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agentnatesewell · 3 months

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tremendous tasks, dear friends

the wayhaven chronicles | barbara robertson (f!detective) / nate sewell / mason + family (lucas daniels) | 5k words | rated G

happy holidays to @delucadarling on this twelfth night and epiphany eve! i have simply fallen in love with barbie and had such a wonderful time writing for her for the @wayhavensecretsanta

.🎄.

Within the forested woods surrounding a deceptively inconspicuous town, one brimming with holiday cheer and festive wishes, bustling with last-minute preparations of a yuletide celebration for humans and supernaturals alike, sits a dilapidated building. A relic of a time ago, thought abandoned and unbothered, hiding a veiled mansion beyond its crumbling facade.

In this warehouse, now as familiar as home, Barbara Robertson - detective or agent depending on when and who one asks - sits in the center of the living room elegantly dressed for the season. One last task, a final check-in, for the next day’s Wayhaven Christmas Fete remains, and her trusted Filofax is set securely nearby, traded for a cup of steaming, glasses-fogging drinking chocolate. Hands warming against the gold rimmed and whimsically painted precious porcelain, she shifts her attention from event planning to listening, intently, of past traditions once forgone and now renewed.

In this living room, now his home, Nathaniel Sewell - agent and acting commanding agent, a temporary promotion until their team leader returns from a self assigned important mission - sits adjacent, on the floor with long legs tucked beneath him; sweeping his hand over carefully laid materials, collected from the nature surrounding them, on the ivory lace-embroidered cloth covered coffee table. He picks out a hard confection from a glass jar in the middle of the table, passes it to her then reminisces, “My earlier days, when I was with my family, during the Advent period before Christmas Day, my brother and I would spend the morning hours collecting what we could on our grounds. Not dissimilar to what we’ve found on our strolls in town and the community garden this autumn.”

Long branches of holly from the gardens, deepest green leaves with sharp, curved edges, clusters of bright, reddest berries; vines of ivy growing along on the outer stone of their home, long stems dense with lined green and white leaves; hardy sprigs of rosemary from their kitchen window garden, fragrant and robust; precious bundles of mistletoe, from the town’s nursery, with pretty pearlescent white berries; and perhaps his most prized possession of the season, from a bespoke shoppe, a singular pear sitting on a bed of gold foil.

“Are you making a wreath,” she inquires, leaning closer to the greenery. Fingers already occupied with proffered candy instinctively seek her pencil, and blindly slide behind her ear, in case there is need to write any pertinent information of this tradition. As she inspects, Barbie notices there isn’t any sort of evergreen present that she’d become accustomed to with modern wreaths, though perhaps Nate had used all he could find to festoon along the fireplace mantle, perhaps all the evergreen in Wayhaven and the surrounding forest.

“A Christmas Bough.” The corners of his eyes crinkle as a smile plays at the corner of his mouth, voice trailing and he falls into a fog of nostalgia, happy memories returning to overshadow those which usually haunt him. As his thoughts fade, Nate chances a glance at Barbie, and he is pulled back into the present. For behind a curling strand of her blond hair, fallen away from her gilded claw clip, peeks a twist of red and white, and the scent of peppermint. The pencil which is usually there in her hand, in peril of becoming her drink stirrer.

“Barbie?”

“Nate?” The abrupt change in his tone, now alarmed, draws Barbie away from her study. She looks up towards him, green eyes peering over her red plaid-rimmed glasses, taking note at how amusement highlights the honeyed hues of his brown eyes, and how he’s closing the already narrow gap between them, brows raised questioningly and silently awaiting permission to come closer.

And it is easy for her to grant him such permission, as Nate is always so careful, comforting, safe, even in this spontaneity, and Barbie is quite curious what it is that has attracted his attention.

The brush of his thumb across her cheek, his fingers curling at her temple and over the shell of her ear prove far more exhilarating than any spice and sugar rush incurred during the holiday season. Nate chuckles, deep and resonating, just as silver bells sing, and he pulls away, his palm open. “You might find that peppermint candy complements the dark chocolate of your beverage far more than your pencil might.”

“What,” Barbie looks at her cup, pencil between the rim and its high handle, and groans. “Oh my god.” Shaking her head, she drops the utensil with a sharp laugh. “Guess I needed this break. Helping Tina organize the Fete at the station this year is keeping me busier than I imagined. Especially with all of,” she waves her hand, “this.”

Nate knows she is referencing her continued training with the Agency and on-call, standby assistance for the Wayhaven Police Department’s local cases - taking a holiday encouraged, always, during their sporadic diners at the local bistro - but does hope she has been enjoying the past week spent transforming their, in his opinion, humble home into a Christmas wonderland so expertly designed, it would rival the most elegant department store displays. And though Adam and, by order, Unit Bravo, had been convinced by Nate’s suggestion of team building exercises, Barbie has been enjoying herself. Excitement casting her in gold and silver radiance, she is even more breathtaking, indulging herself in the season. Dressed in themed ensembles, time made and spent introducing Farah to popcorn tins and Christmas themed movies, baking and icing so many cookies, decorating while singing tunes so delightful, he has been humming them both in tandem and alone.

Regardless, Barbie deserves empathy and understanding, and a second candy cane. “May I say that the Fete has been coming along quite nicely, and will surely be memorable for years to come.”

“You may,” she accepts his compliment, allowing her fingers, nails painted to resemble ribbon tied gift wrap, to just barely glide along his as she accepts the candy. To avoid a repeat of a near miss, Barbie stirs her drinking chocolate with the straight side of the candied stick, inhaling the melding scents as the steam rises and evaporates into the air. “Thank you, Nate.”

Pleasant moment aside, and desperately needing the embarrassing moment aside, Barbie points the candy cane, melting end, at the table. “Tell me about your Christmas Bough. I thought it was called a Kissing Bough?”

Nate nods. “You’re correct. Formally, these were called Christmas Boughs, and traditionally, Kissing Boughs. Every year, from when we could carry in ash wood or willow wood branches, our bough would adorn the doorway to our drawing room, welcoming our guests for the many parties held during the twelve days post Christmas. Usually family, many cousins, family friends.”

Barbie places her cup on the table, resting her elbow on the edge, listening intently once more. The cadence of his voice again melodic, a nostalgic recitation in celebration of a life passed instead of a sorrow of a life lost.

“One modern convenience this year.” Nate points to a neat stack of green craft wire, set opposite of the shining pear. “Bending curved tree branches into circles is much easier these days, but I would like to focus more on this particular foliage”

“Do they hold any meaning?” She asks, knowing too well that rarely does Nate take on a task casually.

“Holly,” Nate works as he speaks, nimble hands still familiar with the process from centuries ago, tying the branches together with the wire, a blur of green and red repeating until creating a circle. “Everlasting life.”

The irony is not lost on Barbie. By how Nate blinks his eyes, an attempt to keep them clear, she knows it’s not lost on him, either. But then he clears his throat, shapes his mouth back into a smile, and transfers the rest of the holly branches and half of the wire to the space in front of her. An offer to join him, and she obliges; observing and enamored by his hands, mirroring his motions to create a second circle.

“Ivy,” Nate continues, “dependence and endurance. Rosemary, remembrance.” Running the tip of a finger along the leaves, breathing in the released fragrance, he takes a deep breath. Another breath.

As silence grows, the bough making process is acknowledged as a memorial by them both. When her half is complete and returned to him, Barbie lays a hand on Nate’s shoulder. Immediately, she feels him relax, and this time the deep breath is an exhalation. When he turns to her, his smile is genuine, grateful for her grace. “Thank you. My apologies, for my sentimentality.”

“What about the mistletoe?” She squeezes his shoulder, and hopes the question cheers him up.

“Ah, mistletoe.” Nate lifts a bundle for himself, a second one for Barbie. She keeps it for herself. “A good luck charm. One could, during the celebratory period, greet their guests or each other for a kiss. A suitor could kiss the one they wished to court, on the cheek, and we did make sure all parties were in accordance. All would hope to be kissed, lest they endure the bad luck of being left out. There was a limit, as with every kiss, a berry would be picked. When all was gone, the kissing ceased.” He chuckles, picking a single spray which had fallen out of place. “Milton’s pockets would be full by night’s end, as he was rather outgoing and effortlessly charming.”

Barbie plucks a gem-like berry to roll between her fingers, twisting her lips as her gaze shifts towards Nate, finding he has done the same. It comes as a surprise to them both, a happy and quite welcome surprise, when Barbie closes the space between, kissing Nate’s cheek. Drawing away, she puts the berry in his palm. “There, now you have one, too.”

Behind a second, cordial-ish, exchange, through the doorway of this living room which has yet to bear the meaningful ornament of greeting, shaking bruising snowflakes off the jacket he’s worn during his overnight patrol of the town - stubborn to accept the order to dress weather-appropriately from their temporary leader, until an approving hum from Barbie, he will keep to himself that he did not mind the shearling-lined leather moto jacket that kept him from freezing - Mason grimaces at the warm welcome of glittering ornaments, the droning and inescapable music repeating too many damn times, and the strong and tangled scents of cassis, eucalyptus, white musk, and pine.

Thick blankets of snow keep him from his reprieve on the rooftop, and if it was any other season besides one that compels humans to decorate their homes with garish and gaudy blinking lights, corral them into the streets to sing in groups, he would volunteer to take the next patrol. But it isn’t wholly terrible, though. In the living room he can wait for Barbie to tie up any loose-ends, as she’d called them, with her next-day festival preparation; maybe Nate will help her, and Mason can retreat to the quietest and dimmest corner of the room to look out the window and watch the hidden parts of the forest, untouched by merry well-wishers.

Her voice cuts through his annoyance, happier he knows but unsure how to tell. She sounds like she did the other day as he watched her hang monogrammed stockings over the fireplace, Nate explaining some change, some rise and fall in her sound, more cheerful. When he hears Barbie laugh, the tension in his body fades, and the abrasive reminders of the season taunting his senses fall into the background. Mason sheds his coat, rubbing his hands over his arms to avoid losing too much heat too fast, and follows a conversation to the middle of the room, in front of the couch and on the floor.

Too far to perch on the arm of the velvet armchair, where he’s most comfortable when Barbie is around, he instead sits on the edge of the coffee table, angling away from the herbs and plants invading his senses. Any other time the seemingly innocuous rosemary would have him retreating, but she turns to him. And Barbie is fucking - glowing. Mason blinks, wondering if his retinas are taking longer to heal from the morning’s snow glare than usual. Still glowing with a pink tint to her cheeks, and damnit if that halo around her doesn’t make him think of that angel on top of their second Christmas tree, and damnit that he’s lost the cool edge to his entrance.

“Elf got your tongue, sunshine?” Barbie asks, smoothest he’s ever seen her, at least with a candy cane between her teeth.

In his periphery, Mason spots a small bundle of leaves and the plant is easily identifiable. Cheap, plastic replicas in abundance at the previous night’s party in some sort of garden dome when he’d walked through the park on his route. He swipes a sprig and twirls it, answering, “Wouldn’t mind you catching my ton-”

“Hello, Mason,” Nate sighs, tying what is left of the mistletoe together. “How was your patrol?”

Giggling teenagers and metal scraping at the ice rink and the entire town smells of vanilla, chocolate and sugar, that flashing robotic Santa waving in the air are all enough to keep anything interesting from happening; too chaotic to focus any magic, too much of a headache to get up to any trouble. Mason shrugs, “Same old.”

Settled, finally giving notice to whatever Nate and Barbie are actually doing, Mason juts his chin in the direction of the circles of holly. “You aren’t done decorating this place yet?”

“It’s a Kissing bough,” Barbie explains, rising to her knees to meet Mason. Nate subtly coughs the alternative ‘Christmas bough’, likely as a means to keep the atmosphere light and less hot, less heavy - wholesome! “When you’re under, you give a kiss, and get a reward.” She leans in, one hand on his thigh and he grins, arm slinking around her waist, ready for a knock-her-tights-off kind of kiss. But instead of her mouth, his is met with a waxy, tasteless and not sticky clump of berries. “It’s not up yet, Mason.” Smiling, having amused herself, she sits at the coffee table once more, awaiting Nate’s next instruction.

“You’re welcome to join us, if you would like to thread this wire through the pear.” Nate knows he is pushing Mason’s good will and willingness to participate in any more decorating, yet persists with his inclusion. “This should be our final project.”

“Wait! One more!”

From a flash of purple and a cloud of glitzing gingerbread scents and mirth, attention is captured towards the fir and cedar garlanded mantle in this living room, and standing between a cozy, crackling fire and the main Christmas tree, eight feet all and so elegantly adorned, skirt at the base holding exquisitely wrapped gifts, is Farah Hauville - home from one last visit to the Christmas Tree Lot at the edge of town for the season before taking over agent patrol for the rest of the day - standing atilt, resting an elbow on the top branch of a small, a quite small pine tree.

Amber eyes sparkling with triumph, Farah sweeps her hand out in an arc, resting it on her hip. “Ta da! What do you all think? Natey, Barbie? Mason.”

Not just quite small, the tree is rather sparse. Uneven weight distribution, inconsistent branch thickness and needle distribution - some thick with vibrant needles while others rather pale and almost white, some with just tufts at the end. A lone pinecone sits towards the base, and there may have been a debate if the bird’s nest fell or broke apart.

Nate stands, stepping slowly and surely to the tree, mind whirling as he thinks of how to express his thoughts; keep Farah from being crestfallen, express his gratitude for her enthusiasm, how to hide the tree in plain sight and preferably outside. “Certainly a unique tree,” he manages, “though, I do wonder if it would be better suited in the hallway. Could be set in an urn outside of your bedroom door and we can bedeck after your shift - wrap a strand of fairy lights, drape tinsel, use the rest of the ribbon.”

“Knew you’d say that,” Farah replies, bouncing, “This tree has been in that lot since it opened, and no one has given it a chance! A second look! I know it’s not pretty, it doesn’t match the other trees we brought home. It’s not perfect,” Farah flails her arms, pointing to the three other trees in the room that could have been portraits in a magazine. “But it deserves love, doesn’t it? Like the great philosopher, Linus, said.”

“Linus? I’m not familiar with their work.” Nate pokes at a dull needle with this index finger. “Unless you mean Linus of Thrace, the musician.”

Barbie soon joins, shadowed by Mason, and circles the tree to study it. “‘Charlie Brown Christmas’. Farah and I watched while you read ‘The Gift of the Magi’.”

“You were even playing the song the next day,” Farah remarks, miming him at the piano. He nods in response, fingertips brushing along the edge of a healthier branch. She continues her plea, turning to throw her arms out, wide and dramatic, and quotes, “‘I never thought it was such a bad little tree. It’s not bad at all. Maybe it just needs a little love.’”

“Farah,” Nate rubs the back of his neck, knowing she’d likely practiced her speech during her last few patrols about town. The tree truly does not fit in with the well planned out, specific aesthetic of the room but he is moved by her effort, her passion. “I can promise to find space for it. In here.”

To the great shock of everyone, Mason grabs a smooth, circular red ornament from the main tree, fixes it to a sagging branch on the new addition. He comments before Nate can protest, “I like it. It’s irregular, obviously intended by nature to be so. Has character. Leave it where it is, at least it’ll be something interesting to look at.”

Barbie stops pacing, following Mason’s lead, with a green ornament she hangs on an opposite, slightly lighter branch. Just a little trimming, tinsel and lights and ribbon, and this tree could truly be special. One of a kind. Its own new tradition.

It gives her an idea.

Leaving the others to discuss re-arrangement, Barbie walks back to sit on an empty space of the coffee table to consult the ‘CF’ section of her Filofax. A layout of the main room of the Christmas Fete is centered by a hallway length runner rug with tables at either side for Haley’s hot cocoa and treats station, beginning at an entry arch and a dais at its end. On the side of the page, the cast. Elves - Len’s kid and Douglas, Mrs. Claus - Tina, Santa Claus - Lucas, making his debut.

Lucas, her beloved brother and subject of her final, most important task - confirming his, and Adam’s, flight details and estimated arrival. Barbie checks the time, and tapping her phone screen she notes alerts from his airline. Five minute delay, ten minute delay, confirmation of arrival, a text from him.

Another hour or two from the city, and Barbie and Lucas will be reunited after far too long apart - and she can hardly wait! Smiling to herself, singing to herself that song from their childhood Christmas pageant, Barbie pencils in a small tree in the space between Mrs. and Santa Claus. She calls to the group, asking Farah, “Could you bring this Charlie Brown Tree to the Fete tomorrow? It’s just the right size, wouldn’t be in Lucas and Tina’s way. Added bonus, the people in town seeing what they missed out on, how a little love goes a long way.”

Nate places a hand to his chest, mouthing a ‘thank you’ to Barbie. Farah claps hers in excitement. “It would be an honor! I’m going to get Nate’s decoration box and get this little guy ready for the show! I’ll drop it off at the station.” Taking a hold of the tree at its base, Farah lifts it like a piece of paper and runs off and out of the room. And it is a testament to Nate’s reflexes and agility that he catches the two ornaments shaken off, and returns them to their home.

A ring of Barbie’s phone interrupts the calm in Farah’s wake.

Video call, her mirror image on the screen and Barbie gives her glasses a quick adjustment before swiping her finger across the glass to answer.

“Ho, ho, ho!” A voice bellows, and there is a grinning Lucas, dark brown hair expertly mussed under the brim of his vintage, thrift-shop treasure, red flannel and white wool Santa Hat. “Merry Christmas!”

Barbie waves, laughing, widening the camera view to show off the living room, then back to her. Nate greets Lucas, unsure where to stand and if he can even see him, moves to lean over Barbie’s shoulder where the pocket of his brown leather jacket fills the display. His own cellular phone rings and he excuses himself to answer. Mason shakes his head, and, arms folded, walks to settle on the edge of the couch.

Back to Lucas, and now Barbie spots a twinkling flash against the red of his hat, one more, behind him white snow flurrying and thickening with each passing second. His voice muffled, harsh streaks of wind silencing him, though she can pick up the unmistakable and clear, deep accent of Adam Du Mortain, calm and authoritative.

There is a leaden, sinking feeling in her stomach.

“Snow squall,” she finally hears, and when did Lucas move? Blurred behind the camera lens, he has found shelter inside the doors of the airport. Fellow travelers behind him converge into small groups, collective voices rising in confusion and frustration relaying the news to their loved ones. Airplanes had been taking off and landing, no imminent threat of weather. “Barbie, roads are closed, don’t know when they’ll open. Promise I’ll be home as soon as I can, but I’m not sure I’ll be able to make the Fete tomorrow.”

“Oh. Okay,” she answers, nodding, glancing around the room to find Nate speaking animatedly and Mason watching snow swirling outside. “Just stay safe, Luke, alright? Keep me updated. Is Adam with you?”

“Ordering the weather to behave,” he chuckles, attempting to keep her spirits from crashing. “Look, Barbie, I’m sorry.”

Trying to formulate a plan, alternatives and logistics, how to inform Tina, Barbie doesn’t respond until she hears her name again. She shakes her head, “It’s alright. Take your time. We will figure this out. Don’t do anything hasty or dangerous, you need to come home in one piece.” Barbie looks at the screen again, zoom tighter on Lucas, notices the same plush red and fluffy white at his shoulders. “Are you wearing your Santa costume?”

“If you’re going to travel for the holidays, you’ve got to travel in style and make a big entrance. Besides, someone has to spread holiday cheer amongst the masses.”

“Keep them distracted and don’t have too much fun. Again, stay safe. I’ll talk to you soon.”

As she ends the call, Barbie consults her Filofax, searching for an answer. Surely, she wrote up a back-up plan for Santa, Mrs. Claus, and the Elves, and she did but Sung committed to the community Christmas Feast. She turns to a blank page, scribbles thoughts - Surely, Adam will take care of Lucas. Surely, Mrs. Claus could take the place of her husband, saying he needs a head start on his journey, the children could video-chat with him.

“Barbie,” Nate’s voice is as understanding and gentle as his gait, taking a seat next to her, patting her back with a touch so light it does not register. He finds Mason, raising his brows and tilting his head and in seconds, Mason stands before them. “I spoke with Adam. Unexpected change of weather a few miles northwest of the city, might be due to magic gone awry, and does not appear to be malicious. Unit Golf has been dispatched to secure the situation, and Adam will be working with them. Bravo is on standby, but he feels this should be contained without our intervention.”

Mason shrugs, Barbie is still writing in her organizer.

Turning towards her, Nate’s smile is encouraging, “Now, you are in need of a Saint Nicholas for your Christmas Fete tomorrow. Do you have Lucas’ costume? He and I are of similar build and height, and I would be glad to stand in for him.”

Barbie, facial muscles finally moving and her mouth falling into an unintentionally pretty pout, unlocks her phone, finds her text messages, and brings up a picture to show him, then Mason. Lucas, mid-laugh, Santa hat flopping to the side, Santa jacket open with a white shirt underneath, Santa trousers on underneath, standing with a not so stiff shouldered, slightly amused Adam in the midst of white and colored glistering lights. “Spreading so much cheer that he performed a holiday miracle, making Adam smile.”

Mason, concerned with the pallor of her skin and the dullness in her eyes, crouches down and pats his pockets, where his now banished cigarettes were once stored - to prevent a fire hazard in this room of shimmering, glimmering potential kindling - pulls out a package, a monstrosity, a little cake shaped like an evergreen tree, an emergency treat purchased at the convenience store. Smushed, and he decides there is no way he will let her raise her blood sugar with something that tastes like plastic. “Eat something if you’re going into figuring-out mode. Maybe not this, I’ll get you something that doesn’t look like reindeer vomit.”

Nate, rubbing his bottom lip with this thumb, remembers the prior year’s Christmas celebrations. A truly magical time in this already magical town, every year healing from the tragedies at the start of their permanent tenure. He recalls a certain gentleman, an embodiment of the legend and a hero to each child, reading their name from a scroll and making them believe to be the most special. “Mr. Rockwell. He was treasured, and enjoyed the role.”

“Retired. Out of town to visit his new grandchild.” Barbie taps her pencil against the cover of her Filofax. Nate’s mention of the Santa Claus of the past decade, of his generosity and love, his joy infectious, reminds her of a conversation - between Mr. Rockwell and his wife, Lucas and Tina, and her. A transition of tradition.

“Wait.” Her eyes open wide, sparkling once more with another idea. “We are brilliant! Mr. Rockwell left us his suit, even though it was too short for Lucas, something about keeping the Christmas spirit. It should still be at the station, I’ll call Tina to confirm.”

Once more in the middle of this living room, Mason returns to see two faces look at him expectantly, and though there is some he does not understand, he understands the faces of two schemers. Especially one who has talked him into decorating more than he ever thought he would in eternity, and one he would do just about any damn thing for. He shoves the cookie, on a napkin to avoid another lecture by Nate, towards Barbie. “Eat this. And what do you both want?”

“Tina said the Santa costume is at the station, and she’s running a lint roller over it to get rid of any dust. You’re about Mr. Rockwell’s height -”

“No.”

Nate makes a second attempt, honeyed words pleading, “for no more than two hours. It would mean so much to this town that has become our home. It would mean -”

“I’m not dealing with any little brat screaming in my ears about some presents.”

“It would mean a lot to me,” Barbie finishes for Nate, flatly. “We will keep the kids calm, Nate and Farah will entertain them. Tina will talk to them, and you can just check their names against a roster and repeat their wish. Then take a picture with them.”

“Nope. Besides, we’re supposed to be in the shadows.”

Nate nods, acknowledging that Mason is correct. The accessories, such as the full, white beard, may be uncomfortable for him, as well as the inevitable sounds which come with the excitement of children. It may not be such a fair ask, and there may be some other possibilities. “Babs, there may be some adjustments I can have made to the suit, to accompany the length of my arms and legs. The tailor in town, I am sure, is quite busy. I can, however, make a request with ours at the Agency.”

An attempt to speak comes out as a squeak, and Barbie throws her arms around Nate’s shoulders in a hug. “Thank you, Nate. Really. We should go now, and get to your tailor as soon as possible.”

Mason, silver eyes sharp and observant, regards Barbie and he guesses she’s relieved, with the sharp exhale of breath, taking a bite of the cookie and writing down some last notes. There is an errant thump in his chest, and he rubs his palm against it. Then regards Nate, also exhaling a breath, longer, and his hands slide into his pockets, their refuge.

And damnit, her smile is making his jaw tingle, and he stretches it to alleviate that sensation. Damnit, she is so fucking beautiful like this, merry and jovial. And, groaning, Mason drags his hand down his face, wrapping his fingers behind his neck.

He thinks he might regret this for eternity, but then figures that being able to do what Nate is doing, make her glow like that again, so ecstatic? Maybe that’ll make an afternoon of misery worth everything.

“Wait,” he reaches, finding Barbie’s hand, and pulls them both up. “You just have to promise to stay near me, alright, sweetheart?”

Barbie’s mouth falls open, and she truly is stunned, frozen in place as she processes his answer. She then grins, thanking him with a kiss to his cheek. “You got it, Santa.”

In the midst of hazing lights, luminous trees and the rising dawn of the Eve, there is a stir. In this living room, under a bough and honoring the custom of the mistletoe, a couple hushes each other between deep kisses and berry extraction. His senses are heightened once more, and he grumbles an announcement of visitors. She spies past the door and wishes, one small wish, that he will appear.

And to her delight, they are not just any visitors.

The commanding agent will claim this a completed, successful mission, but with a hearty and robust, “Merry Christmal to all!”, Lucas will say that with a little magic, he fulfilled his Christmas promise.

fin.

#the wayhaven chronicles #twc fanfic #wayhavensecretsanta #nate sewell #twc mason #mar writes twc

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smallgodseries · 1 year

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[image description: A bespectacled bear sits in a lovely meadow – lovely mountains rise behind her in the distance. She types away at a strange laptop featuring an inverted (hanging?) Chiroptera logo. Next to her, her trusty mouse. She knows how these things work after all. Text reads, “179 ~ 1ma be@r ~ small god of Harmless Trolling”]

• • • • •

The anonymity of the internet brings out the worst in some people. They pick fights with strangers; they hurl slurs like stones, and pretend innocence when asked to stop. They hide behind the pretty veil of invisibility, escaping the consequences of their own actions, and people call them “trolls” like they deserve the name. Trolls are petty nuisances out of fairy tales, defending bridges (sometimes bridges too far) from goats whose hooves might damage the masonry. Trolls serve a PURPOSE in the fairy tale ecosystem. These people serve no purpose at all. They debase the name of “troll.”

But there ARE trolls in the ether, people whose purpose is to keep you from the bridge too far, who bring whimsy and weirdness into a world that is sometimes sorely lacking in either. And at times, the anonymity of the internet works in their favor, as well.

On the internet, no one knows that you’re a bear.

Ima is among the newest of the small divinities whose lives we chronicle here, spawned out of a love for mischief and a desire to brighten the world in a small, vicious, glorious wait. She dangles her bait for the unwary to bite, and all too many of them do.

BATMAN’S BUTT IS NOT AS GOOD AS GAMBIT’S.

CYCLOPS HAS HEAT LASERS.

SPACE 1999 IS THE BEST SCIENCE FICTION FRANCHISE EVER CREATED.

She fires her benedictions into the ether, and watches as the unwary and the unwitting and the faithful arrive together, a teeming wave upon her tangled web, and she tells them she is not a bear, and they all know she is a bear, and they all accept her for what she is.

She is light. She is whimsy. She is making the world more gloriously strange by her very presence, and she is not going to stop any time soon. She is a true troll, in the fairy tale sense, and she will one day open the glorious maw she doesn’t have (because of course, she is not a bear) and devour all the pretenders for her kingdom.

On the day that happens, we will bring the snacks.

• • • • •

Please join Lee Moyer (Icon) and Seanan McGuire (Story) each week on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday for a guide to the many tiny divinities:

WordPress: https://leemoyer.wordpress.com/

Instagram: https://instagram.com/smallgodseries/

Homepage: http://smallgodseries.com

Mastodon: @[email protected]

#Small Gods #smallgodseries #seanan mcguire #lee moyer #icons and stories

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knifeeater · 1 year

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no because it is ALL about memory. and i don't think it's so much about if louis tells the truth but about what he remembers. because there is never an objective truth of memory, especially considering the question of how vampires do remember differently from humans. sry to repeat myself but i feel like daniels dessert anecdote/the tenor is such an interesting hinge for this because their memories are a flashing moment, trivial, mundane but made shimmeringly beautiful in the knowledge of mortality and finiteness. vampire memory is grand, sweeping over years, wearing over time, seeing at a distance outside of it. which moments do you still remember after you've lived several lifetimes? i would imagine the ones that are most intense, that you've turned over and over like a stone in your mind for centuries. louis' memories never exist outside of a very clearly performed narrative. the only raw memory we get is him mourning lestats body. i do feel like claudia is a very special case here because with her narration we're not dealing with memory but a historical document (which like...i could write a whole other essay about the implications on historicity here. memory and history are not as separated as we might think especially when it comes to marginal/ized histories).

plus the vampire is not only timeless but also remains unchanged in a way from the moment of death. born from trauma etc. for louis this is grief for sure, aswell as a struggle to recognize your own humanity after having been made a monster by society so thoroughly. a fall from humanity, a fall from grace, pauls fall off the roof, the fall from heaven. lucifer morningstar. you will always have the same number of hairs on your head as the day you lost your family and traded your mortal flesh for eternal life. you are trying so hard to maintain the thread louis but another thread was tied through your veins, your lungs, two hearts. you are being pulled apart, resting in stasis. when someone dies the only thing that stays is their memory. vampires are a walking memory, but also eternal forgetting. some day there will be none left who remember you. i think louis needs daniel there to remember. to chronicle this, to archive. to maintain a thread with human time to tell his story. to put his memory outside of himself and look at it through the eyes of another. to try to remember what it was like to live so close to humanity once. he got so much more than he bargained for.

memory is mercurial, it is nostalgic, deeply based in affect and obscured through the hazy veil of time. yes, louis wants to seduce daniel like he was seduced, he sets up a candlelight dinner and lets him feast on his story. but i think louis gets seduced by his own memory as well. i think his heart is beating a very familiar rythm at certain points. daniel tries to bite him sometimes, like claudia at the ball. maybe louis knows that only someone who knows him well can do this for it to have an effect, to sink in teeth and not die. maybe daniel is a safety net for this exploration of memory. this is getting to be too many threads, i gotta lie down forever.

#remember when i was like 'i just gotta get this out of my head so i can focus on my thesis' haha ha #interview with the vampire #iwtv #iwtv amc #iwtv meta #mnemonic #louis de pointe du lac #iwtv lb #iwtv 2022 #knives

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mystery-salad · 1 year

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BEHOLD, THE MESMER COLLECTIVE’S CLOSE-KEPT SECRETS!

These are the various pages that our dear April had stolen from the Mesmer Collective in GW2′s latest achievement! Clearly she stole much-valued intel, remember to not take it to any tabloids and under no circumstances upstage Anise at a dinner party, shhhhh!

Image descriptions below!

[image 1-2] A Collective History Vol. 1: As I begin penning this chronicle from this cozy nook in the Muse, I cannot help but marvel at what this small organization has accomplished over the past two centuries. From aiding a burgeoning Shining Blade to the Chronoflux Anomaly, the Collective has seen and solved its fair share of mysteries since its founding in 1070 AE. Our Fifth Veil has been rather patient with my questions, though not the most forthcoming when it comes to personal questions. As he puts it, “some mysteries are meant to remain as such.” -Foreword by the author, Third Veil, J. Whelark

It was the early months of the Searing. Duchess Adelaide Barradin had received a private summons from Prince Rurik and was tasked with leading a diplomatic mission to Kryta. Having recently served as a diplomat to both Kryta and Orr at the end of the Third Guild War, she had the respect of the Krytan royal court. By her own discretion, the duchess handpicked a small but elite detachment of her own students and contemporaries, many of whom welcomed the reprieve from the front lines, while others worried for the comrades they left behind. The coterie of mesmers were to deliver correspondence and crucial tactical information to King Jadon of Kryta on the prince’s behalf. In her later journals, she would reflect on this moment as the last time she would speak to her daughter and her husband.

[image 3] A Collective History Vol. 2: The troupe would cross the Shiverpeaks with help of two Deldrimor pathfinders, Lyn and Bhrode Runecarver, with the hopes of avoiding the Stone Summit, among other more natural dangers of the mountain passes. Even with their dwarven guides, they lost two of their group to a Summit ambush near the Frost Gate.

“We’re exhausted. Spirits are low. No time to mourn after Kelsi and Torrin covered our escape. Our guides have done what they can to console us, but it’s little comfort. I got a fire going, somehow. Never expected any of Scarlot’s survival lessons to stick. Cendin would’ve conjured flames with magic just to show off. I miss them so much.” -Journal of Third Veil, Velise

[image 4-5] A Collective History Vol. 3: Having reached the gates of Lion’s Arch, the duchess and her attaché were finally granted entry into the city. They were escorted to the palace by the Lionguard; it was “a humid evening, despite the coastal breeze.” Even at that hour, King Jadon was engaged in council with his advisors as charr forces amassed on the eastern Krytan border. Duchess Adelaide presented the king with the diplomatic parcel as he made introductions. When King Jadon addressed the emissary from the White Mantle, the duchess noticed three imposing figured garbed in golden robes and armor, with multiple sets of dark ethereal wings emerging from their backs. They hovered quietly, flanking the “stout but stern man in unusually vibrant attire” in a corner of the inner chamber.

Unknown to most, the duchess was in posession of a relic stolen from Orr early in the Third Guild War. The Veil of Ilya, an elegant but otherwise visibly unremarkable domino mask, was rumored to pierce the curtain of reality, to look upon things not normally seen by mortal eyes. Its passive magic would allow the wearer to perceive things hidden by illusion or that exist out of phase with Tyria proper as if they were there normally. Should the wearer actively draw upon the Veil’s well of power, they may reveal these things to those around them within a defined space and for a short period of time.

Before the Unseen could act, the duchess exposed them with the full power of the Veil. It was said that the mursaat attacked with powerful magics, killing the king’s advisors and royal guard in seconds. Adelaide and her companions came to the king’s defense with combined feedback spells, evacuating His Royal Highness through secret corridors at his direction.

[image 6-7] A Collective History Vol. 4: In a gambit to learn more about their mysterious pursuers, the king and his mesmer escort, tired and tattered, had set a trap for a mursaat who had wandered further ahead of their hunting party. On their own, a single mursaat was formidable--deadly, but not invincible. Even with their foe defeated, one of Gauvain’s students fell in the skirmish and King Jadon sustained serious injuries attempting to protect the young spell-slinger. The rest attempted to carry the king afterward, but he would succumb to his wounds the following day.

The remaining four continued into South Kessex, toward what King Jadon thought could be a possible safe haven. During their detour to “bury” the dead, the mursaat had made up for lost ground and would eventually surround them. The duchess and her comrades stares down their attackers as the Veil of Ilya revealed their presence once more. In a blinding moment of flashing sigils and spellcraft, the four were dazed by the light--only to find the mursaat lying dead around them.

Before them appeared the projection of a man who introduced himself as Obryn--a seemingly powerful spellcaster in his own right. Their mysterious savior would help them find proper shelter near the village of Shaemoor and keep them informed as best he could.

[image 8-9] A Collective History Vol. 5: “As a child, I’d heard my parents weave stories of their home, Istan. Early on, I suspected ‘Bryn might be a djinn. No one in the Collective has ever seen him outside his projected form, and it’s become sort of an in-joke for new recruits to speculate wildly. It IS a handsome projection, and yes, I’d asked, and no, he was flattered but uninterested. His loss.” -Journal of Fourth Veil, Nemah

In the weeks following, after the charr invasion of Kryta was routed by the White Mantle and their masters, their occupation of Kryta began. The remaining mesmers decided they would not abandon Kryta to its new regime. There, Adelaide, Velise, Gauvain, Nemah, and Obryn would form the first inner council of the Mesmer Collective, a fledgling network of spies and informants that would serve Kryta in the formative years of the Shining Blade and, later, their own kinsfolk in the Ascalonian settlement. In time, the Collective’s numbers would grow. Individuals with ties and connections to larger Krytan towns would form the first outer council and, eventually, the first members of the Shroud.

The truth of King Jadon’s disappearance and death remains a secret to this day, known only to a privileged few outside of the Collective. Even after Queen Salma reclaimed the throne, the young Mesmer Collective deemed it best that the truth remain buried, worries that Jadon’s death under the protection of Ascalonian diplomats would rouse suspicion and undermine the burgeoning trust between the new Ascalonian refugees and the Krytan people.

[image 10] Recipe from the Queen’s Roast: The Queen’s Roast, feeding the people of Divinity’s Reach since 1231 AE

Receipt from the third week of summer.

6 cups of Queen’s Floral Tea 1 pint of Apple Grove Cider 1 Yak Wellington with hearty mountain greens and a piece of rhubarb pie (customer encourages the largest slice possible) 1 rare yak steak, hold the sides 2 slices of the daily cake special 1 plate of the daily house roast, please include all sides 1 Caledon blueberry salad with sautéed kale

Signed for by: Countess Anise

#gw2 #guild wars 2 #guildwars2 #gw2 fan submission #spoilers #gw2 spoilers

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sandythereadingcafe · 1 year

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REVIEW TOUR

THE MIDNIGHT REALM (Chronicles of the Stone Veil 7) by Sawyer Bennett at The Reading Cafe:

‘intriguing, intricate, captivating’

http://www.thereadingcafe.com/the-midnight-realm-by-sawyer-bennett-review-tour/

#books #reviews #book tours #The Midnight Realm #Chronicles of the stone Veil #Sawyer Bennett #The Reading Cafe

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thereadingcafe · 1 year

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#Sawyer Bennett #The Midnight Realm #Chronicles of the Stone Veil #Fantasy #Mythology #Review

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anitabyars · 1 year

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‼ NOW AVAILABLE IN KINDLE UNLIMITED ‼

The Chronicles of the Stone Veil series is now in Kindle Unlimited! If you like your romance with a dose of magic and mayhem (think power hungry demons and world-ending prophecies), then this series is for YOU!

The Clash of Yesterday (standalone novella): https://amzn.to/37cZnfF

The Revelation of Light and Dark (book one): https://amzn.to/2VhHIB5

A Discovery of Secrets and Fate (book two): https://amzn.to/3fiIdld

The Evolution of Fae and Gods (book three): https://amzn.to/3yjmy3G

A Battle of Blood and Stone (book four): https://amzn.to/3ylupxQ

The Rise of Fortune and Fury (book five): https://amzn.to/3xl2tsD

The Shadow Princess (standalone novel): https://amzn.to/3HEPl74

The Midnight Realm (standalone novel): https://amzn.to/3x7qyWZ

PLEASE NOTE: For the duration of the time The Chronicles of the Stone Veil series is in Kindle Unlimited, any new releases to the series will be offered WIDE first before being submitted to KU.

#sawyer bennett #kindleunlimited #The Chronicles of the Stone Veil series #readfreeinku

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tastywordgasms · 1 year

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📕📘📙🧡ᑎEᗯ ᖇEᒪEᗩᔕE🧡📙📘📕 The Midnight Realm by Sawyer Bennett is ℕ𝕆𝕎 𝔸𝕍𝔸𝕀𝕃𝔸𝔹𝕃𝔼! ℝ𝕖𝕒𝔻 Tanya and Lita's 𝔹𝕆𝕆𝕂 ℝ𝔼𝕍𝕀𝔼𝕎! ●•٠Ⓖⓡⓐⓑ ⓨⓞ🅄🅁 🄲ⓞ🄿ⓨ Ⓣⓞⓓⓐⓨ٠•●! @BennettBooks @SawyerBennett123

📕📘📙🧡ᑎEᗯ ᖇEᒪEᗩᔕE🧡📙📘📕 The Midnight Realm by Sawyer Bennett is ℕ𝕆𝕎 𝔸𝕍𝔸𝕀𝕃𝔸𝔹𝕃𝔼! ℝ𝕖𝕒𝔻 Tanya and Lita’s 𝔹𝕆𝕆𝕂 ℝ𝔼𝕍𝕀𝔼𝕎! ●•٠Ⓖⓡⓐⓑ ⓨⓞ🅄🅁 🄲ⓞ🄿ⓨ Ⓣⓞⓓⓐⓨ٠•●! @BennettBooks @SawyerBennett123

The Midnight Realm Sawyer Bennett Release Date: December 6, 2022 Synopsis: Read the first THREE chapters of The Midnight Realm Even kings who serve at the whim of gods break the rules every now and then. As the newly anointed king of the Underworld, I’ve worked hard to clean up the mess left behind by my predecessor. The realm is in relative peace at the moment, my main focus now on deciding the…

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#Chronicles of the Stone Veil 7 #Sawyer Bennett #The Midnight Realm

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scriptorumsanctus · 6 months

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Genefather - Guy Haley

Archmagos Belisarius Cawl invites representatives from across the Imperium, hoping to secure their assistance in unlocking the secrets of the pylon network. Among the attendees, however, is an uninvited guest who may possess the only mind in the galaxy greater than that of the fabled Archmagos…

In the cataclysmic epochs of the 41st millennium, where shadows entwine the stars and the echoes of ancient heresies reverberate through the immaterium, a saga of profound arcana and forbidden knowledge unfurls its ominous scrolls.

Guy Haley, the revered scribe of the Imperium’s sagas, has chiseled yet another illustrious script, a continuum to the sacred text of "Belisarius Cawl: The Great Work". Within the encrypted vellum of "Genefather", a meeting of minds echoes through the vastness of time and space. The confluence of Belisarius Cawl and Fabius Bile.

Key figures emerge from the shadows, amongst them Qvo and Alpha Primus—vessels of lore and carriers of destinies yet unveiled. Their tales intertwine with whispers of the Inquisition and the hidden mechanisms of the Adeptus Mechanicus, laying the foundation stones for epics yet to be sung.

Within the pages of this narrative scroll, the spirits of Qvo and Alpha Primus are the most legendary. They emerge as the paragons of intrigue, heralding a theatre of formidable conflicts, and sowing the seeds of mysteries yet to bloom in the grim vastness of Cawl’s odysseys. The story also breathes with the cold winds of the Inquisition’s scrutiny, lingering ominously over the arcane machineries of the wider Mechanicus.

In the labyrinthine corridors of 40k lore, where chronicles intertwine with the threads of prophecy and retcon, a tempest brews. The aeons have shifted, the celestial tapestry realigned, placing the saga of the Imperium Nihilus a hundred years beyond the sanctified scrolls of the Sanctus Lore. In the echoes of such celestial reconfigurations, murmurs vibrate through the Empyrean, speculating the heralding of novel armaments and divine theatres of the 40k dominion.

This humble scribe downloaded this tombs content as and audioscroll, the herald John Banks invokes the spirits of the saga with a vocal alchemy that reverberates with the essence of the 40k mythos. His sonorous incantations breathe life into the chiseled inscriptions, enshrouding the listener in the sacred atmospheres of the Dark Imperium’s echoed tales.

"Genefather", thus, engraves its revered glyphs in the sanctified codices of the 41st millennium, resonating with the arcanum and the chronicles of unyielding progress shrouded in the enigmatic veils of heresy and the Omnissian mystery.

★★★★

#warhammer 40k #40k #genefather #belisarius cawl #fabius bile #review

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xananabanana · 11 months

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An excerpt from A Traveler’s Guide to the World: A Chronicler’s Journey, Volume III, Chapter 6: Borokovia: A Land of Power by Chronicler Liza Exilar, Year 382, 5E, 4A

My travel to the region of Borokovia began in the port of Solaria Minor. The port was situated on the northern lip of the Serpent’s Strait on the western coast of Vastrut. I arrived by a Haegan trade vessel, the Angel of Divine Favor, which left port from Haegan itself. As always, traveling by sea with Alavonians is a strange and surreal experience. To see a crew but never knowing their faces, still bothers me. I had hoped to overhear a sea shanty new to my ears or to witness the bonds of nautical companionship between their stoic kind. I had not expected the same soft hymns as sung in prayer. Watching waves that crested higher than the mast of the ship be met with soft-voiced hymns caused me goose pimples.

I intend to commission a dwarven vessel for my next journey across the Storm Sea. I could not travel another month across water without merry song and boisterous companionship. Though even I must admit that the memory of Alavonian cuisine upon my tongue grants me pause. On the occasional night when the waves were calm, they would cook a dish of boiled dumplings and fish that made me forget the howling winds. No amount of food, no matter how well prepared, will convince me to subject myself to the veiling of my skin at all hours of the day again.

In Solaria Minor, I rendezvoused with my escort in the homeland of the vozarin near the gates to the city. According to the ship's captain, vozarin are not allowed within the walls of Solaria Minor. While in port I took the opportunity to enjoy the local gossip. I overheard a rumor had spread that even the high king of the vozarin was made to camp in the fields during a visit many years ago. Much of the information I received concerning the vozarin appeared to be gossip as well, with one baker impressing on me that they made their clothing from the skin of their enemies.

My escort to the High College was an older gentleman named Luca zo dosa Pogonat, a tutor and groundskeeper. His large caravan, a vehicle drawn by a drought elk that reminded me of a boat on wheels, sat aside the road beyond the heavy iron gates. Luca stood tall over me, at least two heads, with fur the same color as the grey stone of Solaria Minor's walls. He wore a clean outfit of dyed wool and decorated leather; only the hem of his blue cloak held onto the mud of the road. Up close to a creature this lupine in nature, made my heart quicken, and when he greeted me in the tradition of his people, I nearly fainted from fear. He held my shoulders in clawed hands to greet me, strong enough to crush my neck easily, before pulling me in for a kiss on each cheek.

"I bid you most gentle and warm of welcomes to our lands, oh great Chronicler. I hope your travels across the sea were pleasant?" He spoke in the trade tongue, his soft growling voice struggling with the language.

"It was well," I replied in the Vozak tongue. "Though I have been starved of companionship and a proper sparing of tongues."

Luca's dark blue eyes widened behind his silver-rimmed spectacles. "Of course, you speak Vozak. I should not be surprised. Come, let us begin our journey. I will be happy to fill your cup with sweet conversation."

He helped me load my belongings atop the caravan, and we began to travel along the mud road away from Solaria Minor. The southward road between Solaria Minor and Borokovia took us two days of travel. Away from the smooth lowlands and sharp bluffs of the coastline the land became rugged. Half birthed mountains of stone created valleys and rolling hills of lush green. Tall grasses that reached my knees waved atop the mounds dotting the rocky highlands reminding me of shifting sands blowing from the top of the dunes.

Unlike my journey across the Serpent's Strait, Luca provided me with much conversation and the occasional howling song. At night I would watch in rapt attention as Luca howled to the three moons of his people, singing a gentle love song to his wife, Sorine, far away. I had never heard before the songs of the vozarin, and to be honest, I had never believed them to be the musical type.

The ballad was a piece that lasted for an hour, at least, for when he had finished, the fire would have died had I not attended its crackling form. His howl reminded me of any other wolf's cry, but there was more to it than that. A sweetness entwined the notes, and his ability to still create lyrics with the noise astonished me. My Vozak was incomplete, fledgling at best, making the poetic structure of his song lost upon me. The powerful feeling behind his mournful song left me sick for the deserts of my homeland. Both of those nights, and most future nights of travel with Luca, I went to sleep with a bittersweet pain in my heart.

During the day, I asked him about his singing.

“It is a song of longing. Written by the first high king for the love he had lost in war,” he answered.

“Can she hear it? Sorine, I mean.”

“No, but the song is not meant for her. The song is meant for the zanae.” As he spoke, he rolled his as though casting dice to the ground, his eyes staring into the darkness beyond the campfire. “The lesser gods that live beyond our sight. It is a plea for them not to meddle in our affairs so we may be reunited.”

“Do the zanae meddle often?” I kept my voice quiet reflecting Luca’s somber attitude.

“When there is chance to, yes.” From a pouch on his belt, he pulled a small bowl, filled it with salt, and placed it on the ground next to his bed roll. He saw my curious gaze. “Most do not enjoy the ocean; the salt keeps them away.”

On the third day of our journey, we arrived in the most outer reaches of the vozarin homeland. Here the mud road of Solaria Minor slowly gave way to smoothed cobble. I had learned of the Steirei, the vozarin's great stone highway, from books and tales. Once the road had completely transitioned to the Steirei, our travel eased considerably. By night we had covered more distance than we had in the mud. The change in the road was not the only indicator of our arrival in Borokovia. More potent than the impressive road in telling us our location was the great ironwood trees that reached towards the sky like towers of emeralds. Once we traveled beyond the youngest of these ancient sentinels, the light of the day became likened to dusk.

Here, in the most accessible vozarin lands, I was introduced to the first proper display of their culture. Trees bore vozarin bodies on their trunks along the road, hands bound above their heads by chains. Each had the skin flayed from their heads, revealing sinew and bone to the cold air. Most of these prisoners had perished long ago. Some, however, still clung to life, releasing soft whimpers and moans of pain.

"It is not your place to judge them," whispered Luca. "It is only the place of the gods."

"Who are they?" I responded in my own whisper.

"Killers, rapists, those whose crimes cannot be forgiven by us mortal creatures."

"I see."

My eyes scanned the bodies taking in the horror of their wasted forms and bare skulls. One lifted his eyes to meet mine for only a moment, and I met his. In the forest's darkness, his saffron-colored stare pierced my mind. The image of his blood-matted fur pressed against a withered, wasted frame would never leave my mind. Those eyes, there was something between those yellow eyes that made me somewhat grateful that he was bound to that tree.

“That one’s eyes. They’re different than any vozarin I have seen. What do they mean?” I asked, continuing our whisper.

“Those are the eyes of a monster. He has given in to the hungering and devoured one of his own,” Luca responded; his ears were pinned back, and a snarl crossed his lips. “I know you are aware of our customs. And I know that you judge us for our traditions. But even our kind has taboos that should never be broken.”

We continued through the twilight of Borokovia and once past the new growth, the number of crucifixions dwindled until the trees were bare of blood and prisoners. Within the forest proper the dense canopies turned the sky black forced Luca to light the lanterns that hung about the caravan. Beyond the warm light of the caravan the darkness of forest became oppressive yet stunning. Inside the darkness were an unknowable number of sparkling motes of silver, yellow, and orange. The beauty was overwhelming, my breath caught in my throat and for a brief moment I felt as though we traveled through the heavens above. As my heart swelled at the romance of the glittering beyond the casting light of the caravan the question boiled from my throat.

“They are eyes,” Luca responded before the question could part my lips. “Each one is an eye.”

An eye, each sparkling mote before me, the starfield of silver and gold twinkling specks, an eye. The cold of the forest seeped through my cloak like a winter stream. It pierced my flesh to squirm and writhe its way into my veins. Like ancient venom the icy chill traveled through me straight for my core. I was suddenly acutely aware of tiredness in my body, the fatigue of weeks and months of travel. The beauty of the moment did not wane from the revolution but instead mutated into terrifying awe.

We did not stop on the Steirei for the three days we travelled over it. There was no day or night under the dense canopy and as such Luca would drive the caravan while I slept, and I would drive whilst he slept. When, on the third day, a storm arose Luca gave me an oiled cloak and warned me about a stench which made me cock a brow. When the rain finally came filtering from above it brought with it stale blood, rotting flesh, and gnarled bones which clattered against the stone road and battered us both. From the darkness scuttled insectoid vermin and oversized rodents that pulled the viscera back from the lantern light.

The stench of it overwhelmed me senses, forcing me to cover my nose and mouth with a rag. As more debris rained from above a sickly yellow miasma rose from the ground wrapping around the gore and bones. My eyes widened as mushrooms sprouted from the debris in moments, devouring the corpses and releasing amber mists that joined the miasma. The rag could no longer hold back the rotting scent and I purged my latest meal over the side of the caravan.

As the storm worsened Luca took the caravan off the Steirei, following a branching stone path that led to a small hut that sat only twenty paces from the main road. He explained that the hut was for travelers, a feasting hall for the transient called a Steirak. The building was a simple longhouse with wooden walls and a thatch roof. There was no door; instead, a heavy curtain made of furs sealed the inside away from the cold and the light of the braziers held back the fungal growth.

Inside the Steirak was a broad hearth that dominated the center of the room, a trough of flame and embers. Surrounding the central hearth was a collection of oversized bowl-like chairs carved from a soft white wood that was supple to my touch. In one of these chairs opposite the entrance sat another vozarin, his fur black as night and his pale eyes focused on a distant point. From his closed muzzle came a gentle humming, a tune similar to Luca's singing along our journey.

At his side was curled a great beast that gnawed absent mindedly on a bone the size of my arm. Its eyeless head lifted from the bone at the sound of my leather boot clicking against the stone floor. Large ears, longer than its head, pricked up and turned about searching for me. A hissing snarl escaped its curled lips, scraps of flesh dancing from between serrated fangs.

Before I could excuse myself, the vozarin spoke deeply, making my marrow quake. "It is an ancient Vozak craft. The softness of the wood. Please, Chronicler, take a seat, do not be alarmed. I have asked for your companion to bring you here."

As he spoke his clawed hand reached to the beast at his side to give it a gentle rub behind the creature’s ears. Its snarl flattened as the taught muscles along its flank relaxed and it lowered its body back to the floor.

I looked back for Luca, but he had not followed me into the Steirak. "I apologize, but I tend not to stay in rooms with mysterious figures who deem themselves important enough to detour my travel."

My mind raced with possible intentions for Luca’s betrayal. It would not be murder, I was oath bound to Luca for my life, and I didn’t not believe he would risk his life to break that oath. Extortion and torture would not break that oath though, so long as I was alive at the end. It would not be the first time an escort had attempted to earn extra ducats through my betrayal. Silently I readied myself, a spell coiled on my tongue to blind a potential threat.

"Ah, yes, I believe you are right," he replied as he rose from his chair and crossed the room in three powerful strides. "I am Dragos zo dosa Tanase, Jarl of Warpact Leighamfor."

The Jarl stood before me, taller by at least four heads and thrice my width. I could now see the scar that ran across his milky white eyes, and the coiled spell melted into fear. His face was broader than Luca's, with a touch of grey on his chin and at the corners of his muzzle. Unlike Luca, Dragos wore a raiment of hearty furs, well-kept leathers, and a collection of preserved bones that hung from his body like jewelry.

Unsure of the moment, I reciprocated the greeting that Luca had extended me. Gently I grabbed the Jarl's shoulders and stood on my tiptoes to plant a kiss on each of his cheeks. A growl gurgled from his chest, and I feared that I had made a fatal mistake, but the growl faded into a hearty laugh that forced me to cover my ears.

"Were you not a Chronicler, I would have snapped your neck for such impropriety." His hands grasped my shoulders, his clawed fingers reaching the bottom of my shoulder blades before he returned the kisses. "But your bravery and etiquette are far beyond any foreigner I have ever met, so I welcome you into the land of my people. In the future, my friend, in Borokovia one bows their head to a superior.”

"I thank you for your graciousness, and I thank you for your mercy at my impropriety, my lord." I swallowed hard. "May I ask what business you have with me?”

"Yes, yes, I have instructed my cousin to bring you here to converse. You see, I am a man of tongues," as he spoke, his Vozak slipped into the trade tongue. "And I know many things of the outside world, which I wish to converse over a meal with you."

"Of what do you wish to talk?"

"Of philosophy, of course! Is that not what you are traveling to my brother's city to tutor?" His voice was loud and deep like distant thunder that rumbled in my chest.

"It is, but I am no philosopher. I am a recorder of culture, of the idea. I do believe the conversation you wish to have is one where I will fall short, I am afraid."

"Nonsense! Sit, sit. I will have food and drink brought to us while we converse." The Jarl's voice had confidence and a softness that I had not expected from a leader of the vozarin. He was confident that I would accept his offer not out of fear but out of his charisma and charm. "My only wish is to shine a light on the savagery, as others call it, of my kind."

I did as instructed, plopping into the wooden chair and sinking into the soft polished wood. The Jarl took his place opposite me barking out a single word, Tjenitor. From behind a dividing curtain came a servant bearing bowls of stew and flagons of ale that he proffered to us before retreating behind the curtain again. The stew was a dark red sludge in which were suspended large cubes of meat and roots. I had learned of the blood stews of Borokovia before traveling. Still, I was unprepared for the reality of the dish before me. I was famished from my journey, and my stomach had only known the succor of rations for at least a month, so I greedily consumed the meal.

"I hear your enjoyment, foreigner; I hope you enjoy the dish. Vanda is my cook, and I believe that her preparation of Alavonian meat far surpasses my expectations." My heart froze at the comment, and I stared at the chunk of stewed meat in the basin of my spoon. Before I could respond, the Jarl, again, burst into hearty laughter. "I joke, Chronicler. I know this would cause you distress, and it amuses me. The meat is not that of another thinking beast. It is elk from my own train."

#short story #fantasy #world building #werewolf #dragon blight

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