#rather than constructing whole hooves | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

lotornomiko · 3 years

Text

The Broken Hearted Comfort Chapter Six (Slightly not safe for work here and there...)

Another one!

The Queen's prison tower hadn’t been a place that was easily found, even for one with a skill that was as downright miraculous as it was mysterious, when it came to locating that what was needed. There was an innate bit of magic at work here, both in the hiding of that imposing building, and in the ability that Mr. Smee often called into use. But even he seemed to not be able to truly explain that trick of his trade, and the many years that had been added to an already long life span, had only helped make it grown stronger in strength, rather than see it weakened. One day it might mature strong enough to find even that which was the pirate Hook’s ultimate goal, a spell or a weapon strong enough to destroy even that of the Dark One. For now, he’d settle for the second best thing, a treasure the likes of which few if any would ever lay claim to. That peace of mind, the ability to cope, and the woman who it was all tied to, the man desperate for that beauty. For Belle.

The tower constructed of its many stones and white mortar, was spiraled so high up into the sky that even hours later it should have remained visible to the naked eye. However there was magic at play here, the fog and the mountains swallowing it up whole, so that not even a betraying glimmer of it was exposed. It and they were deep in that ranged and ragged terrain, miles away from any town, from any real mark of a human’s civilization. Such was the journey to and from Regina’s prison, that horses had been needed, the sea still little more than a day’s journey from where they now were.

It was more than a trifle unsettling to be this far out on land. To be this far away from that of his ship, and the protection of its magic, and that of its cannons. It was an upset that his crew echoed, the men uneasy with the realization that they had all had, that of the vulnerability, and that of how easily it could be to see them all trapped on this, a most inhospitable of lands. Such was their worry and distaste, that it was a palpable thing, flavoring the air with a kind of tension that unnerved the horses that they rode upon, the most frightened of the beasts trying to balk with their every step, leaving at least one pirate struggling to bring his mare under control.

Some horses, however, seemed to be thriving on the tension, hooves striking dirt and cobbles with an unearthing precision, as they all but flew with a speed born of wings that they did not actually have. The wind stirred in those mounts wake, Hook keeping a firm hold on the reins, but otherwise was content to let the big, bulky stallion have its fun, so long as the creature kept up so punishing a pace towards the sea, rather than run further from it. Some kept pace with him, while others of his crew, the ones struggling with their rides, faltered from somewhere in the distant behind, and more than one man had a careful grip on their weapon, that of their swords, or that of the muskets. They were prepared for a fight, for the pursuit that had not yet come, everyone on edge and cautious for the evil queen could strike at ANY time, and with that powerful magic that was all Regina’s own, she could appear before them in an instant, and with an army of well armed soldiers to back her up. That she hadn’t thus far, was good fortune for the pirates, and nothing but mere chance, that foul woman not yet having learned of just what had happened at her secret tower.

She might not even concern herself with Belle right away, not with the number of other men and women freed from her keep. With ALL of the queen’s prisoners having been set loose, it was the hope that she’d not only not know where to begin looking, but be unable to decide on just who to go after first. Whoever was most valuable most likely, though as to who that could actually be, not even Hook had a clue. It certainly couldn’t be Belle, could it? When even she insisted that he, and that of the Queen, that of everyone being so wrong about her own value. Yet any other details surrounding her capture and imprisonment, Belle would not reveal, keeping such secrets closely guarded to her chest. But there would be time later to coax and seduce the story from her, God willing they made it to the Jolly Roger and soon!

It still bothered him, the not knowing, Hook a naturally inquisitive kind of guy, even when not going out of his way to make so powerful an enemy. He kept playing it over in his mind, so curious and determined where Belle was concerned, and about her own perceived lack of worth. The value the lass insisted she was lacking. To a man who was rapidly finding her becoming just about everything that he had needed, the pirate had deemed his beauty more priceless than just about any treasure or magic. He may not truly understand it, but that brief taste the night in the alleyway, had seen the woman become that which was essential for Hook. Not just for his lust, but for his sanity, for that of his peace of mind. She had made the grief more than manageable, thoughts of her consuming him whole. She both distracted him and maddened his blood, and the captain could acknowledge that he still wasn’t any closer to being in a stable state of mind. Off hinged, and so long driven and made crazed by his losses, and that need for revenge, and the burdens weighing him down, he had almost always been that of an obsessive kind of person, having spent hundreds of years upon years holding onto his pain and those motivating needs. It and the fact there was so many dependent upon him, left no true rest for him, Hook having to see this to its end, to see that murderous monster dead.

Most days were harder than that of the others, century after century stretching on, with no real end in sight. Locked in his self loathing and misery, if not for his own vows, surely he would have died by his own hand by now. Something had truly broken inside him at Milah’s callous death at Rumplestiltskin’s hands, an irreparable piece shattered, that had ushered him down that plunge of madness. Free falling through such insanity, that craziness had only been tempered and honed by a few hundred of years spent on grieving and on hate. Lodged in that endless mire of darkness, the first guiding light to have appeared, that of Belle, had the man latching on in fierce fixation upon her. It and she had thoroughly consumed him, and the longer he had gone without her, the stronger the obsession had become.

If possible, it had led him to become even crazier in need. To the point he did the outrageous, daring to lay an attack on that which was the private prison stronghold of a very evil Queen. Even with it only being about a year’s time having passed since their return to the Enchanted Realm, such was Regina’s reputation when it came to cruelty and misdeeds, that Hook and his pirates had heard plenty about many of her wrong doings, and the power that fueled her. She may not be the Dark One, but the woman was comparable in the trouble she unleashed, the pain and the loss she had caused, whole villages slaughtered for her mad ambitions.

The Evil Queen was a danger, one that they should have been avoiding rather than risk having her be brought down upon them. He and his crew had enough of a problem with Rumplestiltskin’s threat, and yet Regina was a problem he had gladly invited in, the brown haired beauty that currently lay cradled within the safety of his arms, the factor that would have Hook willingly risk adding to their enemies again and again. Such a lovely lass of such breathing taking physique, that plush and currently pliant body was nestled against him, her face pressed into his chest so that his wildly racing heart beat could have lulled her into an uneasy sleep. Like this, so quiet and unassuming, so vulnerable seeming, she cuddled almost trustingly against him, in a way that he knew she would never if awake.

She just didn’t understand. Didn’t understand or appreciate his need, or that of the trouble that Hook and his men had been through. That of the dangers that they had undertaken in coming to liberate her from the tower. Or that of the enemy that would perhaps hunt them for the rest of their lives, so much having been risked, and she was hardly of mind to reward him. It actually rankled him something fierce, her lack of gratitude, even as the man kept trying to tell himself that soon that would all change. That soon Belle would come to understand, and be thankful, even appreciative. It was something, a belief that Hook had to hang on to, for if he didn’t have that, the pirate did not know just WHAT he might do. Just what he would resort to, his lust not something of mind to always be nice, to the point that he remembered the fantasies he had entertained, and the very real chance for them to happen for real now. He was uneasy at the thought, but unable to truly reconcile that potent sexual desire against the idea of Belle’s spirited refusals. Nor was it tempered entirely, by the strangely protective feeling that he was embracing with Belle asleep against him. He simply wanted too strongly, and had been tried too greatly for that.

Sullen and tense when she had been awake, this current adventure with Belle had been a far different experience when the woman had been awake. Spiritedly resolute in the silence that she had maintained, the lass had sat rigid in the saddle, trying her best to not so much as brush her back against his front. She had wanted to stonewall him with silence, and she had gotten it, once the pirate had realized the woman wasn’t about to be won over, or even goaded into a response. Not even by his most teasing and lewdest of suggestions and comments!

They had ridden for hours in that tense atmosphere, and had still had hours of it yet to go, when Belle had suddenly given over into sleep. Had it been boredom or something more? He didn’t know and didn’t much care, thrilling to the moment after first recovering from his shock, Belle having cuddled up against him as best she could in the saddle. It wasn’t a conscious action on her part, no matter how much he might wish otherwise, the beauty too angry and full of mistrust, to have ever relaxed so otherwise. She wouldn’t have approved of how much he was reaping enjoyment from the act, such a soft and lush body having a potent effect on HIS.

Having been aroused from the second he had entered into her cell, and claimed a few kisses and touches from her, such a pliant vulnerability, only made him feel ever the more excited. Hard in fact, almost all the blood that had surged to his groin, making for an unbearably tightness in that now granite like flesh. Left wanting and hurting for too, too long, his erection was one that bordered on pain, and only the act of sinking into the wet warmth of a woman’s flesh would help to alleviate such extreme discomfort. If it had been any possible, his state would have urged the horse to run even FASTER to his ship, but the stallion was already at its limits and lathering with a fine sweat from such exertions.

He held in a frustrated sound, that he helped bury further by nuzzling his face into Belle’s hair. His nostrils flared with the scent of it, with her, the woman clean smelling and sweet even after all that time spent as the Queen’s prisoner. Such flavor and the silk soft texture of it, and he couldn’t control himself, thrusting his hips in such a way to rub his groin against the beauty’s side. He wasn’t at all discrete about it, so that any of his crew could have caught on real quick to the liberties that Hook was taking. Not that any of the men would have had much to say about Hook and the things that he was doing. Especially not to his face! All were aware that something weird was at play here, something that might be downright magical, given the distraction this woman had driven their captain to. No random flight of fancy, Belle was something that had hooked the pirate, and had formed a lasting obsession AND birthed the kind of possessiveness to him, that his ship mates were doing their very best to avoid so much as looking Belle’s way.

That possessiveness had surprised Hook as much as any of them, that feral reaction something he could not truly control. It had triggered most dangerously in the tower, when Hook had first come dragging Belle down to the lower floors. The pirates that made up his crew, had naturally been curious, a great deal of wondering and speculation having been privately had about the woman that had caused their captain to lose his head over. The pirate and the beauty had been greeted in turn by a multitude of those interested and judging eyes, and there had been a heated appreciation in more than a few as they had looked Belle over from head to toe.

A propriety rage had overtaken him in an instant, Hook aware of how little the ragged blue prison tunic had covered on her, and the lust that such bare legged beauty was inspiring. It had been irrational and downright insane, the urge upon him to attack his own men and it was all that the pirate could do to control himself in that moment!

He had actually growled, and had stepped in front of Belle to hide her from the sight of his men's predatory gazes. And then Hook had shrugged out of his long, leather duster of a coat, insisting that the lass put it on over that too short and exposing tunic of hers. A tunic that wasn't made of heavy enough material to protect against the night's cold. Belle still had to be freezing, even wrapped up in his coat.

More than a little entertained by the thoughts of the warming up that he would do her, the horses could be pushed no harder. Some were already too close to the point of collapse, and eager though he was, Hook also had a strict no crew member left behind policy in act. He would not personally abandon any of the men who had volunteered on this excursion with him, though they couldn’t say the same of the ones on the ship. The pirates who had remained on the Jolly Roger, were under the captain’s orders to set sail at the first sign of true trouble, Hook not so heartless even in his obsession, to let a bunch of women and children also die or be captured just for his own peace of mind.

It would be a relief when the cry would be taken up, the men with him at last spying a most welcome sight. With the azure of the night sky fading, and streaked with purples that soon gave way to vivid pinks, and then the oranges and yellows of a sun that had not yet risen in full, the tallest mast of the Jolly Roger was made seen. Its sails were already unfurled and billowing with the dawning day’s breeze, if not for the anchor that held it in place, it would take off like a shot of lightning, riding the wind as though it was born of wings. It was ready to fly at a moment’s notice, Smee and the rest of the Roger’s crew, anxiously waiting for a sign of any kind. Good or bad, and none were in the clear yet, Hook unable to give in to that excited hope just yet. Not even with the faint smell of the sea in his nose growing stronger, for they had to get closer, and be on board yet before they could be considered safe. They needed to be out to sea, to be brought far enough away as to be lost to even the Queen.

With a click of his tongue, and shifting of his body, Hook used his knees to guide the horse in the direction it must go. At this current pace, the pirate estimated that the ship would be reached just as the sun crested high enough to chase away the last straggling remnants of the previous night’s sky.

From behind him came the sudden cry of one of his pirates, but it wasn't one born of panic or of fear. The man had spotted the ship as well, and was expressing his relief that they had nearly made it. Similar sounds came from his other pirates, the noise enough to rouse Belle. She shifted against him, but did not immediately try to spring away. Belle simply wasn't aware enough to realize just who she lay against, and why, and Hook felt jealous to think she might have been dreaming that he was the man who had broken her heart in the first place.

Hook wasn't all that curious about that man. He thought him an immense fool, an idiot for wasting his chance with a woman like Belle. He didn't understand how anyone could NOT have treasured Belle as the gift that she truly was, yet Hook could also recognize how extremely lucky he was for that man's stupidity. After all, that man's mistake was that of Hook's salvation, and the pirate captain meant to not only claim but keep Belle with him.

Once it would have astonished Hook, the idea of him wanting to keep ANY woman after the loss he had suffered with Milah. But he felt different now, having lost what was left of his good sense. Of what was right, and what was wrong, Hook practically forgetting he had no future, wasn't intending to live once he found and got his revenge on the crocodile.

And then his private thoughts scattered fully, Belle having jolted awake with a gasp. Hook was ready for her, tightening his arms around her. Not to hurt so much as to prevent her from falling off of the horse, the girl practically violent in her attempts to lunge backwards.

"Careful, sweet." Hook murmured to her, giving her one of his more amused smiles. But his heart beat just a bit faster, and he wondered why. Was it the frantic look she had given him and their surroundings, as though Belle was still considering making a break for it, even with the fact that she was on top of a horse moving fast enough that the fall would have most likely killed her? Or was it something else, something that had nothing to do with the danger she might pose to herself?

Belle placed her hands on his forearms, gripping him almost as tight as he was her. "How....how much farther?"

"Not much farther at all." Hook told her, nodding at something over her shoulder. Still gripping his arms, she shifted carefully, turning and getting her first sight of the Jolly Roger. Hook sat a little taller in the saddle, proud of the beauty that was his ship, knowing that it was an awe inspiring and majestic sight, with its wood carved from enchanted trees that had gone all but extinct in this day and age.

"So that's it then..." Belle murmured, almost too soft for him to hear. "That's how you'll make your escape..."

"How WE'LL make our escape." He corrected her. She stared a bit longer at the ship, before turning back towards Hook. Her expression nearly unreadable, Belle had more questions.

"And then what? Where will you---we go from here?"

"Does it matter?" Hook asked, and she nodded. "We won't make for land at first. We'll lay low on the open sea. Perhaps a few weeks at most, but it might just be enough time for the Queen to forget about you."

"She won't." Belle said, practically sighing. "Not so long as she continues to be misguided about what she thinks holding me will get her."

Hook seized upon the opening she had just given him. "And that is?"

"It doesn't matter. She's wrong." Her expression remained flat, unreadable. "She'd have killed me when she realized it too."

"If that much is true, then you owe me for more than the rescue." Hook spoke musingly. It was the wrong thing to say, the wrong thing to so much as imply, judging by the fierce look that she had given his way.

"I'd hardly call this a rescue." Her tone was dry. "Not when you've abducted me for your own ends."

"Would you really have preferred to stay in the tower?" Hook asked, honestly curious not to mention frustrated by her.

"No, but..."

"But?" He prodded.

"I'd rather not be dependent on anyone...least of all you."

Hook frowned. "I know I didn't handle that night as best as I could." He said to her. Emotion flared visible in her eyes, such anger and hurt that Hook felt almost guilty to see it. "But don't you think you are overreacting to what happened?"

Stony silence was all that he got from her, the woman still glaring. "You approached me." A frustrated Hook then reminded her.

"A mistake I will never get over!" Belle snapped, and the hostility of her tone was almost enough to make Hook flinch. He was also mildly insulted, truly thinking she was overreacting a tad too much for what had happened.

"You told me not to stop." Hook said lowly.

"And look what it got me!"

"I didn't realize you were a virgin until it was too late." Hook told her.

"Not that it mattered to you, once you knew." Belle grumbled, still maintaining her fierce glare. Hook could only grimace, privately agreeing with her there. It hadn't mattered, Hook hadn't cared much about anything but his own pleasure and satisfaction, not even trying to slow and gentle his actions to cause the young woman the minimal amount hurt that could be expected in such a circumstance.

"I'm..." He swallowed, the words hard to get out. Hook wasn't a man used to apologizing, least of all about sex. "I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking...."

"We BOTH weren't." Her look was sour then. "Regardless, that time in the alleyway should have never happened."

Hook remained silent in response to that. Because he knew, KNEW, that she was right. It shouldn't have happened. Belle's life might have been better off without Hook in it. And though he had saved her from the Queen, an evil that would have been searching for the lass regardless of Hook's own involvement, the pirate also knew he could offer her nothing. Nothing that was real, nothing that was permanent. If he had been a better man, a man that wasn't consumed with taking what he wanted, a man that wasn't driven by such baser impulses, Hook would have set Belle free once they got away from these mountains.

But the pirate wasn't, and Hook wouldn't. He'd keep Belle with him right to the bitter end, knowing he couldn't offer her happiness, couldn't offer her a future together. It was purely selfish of him, Hook basically intending to use Belle as a coping mechanism and an outlet. And that knowledge of what he intended? It showed in his eyes, Belle staring at him frozen for one moment, before she turned away with her own gaze unsettled.

Wondering what it was that she was now thinking, what Belle must be assuming about his intentions, Hook still couldn't muster up the nerve to ask her outright. They'd ride the rest of the way to the sea and his ship in silence, and then a welcoming cry would be heard. They had been spotted, the ship's lookout letting out such a loud exclamation that it had alerted the other pirates to Hook's arrival.

The men with him were calling back, already letting the pirates aboard the ship know of their success. By the time Hook pulled up to shore, the plank walkway had been lowered, several pirates rushing down to take hold of the horses.

Hook slid off the back of the stallion almost before it had come to a full stop. Belle was reluctant, but allowed him to help her down, nearly falling against him before she got steady on her legs. He could hear the hush come over the crowd, curious pirates leaning against the ship's railing in order to catch sight of the woman who had driven their captain to expose them to such risks.

Belle actually seemed to shift closer to him, as though nervous of the attention that she was getting. She didn't quite touch him, but she seemed to think him less a threat than the men and women who were looking at her now.

"Its all right." Hook said softly, trying to reassure them both. "They're just curious." He started to draw her towards the plank walkway, when the excited whinny of a horse was heard. Belle whipped around, a question voiced.

"What are they doing with those horses?"

"Setting them free." Hook hastened to explain. "We don't want the Queen to track them to the stable that we borrowed them from."

"By borrow, do you mean steal?"

"I might." Was Hook's lazy answer. "The Queen is not known for her mercy. If she thinks the stable willingly helped us, she'd slaughter everyone tied to it, regardless of the fact they would not have known what we had intended to do." She looked surprised then, and Hook hid a smile. "I'm not heartless. I wouldn't involve innocents in this...unless I had too."

His words didn't exactly endear him to her, Belle frowning. Hook couldn't claim to understand her response, not knowing what was on her mind. He couldn't know that she was thinking of her kingdom, that of her father and their people and what Belle had assumed was Hook's intentions towards them all.

Seeing she wasn't going to speak anymore, Hook began urging her to walk up the plank with him. There was a slight tug of resistance from Belle, but ultimately she followed, the eyes of the pirates all focused on the two.

Once on board, Hook could tell his crew was still brimming to bursting with questions. And for some, like the women, they were oozing with curiosity about Belle herself. He could guess what it was that they were thinking, and just what it was that they were wondering about. Things such as wondering what was so special about this young woman, that she had driven their captain even more insane, making him obsessed with the acquiring of her.

"Get ready to sail!" Hook then shouted. His words were both an order and a reminder that they couldn't linger here any longer than necessary. It jolted the crew into action, most running to their designated duties, ready to help the ship leave even faster.

It took nearly ten men to lift the heavy anchor, their muscles straining, voices groaning as they hauled on the heavy chain. The sails already filled out with the wind, quickly had the Jolly Roger moving, with Hook's third in command manning the wheel, using it to guide the ship past the rocky outcroppings that littered close to shore.

Hook didn't linger to watch the departure, instead dragging Belle to his private cabin. As captain of these pirates, one of the privileges that Hook enjoyed was that of having a room all to himself. A large, nearly spacious room, filled with various luxuries and wealth. That was everything from chests of gold and jewels, to fine tapestries, and trinkets.

Belle nearly jumped, when the door slammed shut behind them, hardly put at ease by Hook's smile and nearness. Her expression had turned frantic again, her eyes darting about as though still looking for an escape. The pirate had yet to realize that the woman was rather scared of him, believing instead she was merely angry over what had happened between them. It didn’t leave him any more certain on how to smooth things over with her, and right now, alone in his private room with her, Hook couldn't think straight. Couldn't think past the fact that he needed to kiss her, and had been hard and painfully aroused for most of their escape together.

"Belle, sweet...." He spoke in such a husky tone, already moving to catch her around the waist. She immediately put a hand on his chest, clearly intending to hold him at bay. Such a touch only goaded him onward instead, Hook bending to kiss her. At the same time, his hand moved, fingers nimble as they worked open the coat, then eased it off of her. Belle didn't fight its removal, but neither did she assist.

Nor did she fight the kiss, letting Hook have complete possession of her mouth. He groaned, his agony and his ecstasy mixing together. And then he lost complete control, touching her all over, his hand groping, pulling at her tunic so that it rode higher on her thighs. His hook then caught at the back of the ragged fabric’s collar, ready to rip it down and expose her fully.

The fabric actually began to tear with a loud rip of sound, Hook ready to gather Belle up and carry her to the bed when he felt it. Felt the sharp point of a weapon against his belly, the hand that held it shaking ever so badly. Startled, he broke the kiss, and saw the look of determination in Belle's eyes. The weapon continued its press, the lass making her threat known. It was so completely unexpected that it was not only surprising, it was absurd. Hook at first didn't know what was stronger, his urge to laugh, or his shock. But ultimately the laughter won out, Hook realizing his kitten had claws.

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

To Be Continued....

8/30/2021 Kinda dragged my heels on starting the update of this one. Most of the start was completely rewritten. Like several pages worth. Its so hard to not rewrite everything, X_X

-----Michelle

#once upon a time #ouat #fanfiction #fanfic #the broken hearted comfort #captain beauty #Captainbeauty #Captain Hook #killian jones #Belle #Killian x Belle #Smut #romance #season 2 cannon divergence

5 notes · View notes

hitbythunder · 3 years

Text

Among the Gods of Asgard -2

A dark!Thor x Reader, minor Loki x Reader story with all the drama and angst you’re craving. Including Alexander Skarsgard as Balder.

–> Read also on AO3

Summary: The gods are being loved and feared in equal parts by their subjects, more the latter by the thousands of slaves working for them. Ten feet tall, powerful and immortal are the rulers of all beings within the Nine Realms. You, the daughter of an Asgardian merchant, fancy the three handsome princes of Odin - like any woman does - and dream of actually meeting them instead of watching them at public events. That is until, as a consequence of Loki’s tricks, you are being forced into slavery at the royal court. Amidst this harsh new reality, you catch the attention of the god of Thunder who then seeks to make you his alone. You are nothing but a toy, a puppet, in the god’s eyes and he will use you as he pleases.

Do not hope for mercy.

**** WARNING: dark story, manipulative Thor, heavy rape/non-con elements, no happy ending in sight

____________________________xXx____________________________

From the window of her room upstairs, ________ watched the four palace guards arriving at her family's estate, the stomping of the hooves being audible from afar. Her eyes were dry and swollen. The moment her father had handed her the royal decree stating his punishment, the young girl had been paralyzed by shock so that the parchment had slid through her soft hands. Then she had snapped out of her trance all of a sudden and had begun to shout angrily, throwing harsh words at her father. Harald didn't respond much since most of her accusations were true, painful statements of how he had failed his daughter. Even if her servitude was limited in time, the girl would be marked as a slave forever. He had ruined his daughter's life and future perspectives. Thus Harald had let her rage like a storm inside the luxurious living room, not caring much when she had smashed one or two vases. All the wealth Harald had heaped over the years wasn't enough to buy back ________'s trust and forgiveness.

After a night of weeping, shedding all her tears in desperation and sorrow for herself, _______ had mentally arrived at the bitter resignation to her fate. Almost ghostly calm and reserved, she had hugged her mother and brother goodby when the time came. Harald only received a cold glare as she picked up the one trunk she was allowed to bring along. _______ kept her head up as she rode among the guards towards the golden palace, her heartbeat quickening when the large gate came into view between the noble houses and mansions. Nevertheless, the young Asgardian girl took her last steps as a free woman full of dignity and confidence, entering the home of the gods.

xxx

Centuries of experimenting and practice had transformed the slavery-system at the palace into one of an elaborated, well-structured design aiming at high efficiency.

According to individual capabilities, age and gender, the slaves were divided into different categories with certain tasks and duties. Young healthy males would be assigned to hard work like construction or field work and such, while the elderly as well as females and children would serve as cooks, maids and valets. Upon their first day of servitude, each of them received a magical tattoo of a ring adorned with Norse runes on the right upper arm. The different colors of the tattoo as a whole and the symbols inside the glowing ring indicated their status within the slavery-system. A white and empty ring was for the general staff, the type of work being resembled by a matching symbol inside the ring. For example, a field worker had a sickle inside the white ring, while a cook had two crossed spoons. Whenever the wearer was assigned to serve a specific single god, the ring would change to the color and be filled with the personal sigil of that deity. Then the slave would have to tend particularly and firstly to this one god's needs while still obeying the orders of other gods.

_______'s father had dishonored the God of Light and so she was bound to serve as Balder's maid. Thus after a short tingling as the magical needle pierced her skin, a lilac ring with the image of a flying dove appeared on _______ 's right upper arm. The tattoo would last until the final day of her servitude, a special rune beneath it showing that she was not a permanent slave. However, heretofore were 49,999 and a half days more to endure.

xxx

Aligned in a straight row the maids stood in the salon of Balder's chambers, their gazes glued to the floor and their mouths shut tightly as the royal abigail Gerlinda surveyed them thoroughly. The grey-haired woman was a member of the small part of Asgardian nobility that had the honor of serving the gods as special staff such as abigail, teachers or advisors. After decades of experience at the court, Gerlinda knew exactly how to train the slaves efficiently and her 'management-style' was rather prominent and feared.

“Remember to always show respect and submission to the gods!” she hissed in a raspy voice as she swiftly straightened one of the maid's skirt.

“Some of you already know what happens to foolish girls who dare to disobey.” A few maids shuddered slightly in response as Gerlinda examined one girl after another, tugging a loosening strand of hair back into the tight braid or checking wether the fingernails were clean.

“As for you, new-one....” the abigail paused in front of _______, her stern gaze resting fully on the younger woman who had no clue what awaited her in the weeks to come, still naive and hopeful. Eyes sparkling with innocence and life's joy, a young and lively spirit - Gerlinda had seen so many pretty girls like ________ joining the ranks of the maids. Ultimately, over time the strain of the work, both physically and mentally, had broken them all.

This one wouldn't be an exception. Gerlinda thought to herself as she continued. "... Keep your mouth shut, watch and learn!"

_______ only nodded in response and showed some fake respect, hoping the abigail would continue to pace the room instead of lecturing her. Gerlinda then noticed the special mark beneath the girl's tattoo and was about to comment on it when suddenly the large double doors of the adjacent bedroom opened. The abigail stepped back immediately, the new girl and her tattoo already forgotten and all women present bowed in respect as the second prince of Asgard entered the salon.

"Scolding the girls this early, Gerlinda?" Balder asked in an amused tone as he approached the group with large strides, his bare feet smacking on the cold marble floor. Since he had just risen, he only wore a night garment out of thin silk which probably was worth much more than any dress _______ had ever possessed.

"Perfection is attained through repetitive practice and discipline, so that we may serve you as best as possible, your highness!" Gerlinda replied humbly and only when she straightened up again, the maids did so too. Having laid eyes upon the gods only from afar during public feasts, _________ was impressed by the sight now that she was this close. The god of light was tall and lean, tight muscles being hidden underneath the white fabric with delicate golden trimming, which matched his blonde straight hair reaching past his ears. Hard lines painted his oval face, especially the straight nose, but the cerulean blue of his sparkling eyes kept the balance and gave him an overall tender expression. The young girl couldn't help but stare at the handsome giant, regretting her bluntness immediately when said blue eyes fell onto her.

"I see..." Balder's attention had already been caught by the unfamiliar face at the end of the row. Sensing the pair of cerulean orbs resting on her, _______ quickly averted her gaze in a naive attempt to fade in with the other maids or perhaps with the luxurious furniture surrounding her and vanish from the god's sight. But it was too late. Balder already made a step towards her. Then another and he was right in front of her.

"This one I haven't seen before." he assessed in a cool tone as he towered over the small girl with flattering amazement written plainly across her face. Not fear like so many other slaves. "She was brought to service this morning, your highness!" Gerlinda piped from the side while Balder surveyed the girl and came to notice the rune beneath her tattoo. Non-permanent... "You are Harald Leifson's daughter?" the god concluded and his eyes narrowed at the thought of the sly merchant who had embarrassed him in front of everyone. "Yes your highness, I am ________ Haraldsdottir and I shall serve you to purge my family from the shame my father brought upon us." she replied like the well-educated woman from nobility she was, her eloquence surprising the abigail and the other maids. "All others out, I shall have a word with _______ alone!" Balder ordered then, which only added to everyone's surprise but they all obeyed. Because to a god they must always obey.

xxx

Silently _________ watched the god making himself comfortable on the large couch in front of the fire place, his large body draped languidly across the plush covers. Once fully relaxed, Balder broke the silence between them. “Has your father told you about his crime?” he asked calmly, his gaze wandering somewhere in pretense of not watching her, which he very well did from the corner of his eye. “Yes, your highness. He was a fool to try and cheat you.” Curt and polite but honest, attributes the god favored in a servant. “Good. You ought to know the reasons that brought you here although I have to admit that I am not a friend of slavery.” the god replied, still not looking at her directly but noting her growing stiffness nevertheless. Then why again am I here?! _______ wondered, the question burning on her tongue but her manners kept her from ushering a single disrespectful word. She just nodded and let the god continue. “But justice must be upheld and your father made me look a fool in front of the gods, the nobility and thousands of Asgardians!” Balder clenched his fists as he remembered the hot shame and embarrassment he had felt that moment. Even if his mother had already forgiven him, the others wouldn't forget so easily, especially his dear little brother. The Trickster would chaff him about it for centuries. The blonde was so occupied by his pondering that he almost didn't hear the quiet voice of the girl in front of him.

“If I may ask, your highness, why not punish Harald himself for his actions?” _______ knew the question was risky but she simply couldn't resist now that they were in privacy. Besides, the whole topic made her want to cry and shout at the same time. Balder sensed as much, not only because the girl had addressed the merchant by his name, and since he was familiar with daddy-issues he didn't mind her asking. In fact, he admired how composed she remained in this unfortunate situation. “You, his only daughter, being here is his punishment, the worst a father can imagine.” he looked deep into her watery eyes, cutting off whatever she was about to retort.

Now her shell has cracked. “But it's not f-” “Do not question the All-Father's decisions!” Balder admonished in a stern tone, his cerulean orbs narrowed and sparkling threateningly. He wouldn't tolerate any offense against his father, especially not from a mere mortal girl. Staring bluntly at the god, _______ barely managed to keep herself together as emotionally shaken as she was right now. But she had to be brave. They may have enslaved me, but they will not break me. _______ swore to herself, her breath calming as she focused. Balder watched in amazement how the girl swallowed her anger and frustration, her expressions turning almost emotionless like the ones of a pretty doll. “Yes of course, please forgive my offense, your highness!” she said then and bowed her head in respect. The god was impressed.

Perhaps she will endure longer than I thought... “Listen closely, ________...” he began more friendly as he leaned forward on the couch, resting his strong arms on his thighs and drowning her in this orbs as marvelous as the bright sky on a summer day. “I promise not to have you do anything undignified or unbefitting of your former social status. In return I expect diligence, respect, honesty and absolute obedience. Am I clear?”

“Absolutely, your highness.” _______ replied without breaking the eye-contact with the handsome prince, wondering how in the Nine she had managed to screw such a promise out of the god on her first day.

#dark!thor #thor x reader

18 notes · View notes

yokasaris · 4 years

Text

Respite

For once Rae-Hann was truly grateful for the aetheryte shard hidden behind the bookcases. He couldn't stand the thought of asking any of the servants for directions right now, with those ever dull eyes and duller minds. None of them knew, but, if they did, would they even care? Their fear would stay their tongues either way. As soon as the familiar surroundings of the Under Rose's innermost sanctuary materialized around him, the mystel slumped back against the shelves of tomes.

Just within this past week he had witnessed primals, all manner of Voidkin, and ancient beings afflicted by Light, but yet it meant nothing in the face of... this. What were monsters compared to man, indeed. Rae sank to the floor, almost half wishing that Artemis' voice would return, if only to distract him. There would be no mad ramblings tonight, however, not while he was here.

Flame and mud flew behind the hooves of the Dark Divinity's steed, and the rider raised its sword. Too late did he realize the intent, a spear soon hurtling toward a flagging Ifrit, a shower of dark aether descending upon the clearing in its wake.

A twinge in the shoulder reminded him why he was even here in the first place, beyond the need to hide from the rest of the Under Rose. Rae settled a hand where the aether had grazed him. There was no longer any injury, no scar to show that there ever had been. Something as simple as a hot bath would likely be remedy enough, but still he made no effort to stand. With a sigh, he examined the closest books along the bottom shelf. Various tomes on Mhach surrounded him, because apparently this star as a whole felt like mocking him now. Choosing one at random, Rae dropped it into his lap and flipped open the cover.

The thorny vines had been alive, sprouting eyes like glowing, white flowers. They tore everything in their wake before they broke his neck. But, what was all that compared to the ink dark blood that brought him to the ground, not so much in pain as some overwhelming white noise that likely was pain, though his mind was unsure how to process it.

None of that mattered now. None of it. Rae turned the page, skimming over the construction details of some Mhachi ark. Ah. The ark. The one powered by Voidsent, built by black mages. With a heavy sigh, he knew it was about time to finally look into finding a black magic user. That would be as difficult as tracking down a monk had been, maybe even more so considering the general population's feelings on such magics. As if he didn't have enough to do without this to deal with as well. Still, it could be helpful, in the end. Not just for Artemis' sake, but his own as well. The mystel bit his lip, trying to concentrate on the words before him rather than such hopeless musings.

Near a hundred years he had avoided the Light's touch, but it was only now, with the night returned, that he found himself corrupted. The cure was no aid when the source of the corruption remained ever present. Perhaps finally there had been a deal that went just a single step too far.

A drop of scarlet fell to the page below. With a start, Rae reached for his chin, carefully wiping away the blood before settling the tips of fingers along his lip to heal the wound left by his fang. Didn't need a second lip piercing. Not now, at least. That done, it was if it had never happened. No pain, no wound. It was only a memory, his own and no one else's. Well, not quite. There was no helping the darkening mark on the pages of the Mhachi tome. He closed the book. Andreas didn't have to know.

Hadn't he said before that his fangs were only for special occasions? 'You're always a special occasion'. A blood sigil on the ancient door opened the way. Within stood a ring of statues, too lifelike to be stone. Of course he knew why. Of course he knew they were people, trapped forever in this single moment. Glassy eyes and expressions twisted in terror... why did it feel as though they watched him as he backed away? The first was imperfect, his skin still discolored where Andreas had broken his neck. This center pedestal was empty and it was his and they both knew it. Just get rid of them all he could not stand to know they existed a moment longer.

Rae slammed the book back onto its shelf, the entire bookcase shuddering at the impact. Unbidden, he could feel Andreas' hands on his throat. Usually innocuous, sometimes worrying, but once... During their spar on the training grounds, the Highlander had truly wished to kill him, even if only for a moment. Death Rae did not fear, but what if he did not die? What if, like that first statue, it was just a step away from death, enshrined forever, never aging, never truly allowed to leave the realm of the living.

The mystel pushed himself to his feet, taking a deep yet unsteady breath as he straightened his tunic. There was nothing to worry about. That room would be emptied, the offending creations taken care of. Besides, there were more important things to tend to, such as his few precious belongings in Norvrandt. He had to make plans for them, his family's ritual tome and the Ronkan healing device in particular. Another jolt through his shoulder told him he could save that for later. Besides, Andreas would likely be along soon, anyway. Might as well take advantage of the time he had to himself without his lover or the Light being in his mind to bother him.

#rp stuff #dream weaver #general rae uncomfortableness probably #birb-nanigans #short stories

10 notes · View notes

ourladytamara · 4 years

Text

Utah Beach

by tamara - 2020

Content warnings: blood, violence, NC, watersports, drugs, war crimes

Red. Weeping gusts of deep, vicious scarlet, twisting in the air like ribbons. Poison - no, something worse. The shells bled without a moment of reaction time given to their victims.

With the defense of Mobile Bay a complete bust, the crew of the USCGC White Lamb was ad-hoc conscripted into the infantry. Armed with service pistols, a few spare rifles, and a shotgun looted from the trunk of a wrecked car, they marched like shorn sheep, twitching and nervous, into the ferocious wind and sweltering heat. Their mission: provide enough of a distraction to cover the last of the refugee caravan heading Westward. Whatever the method, however they achieved it - upper brass, what remained of it, wasn’t very clear on the specifics. Should they fail to provide a suitable distraction, human civilization East of the Mississippi was in serious jeopardy.

With a few moments of rough water off the shallow coast of the Florida panhandle, the small defense ship was blown ashore.

The beach they’d run aground was clearly the back of a resort’s more luxurious offerings. Driftwood, hardy grasses, and stones dotted the coarse soil, not an inch of it developed or prepared. Beyond it, a small parking lot, dotted with the husks of the vehicles unlucky enough not to escape the maelstrom of carnage that was the Atlantic seaboard. The sky above shone an ominous shade of gold as the sun struggled to filter through the clouds of ash drifting westward. Rays of jaundice yellow crashed upon the pale sand and blistering asphalt, an uneasy serenity engulfing the women, already on edge.

Little time to spare. Using whatever implements available, they immediately began constructing a temporary landing shelter to plan at attack. Blair, the field medic, directed her compatriots to build sand berms, a task they began eagerly. Driftwood would make improvised shovels - it had to.

A crash and the turning of necks. Gasps and retches as the fumes gushed forth from the steel canisters like thick, syrupy blood. Each twisted steel shell was embedded into earth like engorged ticks. What little they had to show of their entrenchment efforts were dashed to the winds in an instant; many of the women were simply blown across the craggy dunes by the force of impact, weapons discarded and utterly dazed.

Amanda was the first to crack, sucking down a lungful of the stuff before she was able to find anything close to a respirator; in this case, rather, a leftover facemask from the pandemic a few years back. Flimsy cloth gave little respite, of course. The spice, tingling in the back of her throat in a way she’d never felt before, was the first thing that belied just how fucked she was. Choking, capable of little more than a whine, she fell to the ground.

She’d foam at the mouth. She’d clench her stomach, her throat, her chest, the cruel fate of chemical warfare - that’s what they feared, at least. Somehow, though, the image of her shaking, terrified body beginning to unfasten her belt and rip away her service uniform had managed to scare them even worse.

Because if this wasn’t poison, their enemy wasn’t going to simply kill them.

The others joined her an instant later, the sound of the remaining few guns clattering to the ground and the stifled screams of a half-dozen functionally-innocent women. Whatever it was, the air of musk and incense brought an inescapable paralysis. Not one brought from a direct stoppage of nerve activity, of course; it was readily apparent by now that Demonic strategy was less about efficiency and more about maximally traumatizing the populace of Earth, and this gas was evidently part of the same grand strategy.

Lust was a haze beyond impenetrable. It ate them whole. Every panicked lungful only worsened their condition, their bodies heating up, burning like brimstone and spilling forth from the inadequate, meaty forms they inhabited. Too hot, much too hot; one by one, with faces of indignity and fright, uniforms were tossed aside. Some were more modest, choosing to crawl into the trenches where they might not be as visible - only to fall chest-first into the more highly-concentrated pockets of the gas.

Moans became sobs and sobs became moans again. Under the din of war it was hard to make out the lewd sounds of hasty masturbation, a minor blessing as it was. Artillery roared overhead, jet fighters shrieking before their untimely end in the flak-saturated skies above. Wreckage fell to Earth like dead and dying angels. Amanda, by now, was fist-deep in her cunt. Tanya, the girl from Memphis - she said she worked in a bakery before the draft was reinstated - was on top of her, lapping aimlessly at the other woman’s face. Mud held to tear-soaked skin.

Not one of the six mariners-turned-marines spared a thought in their mind beyond indulging in every excess the foul chemicals offered. It was a heavy, throbbing ache, inescapable and thick behind the eyes; with it came the tingling, the burning, the itch - it was over, after that.

Joann, first mate and first body up against the asphalt, was too busy fucking herself on the butt of her pistol to notice the mass of infernal might moving towards her. Demons. At least four, with a few possibly lagging behind them. Towering forms of malice and hardened vermillion skin, muscles barely concealed beneath layers of angular-cut black silk and heavy Hellsteel armor; yet despite the inhumanity of their size, they were eerily reflective of Joann’s own kin. Two legs, angled at the knee and terminating in blackened, heeled hooves. Two arms, of course; each section of their bodies were covered in the thick, red, plate-like skin, yet around joints and tender areas they bore black and reflective skin that shone in the vermillion light like iridescent puddles of oil. A head, adorned with long, curling horns, black and ribbed like charred bone. What little could be seen of their skeletal faces bore crude resemblance to Joann’s own: six eyes, each glowing red, sat inlaid in their sockets where, in terms of human anatomy, a singular eye sat. Bony cheeks terminated in a bony chin, ribbed with bizarre indentations and notches the human’s addled mind could barely begin to understand the purpose of.

Adorning them, black silk, reflective in the dimming light like nothing of Earth. It clung tightly to their forms, cut away in places to more easily allow salacious gazing at their toned bodies. Unlike the humans, they bore no rank, no insignia - save for a single black-and-white sigil across their breast, each was dressed almost identically. Heavy Hellsteel armor rattled around as they moved, the angles of the metal complementing the Demons’ physique. Imposing, near-black shone along the ridged steel, and a deep rusted umbre in others. Spikes and rough edges menaced like the grinning teeth of some ancient and forgotten beast.

The Demon at the front of the line fired a burst of warning shots from her enormous squad weapon into the berm beside Joann, to which the brave patriot responded with a whimper and an uncontrolled bladder release. Staring back at her, a particularly angry-looking one of Lucifer’s bastard children; her red form towered nearly eight feet, draped in black hellsilk and human leather, slender and delicate like a finely-crafted blade.

Joann did little to fend for herself. Her mind conjured a million methods of escape, not a single one even remotely possible while so heavily intoxicated. By the time her grand plans had been reduced down to simply ‘scream for help,’ the unholy thing was practically on top of her - and, a few seconds later, physically on top of her. “Reporting full neutralization, my Imperatrix. This one is mine.” the Demon spoke into the walkie-talkie mounted on her chest, her tone belaying her excitement. To her human onlookers, guttural hissing and harsh syllables, their animal ears unaccustomed to the tongue of their masters. A hand wrapped itself around Joann’s throat and threw her to the ground while the invader tore away her baggy uniform pants.

Laughter, of course, transcended all language barriers. The Demon at the front began to cackle the sick cackle their kind seemed so fond of, clearly enraptured by the terror on her captive’s face as she pulled her twin cocks out. A few more soldiers would emerge from the brush, weapons readied - and quickly lowered, as the state of the so-called ‘resistance’ was found. One of them smiled behind their steel visor and licked their supple lips, eager to join in ruining the freshly-captured Joann. They’d yet to try both of their cocks on a single human...

Few of the human women writhing on the ground could be called conscious, but those that did found resistance more than troubling. Where their limbs could move - a task made progressively more difficult by heavier exposure to the gas, still leaking - they made little effort beyond that which scratched that deep, burning itch. In their most desperate hour, their very minds would be the ones to betray them. The gas took incoming impulses for self-preservation and fear, and twisted them into motions of lust and debauchery. Basic movements became Sisyphian tasks, the labor of those condemned to the windy depths of Incontinence.

Tanya, the communications lead, was the last to try and muster resistance to the oncoming Demons. She rose defiantly, trembling limbs beating like the wings of a mighty phoenix as it soared from the ashes. Her khakis’ location around her ankles and the slickness of her pussy wouldn’t stop her - triumphant, hand shaking, she pulled the stock of her rifle from between her wet thighs, bringing it to aim...

...and as swiftly as she rose, she was thrown to the floor and mounted by a Demonic auxiliary. The hulking thing cast her pistol aside as she dug her clawed hands into soft flesh like a predatory animal. Tanya was never the most voluptuous of women, her petiteness only accentuating the already-large disparity in their sizes. With a disgusting squelch, her stomach bulged outwards, reflecting her abrupt filling; the hot breath of Hell licked and kissed her neck with sharp teeth and sharp tongues.

With a quick motion of its high-heeled hooves, the Demon mounting Tanya kicked her rifle away. As the scraping of steel across concrete ended, so too did the crew of the White Lamb’s hope for resistance. Distant anti-air rattled off another burst of flak, and wordlessly, fighter pilots turned back, turned West - away. Communications were shuttered, bridges were blown, and they, along with the lives of everyone still East of the Mississippi, were left behind.

And fend for themselves they would not. Steel hoof plates dug into the mud, bloody fog swirling. Emerging from the foliage is the unit’s commanding officer. While an imposing mass of flesh herself, she tends towards the more voluptuous side; her body is soft, tender, rounded, unlike those of her Sisters. Each of her breasts rival the size of her long-horned head, hidden beneath the black helm of authority. On her black-clad hip, a pistol - and a whip, the tips flayed and bloodied.

Dry lips curled into a smile as a gloved hand slipped a flask back into its Hellsilk pocket.

“Another flawless victory, Sister-Cadres.” hissed the Imperatrix, taking a sip of her bloodwine. “Your commendations shall reflect this.”

With her declaration, the cadre let loose. They hissed, cackled, giggled to themselves in delight; the women found themselves pressed against a dirt hill and the sea, boxed in by the encroaching Demonic lines. If chaos hadn't been the word to describe the battleground prior to the looting, it most certainly was now; Demons wantonly gripped and tossed their captures like cheap sex dolls, striking them when their gas-saturated minds managed a scream.

To the bleary and intoxicated volunteers, time came in scattered, disconnected pockets. Human minds were fragile. At once their visions would fill with horrifying, devilish things, unintended for the eyes of mortal men; an instant and a deeper breath of the crimson air later, and the horror disappeared into clouds of ash. A grunt and a moist slap. Twelve inches of Demonic cock pulled out of Tanya’s throat and slapped her cheek, a thick strand of saliva connecting it to her puffy lips. In her eyes, hues of red and black swirled into incomprehensibility, all dissolving like fairy floss in water before the hegemonic will of the gas. Lust was a solvent more potent than any others, eating her mind down to the nub.

“Their throats are so tight, by the Empress!” hissed the auxiliary, barrel-chest rippling as she gripped Tanya once more and braced her for another few slaps into her esophagus. “It’s like I’m about to break it…”

She cocked Tanya’s head upright, and a moment later, the girl’s nose was buried in her crotch. Every inch of it was buried in the human’s throat, triggering her gag reflex and yet offering no hope to dislodge it. What little oxygen was available to suck down in the second or two she was given to breathe only forced more of the gas into her lungs. Clearly, the suffocation was delighting her tormentor, as every time she wheezed for air the auxiliary would snort in satisfaction.

“I want tighter.”

A clawed hand wrapped itself around Tanya’s neck and squeezed, stroking the auxiliary’s cock through her throat. Little if any concern was given to the girl’s wellbeing or the potential fragility of her trachea - the auxiliary, after all, was horny; pumping a few cups of pearlescent, disgusting Demon seed into her stomach was more important than any of the human’s weak protestations. Gurgling, mustering every ounce of her fading strength, the poor girl moved to try and break the demon’s grip… only to find herself weakly fondling the pair of taut, full balls dangling in front of her.

Tanya’s throat-breeding was hardly the worst of the volunteers’ fates - far from it, indeed. Amanda, the first to go down, laid broken and half-nude upon the ground. The poor girl had collapsed nearest the canister, getting the heaviest dose of all of them; whatever they were being exposed to was cumulative, and now, she could do little more than flutter her eyelids and drool as the gas wrecked absolute havoc on her mind. Thought beyond the desire for more pleasure was all but eradicated. Lacking external stimuli, she’d simply revert to a suggestive, inviting pose, waiting for the next Demon in the cadre to help themselves.

Help themselves they did, indeed. Evidently growing bored of sampling their other fresh captives, a Demonic gunner fancied Amanda a urinal. Torrents of brimstone-yellow piss cascaded across her unconscious chest, gushing from the Demon’s rigid, imposing cock and seeping into the ruined earth. If nothing else, it helped to wash away the thick, half-congealed layer of cum and dirt that clung to the remaining scraps of her uniform. Urine spattered up onto the gunner’s legs, the flow slowly ebbing; with a deep sigh and a grunt, the gunner gripped her temporary restroom by the throat and pulled her onto her shaft. There was, of course, no response.

The same couldn’t be said of Joann. As it turned out, there were seven demons to only six women - which meant one of them had to share, and none of the shock troops on deployment were horny or stupid enough to try and get the Imperatrix to give up the raven-haired field medic, Blair. Hastily, they tore at Joann’s jumpsuit, easily shredding the fabric in their feral claws.

Her nude form was hoisted a few feet off the ground by the arms of the twin Demons who’d picked her. She was bent between the arms of the muscular machinegunner, head forced downwards at a painful angle with her arms bound behind it. Gripping her hips were the black talons of another, slightly smaller Demon. This one held Joann’s legs, contorting the limbs to allow easier access to her pink, vulnerable pussy.

Gunfire ripped through the sky as Joann dropped her rifle, the weapon misfiring. Another hot slug of lead in a sky full of it; the noise alone set her skin on fire, a firestorm of stimulation raging in her already-overstimulated mind. The furthest from the canisters, she’d not fallen victim to the stuff’s more insidious mental effects - and thus, faced the horrors of Hell alone, head-on and sober.

Leathery Demonic skin rubbed against Joann’s scarred and sand-caked flesh. She’d begun to wish that it had taken her mind, had taken her out early and painlessly like her comrades - but it was a mercy she would be forever denied. A mouth full of shark’s teeth grinned back at her harrowed face, six-and-none of its eyes… blinking, perhaps.

“What do you think of this one - fertile?”

Behind her came the rattle of belt buckles and sick Demonic laughter - and even in her state of panic, she’d realized that Demons didn’t wear belts. At least, not regularly.

“Heh - it matters not for me, does it, Sister?”

They shared a chuckle. A pause, the wind howling in the silence.

“I’m going to take it’s ass anyway.”

The girl’s cries fell upon deaf ears. Thirteen inches of Demonic shaft forced their way into her throat before beginning to piston in and out. Behind her, hammering her asshole, ten ornately carved inches of some kind of Hellish ivory, twisted into a lewd facsimile of a Demonic penis. It was lubricated with the Demon’s cum-thick spit and a bit of blood seeping from Joann’s cuts. Neither did a good enough job, but hopefully the pain would get the thing to tighten her throat.

Both enormous Demonic forms completely overshadowed her, their sweat dripping down on her body and practically signing her comparatively-frigid skin. Joann was little more than a sex doll to them - one highly, painfully aware of its predicament.

Despite the agony of her own consciousness, Joann got off relatively easy - especially when compared to her other compatriots, Hannah and Kim. Kim was a short woman, the youngest by far out of the ragtag group; cum-slathered, pixie-cut blonde hair stuck out like patches of snow on a frigid peak of cum, blood, and uncountable other substances. She had been in the Air Force before “emergency reassignment” gang-pressed her onboard the White Lamb a day before it was scheduled to launch. Hannah, on the other hand, hadn’t so much as held a rifle in her life. They’d picked up the tall and fiery-haired woman in the open ocean after her yacht had capsized, apparently shelled at random by Demons on the mainland. As any adult capable of handling a gun, Amanda deemed her fit for duty on the spot.

They were tied together. Kim was arranged so that her face was all but swallowing Hannah’s cock, kept out of her mouth only by her limp and exhausted jaw refusing to close. The poor redhead was arranged as Kim’s opposite; blood trickled out of her broken nose as Kim’s pussy ground against it, seeking a relief to the deep, insatiable itch ignited by the aphrodisiac.

Binding them were several layers of reflective Hellish leather, slick like some awful polymer. Fresh sweat and blood made the uncanny softness of it all the worse, every inch that touched them practically overstimulating them from its mere presence. Across the leather stretched barbed wire sharp enough to dig through thick hide straps and pierce the skin; every inch of them was dotted with repetitive cuts and wounds, the jagged pattern of crude and mass-produced steel clearly reflected where it depressed and bit their skin. The slightest flinch would send shocks of pain through each of their bodies, each instinctive thrash like another volley of punishing spikes in their flesh. Fresh blood, vibrant crimson, swirled beneath the blackened leather and coated their constricted skin in coats of their vitality.

The constant discomfort would ensure they kept moving.

Each woman was gripped tightly and angrily by a muscled Demon, pumping away into them with the abandon one reserved for cheap sex toys. One laid on the ground below Hannah, bucking her hips upwards into the makeshift human fleshlight. Thick ropes of cum coated the inside of her thighs, the lewd squelching almost drowned beneath the rhythmic pistoning of the other Demon’s equine cock. Neither captive was held in a regard higher than that of dirt, the two once-vibrant and independent women reduced to warm, quivering holes. If their minds were still capable of rational thought, the two of them would be screaming.

What screamed instead was the sharp tongue of a whip as it slammed against raw flesh, Demonic hushing and reassurance below.

“That’s it, you’re learning. Your eager performance excites me, meat - perhaps there is hope for your kind yet.”

With half-lidded eyes, Blair lapped at the Imperatrix’s steel-toed hoof. Each alien syllable of Demonic that graced her ears rattled her brain, yet she understood not a word of it.

Out of the myriad women of the White Lamb, Blair remained the only one to be personally chosen by the Imperatrix - a dignity even the animal’s underevolved mind recognized the importance of - to lead her astray comrades into the welcoming arms of the God-Empress. She’d been chosen!

It was a strategy that worked again and again. Poor Blair was no different, it seemed; the Imperatrix’s personal collection of subjugated human concubines was growing, in no small part thanks to her deceptive use of restraint. Even the human’s impaired mind could still find horror in the things the shock-troops were doing to her comrades - and find solace in the protection the Imperatrix offered. With a relatively minor amount of coaxing, hatred and fear became undying devotion in the primitive minds of humans. Blair was to be a serpent twisted around her finger, unaware of just how tangled with her Owner its body had become.

Gloved fingers wrenched themselves around Blair’s tender throat, dragging her away from the spit-polished hoof and up towards her pussy. She knew the combination of panic and impairment would do wonders on the underevolved mass of grey matter between the human girl’s ears, accelerating the tiring work of breaking down the remaining vestiges of her dignity; indeed, the Imperatrix did revel in the carnal side of slaving, but Blair’s new role wouldn’t be that of a sex slave. No, indeed, she had something far greater planned for the human girl.

Keeping captives in line once the drugs wear off is always a difficult process. Without the sedation and aphrodisiac promoting submission, the often deeply-embedded fear of Demons in the human psyche begins to set in - but not if one were to give orders through a surrogate human slave-driver. Blair, the one they’d entrusted so much to, would make a wonderful puppet in the Imperatrix’s latest show.

A now-familiar black-gloved hand wrapped itself back around her throat, and with a gasp half-excited and half-mortified, she was dragged back into the heat of war. In her delirium she’d hardly noticed the Imperatrix speaking into her walkie-talkie

“At attention, slave.” she barked, twisting the girl’s head to the side and snapping a loose Hellsteel collar around her throat. “The front is moving - and you’re being promoted.”

With a quiet chant and the sudden, searing burn of an Anguish flash-welder on her neck, Blair’s collar was sealed shut around her throat. Fear wasn’t given a scarce second to set in before the scarlet air catalyzed it to a breathy moan, her lips twisting themselves into a weak smile. Contempt left the Imperatrix’s face unchanged.

A carved sigil upon the side of the now-permanently fastened collar indicated her status; it was tiny, almost imperceptible, yet stood as the sole barrier between her newfound role as slave-driver and the fate of her former colleagues. Pride, sickly-sweet like decaying fruit, mingled with the build of orgasm in Blair’s rapidly-beating heart. It did little to truly replace what the gas and degradation had stripped from her - but that didn’t matter.

She would be saved. Not Amanda, not Joann, not anyone else - because nobody else mattered. Not to her, and from the scene of absolute depravity surrounding her, not to her new Owners, either. Her pussy twitched.

The Demons had retrieved the mounts. Hellish beasts as they were, Blair’s intoxicated mind spiraled deeper and deeper into horror with every passing second she spent looking at them. Roughly horselike in form and size, the beasts had rippling, muscled skin. It shone a deep burnt umber that glistered in the dying sunlight like freshly-spilt blood. Bone plating covered their intimidating forms, and the bones too sat beneath heavy and well-formed Hellsteel plate armor. Pointy, needle-sharp hooves adorned each spindly limb, the tips white-hot and smoking like newly-cast bronze. Whatever unseen and arcane power source warmed them also coursed through its thick, gnarled veins, flickers of scarlet glow beneath the flesh.

Steam hissed from the nostrils of the beasts as they bit down on their reins. On their sloped backs sat small, metallic cages, round and uneven like spider eggs. Tight, cruel things; they were constructed of rusted, bonelike struts, a seam running through the center of each, facing the ground. Concealed cords of sinew within them allowed the whole thing to pop open at the turn of a winch, spilling their cargo across the ground.

Behind the other nightmares stood the Imperatrix’s steed. It was an imperious beast compared to the gnarled and sickly-looking mounts of her subordinates, standing tall and seething with white-hot blood. Instead of a cage, the Imperatrix’s bore two finely-decorated seats, the rear smaller than the primary rider’s. A thick, knobby dildo adorned it, crafted by a mind palpably sadistic. Blair’s breathing hitched as her eyes traced the lewd contours of it, salivating hungrily from both sets of lips. The Imperatrix- her Owner - gripped her by the shoulder.

“Your hand.”

Clawed fingers locked themselves between tender human digits.

***

“Hurry up. We want those commendations to actually matter, don’t we?”

“Fuck off. I’m backed up.”

Machinegunner Vahaqash furrowed her brow and tightened her rifle sling. Marakh, the auxiliary, was taking her precious time with Amanda. Sun-dried cum and sand stuck to every inch of the latter’s bronze skin, reeking enough to smell from the parking lot beside the beach. Despite her cohort’s distaste, Marakh continued pumping in and out of the human’s loosened asshole. Each thrust drove the auxiliary crazy, her forked serpentine tongue hanging limp and drooling from her open mouth.

Amanda’s holes had been thoroughly ruined by the dozens of other loads dumped inside her, and took the auxiliary’s shaft without trouble. Eighteen inches of equine Demon dick, hard like infernal basalt, pistoned in and out of Amanda’s worn-out, gaping asshole. Her pussy had been stretched far beyond the point of usefulness; humans had yet to evolve suitably elastic orifices to compensate their new masters, unlike their Demon superiors. Syrupy yellow-white seeped from her destroyed cunt, providing a bit of much-needed lube for her slightly-tighter asshole.

The gunner, on the other hand, had already slaked her carnal thirst in Tanya’s throat. A delay like this was unbecoming of her fellow sister-cadre; time spent getting sloppy sevenths in an unconscious slave’s holes was time that could’ve been spent incinerating the innocent for the glory of the God-Empress.

Clouds of ash from faraway fires and atom bombs drifted like tendrils of inky night overhead. The other Demons sat upon their steeds, ready to depart - all but Marakh and Vahaqash. Blair writhed giddily on her dildo, wrapping her meager hands around the strong waist of her Owner. Excitement continuously bubbled up within her, teased and never released. She hated to doubt her superiors, but the delay was beginning to puzzle her.

Wrought iron dug into flesh. None of the cages were intended to be comfortable, and any little relief given was promptly taken. Black leather isolation hoods covered their heads and concealed their identities, a dildo gag lodged in their throats keeping them nice and quiet. A temporary measure before the primary slave sorting facility. That was a problem for later, though. Fronts were moving, villages were being looted, virgins were being taken, and currently, none of the shock troops were getting in on it.

With one last triumphant slam of her hips against Amanda’s ass, Marakh was finally spent. Her hot breath left her lips as arid gasps, broiling like the thick ropes of Demonic sperm filling every inch of the poor girl’s bloated stomach. Ropes of it... squirmed, almost; the large, overactive sperm cells within her ejaculate moved constantly within the opaque white wads, like all Demons’ cum. Each cell fought eagerly and vigorously with countless others for a chance to impregnate her broken body; it might’ve felt like being filled with Pop Rocks, if she still had the capacity to remember those. For a moment, Marakh knelt in the sand between Amanda’s legs, grinning eyes trained on the visible annoyance behind Vahaqash’s Hellsteel visor.

“Mind your manners or I’ll have to fuck some into you, Vahaqash. Disrespectful bitch.” Marakh spat, gripping her still-erect cock and sliding it out of Amanda with a wet pop, yogurt-thick seed seeping out behind it.

“Marakh, on your steed. Leave the human.” the Imperatrix shouted.

Marakh’s smug and satisfied eyes widened at her superior’s voice. A gulp broke the stiff silence between the two Demons. Few things in life could manage to frighten Marakh into line, and it just so happened that the voice of her typically-reserved Imperatrix was at the top of the list. Her asshole never quite felt the same after her the first time she’d tried to push back - but she couldn’t simply leave without something to fuck! It was unthinkable - how would she go so much as the next hour, let alone the time it would take to reach the front?

Vahaqash finished tightening her shoulder straps and hurried back to her mount, bowing submissively towards her mounted commander and fellow sister-cadres.

“What!? This one is mine - I’m not leaving without meat for the road.” Marakh stammered.

No reply. A scowl spread across the Imperatrix’s brow.

“I - y-yes, Imperatrix! Give me but a moment to… c-collect myself.”

From her position atop the gnarled dildo lodged firmly in her ass, Blair furled her brow. It wasn’t Marakh’s insubordination that enraged her, but Amanda’s. The human had been given every opportunity to behave, to obey the orders she was given - and instead she lay tits-up in the sand, festering in the sun and sex that slithered across every inch of her battered skin. She clenched a fist. Ingrate - insubordinate! Amanda was offered the ability to stand on her two feet and she refused.

An odious smile crossed the Imperatrix’s dry lips as she over her shoulder, six red eyes curling upwards with unsated cravings and misintent. Blair rolled her hips.

“What do you see when you see defiance, human?” she asked, in English, speaking almost silently in the wind.

She wasn’t sure. Her Owner would want an intelligent answer! Blair racked her scarlet-choked mind as best she could.

“I… I see fear. I see fear and hesitation. I see foolishness, fear, and hesitati-”

“Really?” the commander growled, refusing to let Blair finish. “I see weakness.”

Blair gulped. In the distance, Marakh made a flimsy attempt to grab a slightly less cum-soaked patch of Amanda’s arm. Clearly she wasn’t trying, squicked out by the wretched lump of meat she’d just blown a load in. Weakness. Did she answer incorrectly? Her pussy betrayed her fear of punishment, clenching around the cock inside her.

Somewhere beneath the endless miles of bright red anger that now composed her mind, Blair recognized the Imperatrix fiddling with her holster.

“Weakness is a sickness,” the knife-toothed woman continued. “And it is your duty as a slave-driver to purge this sickness. On the ground.”

Legs trembling, Blair removed herself from the girthy phallus and dismounted the Hellbeast. Her bare feet hit the hot pavement, stinging where her Owner had struck her soles for speaking out of line. Pain didn’t phase her - showing weakness was not an option. Not now, not ever again - her Owner demanded it, expected it! To show weakness was a dereliction of her righteous, chosen duty. Pain was a gift which she was given freely.

Blair took her Owner’s whip.

“Prove yourself.”

The wind above howled louder. Every inch of Blair’s skin was lit angry red by the uncaring sun above, filtered through the ashen and choked sky. Moistness clung to her thighs and ran down her legs. All five fingers clenched the hardened leather like a vice-grip. She would perform her duty with delight, honor, and orgasm. Despite her fear, she marched across the blistering asphalt with resolve of steel. Whatever bravery had existed within her bosom was now galvanized by the flames of Hell into unrepentant zealotry.

Beyond the black pavement, shells of cars, and the detritus of sudden flight, Marakh was standing with her hooves in the sand. She was busy grunting, mid-piss, a stream of pungent gold cascading across the damp sand. Black-grey gauntlets, slick with half-dry cum, wrapped around the base of her equine shaft. Marakh turned to the human with a delighted expression, one that fell grim the moment she noticed the whip in her hand.

“What do you think you’re - ”

Blair struck the Demon across the leg with the whip, single tail flailing with an amateur’s devotion. Her pursed lips stayed silent, contrasting the started yelp from Marakh’s; caught off guard by her own submissiveness, the muscled auxiliary put up little defense as Blair reeled the whip back and prepared herself for another blow.

“Insect! How dare -” the Demon hissed in her mother tongue, cut off again by another strike of the veritable blade of cured leather. Angrily, she lunged for the holstered pistol upon her belt, nearly gripping it completely before the commander, from her steed upon the blistering asphalt, spoke.

“Unless you want to replace her at my heel, auxiliary, you will stand down immediately. You’ve wasted far more than enough of our time - get on your fucking mount,” dictated the Imperatrix, sighing as she finished. The depth of her voice was impressive. Echoes of it wafted through the vermillion fog of sunset and rang like a gunshot inside Blair’s empty head.

“Besides, your punishment is mine to dispense - the human wants the blood of it’s kin, not you.”

More silence, more tension - but in the end, Marakh relented.

“This Cadre is fucked.”

The auxiliary pulled the wet shaft back under her kilt and stuffed it into her tactical garter. Whatever retribution was certainly about to befall her wouldn’t be helped with sore knees, the smaller Demon thought to herself. Her reluctance was audible with each heavy footfall as the auxiliary, at long last, started her way up the beach and back to her steed. Blair watched her as she moved, sucking air through clenched teeth. She’d tasted vengeance, savored the tang of discipline. Weakness - weakness was to be rooted out!

Below her laid Amanda’s unconscious form and the source of her righteous anger. For a moment, she wasn’t sure what to say. Should she spit on her? Reprimand her? Her digits clenched around the whip until they turned white, her face flush. Blood pumped through her veins like molten lead. How was weakness best dealt with, she wondered? Drops of her own slickness fell from her snatch upon the already-saturated sand. This would be her first true test - the first time of so many that she’d be given the chance to prove her Owner’s judgment correct. Doubt’s tenebrous tendrils wormed their way into her mind before shattering. A crooked smile broke the enmity upon her face.

Blair unloaded a flurry of strikes with the whip against her fellow animal’s exposed chest. It wasn’t long before long lines of vibrant red began to glow through the fog of filth and dirt, the same hue of the sun as its dying rays trickled across Blair’s sweaty skin. In the low light, she bore little resemblance to a human at all. Once, she’d been the proud field medic of the White Lamb, a patriotic vessel of the US Coast Guard. Her shipmates - Amanda amongst them - entrusted their health, their lives, to her. In a sense, she still held that trust. It would still be her duty to carry them when they could not carry themselves.

Red. The sky above shone the red of war and freshly-spilled blood. Whatever embers still burned in the smouldering wreck of the USCGC White Lamb were now thoroughly snuffed out, darkness engulfing all but the light of the sun as it filtered through the cumulative ash of nuclear incineration, drenched blood-red as it sank to the earth.

A twitch. Another crack of the whip before the slave-driver realized what was happening, forcing her to stay her hand. Amanda’s bloodshot eyes cracked open.

Above her stood the towering crimson figure of a demon, whip in hand and contempt in its eye. It bore little resemblance to its adoptive siblings. Much smaller, with such diminutive horns - did it have horns? No, not this one. It was familiar, somehow. A word came running to her from the fog.

“Blair?”

Another crack pierced the silence. Twin demons smiled.

6 notes · View notes

sylleboi · 5 years

Text

𝕰𝖆𝖉𝖜𝖆𝖗𝖉 𝕸𝖚𝖞𝖇𝖗𝖎𝖉𝖌𝖊

Born: 9 April 1830

Died: 8 May 1904

English-American Eadward Muybridge is a historical figure and a pioneer in anything to do with animation and photography. Some of his most famous work includes the following;

The Horse in Motion, 1878

A question among many at the time with no scientifically proven answer had surfaced: When a horse is trotting, are all four feet off the ground at the same time? The same question was also speculated upon with a horse in a full gallop. It was often debated, but Leland Stanford, businessman, the previous governor of California, and racehorse owner, decided to hire Eadward to figure this out for him in 1872.

Eadward hadn’t perfected his technique in capturing the gallop when he made his first try, but despite this, he managed to prove Leland to be correct; the horse has all four hooves off the ground during a full gallop. After further developing the shutter speed of the cameras as well as the technique in general, he successfully captured the gait of trot and gallop. With this, he could prove scientifically that during both gaits, the horses’ hooves are off the ground.

This changed masses for the way that artists would start painting and illustrating horses in their art because before Eadwards proof, it was assumed as well as believed that the horses’ time of levitation was when all four legs were extended out from its body, but as we can see on Muybridge’s pictures, that isn’t the case. The horse has all feet off the ground when they are under its body.

Who was he and what did he do?

Muybridge was the face behind introducing animal and human locomotion to the mass audience universally. To this audience, he was a cinematic legacy, so much that he got away with murder. He travelled between England and the United States quite often, but when he found out that his wife had been cheating on him with another man, he decided to end his life. He eventually got away with this murder, simply because he was so fascinating to the world as an artist; and with the good reputation around the rich folk and gentlemen, he walked away and continued creating and further developing his photography.

For the time, photography was only really used as still image captures, so when he showed the possibilities of the bulky cameras of the time, it shocked everyone. By this, he formed the very basics for cinematic sequences and movie making. It’s important to know that he didn’t actually invent animation or stop-motion, despite beliving so when thinking back to his time of working with this media. One of the first documented pieces of animation were Fantasmagorie by the french Émile Cohl in 1908. Why this didn’t take off as well as Eadward Muybridge’s could be explained by the audience being different from each artist. Émile’s animation was hand-drawn, and to many, that looked more childish than impressive to the mass audience. But where Eadward did photography from real life and answered a discussion that had been going on for years (about the horse levitating during trot and gallop), he appealed not only to the people involved with horses and horse races but also to a broader audience of the people. So rather than inventing animation, he evolved upon the ideas of the illusion of life. To do this, he primarily used three different devices;

The Phenakistiscope, the Zoetrope and the Thaumatrope. He evolved upon the Zoetrope and created the Zoopraxiscope.

But what exactly are these devices and how do they work?

Phenakistiscope: The Phenakistiscope was the first form of showing the illusion of fluid movement. It was first introduced in a French newspaper (Le Figaro) in June 1833. It was invented by the Belgian mathematician and physicist Joseph Plateau and the Austrian professor of practical geometry Simon Stampfer. The name of the device is said to be rooted from the Greek word “phenakisticos“ or “phenakizein“, which means “to deceive” or “to cheat”, with part of the Greek word also meaning “eye”; making it seem that it was intended to be called something along the lines of “optical illusion”. This device is constructed with a handle (most often wooden), with a spinning disc attached to it. Simply explained, the user would hold the device and spin the disc while looking at it through a mirror. The problem with this device was mainly that it could only be used by one person at a time. Not only that but because this device is so dependent on having to be flawless to work efficiently if the disc is just a little bit dented, it distorts the whole illusion, and it may end up not working at all.

Zoetrope: This device was basically a remade Phenakistiscope. It was almost created immediately after the Phenakistiscope was shared to the public. It eliminated the problem of its previous variant of only being able to be used by one person at a time. It did this by displaying an easy-to-replace strip of drawings in a cylinder formed base which you could view from all sides. The name is yet again taken from the Greek words “Zoe” meaning “life” and “Tropos” meaning “turning”; translating to “Wheel of life”, referring to the still pictures coming to life. The cylinder base has a series of vertical slits on its sides. When you spin the cylinder, the user then looks through these slits to see the magic happen. The slits help the eye differentiate each “frame” or “picture” from each other. If there was nothing to break up each of these, everything would blur together, and therefore not create the illusion of motion.

Thaumatrope: This creation was most often associated as a toy based on optical illusion and was especially popular during the 19th century. The concept was simple; A disc (most often found as being round) with a picture painted on each side is attacked with two pieces of string on each side of it. When each string is twisted quickly between the users' fingers, the pictures appear to blend together to create a different image. A classic example is the Thaumatrope of a bird drawn on one side of the disc, and a cage drawn on the opposite side. When twisted, it appears as if the bird now is in the cage-; but just to mix it up, here’s a different example of this device in action:

Zoöpraxiscope: This device was created by Eadward Muybridge in 1879, but as the name might sound familiar, it was based off the earlier Zoetrope. What made these two devices different from each other was the way you could display the sequence of images looping around. Where the Zoetrope was much better than the Phenakistiscope when it comes to having multiple people view the same thing at once, the Zoöpraxiscope purpose was to expand this number even further. This device came to be known as an early and primitive way of displaying moving images, and a crucial steppingstone for the future movie projectors to come. A round glass disc with a sequence of movement happening would be put into the machine. By hand-cranking, the images would spin and be projected and thereby enlarged onto a flat surface, similar to projectors used today.

Here is an example of one of these discs, drawn by hand by Erwin F. Faber:

1 note · View note

radioactivepeasant · 6 years

Text

Fic Prompts: Folklore Friday

Just one more part after this, and then the story of the three pigs will be done and I’ll go back to the other ones. I’m just having so much fun writing this one, though! Picking up from last time, the house of sticks is in trouble.

It would be nice, of course, if the wolf gave up his foolish pursuit of porkchops here, and returned to the woods. But then we would have no story, and so I regret to inform you that once again a pig’s dwelling suffered great architectural violence.

This was especially unfortunate, because the construction folk weren’t coming to build the second brother’s storm cellar until the week following.

“How did you say your house was destroyed?” he asked his brother, with another worried glance at the walls.

“I’ll huff,” called the wolf in a conveniently timed interruption, “And I’ll puff, and I’ll blow your house down!”

“Yes, that’s about how it went before,” said the first brother, a little anxiously, “I don’t suppose you’ve got a back door?”

There wasn’t a back door, primarily owing to the fact that the house of sticks was meant to be temporary until a better building material became affordable, and the second brother hadn’t seen much need for more than two rooms in the house. It was not a terribly efficient dwelling. And then, by way of wolf-induced tornado, it wasn’t a dwelling at all.

Tragedy was once again averted, I am pleased to say. The wolf ought to have considered that the first brother might, in fact, inform the second of his particular modus operandi in the arena of demolition. And so when the walls came down with a tumbling crash, the second brother was ready with a good sturdy chair, which he broke over the wolf’s head.

It is a well-known fact that it is fairly difficult to catch and eat a large swine when he’s just bashed you in the head with a rocking chair.

Not willing to take any chances with a wolf who possessed the approximate lung capacity of a hot air balloon, the two brothers took advantage of his temporary incapacitation and made their escape. They were rather winded -- if you’ll pardon the expression -- when they made it to the little copse of trees surrounding the hideous brick house of their youngest brother. But better out of breath temporarily than out of breath permanently.

The third brother had not expected visitors that day, and answered the door in a housecoat and slippers that did not exactly fit his hooves.

“Well this is a surprise,” he said, “Good heavens, big brother, what’s happened to your shoulder? That’s an awful lot of blood!”

“Bitten by a wolf. Stand clear would you? He’s probably conscious by now!” the first brother answered tersely, and they pushed their way indoors.

“Big fellow,” agreed the second brother, “Very bad news. He utterly destroyed both our houses with one gusty breath!”

“And to add insult to injury,” added the first, “I don’t think he’s brushed his fangs in at least a year.”

It took some patience, a first aid kit, and two cups of chamomile tea, but eventually the third brother got the whole story out of the other two.

“Well,” he remarked, “I suppose this puts the crime-scene-brick-kiln in a bit of a new light, doesn’t it? I did say the place was a little spooky. I wonder if this wolf was responsible for that mess? He must’ve been camping in the woods all this time.”

About then, the wolf finally made his way to the brick house, sore and very angry -- as most would be after being bashed in the head with a rocking chair, but he was committing assault, attempted murder, and vandalism and only had himself to blame -- he was determined that this time he would be successful. There were only three pigs, after all, and they would have nowhere else to run when he’d destroyed this house. Evidently he had not stopped to consider that three average-size barnyard pigs could very well be the end of him if they chose to gang up on him in self-defense. His was a single-minded determination, but not one blessed with an abundance of common sense.

“Little pigs, little pigs,” he growled, still just as inaccurate as before, “Let me come in!”

“No,” answered the third brother calmly, “I don’t think we’ll be doing that.”

That had not been the answer the wolf had expected.

#folklore friday #the three little pigs #fairytales #big bad wolf #folktales #i think this one might be my favorite of all my fractured fairytales so far #fic prompts #writing prompts

30 notes · View notes

frosty-tian · 5 years

Text

Fan Flash Fiction: A Cold Start:

Ratings: General Audiences

Warnings: None

Genre: Slice-of-life, Comedy/Humour

Fandom: ‘Boomboom-school’

Characters: Rin Hiryu, other Class 1-B students (minor role/appearances.)

Words: 1500+

Extra notes: Idea from my wonderful friend @seersnake! As usual, polite constructive criticisms/feedback are welcome.

Summary:

It’s the new start for Rin, which meant new attitude, and new things to look forward to. However, on this fine morning, an unexpected problem strikes.

Will Rin still be able to have a great time despite the new obstacle ahead?

Early sunlight slanted through the curtain’s crack. The long, warm beam split my room cleanly in half, turning dust specks into flickers of ember.

Usually, I simply would’ve groaned and turn my back to the light, but I was sure about this day being different.

Why, it’s the first day of December. This meant… Few more steps until Christmas and the long-awaited New Years!

Determined that absolutely nothing will meddle with this happy thought in my head, I enthusiastically threw off my warm blankets (I have the habit of sleeping with two layers during colder nights), wearing an unusually big (and possibly stupid) smile that’s brimming with optimism.

This optimism fell flat seconds after I yanked open the thin, olive-green curtains.

I blinked once, twice.

How...?

There were small, grinding sounds (I think) when I gritted my teeth, before I hissed softly through them:

“You…!”

Within a brief matter of seconds, I was hunched in front of my laptop’s screen, click-clacking away on the keys furiously. Right after the result page popped up, I hastily skimmed across the bright screen.

“Clear with periodic clouds, wind speed…”

Finally, I stopped cold on a particular text. I gaped with much horror. Even took me a few seconds to process the info.

“-10C/14F”

Oh, damn it….!

“Isn’t this bit of an over-kill?” Setsuna dropped one of her casual remarks while she tilted her head to one side and scrutinized me with a wrinkled nose. She was wearing a stylish, puffy green jacket over her uniform. Parts below the below the belt had scale patterns that’s made of something like green foil burned into the fabric, which gradually faded as it crept upwards from the hem. I can confirm that she’s one of the more up-to-date fashionsta in our class, but this morning, she looked prettier than usual.

Better judgment managed to strike me during the right moment, so I kept my tongue in my cotton surgical mask.

Simply puffed out in my full ‘winter gear’, I wonder why she thought this was something worth making a big fuss about. Okay, maybe I did throw in some ‘extra layers’ for a good measure, but still…

“I ran out of ginger powder for my warming drink.”

“Ah.”

Our conversation was cut short by a cheerful voice.

“Good morning, Setsuna! Good morning… Uhhh.”

Kendo hurriedly strolled past us, clearly not wanting to be late for class. She’s the class president, after all.

I was rather surprised at how little she was dressed for the winter. Along with her uniform, there’s only a simple, pale yellow scarf bouncing with her orange side-tail over her shoulder.

She gave me a rather bewildered look as she passed.

Personally, I don’t blame her.

Who wouldn’t be confused when they see someone dressed up like a run-away penguin? Especially if it’s one with a terrible wardrobe and braided pony-tail.

After she disappeared around the corner, Setsuna turned to me and let out a small chuckle.

“Good-luck for today, dragon boy.” She gave a small wink and flicked her forked tongue as an odd way of salute before walking down the hall, one hand in a pocket, one hand swinging her school bag with a light spring in her steps.

I rolled my eyes and thought grumpily to myself

Yes, I’m afraid I would need the luck… very, very much…

Not wanting to be too late on the first day of December, I hastily made my way down to the common area (while almost tripping down the staircase at least once).

Across the room, the glass doors with their edges frosted framed the morning scene like a pretty picture. Just overnight, the UA field was transformed into a dazzling white wonderland when the sudden snow-storm frosted over. Small clumps of white stood out amongst the bushes’ dark branches, glittering under the bright sun like millions of diamond shards. The trees stood silently in this wintry world, some of its branches bent down a little from the weight of snow.

Most might’ve spread their arms open with a big smile and deemed this sight a ‘miracle’, ‘beauty’ or even one of ‘nature’s wonder’.

Unfortunately, I’m not much of an admirer for such a cold, dead-looking landscape.

I stood at least a meter away from the doors, shifting my weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

Should I?

Sure, there’s rather the questionable choice of bunking (not like it’s the first time I did it since I began my school career in general), but the image of Teacher Vald and my family wearing a disappointed or disapproving frown crept into my mind…

Or maybe, I could ask someone else, like Shishida or Bondo to carry me? No no, that is bit of a selfish request, and might be embarrassment for both of us (especially them), not to mention…

After another wasted minute of restless thoughts (and a few in-out puffs of deep breaths), I finally made up my mind.

Fearlessly, (I was trembling just a little) I stepped closer to the glass doors. I still kept my ground as they slid open with a faint whirr.

When the wind slapped against my face like a cold, wet sponge, I instantly tensed up.

But that alone wasn’t going to stop me.

Walking out into the cold, my breath became visible puffs of little white clouds that vanished into thin air. Felt like I was blowing out precious, warm steam instead of simple carbon dioxide.

It appeared that someone had shovelled some of the snow in the early morning to make way, forming an oddly neat block of hard dirt in front of the dorm’s entrance.

Determined, I advanced my way to the far edge of the block. The thick layer of freshly fallen snow was at least 12 centimetres thick, and the mere sight actually sent a freezing jolt down my spine. That’s also when I realized how in the midst of rushing to get ready, the thought of packing snow boots had slipped clean from my mind. Great.

Though reluctant, I began trudging painfully through the huge white blanket.

Cringing while my pant legs stuck to my skin as it slowly got soggy, I can’t help but to think, with just a hint of annoyance, to myself:

If only the person shovelled out a path as well…Certainly could’ve made quite a difference!

It was about ten steps into my journey when a sudden, loud voice pierced the air like a stray bullet:

“RIN, YOU’RE WALKING IN THE WRONG DIRECTION!!!”

Tetsutetsu’s voice boomed across the vast field, making faint echoes that took some time to fade away into the distance. I froze, left foot hovering in mid-air. Turning my head slowly, I saw most of my classmates staring. Directly at me.

To the left, they were walking on a wide, pre-shovelled dirt road that connected our dorm to Class A’s in a T-junction, the middle extending to UA. Which I clearly missed like a dumb egg.

The worst part about being humiliated in front of so many people is possibly how much focus you unconsciously have on everyone else’s reactions:

Kuroiro wore a huge grin from ear-to-ear. Tsuburaba’s whole body was shaking by trying awfully hard (and failing) to hold in a laugh. Yui just looked disappointed, Manga… face-palmed? Shoda had a really concerned look, Kendo…

Not too far away, a few approaching students from 1-A peering at us with curiosity.

I felt some sort of hotness slowly spreading across my face. Thank goodness my red mask and hat somehow covered all of it.

Letting out a huge sigh of frustration, I started making my way back.

Should’ve watched if there were any little puddles.

As my foot shot out from right under me before I could even do a complete turn, the world became a colourful, sluggish blur.

For a brief moment, I caught the slightly softened version of my classmate’s shocked expressions out of the corner of my eye before I did a flip and slammed my back against the hard, wet ground. My sling bag went sailing through the wind, landing with an audible thud and sending up sprays of snow as it landed. Just when I thought this was the end of it, the freezing snow’s iciness stabbed into the back of my head as I sunk into it. I barely managed to stuff down the urge to scream. Sounds reminiscent of irritating alarm clocks screaming clashed around in my eardrums. Though I was rather well-cushioned, my spine still throbbed from the heavy impact.

I groaned miserably as I tried slowly to ease myself up with numb arms, all while feeling hot tears prickling my eyes.

Could this possibly get any worse?

Failing to notice the frantic clopping of horse hooves, I gave a surprised yelp as a pair of small, purple-gloved hands suddenly thrusted out from under my armpits, right before strong arms hooked and helped (say: roughly jerked) me up.

“Are ya alright, Rin?! Did cha’ breakkkk anything?”

“Huh, what…?” My brain was probably half-frozen from the chill. The immediate follow-up of vigorous shaking turned it into a slushy mess.

“How many fingers am I holding upppp?” Despite being able to somewhat make out what Pony was saying, all I can see was a quivering, fuzzy bunny shape in front of my face.

A somewhat gruff yet gentle voice cut in:

“Lady Tsunotori, allow me to take it from here.”

“But…”

“Please.” “Okayyyy!”

Without a warning, Pony’s grip loosened, and I flopped down like a limp rag doll onto my knees, dazed.

Before I was given the chance to come back to my full senses, another pair of arms hoisted me right up. This pair was bigger with tufts of chocolate-coloured fur sticking out from the end of loose khaki jacket sleeves.

I sincerely hoped his glasses were fogged up. The fact that my face were pulling unpredictable, odd expressions made me want to of bury myself deeply, deeply into the soft snow.

Save for a few loud snorts, on one really laughed, but exchanged worried babbles between each other. Maybe one or two “Awwwww”s.

Pony popped up in front of me again, this time holding my (slightly soggy) school bag over her head with a triumphant look while looking up, as though she was showing me a treasure she dug up. Standing next to her like a proud big brother, Monoma was wearing a huge (but surprisingly pleasant) grin, patting her shoulder.

Ah… I’m pretty lucky to have them as classmates.

To be honest, I had no idea whether we could make it to the first lesson in time.

But it didn’t matter that much, because I dozed off in the new-found warmth, surrounded by cheerful giggles and upbeat conversations about the latest gossips, the next test or future holiday plans.

It was the start of a dreary winter month, but at least it wasn’t a terrible one.

#boomboomschool #my writing #first fic posted whoo #hope y'all like it!

2 notes · View notes

explosively-psycho-a · 5 years

Text

House 2

“-WE ARE HERE!-”

The next stop, it took over a half hour to get to this one. This fact already had Toshi on edge about it. He reasoned they could hop on the train if needed and be at school just on time if they were up at the third or fourth train. Possible, he unbuckled his seat belt to look back at the pair. They had been whispering and holding one another since the last place. He paused a moment to let the pair finish their little talk, their voice soft and near whispers.

He knew what it was about since they pulled away from the last place. A small but growing list of simple things they wanted...nothing outlandish or fancy: pots, pans, a rolling pin and mat to make noodles for soba, at least 2 burners, a new rice cooker, decent fridge, non-wet bathroom, a bedroom big enough for a small tv and bed...The old man couldn’t help but smile. It warmed his heart to see them planning. Watching Shoto hold the other man’s hand to lace and unlace fingers as they spoke.

He hated to break it up but, “Ahem, gentlemen? We’re here. House number two.”

Bakugo’s head snapped up, his fingers curling in Sho’s grip. “Already?”

“Already? Young Bakugo, we’ve been on the road for a while. This place has some distance!”

“If I remember the listing, the train ran by this one. We can take that to and from school, correct?” Sho spoke up to explain his reasoning for placing this one on the list. It was the only place in the small price range they agreed on that one room with a woven bamboo floor that he wanted so badly.

“So far from Katsuko’s school.”

“U.A. isn’t, you can pick him up from there. Let’s just look, okay? I think it has a full kitchen and bath.” Sho was still working to sweeten this deal even before they got out of the car. He pushed open his door and tugged Katsuki’s hand with him to get out. One hand moving up to help make sure Bakugo didn’t bump his head on the wait out.

“I don’t know about this area of town though. That is a nightclub a few blocks back.” Toshi looked down the street, seeing a few bright neon signs blinking away as evening slowly fell. It was still early enough to check homes, but these places were just opening up. He didn’t like the idea of his two brightest students being so close to this…den of sin.

Sho wasn’t completely listening, tugging the blonde in his grip along to the door and giving it a light knock. The landlord to this place was a man in his early 30s with a young son following his every step. Large horns curled from the man’s head, showing an animal like quirk along with a vocal hitch that turned some of his vowels into long ‘Ooo’ sounds. The boy was sporting some of the same horns, only shorter and pointy. He also had a small flicking goat like tail, twitching as his father gave the three welcome into the narrow dark doorway.

“Welcooome. I’m Hishi and this is Nokka. Say hellooo, little guy!”

The boy stared right up at Toshi, little black eyes blinking once before his mouth opened and “BAHH!!”

“Greetings!” Toshi smiled, “Nice battle cry.”

The boy seemed happy with that reply and stuffed his face into his father’s leg with a huff. The father smiled warmly, motioning with a welcoming arm and the three filed in. The door behind them closed and shoes came off to wear ill-fitting slippers once more. Though, Sho noted the father and son were in hooves. Hard to wear slippers like that.

The kitchen was just as the pictures online showed, three full-size burners with a fish grilling slot under. A fridge was included and was a decent size plus a free mini oven that looked like it’d seen better days but still worked! The place had two bedrooms too. The first bedroom was called a ‘master’ and connected to the shower and through that the toilet. Each looked new and just completed.

“Ahhh, please exuuuuse the slight construction mess in here. Our last renter caused some damage to the walls and we had to fix it. The doooor is newww and does lock.” He moved quickly, tugging along his little twitchy tailed son with each step as clung to his pants.

The place was looking more and more perfect. The second bedroom was small but it was the one with the woven floor and Sho couldn’t help himself. He leaned down and took a seat in front of everyone, smoothing hands along the floor to feel the new smell bamboo under his fingertips.

“So this is why you wanted ta come here, tch. Tatami floor!” Bakugo called him out, rolling eyes as Sho looked up with a warm smile.

“Ooooh! You like tatami toooo?”

“I grew up in an older manor, all the floors in the rooms were tatami. It reminds me of a simpler time in my life.” Sho explained with a fond smile, his right hand smoothing over the mat under his rear once more.

“I completely understand! We can’t have wooooven floors in the home. Someone likes to chew on them.” The father looked down at the boy glued to his pants leg as the twitchy tail went into overdrive at the little teasing, wag wag wag wag wag.

“Carpet muncher.” Bakugo joked near a whisper down at the little boy, a smile coming across his face as the little horned kid turned his head up and…

“BAHHH!”

“Do you say anything else?”

“BAHHH!”

Bakugo shrugged as Shoto moved to get up off the floor. That was nearly the whole place, they had seen it all. There were a few issues, namely that the place had no windows to speak of. The nightclub was really close and the place was far away from school and that the train would need to be used to get there and back. Lastly, Toshi opened up to the father about the pair’s living situation.

“Tell me, sir, are you okay with two students staying here?”

“I see nothing wrong with it! These are the stuuudents?”

“Aye, they are. And they are both slightly different, they are in relations with one another.”

The father paused a second, looking down as his little son rubbed face into his pants again. “Relations? As in a couple? Together?”

“We come as pair...yeah.” Bakugo tried to chime in, being calm and rather collected. He hadn’t seen anything awful about the place other than the distance and the train…and no windows.

“We’re engaged to be married, sir. We’re looking to start our lives and get to the next level away from our peers a little.” Sho added in as well, watching the father drop his head atop his son’s hand as little back eyes closed and soft noises came out from the rubbing of soft hair.

The father took a breath, then looked at the three waiting for his reply and judgement. “I woooldn’t be foooorgiven by my own husband if I had issue. I’d rather not sleep on the soooofa, ya know?”

With that said, Toshi couldn’t help but light up a little. “I’m so glad to hear you’re stance on that, please believe me when I say I want to help them any way I can with this. They are my students, like my own boys.”

“I completely understand, I will need toooo speak to my husband about this toooo. Can you give me some time toooo do that?”

“By all means! Please keep up informed. I’ll leave you my card.” Toshi was quick to reach into his suit jacket and pull out a card and hold it out, head bowed to thank the man for his time. “To my right is Bakugo, and my left Todoroki. Please call me…”

“All Might?!” The father took the card, looking over the name as eyes widened and the little boy at his side gasped loudly, letting out the only word he’d really said all evening.

“COOL!!”

#blog fic #budget hunting: all might price #house hunting: hero style #ship: fire and gasoline #do you hear wedding bells?

1 note · View note

kathleenseiber · 3 years

Text

The fight for the Martuwarra

The Martuwarra (Fitzroy) River system winds its way through Western Australia’s Kimberley region, along deep troughs and shallow rivulets, nourishing a complex and finely tuned ecosystem as well as the culture and cosmology of the local traditional owners.

The river is fed by 20 tributaries and flows through three shires across the lands of seven different Indigenous nations, before emptying into the Indian Ocean at King Sound.

For Dr Anne Poelina, a Nyikina Warrwa Indigenous academic and researcher who advocates to protect the river, the Martuwarra is home, and a living ancestor.

“It’s the construction of our whole identity,” Poelina says. “It’s the river of life.”

Last Tuesday, the Western Australian State Government closed the public submission period for decision-making on the Martuwarra’s hydrological future.

The submissions were canvassed in response to the State Government’s November 2020 paper, Managing Water in the Fitzroy River Catchment, that outlined its proposals for the future of the river system. While the proposal ruled out aboveground damming, it advocated taking groundwater from underground aquifers in the system.

Read more: Does nature have rights?

Some have expressed fears that under the auspices of government, and pushed by bastions of industry, the river could go the way of the Murray-Darling Basin, drained of water and lifeblood thanks to overzealous irrigation practices.

The McGowan government finds itself in a balancing act between people who want to preserve the river as it is, and local landholders who demand economic opportunity.

Among the pastoralists and landholders vying for access to the Fitzroy’s aquatic gold is Australia’s richest person, multi-billionaire Gina Rinehart, who wants to divert water from the river for her Liveringa cattle station. Murray-Darling cotton farmers the Harris family are also looking to divert water from the river. [find source]

But the Fitzroy river, like all river systems in the arid, monsoonal Kimberley, is seasonal and unpredictable: in a given year it may flood, filling the entire system, but it also may not. In these in-between times, local species rely on remnant pools to survive until the next flood event, leaving these ecosystems in a precarious balancing act.

In response to the State Government paper, Poelina and the other members of the Martuwarra Fitzroy River Council produced a submission emphasising the importance of foregrounding the Traditional Owners in decision-making, and preventing the extraction of water from culturally and ecologically important tributaries and aquifers. The Council expressed concern about the many unknowns of water extraction in the region and how it may affect local water-flows, including these below-ground aquifers.

“Even at the policy and decision-making processes, we don’t have all of the science to make informed decisions about how we should be taking water from these stressed systems,” Poelina says. “And we don’t appear to be seeing from the state government how they’re going to balance this take against climate science.”

A delicately balanced ecosystem

The Martuwarra is home to several vulnerable and unique species, including the endangered sawfish, one of Western Australia’s iconic species, which relies on wet-season deluges and which is already imperilled by the prospect of more frequent droughts and climate change.

David Morgan is a researcher in aquatic ecosystems at Murdoch University, and a specialist in the unique fish life of the Martuwarra.

“A lot of people think ‘oh, it’s just a river’, but they don’t understand the importance of this river to these globally threatened species,” Morgan says.

Because the Martuwarra is seasonal, the fish in its waterways rely on periodic deluges for their survival.

“There’s only been four years in the last 20 that we’ve had really good recruitment of freshwater sawfish,” Morgan says. “So, we know that the flow is critical, and with reduced flow we know that it can be very drastic.”

Morgan says the fish species that depend on the Martuwarra are already vulnerable to the ravages of climate change, which will push the Kimberley’s already dramatic temperatures upwards.

“When it’s hot, there’s less dissolved oxygen available for fish to access,” he says. “So, you can end up with these massive densities of fish, and then, as we’ve seen in the Murray-Darling, you get lots of fish kills, and that’s going to happen more and more.”

Morgan says that, from his perspective, the extraction of aquifer groundwater is likely to be less risky than surface water extraction – but there are still unknowns.

The below-ground aquifers, some of which are being eyed off for extraction, are also vastly important to the river system in its totality. A 2020 study in Hydrobiologia found that groundwater along the Fitzroy River was intimately related to the biomass and resilience of local benthic algae. Writing online about the research, lead author Ryan Burrows, formerly of Griffith University, warned that reductions in groundwater could influence the productivity of the river and interrupt local food-webs.

Murray-Darling 2.0?

Many of those expressing concerns about developments to the Martuwarra point to the Murray-Darling Basin catastrophe as a lesson in what not to do. Blighted by a cocktail of factors including extreme drought, decades of irrigation and – some argue – poor management practices, the basin no longer has the water required to support itself.

The basin, which produces a third of Australia’s food, has in recent years suffered from mass fish kills, prolonged periods of utter dryness, and the depletion of its ecosystems.

The Australian Government’s Murray-Darling Basin Plan, signed into law in 2012, was designed to establish how much water could be taken from the Basin each year while leaving enough for its local ecosystem. This was meant to be achieved through a system of water rights: the commodification of the Basin’s water into tradeable units that could be regulated. But the plan is controversial, unpopular with agriculturalists who believe they’ve been deprived of the irrigation water they need during droughts, and unpopular with environmentalists who believe it hasn’t done enough to protect and sustain the Basin’s natural flow, which has slowed to a trickle.

Poelina says Traditional Owners from the Martuwarra continue to share their learnings with Traditional Owners from the Murray-Darling about how to protect their waters from going the same way.

“We are learning a lot from the Murray-Darling Basin,” Poelina says. “We are sharing the experience of how these Traditional Owners had this amazing system, resulting in ecocide and incremental genocide with the changes they’ve seen in that system over time.”

Who owns the Martuwarra’s water?

Poelina and the Martuwarra Fitzroy River Council believe a legislative framework is paramount to enable the Traditional Custodians to be involved in river governance, before any allocations or water trading can begin.

“What we’re asking of government is a way that we can have a Fitzroy River management plan that brings everybody to the table, and is grounded in good science and the wellbeing of everything and everyone connected to this globally unique river.”

One of the proposed mechanisms for sharing water with Aboriginal people has been the concept of a Strategic Aboriginal Reserve, a legal framework that allocates a measure of the available water for purchase by Indigenous landholders. But the Council believes there are important conversations to be had about whether water should be a right or a purchasable interest for Aboriginal people.

“A strategic Aboriginal reserve requires Aboriginal people to have a water license, with the capacity and capital to purchase a water license. Aboriginal people will need to partner with someone or have at least several million dollars to be able to do all your studies to apply for a water license to get into the water market, and we think that is definitely unfair and unjust.

“As Indigenous people who have been managing and looking after these systems, particularly the Fitzroy River, since the dawn of time, how come we still have to go through the same processes and have the same level of capital to be able to profit from that water?”

Moreover, she says that allocation of water rights to industry and agriculture should be parked until safe drinking water is available and affordable for Aboriginal communities in the region.

“We have multiple Aboriginal communities in the Kimberley who don’t even have water fit for human consumption,” Poelina says. “So, we’re here fast-tracking and investing in water infrastructure for agriculture when we have not attended to our duty of care to ensure Aboriginal communities have access to clean drinking water.”

Protecting water on a drying continent

Adam Rose is a specialist in water systems and water ecology at Central Queensland University. While his research focuses on the tropical water systems of the Queensland coast, Rose says Australia’s water systems share fundamental similarities that make working with them unique and complex.

“Australia is the driest inhabited continent on Earth,” Rose says. “Years ago, before colonisation, everything was different – the soils were different, we didn’t have hard-hooved animals, and so when it would rain it would soak into the environment and filter through these soils and get to our creeks and rivers.

“All of our plants and animals have evolved under these conditions, and then the white fella arrives and brings these two traditional European farming methods, clearing all of the trees and introducing animals.

“Just in that we changed that water cycle.”

Rose says proper management of our embattled water systems requires relying on traditional knowledge systems, rather than top-down governance.

��I want to know some of the old stories about what plants and what fish were where in the traditional stories,” he says. “Instead of having Canberra tell us what to do, I think we should be joining forces with the traditional owners, getting the farmers and the scientists to actually do the research in that catchment together and start to make local decisions for the catchment.”

Poelina points out that in a warming world, where water tables are shifting south, water governance and management is paramount.

“The Bureau of Meteorology is saying we need to learn to live with less water, and yet the approach (being proposed) is to look at how do we swallow up as much water from the system as possible,” Poelina says. Traditional owners, on the other hand, “live under a law of the river, a law of obligation to protect the river because it is the river of life”.

From her perspective, the Martuwarra has vital importance not just to its traditional custodians but to the nation and the planet, too.

“It’s a national heritage site, and it’s the largest listed Western Australian Aboriginal cultural heritage site, so it belongs to our fellow Australians and it belongs to the world, too. We don’t want a repeat of Juukan Gorge in the destruction of our sacred site.”

The fight for the Martuwarra published first on https://triviaqaweb.weebly.com/

0 notes

bird-of-fyre · 3 years

Text

Empires SMP: Mythical AU

Inspired by the Hermitcraft Magical Misfits AU! Basically, all the members of Empires SMP live in a world full of magic and magic-inclined mythical creatures and races (on top of your usual MC mobs).

Though the world isn’t called that, the setting is still in Minecraft so things like enchanting and all the potions (including luck & decay) apply here. Respawning is also a thing that happens; though it’s called reincarnation in-universe.

Feel free to pitch in any ideas (through ask) and whatnot and feel free to write or draw things based in this AU~

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

Character Bios

Fwhip: Fwhip is a Drow that lives in a plains corrupted by redstone crystals in his empire, The Grimlands. He is an alchemist and tinkerer by trade and a very enigmatic individual known to have a taste for chaos. Count Fwhip mostly tries to remain on good terms with other empires but has managed to make enemies with the Cod Empire and Pixandria due to setting up deadly traps to kill them for laughs. He’s also on shaky (but not enemy) terms with Mezalea. Sausage is his closest ally as the two of them share the same two enemies. He has the most firepower of all the other empires with explosives at his disposal.

Gem: The cervine Faun of Crystal Cliffs. She is a wizard that specializes in enchantments and geode-based magic. Despite being allies with Fwhip and Sausage (and getting roped into their schemes simply to keep them from doing anything stupid), she mostly avoids conflict and desires to keep peace. She is very uneasy around Joel due to his tendency to slay horses (since they are hooved animals like her) and their two empires are on neutral terms.

Jimmy: Jimmy is a Kipling that lives within the swamplands of the Cod Empire. He has a habit of getting himself into trouble, normally of the dangerous environmental variety but also unintentionally with other empires. He wanted to be friends with everyone but petty mistakes have led to him being enemies with Fwhip & Sausage (though they still come in 2nd to salmon). Winning the friendship of Rivendell’s Elven royal is important to him, though Scott doesn’t seem to share the sentiment. His empire is seen as the weakest of the twelve but he has strong allies in Pixandria, Mezalea, and the Ocean Empire. Kathrine’s alliance to him, however, is questionable at best.

Joel: Joel is entirely Human. He lives in the empire of Mezalea and after countless interactions of various results, is now married to Lizzie of the Ocean Empire. He is one of Jimmy’s closest allies as the Kipling lives on the other side of the ocean from him. For unknown reasons, Joel seems to be the most bloodthirsty of the rulers, finding enjoyment in slaughtering things and becoming very feral in combat (some even claim his eyes flash red in the heat of battle). Willingly admits that he is very egotistical.

Joey: A parrot Avian that lives within the jungle. He is very magically inclined and his proximity to Scott and Fwhip led to them becoming allies early on. Joey is also allied with Gem, and while he’s interacted with Joel, did not offer up the proposal of an alliance. Seems to mostly keep to himself within his empire but has found himself roped into various schemes.

Kathrine: Kathrine is a Faerie that lives in an empire she calls The Overgrown. She wants to be friends with everyone but worries that having allies would also mean having enemies. Despite this, she has managed to succeed in her goal, with only a few empires not yet allied with her.

Lizzie: Lizzie is a Siren but with more axolotl-based features rather than fish ones. She rules the Ocean Empire and, for a time, was enemies with the Mezalean king; Joel. After several interactions with the Human, Lizzie found herself grown fond of him and they eventually married. She can use magic to take a more human form, thus allowing her to walk on land and visit the other empires. Much like her husband, she is prone to brutality should the situation arise and is not above giving threats and warnings; very few have seen this side of her, however, as its hidden under her friendly nature.

Pearl: Pearl is a Nymph whose empire resides within an oak forest. She lives a humble life and mostly avoids conflict despite not only being allied with Sausage and Fwhip (the two empires that have found themselves at odds with another one), but also with one of their sworn enemies; Pix. She is also allied with Gem.

Pix: A phoenix Avian that lives within the desert empire of Pixandria. Pix is an oracle of sorts and is able to see the future through his magic. He has a monument within his empire called The Vigil, in which he lights candles for every time one of the individuals in the world dies. He is a prankster by trade and is known for his elaborate schemes (he once swapped out all of Sausage’s librarian villagers for witches simply because he could). His closest ally is Jimmy of the Cod Empire as the two of them share common enemies in Sausage and Fwhip.

Sausage: Sausage is a Kitsune that lives within the dark forest empire of Mythland. He does not like being taken advantage of, a trait quickly learned by Jimmy and Pixl when he retaliated against their heists and declared their empires his enemies. Fwhip is his closest ally as their empires share a common enemy in the Cod Empire but he is also close with Gem and ropes her into his schemes and mischief. He made an alliance with Kathrine simply so that Jimmy would be short one ally should actual war ever break out.

Scott: The Elven ruler of Rivendell. Scott tends to stay out of conflict, preferring to focus on his empire more than wars and disputes. Still, he has alliances with Fwhip, Kathrine, and Joey’s empires. He is stubborn and seemingly harsh, but nice once you break down his walls. Scott has no idea why Jimmy tries so hard to become friends with him and finds the Kipling’s attempts annoying...but also endearing in a way.

Shubble: A Gnome that came to the realm to find a cure for her homeland. So far she’s stayed out of trouble within her empire, the Undergrove. She is allied with Pearl and neighbors with Fwhip, whose own corrupted land is concerning to her. She is unfortunately naive and believes that the Drow and his two accomplices are the most peaceful empires in the land.

==========================

World Mechanics

Since this AU is still in the Minecraft setting despite the world not being called as such, certain mechanics & terms from it apply but in a more realistic sense. -----------------------------

Respawn/Reincarnation: Upon death, those in the world are reborn no worse for wear. Why this happens is unknown, but many chalk it up to the vast amounts of magic in the world. The individual’s body will burst into magic particles and their items will be left behind. They’ll subsequently wake up in the place they last slept. Unfortunately, this seems to only hold true for the human and humanoid creatures, monsters and animals are not effected; their bodies simply disappearing into raw magic and leaving materials behind shortly after death. Enchanted nametags will prevent the mob or animal’s body from disappearing and it will decay normally so long as the tag remains on them.

Mining/Crafting: Because its done in a more realistic sense, cutting down a tree means the whole tree and breaking stone means there is a possibility of having a whole wall crumble down. Gathered resources can be crafted into something and most have designated areas in their empires to do as such. If you could make it in the wilderness realistically (planks, wood/stone tools, torches, etc.) then it applies here; if not, then one generally would need to go through multiple steps (so if you want a furnace that means actually building one). Crafting with metals and diamond cannot be done in the wilderness (with the exception of flint & steel) so one must use an actual forge.

Enchanting: Works in the same way as it does in MC with a enchanting table & bookshelves. One can also use an anvil and and a magic book to enchant their items by placing the book on top of the item and reciting a phrase. Upon the book being hit with a smithing hammer, it dissolves into magic and infuses the item it is on top of.

Inventory: Basically everyone has a bag of holding; a small pack of some sort that fits far more than it looks and is generally used to hold gathered materials/items and tools they aren’t using. Swords and bows are carried in the way you’d expect (scabbards, strapped/slung over the back, etc.) and potions/totems generally are carried on a belt or something similar. The design of the bag varies depending on the individual. While the bags themselves are soulbound to their owner, items within them are not.

Nether/End: Dimensions reached via constructed portal.

Player/Mob Heads: When one of the human or humanoid races is slain by another, rebirth magic leaves behind a mask of the indivdual’s face. For mobs/animals its usually actual decapitation but those not fond of such barbaric methods craft mask versions.

35 notes · View notes

greatshell-rider · 3 years

Text

“Hold them up here!” Nahimana hollered above the wind.

Washti leaned back on Shadowmoon, slowing her mount’s speed as she let out a piercing whistle. The herd coursing behind them reluctantly followed suite, a few younger colts tossing their heads and prancing little circles around another, still full of energy. The wind was high and fast today, meaning so were the horses. Not even the day’s last long gallop—after almost a moon of traveling—had tired them. Shadowmoon shifted underneath Washti, the horse’s ears perked towards the playing yearlings, as if it too wished to join in the fun; but it was too well-trained to ignore its rider’s command.

Washti rubbed its neck, careful not to disturb the flowers braided into its airy mane. “Good colt,” they murmured, and one of its ears flicked back.

She turned the horse around and walked around the small cluster of horses standing restlessly about, their whisper-thin hooves hovering just barely above the tops of the grass, the edges of their bodies fading into the air. As they moved through the herd, Washti patted necks and checked flowers in tails and manes, mumbling low words of comforting nonsense under her breath to calm the restless ones. She didn’t think any one would break and run, not after the grass cat incident, but this close to the mountains, they wanted to be careful.

“We’ve arrived?” they asked Nahimana, once she’d made their way to the back of the herd, where her mother sat astride her horse, drinking from a canteen.

Nahimana wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, then used it to sign, “Yes. Earlier than expected, thanks to this wind. I doubt the caravan will be here hours yet.”

“I’ll break the herd into smaller groups and put them through some exercises, then,” Washti said immediately, unsurprised by this news. “So they don’t scare off our buyers.”

Her mother chuckled. “They are energized, aren’t they. It’s a good thing you came along this time, Washti. I wouldn’t have been able to handle them all on my own. Lost a few along the way at the very least.” She smiled, eyes crinkling, but worry creased her forehead and she kneaded a palm with her thumb as she scanned the horizon, speaking aloud, “I should do some scouting.” And to Washti’s signed question, “With the detour we made after the grass cats, I worry we might’ve picked up a tail.”

Washti turned their gaze onto the prairie, though she knew they didn’t have their mother’s eye for tracking. They weren’t a hunter, but a horse wrangler, so, “I’ll hold the herd here.”

Nahimana’s expression eased back into a smile at her daughter’s quiet, steadfast voice and the firm set of their determined eyes. She was glad Washti had agreed to join her. She was getting old for moons of near-constant horse travel. But not for scouting.

She turned her horse and said over her shoulder, “I’ll be back in two hours,” then squeezed her thighs and was off, her horse leaping up high into a fast current of wind that would bear them aloft with hardly any effort.

Washti watched her mother gallop away, then noticed Nightnip straying from the other horses, chasing after a puff of pollen, and turned their attention back on the herd. She and Shadowmoon cut the colt off from its chase and moved it back into the herd, then cut through the herd swiftly in well-practiced maneuvers, separating them in four groups as Washti drew yellow powder from a bag on their belt and tossed it in the air. The dust didn’t blow away or fall into the grass as it should have, but hovered in place where thrown, forming broken circles around the groups. The horses stayed within the loose perimeters, though a few liked to edge as close as they could get to the patches of powder, eyeing Washti as they rubbed their cheek against the dust or flicked their tails past the boundary. Washti ignored them, starting with one group at a time to set up obstacle courses within the cylinders of space she’d constructed in the air. Each course was roughly the same, following similar patterns of ramps slanted up and down, lines of poles to weave through, and rings to jump through. Washti moved Shadowmoon back so she could observe them all simultaneously, then pulled out her small handheld drum and began striking a slow, steady beat.

Shadowmoon shook its mane as the groups stirred into excited motion, the drumbeats lighting some fire in their metaphorical blood, and the horses fell neatly into line as they ran through their courses. They were well-used to these exercises now, and Washti had organized the groups so no horses unfriendly to another were together, so there was little frustration among them or disruption to the flow, not with the firm beats of her drum. The cleverest horses knew how to use the pollen to aid their leaps, using the patches to kick off the ends of ramp and gain speed, or to set them off into a spin when jumping a hoop, their long manes and tails bedecked with yellow-petaled godflowers streaming like banners behind them.

This was a good batch, Washti knew. Perhaps the best their family had ever traded to the Taymirin people. Nahimana was right to be worried about a tail, or worse, raiders. Out here, this close to the boundary line, there were many more dangerous threats than grass cats.

As if to affirm her thoughts, a high-pitched whistle sounded off behind Washti, and they turned eastward to see a stream of bright red fire shoot skyward in the distance. Spark-arrow. At the peak of the flare’s climb, it exploded into a flash of vivid yellow and orange.

Danger! that orange meant, unlike a blue calling for help. Stay away!

Washti’s mouth twisted. Only one person could have sent that arrow: her mother. She must have found, indeed, something. If not a tail, then something worse, if she’d fired an orange.

Washti moved Shadowmoon to the center of the four groups. The horses’ coordinated flight had stilled as their drumming had faltered, and they watched her as Washti put the drum away and reached into a different bag on their belt. She withdrew a dried godflower bud, its shriveled black petals scrunched tight together around itself. Peeling off a petal, they carefully stowed the remainder back in its pouch before holding the petal up before her. They clenched it in their fist, crushing it into fine powder instantly, then activated the godflower-ink tattoos detailed on their arms as they held their fist to her mouth. The black ink glowed faintly in the daylight as Washti sucked in a deep breath, then blew. The flower dust burst out from her fist and was sent spinning away by the power of their tattoos, homing in on the closest patches of yellow dust hanging in the air and eating them away. Black dust dissolved as the yellow disappeared, and the amount the single petal provided didn’t last long. Two petals later, in a matter of seconds, the dust corrals were gone, and the horses pranced about excitedly, eager for their turn. They knew what was coming. Washti took three more dried black petals and crushed them all at once, and blew the powder out across the herd. With the weaker prey of the yellow powder gone, now the black dust zipped to the next best source of power—the yellow-petaled godflowers woven tightly into the manes and tails of the horses. The flowers took longer to dissolve, being whole, but once they did, the semi-transparent forms of the horses blew into true wind. Only the barest outlines remained in the rolling, tumbling gusts that surrounded Washti and her mount. Their trained eye could see the kick of back feet, the toss of a head, the twist in a leap or the curve of a shoulder here and there in the wind, and only for a moment as gleams of shining gray before they disappeared again.

Hardly a minute after the spark-arrow had flared, and the herd was gone. Beneath her, hooves still just grazing the tops of the grass, Shadowmoon let out a sigh. The black powder hadn’t aimed for the red godflowers braided into its mane and tail. The black wouldn’t dare.

Washti stroked their mount’s neck. “You’ll be there soon,” she soothed, but they didn’t untie the flowers from its mane.

Rather, they touched her heels to its sides, and the horse shot off. Washti kept Shadowmoon close to the ground, the grass rippling and flattening to the sides at the speed and wind of their passing. There were fewer grass cats this far east, but that wasn’t the main reason why they rode low. Heading east, in the direction of the orange spark-arrow screaming danger, Washti hoped not to be seen by whatever threat had caused Nahimana to warn her child away.

A new chorus of loud shouts made Nahimana sit up, though the motion stabbed pain through her injured side. The healer cursed at her and tried to push her back down, but Nahimana grabbed their arm to stop them as she looked for the reason for alarm. Militia fighters were rushing to the perimeter of the hastily-made camp—but to the west, not east. Nahimana squinted, and could make out a swirl of wind and black-and-white horseflesh, atop which rode the small figure of a person.

Nahimana sighed and cursed quietly, finally lying back down so the healer could continue tending to her side. “I shot an orange, and of course they still come,” she muttered, shaking her head ruefully, but also in relief. The deykeh hadn’t returned. Just her stupidly stubborn daughter.

She craned her neck to watch as the warriors intercepted Washti and surrounded her, making them dismount and have a short discussion before allowing her to walk into the camp.

The healer spared a quick glance over their shoulder. “That’s your other?” they asked Nahimana, right as they stuck their hand in to dig out more deykeh gunk.

Nahimana gritted her teeth, closing her eyes at the sight of the clumps of dark greenish-black rot being pulled out of her body, and had to wait for the pain to subside enough for her to reply, in a groan, “My daughter.” She panted as the healer pressed a bandage against her side, feeling sweat roll down her forehead, but forced her eyes back open. “They shouldn’t be here.”

The healer grunted. “That insistent on trade, hm.”

Nahimana’s lips twitched upward. If only her child were that enterprising. But no herd came after Shadowmoon.

Washti, unstoppable force they were, was marching through the camp towards the healer’s lean-to, her eyes locked on Nahimana’s horse standing outside. Shadowmoon, of course, followed at her shoulder without a lead. Militia fighters jogged alongside her, trying to grab their arms to halt their progress, but Washti moved past their grasping hands like a river flowed around rocks, with the ease of one who had trained wind into horses all her life. No one dared to try and lead Shadowmoon away, most flinching away if they got too close to the horse’s real flesh and saw the red godflowers.

“If she’s hurt, I need to see her,” Washti was saying, both aloud and with their hands to fill in any words of the Taymirin tongue she’d forgotten or mispronounced, as she tried to duck into the lean-to.

Tiayt, finally, stepped in between Washti and the lean-to entrance, folding her big arms across her chest and looking down at Washti. Nahimana watched, mouth curving higher in amusement, as the two glared at another. She just knew Tiayt had an eyebrow raised, and though Washti didn’t back down, she recognized the sudden uncertainty in their stance. Few managed to project total confidence when standing toe-to-toe with the Taymirin trader.

“Nahimana—” Washti began.

“Was injured by deykeh,” Tiayt said. “And infected by their rot. No one gets close until the healer’s finished. No one.”

“I’m hardly finished,” the healer sighed, getting to their feet and wiping their hands on a clean rag before moving to the lean-to’s front. “But the rot is mostly cleared, and the few remnants confined.”

“No risk of contamination?” Tiayt checked.

The healer’s mouth twisted. “There’s never no risk, mek.”

Washti pushed past them both and approached Nahimana’s mat. The militia fighters having relinquished her of their staff alongside their weapons, and following the walk through camp, she moved with a limp, sudden stress no doubt making their old leg injury hurt worse than usual. That pain showed in the tight set of Washti’s jaw and their narrowed eyes, but they didn’t slow until they knelt by Nahimana’s side. They looked down at her bandaged torso, seeming overwhelmed and in an almost-panic at the sight.

Nahimana held out her hand, and Washti took it quickly, squeezing it. “You’re okay?” they asked in the Nyvei tongue, voice low and close to breaking. She gave a short, angry shake of their head. “No, no you’re not.” She glared at Nahimana. “Why did you get hurt? By deykeh?”

Nahimana squeezed back. “I’ll be fine,” she assured them. “I, ah, might—”

“She’ll be coming with us,” Tiayt said, in Taymirin tongue, looming over the both of them, the healer slipping past to work around them as they cleaned up their supplies.

Washti’s mouth drew into a thin line, but they otherwise ignored the trader, still staring at the bandages and the mix of greenish-black and red slowly staining her right side. Nahimana could see the thoughts set agallop in her daughter’s mind, and squeezed their hand again.

“Nothing you can do,” she said softly, recognizing the guilt and worry burrowed in Washti’s anger. “I’d never make it back to our village, and anyway, our healers wouldn’t know what to do with a deykeh-rotten wound.”

“And what would we say to all their questions, then.” The anger shifted to grumpiness, and Washti sighed, her shoulders slumping as she absently rubbed their thumb over their mother’s knuckles. “We’re supposed to be trading down south, not east.”

“Might as well go do that,” Nahimana suggested, to hopefully take Washti’s mind off her injury and imminent departure.

Sure enough, Washti finally looked up, their gazes meeting briefly before flicking to Tiayt, as the trader said suspiciously, “I thought it was just you two with the trade.”

“It is,” Nahimana said with a nod.

“But you didn’t come with the horses—surely you didn’t just leave them? Or are they here?” Tiayt half-turned, surveying the camp as if expecting horses to pop out of nowhere and trample her caravan workers and escort.

Washti shrugged. “Wherever they are, I’ll get them back.”

Tiayt turned back, skeptical eyebrow lifted. “You can do that.”

Washti didn’t reply, as she’d already answered, their gaze moving back to Nahimana’s bandages. Over their head, Tiayt and Nahimana looked at another, the trader lifting both eyebrows in a silent repeat of the question. Nahimana smiled. “I have told you about them, Tiayt. Just like their father.”

Tiayt held up her hands in defeat. “Alright, alright, I believe you. Damn Nyvei and their ponies.”

“Ponies you trade for,” Nahimana grinned. “You’re sure you want to scrap the deal?”

Tiayt sighed and rubbed the back of her neck, grimacing as she again swept her gaze across the camp and the fighters seeing to another’s scrapes and caraveeners cleaning up the wreckage of their trade goods. It being early summer, the majority of the trade were soft deerskins and jars of the famed green dye leftover from winter. No wool or wood this time, but that was just as well, since the deykeh’s rampage had left much of those goods ruined. Tiayt’s workers were packing up to leave, not setting up to start the exchange.

“We’re in no position to haul a herd back,” Tiayt said, confirming what Nahimana saw. “I’m no windshaper to dismiss and summon them at will.” She sent a grin Washti’s way, but they didn’t see it. Tiayt gave up on making friends and turned back to Nahimana. “It’s fortunate you were the only infection. The worst among the escort are broken bones.”

“Beyond fortunate,” Nahimana agreed grimly, memories of her youth creeping into her mind. Life in the grasslands wasn’t easy by any means, but at least out here Nahimana could be the hunter. She kept that thought to herself, though, knowing Tiayt wouldn’t appreciate it. And she would be relying on her and her caravan for her survival now; no need to further any ill will so soon.

Washti shot a look her way. “Not lucky at all,” they growled. “An orange, really?”

Nahimana grimaced. “I found Tiayt barely an hour into my scouting. I was just about to lead them back to you when the deykeh attacked. Pack of four. I only had time to fire the spark a moment before one got its claws in me. I’d hoped you’d actually use your head and stay away.”

Washti shook her head in half disbelief. “I thought deykeh didn’t leave the mountains.” Completely ignored the last bit.

“It is concerning, yes,” Tiayt murmured. She looked as if to say more, but caught herself. The Taymir didn’t like discussing deykeh with Nyvei.

Washti shook her head again, still frustrated. “How long?” they asked, their voice rough again as she looked anxiously at Nahimana.

“A few moons at the soonest,” she said, making her voice as gentle as she could. “Rot is unlike any other godbeast injury.”

Washti let go of her hand to wrap their arms around themself and rock forward and back as she absorbed that. Nahimana kept quiet, giving her the time they needed to accept and adjust. She knew her daughter preferred staying in the village for a reason, to go through the same routine of horse wrangling with Kitchi each day. At least the stresses there were familiar, and surprises easier to deal with when surrounded by the support of the village. Out here, with only strangers around, and those same strangers telling her they were taking her mother away for an uncertain length of time, Nahimana knew it would take longer for Washti to reconcile this change.

Washti pressed the heels of their palms to her eyes for a long moment, then wiped the wetness away and took a deep breath. “Alright,” she said. “Alright. South, hm.” Nahimana felt a surge of pride warm her chest at her child’s response, though guilt mixed with her relief. She’d promised this trip to be good. First the grass cat, now this.

Nahimana offered her hand again, and Washti took it, though distractedly. Already thinking of the future, and all the things they would have to do now, by herself. Nahimana’s mind followed a similar path, though in a different direction. Returning home, really returning, for the first time in . . . gods, how many cycles? So many people were going to tease her about her accent.

“I’ll take Stoneskipper,” Nahimana said suddenly, breaking into Washti’s thoughts. Her daughter blinked down at her.

“Sure,” they said, though clearly surprised. “Should I leave in the red . . . ?”

Nahimana shook her head. “Yellow will be all I can handle.”

“You won’t be handling anything,” Tiayt interjected. She rolled her eyes. “I’ll watch your pony for you, ’Mana. But yes, please, tie in the yellow flowers,” she said to Washti.

For the first time since they’d entered the lean-to, a smile touched Washti’s lips. “Maybe white would be best.”

Tiayt actually considered that, and Washti’s joking smile fell to a frown, so Nahimana quickly spoke up. “Thank you, Washti. It’ll do me good to have a piece of you with me.”

“A horse is of its own self,” she said automatically, then softened. “Can’t own the wind, Ma.”

She beckoned them to come close, and as Washti leaned in, Nahimana pressed her forehead against theirs. “Yet each time it blows, it’ll remind me of you,” she whispered. “Thank you, Washti. I will be okay.”

She waited for her to reply, but Washti just let out another long breath and they leaned against another for a minute. Finally they pulled back, and said, straight-faced, “Swindle all their wood off them when you come back.”

Tiayt snorted and Nahimana laughed, until that hurt her wound too much. “No, I’ll be looking into their metals.” She pointed accusingly at Tiayt. “Can’t keep them from us for forever.”

Tiayt smirked. “Just a few moons more, then, it seems. I must warn the chief.” She looked to Washti. “Don’t worry, kid. I’ll make sure your mother is cared for.”

“As long as you don’t do it yourself,” Nahimana said archly.

“No joke,” the healer muttered, then raised their voice. “Deykeh didn’t get into the calmers, would you like some?”

“Yes, please,” Nahimana said, not bothering to hide the relief from her voice. A wave of exhaustion swept over her, now that she and Washti had been able to talk most everything through.

Washti stepped back to give the healer room, then took another step back once Nahimana had swallowed the concoction. “I’ll go retie Stoneskipper’s flowers,” they said, then ducked out of the lean-to.

Tiayt’s eyebrows lifted again, and she signed to Nahimana, “Reminds me of my own daughter. In an opposite sort of way.”

“No one likes goodbyes,” Nahimana murmured, leaning her head back and gratefully letting her eyes drift shut. She winced as the deykeh rot inside her seemed to twist in a sudden jerk of pain, but the pleasant buzz of the calmers began to separate her from the discomfort. She suddenly remembered something, and hurriedly said, “Tiayt, you bitch, give my daughter their staff back—” And maybe her friend said something back, maybe laughed, but Nahimana didn’t hear it, as she drifted into a soft hazy gray of semi-consciousness.

Astride Shadowmoon once more, Washti watched the trading caravan move slowly into the distance, back towards the massive rocky slopes dominating the eastern horizon. It was rare that they came this close to the mountains, but she thought she’d never get used to their sheer size. She was glad they’d never been in the actual mountainland itself, and not just because it was deadgod.

Coward, their brain told them, and Washti frowned. As much as she hated it, it didn’t make sense for them to go with Nahimana. Their father needed to know what had happened, and thinking along practical lines, she did still have a herd to trade. They could feel something tear loose though, watching her mother disappear from view and knowing it was possible they might not see her again. Not for certain. Not for certain. But possible. Like deykeh in grasslands.

Which reminded them that they weren’t safe here. The caravan’s escort had managed to drive off the deykeh pack, but not kill any of them. Heh, Washti thought, reluctantly turning Shadowmoon away. Kill a thing that’s already dead. Or should be dead, at least. All stories did say the old mountain god had been tenacious in his malice; a trait passed on to his undead remains. It followed that, killed by humans long ago, the god would find a way to make their descendants still suffer.

Some people Washti had met would deem Nahimana’s injury as righteous punishment for that reason. A punch to the face would shut them up, at least. Not so much the storm of thoughts raging in Washti’s head.

Washti checked her things. Knife, flower pouches, quiver, and canteen on their belt. Bedroll, bow, travelsack, and their staff on her back. Tiayt had slipped them a small bag of polished stones before she’d left, which were pretty and useless in Nyve, but might be tradeable for stormbeast jerky at a standpost, if the warden was dumb enough to think they might make for good arrowheads. She’d just have to see.

Just have to see. The enormity and significance of that thought stunned Washti for a moment. In just a couple hours, so much had changed from what they’d expected, and it would just continue to be like that for . . . moons. Washti’s gut twisted and they fought back sudden nausea. They supposed now would be the time to empty their stomach, out of sight of the Taymirin traders, but the thought of wasting food and possibly attracting predators over such a little thing was irritating enough that Washti forced the acid back down their throat. It was just her now, so she had to be smart.

Fantastic.

Setting their jaw, Washti focused on the first step of the plan she’d formed for themself while kneeling beside her sick mother. See how many horses they could get back. Go southwest, toward the Nyvei villages their family rarely traded to but among which they had a few contacts. Travel light and fast, of course, and resupply along the way at standposts. Trade away horses at good deals, hopefully, with any villages she came across. Washti wasn’t too enthusiastic about that, really. All she wanted to do was go straight home and sleep until their mother returned. With the deal having fallen through with the Taymirin tribe, she didn’t care what they traded the horses for now, good deals or not. Alternatively, the thought of just letting the herd go, after the many moons she and her father had put into catching and training them into mounts, was repellent.

“Guess I have to do my best or something,” Washti muttered. Shadowmoon swiveled an ear to listen. They sighed. “Disgusting.”

She really wanted a nap.

Then they thought about what sleeping would actually entail, and knew their mind would keep her awake and anxious to be moving no matter how long they lay down. So it was time to work.

She nudged Shadowmoon into a trot, its hooves hissing through the grass in neat, rhythmic slices. They took out their small drum again, and drew a fistful of pale godflower dust from a pouch. A few flakes trickled free in the wind, and Washti felt the instant change in the air, the subtle shifts as the breeze perked up with the scent of the white powder spreading. Her father would grumble about the amount of powder she was using today. Normally they would agree, but, well, it was an orange spark-arrow day. They needed to move.

They squeezed her legs and Shadowmoon eagerly lengthened its stride, its nose lifting in the wind as it too snuffled for the flower dust. She steered it higher off the ground, running quick now, high enough that a fall would seriously hurt or kill them. Heh. Washti leaned close over Shadowmoon’s neck, its mane tickling their face, and threw out her hand, letting the dust spill from her fist in a long shining stream behind them. Didn’t need tattoos for this. Once the powder was gone, the wind jumping excitedly about her, Washti readied her drum. A shift in her weight, and Shadowmoon spun around, galloping back towards where the wind chased after the white dust. Washti beat their drum, quick and fast, and Shadowmoon matched pace, not running so much as hopping, little bucks and half-rears as mount and rider pivoted and leapt with the wind, a dance between them and the sky.

Washti could forget everything while horse-chasing. Forget the land, forget gods and people dead and alive, forget hunger or aches, and feel only the cold on their skin and heat in their chest. Her heart beat alongside the drum, her mount’s hooves striking the same rhythm. Around them, the wind no longer shifted randomly, but began to shape in faintly horse-like silhouettes, leaping to the beat of the drum and chasing after clusters of godflower powder, teeth snapping it up like a child left alone with a basket of berries. Soon Washti tucked the drum back on their belt. They and Shadowmoon danced among those shapes, her mount running shoulder-to-shoulder with the stronger horse-shapes, while its rider leaned over with yellow godflowers in her hands, and with the colt distracted, tied them one into its mane—tails, multiple flowers, actual braids, would come later, but for now, the single bloom did its job. Just touching the godflower to the silhouette immediately condensed the air into a firmer, more detailed body. Though still only composed of wind, and only barely dense enough to bear a physical being’s weight, hints of the horse’s color showed in the withers, knees, mane, and muzzle. Reds and chestnuts, a palomino, bays and blacks. Soon many half-body horses ran along behind Washti and Shadowmoon, slowly piecing together the herd she’d set loose the couple hours previous, energized by the white flower dust yet bound as one through the yellow godflowers in their manes. Once they had all eighteen horses, Washti directed Shadowmoon closer towards the ground, the herd following after, some reluctant to abandon the dance, others eager to play in the grass. They didn’t have the time for that, however, not being far from the deykeh attack site.

Once a couple feet from the tops of the grass—cats were known to jump that high, but Washti didn’t dare let the herd run any higher when each horse was bound with only one flower—Washti pointed Shadowmoon’s nose southwest, and urged it into a gallop. It leaped forward eagerly, the herd pressing in close behind, and Washti narrowed her eyes against the setting sun, calculating if they were careful and fast, they could make it out of neutral territory and be safe enough to make camp once night fell. After braiding more yellow flowers into manes and tails, she could let the herd wander, and sleep themself. Did they have time to make stew?

They shouted the question over her shoulder before remembering no one was bringing up the rear. She shut her mouth with a snap and jerked around to face forward once again. Don’t look back. All there was was the line of mountains, tall and alight with red fire by the sun. Looming.

They’d probably be too tired to make stew. Maybe by morning their stomach would have settled. For now, until she could sleep, Washti just had to ride. Tomorrow? And the next? She’d just have to see.

#The Painter #my writing #in which: i take catharis as i write autistic washti #in which: i get catharsis from writing autistic washti #this was a practice piece (which tbf most writing i do is practice - NOTHING CANON UNTIL I SAY SO HA) and it was supposed to help me figure #out my characters more. washti and shadi in particular #which! it did help with washti and nahimana #shadi did not end up showing up what a slacker #but! mostly this piece helped me figure out magic system stuff. so that's why there's a lot of washti doing wind horse magic yeehaw #anyway congrats to me to actually writing actual words for The Painter in hmmmmm Quite a while #this is the first piece written in the New Latest Edition of the painter. hopefully this one sticks lol

0 notes

breezeob · 7 years

Text

Kingdom of Maria

Rating: Teen & Up Pairing: Levi Ackerman and Eren Jaeger Tags: Alternate Universe, Ereri Spring Weekend 2017, Bad Language, Day 2: Overcast Written for ererispringweekend - Ao3 link The Kingdom of Maria : Chapter Two : Overcast

It was mid morning when they first spotted the capital, but the sun did not shine brightly upon the walls of the city. Instead the sky was covered with clouds, looming above the earth in a dismal fashion. Eren felt as though his mood reflected the weather. Levi had awoken him at first light, forcing the half-asleep prince to redress and mount his horse again. Now, with just a few hours travel, they could see the home Eren feared from atop the hill they climbed.

Though the prince himself was not happy, Levi was relieved. They managed to evade any potential pursuers which, unfortunately, was a real threat. The catalyst of this hasty journey to capital was itself credible threat on the young Prince’s life, an indication the enemy had finally found the location of the Jaeger Estate.

Eren’s fears and grief aside, he had to admit the walled-in city was quite the wonder, especially from a distance. The towering stone blocked the city from attack and prying eyes, and its prince could not imagine anything more extravagant. Not even the Estate he had grown up in, secluded and far away from the grand capital, could compare to this level of workmanship and construction. He’d not set foot in the city since he was a young child and an attempt on his life frightened his parents so terribly that they forced him to grow up at their summer home.

“Eren... Eren?” Levi pauses, trying to get the attention of the prince, rolling his eyes. “Eren!”

“W-what?” The boy breaths out, finally snapping out of his thoughts and turning to face his companion.

“Pay attention, keep your head here on earth. We approach. I don’t find it likely, but there could be killers lying in wait. Stay close to me, and keep that useless fucking sword of yours at the ready.” Levi urges his steed forward as Eren replies to him affirmatively and follows. The boy quietly undoes a few of the straps attaching his great sword to his horse’s side, so he could pull it free with ease if need be. Levi had always hated the damn thing, usually asking Eren why he didn’t just settle for a battleaxe if such a large weapon was what he sought to master. Truth be told, the prince found the battleaxe much too heavy, but at risk of looking weak, settled for the two-handed sword instead.

“What will happen when we get to the gates?” Eren asks the knight after another moment of silence between them.

“I suppose you’ll be greeted and paraded off to the palace,” Levi surmises, taking a chance to glance back at his lover. He was sure the boy would be offended at the thought, but the man didn’t think Eren looked very princely at all, or noble for that matter. His chocolate brown hair was mussed from sleep, and though Levi could have fixed it when he’d woken the prince up, he couldn’t bring himself to. The messy bed head simply suited the boy’s features too well. Under Eren’s eyes were purple tones, on his cheeks and nose were reds and pinks. “I love you, Eren.” He says, voice flat, before he turns back ahead.

Eren finds himself laughing a bit at the sudden sentiment, smile now over taking his face. “I love you too,” he responds brightly, and picks up his pace slightly to ride beside Levi rather than behind him. “So what excuse are we going to use to get you to sleep in my chambers with me?” he asks, now with a flirtatious tone.

“I’m sure you’ll come up with something,” the older man assures him, shaking his head with a softness in his eyes, amused.

“What about when I get married? Will I have to have a room with her?” Eren goes on, flirtation falling out of his tone and turning to annoyance and worry.

“You will.”

“Ugh!” The boy groans dramatically, “I don’t want to.”

“Stop being so ridiculous Eren. You are going to be nice to this woman and she is going to bear your children-” Eren makes a face, “whether you like it or not. After you pop a couple of the brats out and they grow up, you can retire early.”

“Aren’t you jealous? Something? You’re so blasé about the whole thing.”

“Jealous? Why the fuck would I be jealous? I always knew this was going to happen. Unlike you, I don’t have little fantasies about escaping fate.”

“But I have to have sex with her and stuff, she’ll be my wife.”

“Eren, I’m not really worried about it. You like getting fucked in the ass too much t-”

“Shut up!” The brunette interrupts, his whole face a tone redder. This only causes Levi to let a quick laugh fall from his lips. Eren is about to say something else, but the older man’s face turns stoic again as he spies a figure not too far a distance in front of them. He holds up one hand to the prince, indicating that he should remain silent, while his other hand reached for the hilt of his sword, resting in wait.

After a minute more of walking, Levi recognizes the man’s garb. Thin steel plating, what seemed to be blue fastenings, a helmet with cloth covering the neck. From this distance it was difficult to tell, but the shield on his arm depicted the two winged symbol he knows well. “It’s a city guard.” He tells Eren, despite looking just as ready for combat as the moment before.

“That makes sense, you know, since we’re near the city and all.” Eren quips back, wishing Levi wouldn’t worry quite so much. He squeezes his horse’s flanks with his legs to encourage him to move quicker, and heads at the figure, leaving Levi behind.

“Fucking brat.” Levi grumbled, watching him for a brief moment before picking up his own pace.

“Hello!” Eren greets the man, steering his horse to trot around him in circles, since he was now close enough. The animal seems to have a much fun as its rider, shaking its mane and nickering at the stranger. The guardsman looks up at the young man in annoyance, not wishing to pestered by a kid. Then he looks back ahead to see the boy’s companion coming closer as well. Something about that man seemed familiar to him, the steelness of his gaze, and in that instant, he realized who he was dealing with.

“Prince Eren!” He gasps, before immediately bowing deep. “It is an honor! And Sir Ackerman, an honor as well!”

Eren smiles and stops his horse, tilting his head down briefly in greeting. “Please rise,” He asks first before continuing, “were you warned of our coming?”

The man nods quickly and rises, looking up to the prince. “I was, your royal highness. All of the outlying guardsmen were.” He waves his arm back slowly, gesturing to the many watch towers. “I am to lead you into the city. If you would follow me.” He turns and heads straight for gates, his posture impecable.

“Of course,” Eren says, before setting his animal to follow after the stranger.

Levi follows them at a slower pace, his eyes watching the wind brush through the grass that surrounded the city. He was relatively assured there would be no issues between here and the gate, he had no anxiousness about it in his stomach, and elected to trust his gut. It didn’t often fail him. As a result he relaxes quite easily and removes his hand from the hilt of his left sword.

They arrived first at a grand watch tower, towering above the earth. Eren stared up at in wonder before he began to hear the hollering and cheering of the other guardsmen, “The Prince has returned!”

“His Royal Highness is here!”

“All grown up now, eh Prince Eren?”

With a grin, Eren sets his horse into a gallop, riding in circles near the tower, and waving at the men to encourage them. It’s not very long before he stands up in his saddle, showing off as the horse continues at a quick speed. The men hoot louder for the prince, and after a few circles Eren leans down deep in his saddle before speeding off straight to the capital, going as fast as his horse will take him. The guardsman that was supposed to be leading them to the gate watches in horror, mouth falling open. “Prince Eren!” He calls out as Levi’s horse walks up beside him. “Wait!”

“Don’t bother. He’s hopeless. He doesn’t listen.” The knight states with a shrug, before then continuing towards the gate, still following at that slower pace. At least Eren wasn’t going to be hit with any arrows at that speed, he figured.

The hooves of Eren’s mount clomped onto cobblestone, for now they were only a few yards away from the main gate. It seemed to grow in size as he rode closer, and Eren found himself in awe of the sheer mass. He is forced to stop before long, at risk of running right into the wooden door. Two men stood on either side of the gate, and more, he assumed, stood at their posts within the walls. Both were dressed in much the same armour as the other men Eren had seen thus far: the uniform of the City Guard. But he recognized some minor differences. Their weapons for example. Rather than swords and shields, these men had long spears. Gatekeepers then, Eren figures, though he supposes he could have deduced that simply on the fact they were standing in front of the gate.

“State your name and business, ser,” The man on the right ordered idly, flask in one hand, spear in the other. Eren just grins, dismounting from his steed and doing his best to look princely, strong, and cool for lack of a better term.

“I am the Crown Prince, and I’m returning home.” He announces.

The gatekeeper drops his flask.

The city was larger than any of Eren’s books could accurately describe, and much larger than Eren had ever imagined. He felt like like an ant in a colony, hundreds of them weaving in and out of each other’s paths to go about their daily tasks in relative harmony. Until the announcement was made, that is, interrupting the rhythm of the populace. It began with the long call of a trumpet horn. The deafening clear tone bounced off the stone walls and throughout the main square. It was followed immediately by a piercing silence. All attention was directed to the source of the sound, and then onto the boy on his horse. Quite suddenly, Eren found himself with hundreds of eyes directed at him. He had never seen this many people before and stared back at them like a corned deer.

“Hear ye! Men and women of Capitol City!” There was a poignant pause, “Your Prince has returned!”

Even on a dreary day like this, the city was so alive.

The cheering erupted, and the citizens swarmed at Eren. If he’d not been atop his horse, he’d have been trampled. Levi quickly moves his own horse in step with prince’s, to offer him some more protection in the sea of citizens. When Eren turns to look at him, seemingly overwhelmed, Levi just lays his hand on Eren’s leg.

“Welcome home, my prince.”

“Mother! Father!” Eren calls as he finally arrives at the courtyard of the palace. His two parents are standing there in all of their regalia, waiting for their son to reach them. On his father’s side stood Kenny Ackerman, Levi’s uncle and sworn sword to the King. On the other stood Mikasa Ackerman, sworn to the Queen.

Eren hops down from his horse and hurries up to them, his mother embracing him first, and then his father following close behind. Grisha keeps his son tightly in his arms for a long moment, glad to see him brought home safely. He looks over Eren’s shoulder to Levi as the knight had also dismounted and approached, following behind his liege and nodding at his uncle and cousin. “Thank you Levi.” Eren’s father tells him, voice genuine. The stoic man only nods in response.

The King then wraps his arm around his son’s shoulder and leads him up the steps of the palace, chatting quietly as their shoes click against the stone. The Ackermans fall not far behind them.

“You’ve grown so much since we saw you last, Eren,” the King begins, his wife nodding and smiling at the boy before she pitches in herself;

“You must have gone through quite the growth spurt, oh, I remember when you were just a toddler, running around with Mikasa. Happier times.” Her voice is sweet, like song birds. Eren doesn’t mention that perhaps she wouldn’t be so surprised by his growth if she had visited him more often. His father was busy sure, but the Queen? Why didn’t she move to the estate to live with her only child?

“Happier times indeed.” The King agrees, voice becoming a bit solemn.

Eren has vague memories of the palace, and they bubble to the surface as he enters through the doors. The inhabitants of the palace bustled a bit themselves, but more quietly, and with much more flair than the city outside. Each time they pass a servant, they are bowed to deeply, but Eren quickly asks the people to rise each time, a bit embarrassed and thinking it was unnecessary. This was their home too after all, they had better things to do than follow him around, or to be bowing and curtsying at the mere sight of him.

The walls were familiar, and so was the large center staircase that gleamed in the light of the main hall. He stepped away from his father’s embrace to approach it. “Our rooms are up here, aren’t they?” He turns to meet his father’s gaze before looking back up.” I remember something like that…” Eren furrows his brows a bit as he speaks, thinking.

“They are, son. I’m happy you remember,” his father acknowledges, a warmth to his words. Mikasa steps past the King then to approach Eren and pulls him into her own embrace.

“I missed you very much Eren. I’m glad you’re home.” She mumbles softly, her voice had always been rather soft, especially in comparison to Eren’s boisterous one. The brunette smiles and squeezes her against him.

“Yeah, me too. It’s pretty lame having no friends other than grumpy pants over there.” He jokes, gesturing to Levi, who just rolls his eyes in response.

The rest of the family seems a bit surprised at his casual manner and language, his mother speaking up as he lets go of Mikasa. “Eren, dear, mind your manners.”

“Oh please, Levi doesn’t care. He talks way worse than I do half the time, he-”

“Eren.” Grisha interrupts him, tone final and effective at shutting up his son. A moment of silence passes, and Eren doesn’t feel very much at home.

“Ah, whatever...” He just mumbles before heading up the stairs at a brisk pace.

Levi bows slightly to both the King and the Queen before following after Eren, only pausing once to pat Mikasa’s back gently, since he didn’t have the opportunity to greet her properly. Once the two men are a good distance down the hall, and Levi has caught up to Eren a fair bit, he speaks.

“Going to have a temper tantrum over such a stupid thing?” Levi inquires.

“No. No! Shut up Levi, leave me alone.” The prince huffs, trying to remember his way outside to the back of the palace where the gardens were. The way out was down this hallway, he was sure.

“I’m sorry my prince, but I cannot leave you alone,” he tells him, in a matter of fact tone. “Where are you going? Do you have any clue?”

The brunette groans this time and stops, turning to glare at Levi with fierce turquoise eyes. “I don’t know. I don’t remember how to get to the garden. Show me.”

“With pleasure,” Levi says simply before beginning to walk again at a leisurely pace, guiding Eren to the palace gardens. As the prince follows his lover, he takes the time to gaze at the paintings, sculptures, and other works of art that adorned the halls. The Jaeger Estate itself was rather extravagant, sure, but this was truly something to behold. Still, Eren’s downturned mood didn’t allow for much amazement, and he isn’t too impressed in his current state as a result.

“Here, Eren.” Levi points out, before stopping in front of a large glass paned door and swinging it open for him. Eren steps through and is once again greeted by the same gray but rainless sky. “A shame it won't brighten up, your skin looks pretty in the sunlight.” The knight adds.

“Pretty?”

“Yes. I’m trying to cheer you up. You look a lot better when you’re all smiley,” The older man explains with a shrug, having since stepped outside with him, now leaning on the door they had come through. Eren appreciates the attempt and gives his lover a weak smile.

“Thanks for trying, but I feel about as terrible as the sky looks.”

“That’s alright. The sky will change, and I’m betting on sun tomorrow.”

#ererievents #ererispringweekend #day 2 overcast #ereri #rivaere #ereri fanfiction #attack on titan #shingeki no kyojin #ereri fanfic #Eren Jaeger #levi ackerman

16 notes · View notes