from under your Big bear blanket, And stood proud and tall, greeting me. You didn't seem lost at all, Rather, hiding From the search party.

Your electric blues Scoured the whites of the polar region; Eyes of the huntress, calm, and determined.

We did not speak. Did we?

Twas by your gaze, the dream fell into place, And I knew your truth, Unspoken, unspeakably:

Pretty princess, bloom of spring, Fruit of summer,

In heart, and soul, you had found your home;

Cold, and solitary, Where everything is doomed To Freeze.

I stood by you At the ease Of no particular place to go, And only wondered If you could ever love a forest When I woke, Gently.

--- 9-8-2023, M.A. Tempels ©

[pcttrailsidereader]

The Pacific Crest Trail: The US West Coast's 'greatest footpath'

By Gavin Scarff

One hundred years after the US designated the world's first wilderness area, an epic hike offers adventure seekers the chance to experience a slice of the nation's wild side.

On 3 June 1924, more than half a million acres of pristine mountain meadows, rock-walled canyons and aspen glades in south-west New Mexico's Gila National Forest were designated as the world's first protected wilderness area. One hundred years later, the National Wilderness Preservation System now counts 806 official "wilderness areas" spread across nearly 112 million acres in the United States – an area twice the size of the United Kingdom.

Two years after Gila's wilderness designation, educator and hiker Catherine Montgomery proposed creating "a high-winding trail down the heights of our Western mountains… from the Canadian Border to the Mexican [border]." The idea gained momentum during the 1930s under the stewardship of oilman and avid outdoorsman Clinton C Clarke, who dedicated much of his life to creating a border-to-border trail "traversing the best scenic areas and maintaining an absolute wilderness character", as he put it. This idea would eventually become the Pacific Crest Trail (PCT): a 2,650-mile path connecting Canada to Mexico and has been called the West Coast's "greatest footpath".

In 2023, craving a challenge that would break us from our desk-bound lives and thrust us into the wild, my partner, Claire Taylor, and I qualified as Mountain Leaders and set out on an epic journey to complete the entire PCT. For five months, we hiked past cascading waterfalls, snow-covered badlands and narrow slot canyons as we travelled south along "America's Wilderness Trail". Upon finishing, there was one section that really stuck out to us: the state of Washington, which is home to 31 designated wilderness areas (11 of which the PCT traverses).

The PCT section of Washington covers 505.7 miles of incomparable beauty over remote passes, snowy peaks and dense ancient forests with little sign of human life. And since Washington's portion of the PCT leads hikers through a greater percent of designated wilderness areas (63%) than the other two US states where the trail passes (Oregon and California, which contain 52% and 37%, respectively) it remains a true testimony to Clarke's vision of maintaining a slice of the original American wilderness.  

Into the wild

"But what about the bears?" Claire asked. I replied with the line I'd been telling myself: "The presence of bears embodies the wilderness that we are seeking." In all honesty, having never hiked in bear and mountain lion country, we were a little nervous. We were about to spend five months hiking the PCT with nothing but our tent and hiking poles to protect us. But on our first day, we jumped out of the back of a pick-up truck whose faded bumper sticker read, "Into the forest I go, to lose my mind and find my soul", and onto the trail.

We had spent an hour cramped among a handful of other hikers bumping along a dusty dirt road that wound its way along steep cliff edges from the small village of Mazama, Washington, to the trailhead at Hart's Pass, stopping just once for a herd of large white mountain goats to cross. Since it isn't permitted to cross a remote, unmanned border into the US from Canada, most travellers hiking southbound actually start here at Hart's Pass. They then trek north for 30 miles to "tag" the border before returning along the same trail where the pick-up truck had dropped us off four days earlier.

The North Cascades

Our journey started in the North Cascades, a vast mountain chain spanning more than 500 miles known for its jagged peaks, subalpine meadows, glaciers and waterfalls. "If you look at a map of Washington state, all the wildest places run down the spine of the North Cascades mountains," says Chris Morgan, an ecologist, filmmaker and podcaster who has called the North Cascades home for the past 30 years. "That spine is where our wilderness areas protect the wildest of our wild – [our] untamed landscapes where nature rules and reconnecting with raw, unfiltered life is still possible." As Claire and I peered out from the dense forest up to the towering mountains that we would soon ascend and pass through, we were struck by the utter vastness, remoteness and grandeur before us.

Ancient "blowdowns"

Within designated wilderness areas, there is minimal human intervention. "[Protected wilderness areas] were set up as places for humans to visit, but not linger," Morgan explained. Ten days after setting off, Claire and I were hiking through Glacier Peak Wilderness Area, known for its heavily forested streams, steep-sided valleys and rugged glacier-covered peaks. Fallen trees littered the path, often requiring us to carefully clamber over or under the debris. We passed a large "blowdown" fir tree that had been knocked down by a storm, cut and cleared by hand. Upon closer inspection, we noticed that someone had counted and marked its rings. Squinting, we counted roughly 700, meaning this tree was here more than 100 years before Columbus sailed to the Americas. As Morgan told me: "These [wilderness] areas thrust you back in time… to a time that connects us all to the raw nature of primordial life."

Staying wild

The PCT is maintained by the Pacific Crest Trail Association (PCTA) and a team of incredible volunteers. When I later asked Kage Jenkins, who works for the PCTA, about the role of designated wilderness areas, I was taken back to the 700-year-old downed tree. Kage explained, "Trail maintenance projects in wilderness areas mean no chainsaws or motorised tools; we rely on the crosscut saw. There's a simplicity and joy in spending the better part of a day at the foot of a stratovolcano cutting an enormous Douglas fir."

I then asked how the PCTA manages to maintain the trail while also keeping it wild. "The trail itself always finds a way to stay wild," Kage said.

Shifting landscapes

By July, the snow had just melted but there was already talk of fire among fellow hikers. We passed one young trekker going north to the Canadian border, who told us, "I hiked 2,600 miles last year but couldn't reach the border due to fire closing the trail. I'm back to hike the last 50 miles!" Wildfires are a very real threat in Washington. In July 2014 the Carlton Complex Wildfires burned 256,108 acres. This threat also provides opportunities for nature; some animals like the black-backed woodpecker and fire chaser beetle have evolved specifically to thrive in burn zones, while seeds from plants such as the snowbrush have shown that fire can actually stimulate germination. A warming climate means that the frequency and magnitude of Washington's wildfires is likely to increase.

In late July, we came across our first real burn zone. We hiked in silence through the dead trees, it was eerily quiet and somewhat disarming. The charred remains were a sobering reminder of how seemingly indomitable landscapes can be altered so quickly.

Ups and downs

Claire and I quickly found hiking through Washington both exhilarating and calming. Shortly after setting out, we came across the first bear droppings we would see in the middle of the path. Some nights, our campsite was swarmed by mosquitoes that had recently hatched following the melting snow. Other times, as the skies darkened and thunder rumbled, we rushed to find a flat camping site to wait out the incoming storm. This rollercoaster pattern continued, with hours of sunny, stunning hiking interrupted by extreme weather and energy-sapping lows. As Kimberly Myhren, a hiker we befriended on the PCT, said, "What makes [the PCT in Washington] difficult to hike is also what gives Washington its serene and rugged beauty."

These ever-shifting landscapes only added to the sense of wonder and adventure we felt along the trail: we weren't just passing through the environment but interacting and coexisting with it. "As many wilderness areas are large enough that there is no cellular service, these landscapes are places where one tends to disconnect from technology and be present in a different manner," Michael DeCramer, policy and planning manager at the Washington Trails Association, later explained "Visiting a wilderness area can afford an experience of remoteness that is difficult to find elsewhere."

"The mountain"

After a few weeks, we settled into a rhythm. While our GPS told us that we were covering an average of 20 miles and ascending more than 3,200ft each day, we soon found that we were measuring things differently. We focused less on time and distance and more on how we felt emotionally and physically. We were, as DeCramer later said, "present in a different manner".

One sunny day in mid July, "the mountain", as it's known to those in Seattle, came into view. Mt Rainier, the iconic 14,410ft active volcano and the most glaciated peak in the lower 48 states, appeared like a beacon. We had hiked 250 miles and knew we would enter the Mt Rainier Wilderness Area at mile 330, and having a reference on the skyline reinforced how quickly we were moving; each time we emerged from a dark forest or from a sheltered hillside, the mountain seemed to grow. Where possible, we would pitch our tents to catch a glimpse of the mountain before we fell asleep. The following morning, we would watch the first rays of sun reflect off its snowy peak as we sipped our steaming coffee.

The climb

The high-altitude terrain means that hiking the Washington section of the PCT shouldn't be taken lightly. It took us a full month to reach the Oregon border; by then we had ascended nearly 100,000ft – the equivalent of climbing Everest three times. With bags full of food, water, a tent, a sleeping bag and mat, clothing, a stove and gas and other gear, your fitness levels quickly improve. We had spent months training, yet still found ourselves exhausted most days and falling asleep by 20:00. After just 19 days, we had both lost a fair amount of weight and managing our weight and calorie intake became a battle we would fight for most of the trail.

Wilderness and civilisation

Whenever we needed to hike into nearby towns for supplies, the transition from wilderness to civilisation was abrupt and it felt strange to suddenly interact with locals after having not washed in days. Being able to fill up on much-needed food was great, but it came with hiking out of town with a heavy bag. Our meals were made of lightweight, high-caloric foods such as seeds, nuts, dried fruit, noodles, porridge, milk powder and the occasional freeze-dried meal as a treat. We stored our provisions in bear canisters that doubled as stools as we sat preparing dinner each evening. The canisters are designed to prevent bears and other creatures from accessing to your food supplies, and ensure there is no association between people and food.

We were awoken one morning by the sound of a pack of coyotes playing as the sun came up, their howls echoing through the forest. We also had five bear encounters in Washington, including a close interaction with a mother and two cubs who were more interested in their pursuit of berries than our presence. We met hikers who had seen mountain lions just metres from their tent. Deer would appear from nowhere, often while we were camping, curious and unafraid. On many afternoons, we passed marmots who whistled loudly at us to stay away.

Rustic lodging

In many places, long hikes end at a cabin with a hot shower. This is not the case on this section of the PCT, however. "Washington is home to some of the most remote areas on the entire PCT," explained Kage. "There are 40-mile sections of trail between the nearest two roads, further still to the nearest town." We carried our home with us, diligently pitching it every night at one of the numerous flat dirt spots established by previous hikers along the trail. Many nights we slept closer than we would have liked to dead but still standing trees – "widow-makers", as they're known by hikers, for their tendency to fall in the night.

While there were times I certainly missed a hot shower, many hikers prefer this rustic approach. As DeCramer said, "Many people report that wilderness areas provide an opportunity to experience challenge and self-reliance." Kage agreed, adding, "The PCT helps ensure each hiker can enjoy their own wilderness experience: appreciating a natural landscape and ecosystem, finding isolation or connection to and interdependence of wild places."

"What about the bears?"

After a month of hiking through Washington, I thought back to Claire's first question as we set out: "But what about the bears?" As I began writing this, a PCTA update flashed up on my phone: grizzly bears will soon be reintroduced into Washington's wilderness areas. "There are only six ecosystems in the USA outside of Alaska considered wild enough for grizzly bears, and this is one of them," said Morgan, who has been instrumental in advocating for their reintroduction "They will feel right at home deep in the heart of the endless forests and giant peaks that their ancestors once roamed."

One hundred years since the Gila wilderness area came into being, this feels fitting. For PCT hikers and for Washington, it's one more reason to cherish this great wilderness.

[snugglesquiggle]

Tines of the Devil's Fork

Storm-veiled stars, frozen city ruins, knives in the sky. Railgun finished early, Uzi hunts.

here's something short and experimental. what if uzi repaired her railgun with Something Else?

i'd appreciate kudos and comments, but this is short enough i can put it all here on tumblr

i.

Stars, the few times Uzi saw them, shined all sorts of colors. Blue, yellow, red. Beneath the streetlamps, acid-tinged snow-flakes glittered, bright and scattered the same way, but they were only white. Crap replacement.

Uzi keeps eyes on the sky; she was savvy, knew to stay on-guard. Two scavengers chit-chat beside her, eyes on facial animations instead. But they listened as she’d ranted railgun electromagnetics and anime choreography. Seemed interested. She thought of Doll, back when they were sleepover-sisters. Crap replacement.

No time for angst, just action. Uzi holds her railgun, and thinks of Khan.

ii.

Shadows scowl and loom. Spooky streets. Uzi knew spooky all her life. In Doll’s sleepovers they played dare-games in closet darkness. Rumors said if you shut out all light, you sometimes felt watched. Doll did every time. Uzi too.

Dark is nice, sharpens senses. Uzi’d thought her railgun needed a glowing green spare part. A macguffin. Then she brought a copper-wrapped tuning fork to a room with no lights. Completion sung to her, and the railgun felt done.

Just needs a target.

Till then, it’s scavenging.

An apartment block stands, no lights powered, but copper’s in the walls.

iii.

Crack. Quin sledghammers wall-plaster. Pipes burst, water gushing out. Cracking piñatas, copper wire candy.

Streetlamps flicker outside. The wind stops, choked breath. Transformer fails — whole block in overcast night. One lamp left, shines a vigil.

Knife-whisper. When you see yellow, he’s already dead.

Neck cut, life gushing out. Cracking piñatas like color-inverted eggs. Quin-candy.

No angst, just action.

Anime choreography. Duck under wing-sweep, copper wire lasso, gotcha.

Acid burbles — vocalsynth fries — name’s Marina.

The railgun sings. Point-blank. Core bursts, scream-roars, blood gushing out. Street’s lit anew, green light like lightning.

Still no wind.

iv.

Uzi is cold-hot. Alone like a glacier. Angry like a simmering volcano.

Fatal Error beneath bowl-cut and pinstripe suit.

Fatal Error beneath blue-dyed fringe and crop-top.

Plug a wire, mount file storage like an external hard-drive, Uzi is looking for momentos, funeral fodder or catharsis to carry back. Searching just makes her feel hot.

She looks to the victory-defeat.

Materal Collection: initialization failed, retrying... beneath afro and sweater vest.

They don’t even die like us.

Kick and smash and kick and smash and it’s action but it’s nothing.

She’s smaller even when it’s dead.

v.

Digging through murder drone carcass, those bones and sacs, you still find electronics. Like a radio — buzzing.

Wind again, ice scratching her cheek. Electromagnetic humming — on-edge. Above glittering snowfall, that yellow glint. X marks your death.

Frickin’ cooldowns! No railgun. Detatched murder-claw? Crap replacement.

Cloud-crash, snow debris. No pouncing? Idiot ball?

“Yeesh. R got cooked by a toaster?” Wary, circling.

Shotgun-barrel jabs. “You reckon it bears the devil’s fork?” Still, focused.

“Hate seein’ a fork stuck in a toaster.”

Uzi blurts, “That’s right. My corpse-meal!”

Wary, focused – then blink. Quick as death, gone as wind.

vi.

Uzi’s frame rattled. Like digital adrenaline. Robot hormones.

Murder drones fled. She bluffed, they believed. She looked back, met eye with red error.

Better act the part, could be watching.

You wanted to carry back part of them. You wanted catharsis.

Murder drones probably don’t even taste like us. Right?

Intrusive thoughts didn’t make sense.

Uzi felt cold-hot. Ice makes stones crack. Electric voltage fries circuits. Uzi felt broken-growing. Hormones.

That was just angst. This is action. Hands cupped, plastic goblet for king’s wine. Queen’s royal jelly.

Railgun whines red overheat. Cool hands cradle it. She walks away.

vii.

Snow crested Uzi’s beanie, above icicle-feathers like an inverse crown. Her rime is undisturbed. Winds went still; clouds ran dry of false stars.

Digging through her bat-wing backback, you find extraneous electronics. MP3 player. Nightcore? Anime OPs? Not hitting. Corrupted file, howling static. That’s it.

Uzi groans loud in night, frame rattling. No one to talk to. Angst-abyss. She’s melting glaciers, she’s dormant volcanos.

Her feet crack like sledgehammers against ice-slick roads.

She’s remembering two smiling scavengers she’d left Outpost-3 with. Then thinking of Doll. Thinking of Khan.

Of her mother.

Her railgun cooled quiet.

viii.

The world’s different outside of Outpost-3. A different key, her core beating new tempos, orchestral remix.

Uzi knows how. Khan read door blueprints like bedtime stories. Never explained why Door Two, just what it was: a faraday cage. Canceling that fundamental noise of the light and iron: electromagnetism.

Murder drones use it to hunt: communication, triangulation, disruption.

Uzi runs a finger down the railgun’s barrel. Guess I use it to hunt, too.

In that dark room, watched and sung to, Uzi felt completion and it attracted her.

If she’d felt repulsed? Now she understands why.

Time to change keys.

ix.

Stars, the few times Uzi saw them, had four points. That’s how Light diffracted through lenses; squishy human eyes saw differently. They’re all messed up.

What do stars look like to murder drones? They don’t even die like us. Probably don’t see like us either.

That carcass was squishy inside. Muscles in place of servos. Crap replacement.

Last bridge back home is perilously slick. Last gust of wind tugs her hoodie. And she slips. Last moment, she ledge-grabs — with both hands.

Railgun tumbling down. One hand holding secure, the other’s thrown to reach out in a futile, dramatic gesture.

x.

Three prongs of purple code erupt in miracle-glow between splayed fingers.

It’s mirrored ten meters abyssward, cradling the fruit of months brainstorming, months tinkering, months hoping. The railgun that sung to her (in the same tonality murder drones hummed.)

Her replacement for — what?

It rises like snow never could. When it’s inches away, she stares at the symbol.

The devil’s fork.

Did she hate seeing it? Stepping off the bridge, her electricity hummed in the gun she cradled. She sees Door Three, and a rift high above.

Stars still shine, yellow and blue-red — three-pointed and ever-shifting.

[beautifulmars]

HiPOD: Embayed Ridges in Alba Patera

A deposit, interpreted as a debris-covered glacier or glaciers akin to lobate debris aprons or lineated valley fill, embays a group of ridges near the western edge of the Alba Patera caldera complex. Most other such deposits on Alba Patera’s caldera walls do not encounter any topographic obstacles. The deposit also bears surface textures, possibly associated with the desiccation of ice-rich material. (Black and white cutout is less than 5 km across.)

ID: ESP_075356_2205 date: 24 August 2022 altitude: 287 km

NASA/JPL-Caltech/UArizona

[csny]

Alaska: Igloo, Kodiak bear, Iditarod sled dog race, Denali

Hawaii: pearl harbor, pineapple

washington: Space Needle, apple, mt st helens, rainier national park

oregon: roses, lighthouse, crater lake, oregon trail, hiking

california: redwood tree, white water rafting, gold, golden gate bridge, silicon valley, yosemite national park, wine country, sierra nevada mountains, hollywood, joshua tree

nevada: silver, las vegas strip, hoover dam

idaho: gemstones, potatoes

montana: rocky mountains, glacier national park, grizzly bear, bison

wyoming: yellowstone national park, old faithful geyser, bucking bronco

utah: great salt lake, zion national park, skiing

arizona: lake mead, grand canyon national park, montezuma castle, turquoise, saguaro cactus

new mexico: pueblo, yucca plant, carlsbad caverns

colorado: rocky mountain national park, columbine flower, elk

north dakota: oil, wind energy

south dakota: crazy horse memorial, the badlands, mount rushmore

nebraska: chimney rock, bald eagle, train

kansas: tornadoes, dodge city, sunflower

oklahoma: tomato, wheat, osage shield

texas: cattle, prickly pear cactus, oil refinery, the alamo, NASA Johnson space Center

Minnesota: lake of the woods, wolf, deer

iowa: prairie grass, corn

missouri; Hog, gateway arch

arkansas: razorback hog, banjo

louisiana: crayfish, mardi gras, jazz music

wisconsin: dairy

illinois: Willis tower, tractor, lincoln

michigan: copper, iron ore, automobile manufacturing, motown

indiana: Car

ohio: Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, tires

pennsylvania: street mill, liberty bell

new jersey: constitution

maryland: blue crab

virginia: mount vernon

north carolina: wright brothers national memorial, tobacco farm, great smoky mountains national park, appalachian mountains

south carolina: fort sumter

georgia: peanuts, peach

florida: oranges, kennedy space center, alligator, everglades national park

alabama: cotton, civil rights movement

mississippi: magnolia

tennessee: country music

kentucky: horse racing

west virginia: coal

new york: apple tree, financial market, statue of liberty

massachusetts: american revolution

vermont: maple syrup

new hampshire: fall colors

maine: acadia national park, moose, lobster

And don’t make me repeat it!!!!!!!

[enstrngmntprsm]

Menthols

Pairing: Mina/Dahyun

Word Count: 1070

@judjira I swear I'll get this story done soon, but happy suuuuper belated birthday and merry early christmas lmao enjoy the snippet <3

It all started with her.

No one tells you when it happens, you just know. That everything seems to align so perfectly you can’t help but wonder if it perhaps was fate. It was fate Dahyun chose to sit in the second seat of a table that held three, along the right wall of her classroom. An empty seat on either side of her, because she always knew no one would sit by her.

True to her word, the class slowly filed in, taking their seats elsewhere, never sparing a glance. Not even a glance…not even a fleeting moment in which she perhaps momentarily existed in someone’s life, that made it feel like she mattered, just for that brief alignment.

Class began.

Then she walked in.

She, with long, gorgeous silver hair, set in waves on either side of her shoulders. That bounced, nearly cascaded down, complimenting paled skin. Her eyes roaming the class, but never glancing; stark, light brown eyes, wearing sharp eyeliner and dark makeup, with rosy, peachy lips. Her eyes lines with age, strong cheekbones with a hint of gauntness to her appearance.

She wore gray slacks, just barely scraping the floor as her black heels clinked against the linoleum flooring. If Dahyun really focused in, she could see the gentle pedicure, a fresh set of white nail polish, lining her toes. Matching true to her slacks, a gray blazer, one button set in place, a white button up hidden beneath the material. A pair of glasses rested against her nose, round almost perfectly circular frames with silver lining, all things winter and the iciness that came along with it.

Dahyun felt the shiver up her spine, as if an endless winter had waltzed into the classroom, the entirety of the warm yellow lights feeling as if they became pure white, focusing in on the reflection of the woman’s skin. Her eyes followed, each step the woman took, to the front of the classroom, setting her satchel down on the raised desk. Dahyun watched, eyes never leaving, too busy letting them dance down glaciers and peachy lips.

The class remained silent, not a single fidget from the small group, as the woman began to type onto the computer, turning on the system. In this entirety of her time, not once had her eyes even so as much as flickered to her cohort, who awaited a command, a single command, or perhaps even just a sound. Instead, they basked in the silence, the clatter of the keyboard filling in the empty space.

Dahyun watched, simply. Admiring the beauty before her, a feeling of uneasiness crawling up her stomach, clawing at her throat.

“Okay,” The woman finally spoke, her voice angelic and gently, lulling Dahyun deeper into the pit she found herself falling into, eyes still glued to the computer, “Hello.”

A murmur of greetings followed.

“Apologizes for being late,” The woman brought her glasses up, resting them atop her head as she sighed, lines of slight age lining her perfect features, “I’m still getting used to this university.”

A student raised their hand, one she took notice of; eyes finally landing on the lone student, a wave of envy pulsating through Dahyun’s mind. With a quick motion of her hand, the woman gave the student permission to speak.

“Are you new?”

“I am,” The woman nodded, “I’m coming in from finishing my post-doc. This is my first semester teaching in South Korea, please be patient with me.”

What was her name?

“My name,” The professor glanced around the room, but not once turning to watch Dahyun, something that made Dahyun squirm just a little in her seat.

“My name is Myoui Mina. Of course, refer to me as Professor Myoui. I am from Japan. I’ll be guiding you through the course content for the semester, this an especially passionate point in my research, so bear with me.”

Mina.

Dahyun whispered the name along the lines of her lips, feeling the way they pressed together, how smoothly the name flew out, even without a sound. Mina. Myoui Mina. The rest of the professor’s words faded out, Dahyun could only focus on her dark tinted lips and her beautiful, sparkling eyes.

Mina.

“-And with that, do I have any other questions to answer?”

Then it happened. Her eyes, mounds of honey and a twinge of sadness circling the outer parts of her irises, which had begun its course of glancing over to each individual student, as if taking them in fully since arriving at the room. Taking just a mere second to perhaps just get the gist of who each one was, the color of their hair and the expression plastered onto their faces. Like time had slowed down, Dahyun could only quell the shiver running up her spine when they glanced over to her, finally, for the very first time since realizing this woman existed (which, was only just mere minutes ago. But it already felt like a lifetime).

Mina gazed down to Dahyun, Dahyun could feel the way her eyes seemed to break down every piece of her body and maybe even deeper, somewhere buried within the depths of her soul. As if peeling every layer of Kim Dahyun there was to know, some parts she may have not even known herself. From the top of her hair, down the slope of her nose, over her body (Dahyun shivered), to the ends of her sneakers.

“No questions?” Professor Myoui repeated, but rather than looking to the rest of the room, she remained watching Dahyun, a small smile playing on her lips. Dahyun squirmed, internally, feeling so very small beneath her eyes. Instead of forming a coherent answer, Dahyun could only shake her head.

“Very well,” Professor Myoui bowed her head in the slightest, finally looking away from the lonely spot Dahyun sat between. Reality came crashing hard, when Mina strolled off, to the other side of the room, leaving Dahyun abandoned on an island she really had no idea how she ended up on. The breath Dahyun didn’t realize she had been holding was released, her tense body finally relaxing.

The class lulled on.

Dahyun had never felt lonelier, or as freezing as she felt as she did. All she could focus on was the warmth of honey-colored eyes, aching for them to take her all in once again.

It didn’t happen for the rest of the class.

[honey-minded-hivemind]

Wings of Fire Dragon Guide, Part Three: RainWings and IceWings

This is a RainWing, or rainforest dragon. Their scales can be any color of the rainbow. They can camouflage, have prehensile tails, and can shoot shoot acidic venom from their front fangs, which only a relative's can neutralize. They live in a hidden city among the trees of the Rainforest Kingdom. Their diet consists of mainly fruits, such as pineapples, coconuts, bananas, oranges, mangoes, strawberries, blueberries, etc., but they if it came down to it, they could eat meat, they just prefer not to. Their names can be such as:

Fruits: Pineapple, Coconut, Mango...

Rainforest plants: Liana, Mangrove, Bromeliad, Orchid...

Rainforest animals: Python, Bullfrog, Tamarin, Kinkajou...

Grand or beautiful adjectives: Handsome, Exquisite, Dazzling, Grandeur, Glory...

This is an IceWing, or ice dragon. They have pale white, pale blue, silvery, pale purple, or even opalescent scales. They can withstand freezing temperatures, withstand bright light, radiate a chill from their scales, have serrated claws, and can breathe frostbreath, which when it used on a dragon or plant, can freeze an area, and if untreated, will cause the area to blacken and die. They live in the tundras of the Ice Kingdom, and their diet consists of artic and antarctic animals, such as seals, whales, caribou, polar bears, and orcas, and have been known to eat moss and seafood such as crabs and fish. They have had a hierarchy, which is the Seven Circles for the nobility. They used to have animus dragons, but their last one eloped with a NightWing, and one of their eggs hatched the first NightWing animus (and the most dangerous one) Darkstalker. Their names can be such as:

Arctic and antarctic animals: Narwhal, Mink, Polar Bear, Caribou, Penguin...

Wintery conditions: Arctic, Permafrost...

Winter weather: Snowflake, Hailstorm, Blizzard, Whiteout...

White gems: Diamond, Crystal, Opal...

Ice formations: Glacier, Icicle...

Cold landscapes: Tundra, Fjord...

Words that mean white: Alba, Hvitur...

[capnmachete]

Find the Word Tag

Thanks so much for the tag, @davycoquette! Tasty word choices LOL Instructions: Post a snippet from your writing containing each of the chosen words. Mine (from previous poster) were SHINE, DELICATE, TEETH and SCREAM; yours are at the bottom of the post. SHINE: I turn on my side, resettling on the saggy mattress.  It's dark, but I can see the shine of his eyes in the moonlight, coming in through the gap in the threadbare curtains.  "Yeah?"

"I'm scared."

It's the first time he has admitted to anything like fear. 

Context: Two friends, one terminally ill, are on a bucket-list roadtrip across the US. *** DELICATE: And in a minute he’s showin’ you how to put the helmet on.  “It’s just for safety, awright?” he asks, another Camel lit up and stuck in the corner of his mouth.  Shows you how the buckle works; it’s like the ones on the strap you used for carrying your schoolbooks back in the day.  “I’m gonna let you put it on by yourself, ‘kay?  I don’t wanna mess up your – “  He waves a hand at your hair, Royal-Crowned and plaited down tight under the pink headscarf Gus makes all the girls wear.  Hard to mess up, not all that delicate.  But he’s a man, so what would he know about that?  You put it on, and it’s heavier than you expect.  “You good?” Ray asks you, seeing the surprised way your brown eyes pop wide. “I’m good,” you say, once you’re used to it.  “Now how do I get on this thing?”  you ask, eyeing the bike. And trying to work it out like a math problem, one involving short legs and pink skirts with crinolines underneath, tryin’ to come up with some solution that don’t involve showing your panties or falling on your backside in the gravel. Context: Ray, a long-haul truck driver from up north, has -- over the course of years -- gradually befriended Nadine, a plus-size late-night truckstop waitress in tiny Camden, Arkansas. One night he shows up on a motorcycle and offers her a ride. And after a little bit of dithering and indecision, she accepts. (Period piece, 1950s-1960s.) ***

TEETH: In addition to his hideous Christmas jumper and enormous trainers, Mac wears his usual unsinkably cheery smile, teeth astoundingly white against his deep brown skin, surrounded by a thin and regrettable scruff of beard he has apparently decided to grow.  He reaches down with a hand the size of a small frying pan and pets George’s head, smoothing a palm over the spiky damp hair as though gentling an oversized, sweaty and ill-tempered dog.  “There there, little bear,” he croons. The temerity.  “I am not your little bear,” George says, with all the dignity a man in the fetal position and wearing a bit of yesterday’s luncheon can muster. “And you are fucking insufferable.” It doesn’t phase Mac.  Nothing ever does.  It is, George long ago decided, part of the man’s undeniable but perverse charm – he is utterly impossible to offend.  The vilest imprecations roll off his broad back like water off a duck, leaving him unscathed and still flashing that stunning but immensely annoying smile. Context: George has given himself a whopping case of food poisoning through an absent-minded act of inattention, and wishes to be left alone to die in peace. Mac arrives to save the day. *** SCREAM: We are passing through an area of glaciers today.  They are so brilliant and blue, they seem lit up from the inside.  I wonder if they glow in the dark.  No way to know, not right now at least, as it never gets dark -- only a little dusky, like twilight, then it's midday again.   One calved as we steamed past today -- a spectacular sight, with a loud crack like a bullwhip.  The waves rocked the boat so hard that the galley boy screamed, and everyone's tea tipped over, and Renni threw up over the railing for half an hour afterwards.  A mess, but sort of comical now that it's over.

Context: Leo, a medic on a commercial fishing boat in the North Sea, writes a letter home to his partner. *** No-pressure tag list @bouncydragon @morning-alfie @x-w1ng @morganxduinn @hoodeddreams13 @lexywrite and anyone else who wants to jump in! Your words are WHISPER, SUMMER, TOES, PROTECT

[prosebyday]

Glacier National Park

Grazia Curcuru

7/8/23

Grinnell Glacier, Many Glacier, Glacier National Park

I felt unstoppable today hiking the iconic Grinnell Glacier hike, my watch recorded 40k steps and Gaia recorded 13.6 miles, it was supposed to be 10.6 miles but I chose to hike down to Lake Grinnell at the bottom after hiking up to Upper Grinnell , because the lake looked so beautiful. I didn’t get any blisters but my toes were sore and as soon as we got to the lake I dipped my toes in the water. I felt amazing for hours after. A few hours later I felt the stiffness set in, I had to get ice out of the cooler for my knees because I couldn’t really move. 

7/9/23

Lake MacDonald, West Glacier, Glacier National Park 

We rested our legs and rented kayaks on Lake MacDonald in West Glacier after an early morning drive along Going to the Sun Road. It felt amazing to still explore while resting my sore muscles. I got to exercise my muscles that don’t get used on a hike. We walked the tourist trap shops, lined with Huckleberry jams, syrups, flavored coffees, all claiming to be “fought from the claws of grizzly bears.” They even sold scented tshirts, which did not seem very bear safe in an environment where we needed scent-proof bear bags for our food, lipbalm, sunscreen, a bear lock on our bear proof cooler, and bear spray on us at all times. I bought a Glacier National Park patch, like I do at every national park I’ve done a “deserving” hike at, because it makes me feel like a Girl Scout. I plan to sew them on a denim jacket. I picked the prettiest patch, with mountain goats, lakes, meadows, wildflowers – even though it had mountain goats – one of the few animals I hadn’t seen here yet. The lady at the register told me I can’t wear the patch until I see a mountain goat. I had one day left and knew I had to find one. 

It was brutally hot and sunny, so we went back to Lake MacDonald. There were children paddleboarding, insisting they’d “found a barrel” and they “think it’s full of oil.” The beach wasn’t sandy, it was formed with smooth small rocks. The water was crystal clear and warmed by the afternoon sun. The view of the mountains we kayaked towards hours earlier was directly in front of us as we swam and enjoyed the water, sharing giggles, a child laid face down on the hot rocky beach to “work on his tan.” 

7/10/23

Pitamaken Pass, Two Medicine, Glacier National Park

Pitamaken Pass was the most intensely grueling, gorgeous, and insane hike I’ve ever been on. There was so much exposure on the edge of the mountains, with a narrow trail and talus (loose rock), that tumbles under your feet down the side of the mountain. But it was a TRAIL, so it was still one of the least dangerous mountain hikes I’ve been on, because it’s maintained. There were gorgeous wildflower meadows and these funny white “bear paws” everywhere, they look like giant q-tips and only bloom every 5 years.

The trail changed so much over the 18 miles we hiked, from dense forest, muggy, humid and lush with brush; to trickling rivers with meadows, juniper, bushes, butterflies and red rocks; to walking along the rich blue of Old Man Lake. Then the slog of climbing up 1,000ft over a mile and 3,200 ft of elevation gain total (with a lot of up and down, which makes it feel like you’re never making progress). My brain was throbbing in my skull, rapid pulse, and swaying balance. I thought it must be dehydration or electrolytes, I told Adam I thought I was going to be sick, it was over an hour before I realized we had maxed out our altitude for this trip so far ~8,000ft, after only sleeping at ~5,000ft. So I carried on, tossed some Propel electrolyte mix in my Nalgene and took my shirt off to cool down, all in measures not to pass out, but also kept moving because the sun was beating down. There was no breeze or shade, but I hoped there would be both on the other side of the Pass. It didn’t come as quickly as I needed it, but as a breeze picked up once we got to the top – so did my dizzying headache. Once we got to the Pitamaken overlook on the continental divide, I sat on a slab of marble and ate some trail mix in the shade.

The next 3 miles of the trail looked like a post-apocalyptic wasteland. Our footsteps clashed like we were breaking tiles on the shrapnel of sedimentary rock. The rocks above and around us were flaky and layered like good pastry, but horrifying to walk on as they crumble around you. Beneath us was a steep drop down to the vibrant greens of pine forests, cool alpine lakes and trickling rivers, juxtaposing the crumbling gray and brown rocks we balanced and wobbled on. As I rounded the corner, I saw a scruffy white goat in the distance on top of the pass with mountains behind it. It didn’t look anything like the long-haired, fluffy rocky mountain goat you see in all the Glacier National Park merch, but July is shedding season. I took a picture and 4 more goats appeared and started grazing… on what, I don’t know, since I can’t recall anything growing at that altitude. I finally saw my mountain goat, 5 mountain goats. 

Storm clouds rolled in and it’s dangerous to be above the treeline in a storm. I picked up the pace, but the descent proved to be steeper and looser – it’s tricky to get traction on loose sand. The next few miles were a blur, a race against a storm. Eventually, I saw juniper next to my boots and looked up - I made it to a meadow, where things can grow! And I saw trees nearby. As I entered dense brush again, it was hot and humid, I was overheating and stripping layers. The dark clouds brought us some cooling shade and a light sprinkle, but it didn’t last long before the sun, heat and humidity were back and worse than ever. I was so hungry and sore and tired but I just wanted to get out so I kept my pace. 

Once we started bumping into older adults with trekking poles and no water or backpacks, I knew we were close because we parked near a campground. I took off my boots and socks, stood in a cold river to ice my swollen toes and watched a wedding party take pictures with the mountains while I ate trailmix, dirty and sweaty.

[daughter-of-inklings]

Posting excerpts of my book as I get back into re-writing it after a long semester (🫠) to hold myself account to continue Camp NaNo:

Ch. 1 | An Act of Love (pt. 2) WC: 832

The baby was in decent condition, cold but still alive after being outside for a considerable while. Skinny and underweight for a nursing child of its presumed age, it weighed no more in Aeriel’s arms than a bag’s worth of apples. As she felt along its sides, the tips of her fingertips brushed over its ribs. Its movements were sluggish and slow, transfixed. She followed its gaze and found it glaring at the light floating at the center of the room, as best a baby could glare. 

“It seems we don’t like the light,” she informed Thalion as he came to sit beside them. She clapped her hands together once- twice, and the orb dimmed, bathing the room in a soft, golden light. 

“No, it doesn’t appear that we do.” He held his hand out to stop the baby from rolling over the pillows, on its clever escapade to reach him. “It has slit pupils like mother and I. It likely isn’t used to the more intense lights yet.”

“Its eyes are strange too.” Using the momentary distraction from rolling towards Thalion, Aeriel examined its wings. “I don’t know of any royal house in our kingdom that bears that eye color- silver as the moonlight.” 

“Hmm..”

She raised an eyebrow at him, opening her mouth to speak before shutting it just as quickly. She scowled, moving one of the baby’s wings to the side and away from its back. A small arrangement of bruises marred the space between the shoulder blades, a recently healed cut the length of Aeriel’s finger tucked away near the base of where the feathers met. 

“… the baby’s hurt.” 

“It’s— hurt?” 

For a moment, as he picked the little creature up into his arms once more, Thalion entertained the thought that he’d perhaps carried it wrong when he’d picked it up. From what he recalled of his own childhood, he himself had always been covered in all manner of bruises and cuts from sparring with his brothers and sister. The marks along this little creature’s skin, however, were more pronounced—more claw-like than fingers. He scowled, a simmering rage setting into the pit of his stomach as he looked the bruises over. He knew of no creatures, in that moment, whose claws or talons matched. … but he knew of several gods whose believed appearance did. 

“Areq?” 

Always like this mother, Aeriel thought, in every of the phrase. He kept his gaze fixed on the bruises- transfixed, as if he could will them away simply staring at them. He was, she thought too, a handsome man—handsomer still when he was angry— though as incredibly thick-headed as the royal family of dragonbloods ran. With his mother’s glacier colored eyes and silver hair, now past his hips. A testament that he’d never lost a battle he’d waged. He always wore it braided into a high ponytail that started at the base of his horns, then combined into a larger braid kept across his shoulders. His wings, as white as snow speckled black at the outer feathers, now furled and unfurled behind him on the bed- ruffled, and agitated. 

“My heart,” she sighed, knowing that look in his eyes. “You cannot go to war  over a child you just met, and you cannot fight an enemy for their transgressions against them when you don’t know who they are.” 

Though he certainly looked ready to try. He opened his mouth to argue, then stopped and hung his head. She was right, of course- as always. Speculation and conjecture, alongside a letter that had dissolved away to stardust at his fingertips- none of it was enough to launch a campaign. He’d have their heads by the end of the week. Instead, he willed himself to this- to that promise, and to this child.

He held his thumb to his mouth, piercing the tip of his thumb on the fang. The blood that came from it was as silver as the baby’s eyes, and glimmered in the low-light of the room. He rubbed his fingers together, spreading it like a thin film over his hand until the palm was covered in a fine layer of it. Thalion expected them to cry, or to wince- to make any kind of noise when he pressed his open palm over the bruises. Instead, the baby settled into his arms, chewing on the fabric of his sleeve. He sat with that thought a moment, taking a breath and willing his magick to work away the bruises. His palm warmed where it touched them, and when he pulled it away, the skin was as though it’d never been touched.

“… it doesn’t seem to feel pain, uovele.” 

“It doesn’t-?” She frowned. After a moment of deliberation, she reached for the underside of the baby’s talons and gave it a small prick with her fingernail. It didn’t so much as look her way, only grabbing her hand with its talons out of reflex because they were near. “It… does not.