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prismartist · 3 years

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Haul Away Jay

Fandom: Just Roll With It (Riptide)

Words: 3175

CW: implied/referenced character death

Relationships: Chip & Jay Ferin & Gillion Tidestrider

Summary: Jay is bored. Very, very bored. So, understandably, she tries to find a way to entertain herself.

She wasn't quite expecting the entertainment to come in the form of a song and dance, or that the other two would be roped into it.

None of them are complaining, though.

A/N: @tokencishetchip idk if you remember but you asked to be tagged for this a little while back !! here's the albatrio having fun with a sea shanty :D

Ao3

– – –

If there was anything that Jay Ferin knew as she leaned on the railing of the Albatross one peaceful day, watching the sun slowly set beyond the horizon, it’s that she was unmistakably, undoubtedly, incredibly, and painfully, bored.

Maybe it was the juxtaposition of the current situation to cursed islands, cursed casinos, or crewmates being dumbasses (well, that wasn't really a curse, but it sure felt like one sometimes), but standing on a boat in the middle of an endless calm sea under an endless calm sky wasn’t the most exciting event in the world.

Jay let out a sigh that floated out onto the indifferent blue water. She heard Gillion shout something from atop the crow’s nest, and Chip shouting back in turn as he walked down from the helm and started lighting the lamps. It was nice to see the two working in harmony.

Old man Earl was nowhere to be seen, probably in the kitchen making dinner and more orange juice. Jay was looking forward to that the most right now. She wasn’t sure if that’s a good or bad thing.

Well, she thought as she redirected her attention back to the ocean, if only they could find the adventure they all hoped for.

Her mind drifted in an attempt to entertain herself, going back to her days in the tavern. She had spent hours there working her butt off for loud, gruff soldiers, laying down in bed afterwards and thinking that her aching bones and five hours of sleep weren’t worth it. Over time she had learned to ignore the exhaustion, but compared to the adrenaline-inducing fights and rewarding victories she experienced now, Jay didn’t miss it.

Suddenly, a melody started to creep into her mind, a tune that she didn’t expect to hear in a long while. While tied to the memory of the tavern, the feeling the song settled in her is calm, comforting even. Jay closed her eyes, allowing herself to listen to it.

Apple sang serenely as she sat on the crow’s nest, and her chirps melded into the melody that Jay now recognized.

It was an old sea shanty, one that Jay often heard from the navy soldiers that frequented the tavern. She recalled memories of drunk men singing joyously, unprofessional in their performance, as if they were celebrating being freed from their ruthless job even for a night. Sometimes though, the way they would sing would come out soft and genuine as they sat in relative sobriety after a hard-fought battle, reflecting as the first few hours of the dawn crept up behind them and the orange rays shone on the mournful men. Jay would look on, almost in awe, unable to believe these were the same people who maimed and killed and imprisoned.

Jay hummed the beginning of the tune to the best of her abilities, and did not notice Chip cast a curious glance at her. She faltered as she lost the words, struggling to remember.

How did it go again…?

Oh. Right.

“Oh maiden, oh maiden, the love to I,” Jay sang softly. “I adore the shimmer, the shimmer, the shine in your eyes.”

She smiled and started to continue, but was cut off suddenly by the sound of Chip’s voice. Her eyes flew open and she turned in his direction, having half a mind to snap at him, but stopped upon realizing what exactly he was saying.

Or, rather, singing.

“It enamours, enamours, thy light to my life.” Chip was as surprised as Jay, eyes wide as he continued easily as if by instinct. His voice was surprisingly smooth and not all that bad. “Thy touch, carries, it carries, my soul to the sky.”

They stared at each other for a few moments, processing what had just happened.

Jay tilted her head, and spoke, “How do you-”

“I-it’s a song, I– the Black Rose Pirates used to sing it all the time.” Chip saw a small flash of a memory, of fireflies fluttering around in hanging terrariums, of voices chanting the same song as Chip joined in. He gestured a bit wildly, as if he was trying to swat away the image. “You?”

“I heard it in the tavern a lot.” Jay chuckled, a little in disbelief. “I guess it’s more popular than I thought.”

Chip vaguely remembered being lifted into the air by a laughing Arlind, teasing him for messing up a line, the golden glow overhead. “I guess so-”

“And my love! I swear in the sun and the rain!” The booming voice of Gillion Tidestrider rang down, causing Chip and Jay to look up and see the Triton slide down the pole, landing with a flourish. He straightened and completed the verse in a perfect baritone. “That someday, our hands will intertwine once again.”

Gillion grinned at the other two’s astonished faces. “That's an oversea song, is it not? My sister taught it to me. I much enjoy it as well.”

Chip turned to Jay. “So definitely more popular than you thought,” he said.

“Yeah,” Jay muttered, feeling a grin grow on her face. “A little different in some places, but yeah.”

She found herself tapping her fingers against the boat to the beat of the shanty and humming the post-verse interlude. Gill and Chip noticed as well, and their eyes trained on her, silently assigning her the role of the shantyman.

Jay tensed up upon noticing. She’s not used to performing, especially in front of an audience (could you call two people an audience?). It’s far from one of her strong suits.

But after a moment of contemplation, she eventually decided that, fuck it, it’s time to sing.

They started this ballad, they might as well finish it.

“Oh damsel, oh damsel, my heart belongs to thee.” Her voice cracked a bit on the high note, which Chip snickered at, but Jay merely shot him a dirty look and continued. “If you are troubled, so troubled, you must only call on me.”

“And though it rages, it rages, the condescending sea,” Chip joined in, his smirk slowly morphing into a genuine smile.

“For you I know my journey will succeed,” he finished, noticing Gillion’s voice join in. Chip glanced at him for a second before letting out a soft chuckle.

Jay started stomping on the boat to get the beat going. To her delight, Chip clapped rhythmically and Gillion followed both their suits. Energized, Jay hummed louder.

“And my love, I swear in the waves and whirlpools,” all three sang together, “Soon we will meet and once again become whole.”

With a laugh, Jay skipped closer to the center of the ship. She spun and gestured, mimicking the dances she had observed at Loffinlot, imagining a band accompanying her as she sang as loud as she could.

La, la la la, la la la, la la la.

Gillion was quick to join her, imitating her dance. His heavy boots threatened to break the wood they danced on, but Jay only cared for the lovely bass beat and snare they happened to offer. She grinned at him approvingly, and Gill grinned back.

Off to the side, Chip hung back, providing the main melody.

“Oh lover, oh lover, don’t you dare cry.” Jay reached out a hand to Gillion, who took it. “But laugh and laugh under the pristine blue sky.” She raised it and lead him in a spin. “And never, oh never, would I ever lie. I wish nothing more than for us to reunite!”

Gillion grabbed Jay by the waist, catching her off-guard, but as he lifted her into the air, she loosened up and cheered, feeling the song come to an end.

When she landed, Jay made a show of dusting herself off before bowing to Gillion. Gill, ever the gentleman, bowed back, and Jay giggled.

She looked over to Chip, leaning against the railing and watching with a rather deflated smile. Jay raised an eyebrow. That didn’t look right.

Absent-mindedly tapping his toes, no longer minding the beat, Chip stewed deep in his thoughts. Seeing his friends dance their hearts out was a nice scenario, don’t get him wrong, but despite the undeniable want to join in the festivities, there was a hesitance that Chip couldn’t quite get over. Maybe it’s the weird ache when he remembered voices that he’d never hear again. Maybe it’s because he didn’t want to interrupt the others’ joy. Who knew. Chip sure didn’t.

And Chip definitely didn’t know why the sight of Jay marching towards him made him panic.

“Hey,” Jay said, and Chip immediately heard the over-friendliness in her voice. “What’re you doing, moping in the corner? You said you and the Black Rose Pirates sang this all the time, right?” She leaned forward and locked eyes with Chip, who tensed up. “So, show us what you got.”

She daintily held out a hand, and with it, a challenge. “Dance with us.”

Chip’s eyes grew impossibly wide as his face flushed. “Oh, nah, nahh, that’s okay, I’m really not a dancer,” he stammered. “And you guys are already done with the song, so I really don’t-”

“Gill.” Jay smirked. “Take the beat.”

“Wha-”

“On it!” Gillion grinned with sharp teeth and began to stomp and clap again. He hummed deeply, the tune once again emanating through the ship.

“Jay,” Chip begged, taking a step back. “I don-”

“Nope, round two, coward!”

“Ja-AAAAY!”

Chip yelped as Jay grabbed his arm and dragged him to the newly appointed dance floor, guiding his kicking and screaming form into one of dance. She took one of Chip’s hands and held it up, putting her other hand on his shoulder. “Your free hand on my waist,” she reminded him, ignoring his confused sputtering. “And one, two, three, go.”

She lead the dance in a sort of wild, messy foxtrot, stretching their clasped hands in the direction they move in, side skipping energetically. Chip stumbled at first, caught off-guard, but he quickly adjusted to her same pace, glancing at the ground to make sure he was keeping up. Seeing his face relax and the corners of his mouth quirk up, Jay smiled at him encouragingly.

“Sing, shantyman, it’s your turn,” she said.

Chip’s expression turned into horror once again, gulping as he scrambled to remember the words in time for the melody.

“O-oh maiden, oh maiden, the love to I,” sang Chip.

“I adore the shimmer, the shimmer, the shine in thy eyes,” he and Jay sang together.

“It enamours, enamours, thy light to my li-IIFE, JAY!” Chip screamed as Jay gave him a spin, laughing at his surprised shriek. “Jay, don’t just spin me without warning!”

“You’re being sloppy, shantyman,” Jay teased. “Keep up with the song.”

Chip glared, but continued nonetheless, “And my love, I swear in the sun and the rain.”

Jay gave him another spin, but this time, Chip didn't miss a beat. He gave Jay a smug, triumphant look. Jay raised an eyebrow in turn, admittedly impressed.

“That someday, our hands will intertwine once again!”

“Alright, nice,” Jay complimented, grinning widely.

Chip caught a mischievous glint in her eye, and his face consequently fell.

“One more spin, pretty boy!”

Before he could protest, Jay suddenly spun Chip away with a greater force than before, and the world around him became a blur, the air swirling with the sound of Jay’s devilish voice.

“Gillion,” he heard her yell, “catch!”

And Chip is spun into the arms of Gillion, who beamed at Chip’s very red face.

“Come, Chip.” Gill took both of Chip’s hands. Chip, still trying to recover from the jarring switch of partners, only blinked down at their now clasped fingers. “It is our turn.”

“Oh my god.” Chip laughed nervously.

Stomp, stomp, stomp, stomp.

“Oh damsel, oh damsel, my heart belongs to thee,” Jay belted as Chip and Gillion figured out their dance. “If you’re troubled, oh so troubled, you must only call on me.”

The other two started to push and pull in tandem, reminiscent of a cha-cha with a bit more energy and spins thrown in every once in a while. They surprisingly guided each other with more harmony and grace than Jay expected.

“And though it rages, it rages, the condescending sea.” Gillion leapt and circled with Chip, almost lifting the latter off the ground. “Just for thou I know that my journey shall succeed!”

“Gill, calm down!” Chip chuckled, partly in amusement and partly in fear, as he started to lose his footing.

Jay looked on, not ignorant to the warm fuzzy feeling in her chest, the beat pulsing along with the adrenaline in her veins.

“And my love, I swear in the waves and whirlpools, soon we will meet and once again become whole.”

Soon she joined them, whooping as she jogged, and they welcomed her with wide smiles, one pair of hands separating to reach out. Jay took the offer to form an interconnected circle, spinning and bobbing as they shared the melody. They sang, as loud as they could, filling the air with a joyful energy.

“Oh lover, oh lover, don’t you dare cry,” Chip started.

The others joined in. “But laugh and laugh under the pristine blue sky.”

And laugh they did, the pure euphoria of indulging in fond memories emitting from them. They stumbled and laughed through mistakes, put their all into the performance, harmonising wonderfully.

Jay caught Pretzel doing somersaults in her globe and Apple circling the crew, chirping the tune with them. She’s reminded of a joking conversation about starting a band. Perhaps they had a chance after all, she thought amusedly. Gillion and the Tidestriders. Chip and the Bastards. Jay and the Dumbass Bluebirds. Whatever you wanted to call it.

Now, though, they were simply three friends, holding hands and dancing, rattling the wood of the ship without a care, singing a sea shanty that they all happened to know.

The stars slowly flooded the darkening sky and twinkled at them like they were dancing along.

To one, the fresh air, the touch of familiar calloused hands that had fought alongside her, and the spray of the ocean was a welcoming contrast to past memories of stuffy spaces and dispassionate work. To another, though the memory was a bit painful, it still brought him the same comforting feeling from years ago, sharing laughter and celebration in a tight kinship that was expected in that of crewmates, deepening the bond with experiences that were not just in battle, but in recreation. And to another still, it was a reminder of a time when he was desperate to learn the oversea culture, and that he still remained ever so curious now as he learned its differences and similarities to his world, forming relationships with its inhabitants, people who were perhaps not as cruel as the elders had suggested.

Those who share such joyous experiences with others must not be that selfish, after all.

“And never, oh never, would I ever lie. I wish nothing more than for us to re-u-nite!”

Jay grinned up at the sky as they hummed the outro melody, a gust of wind sweeping down on them and carrying their voices away, out onto the shimmering waters.

La, la la la, la la la, la la la…

A tug from Jay led the trio up in one final leap, whooping and cheering with the others as they followed. And once their feet landed simultaneously with a bang, the song ended.

As the rush receded from her mind, the pumping blood in her ears quieting down, Jay took in the sound of the waves crashing up against the ship and her heaving breaths. She looked up at the now star-filled sky, wondering when it got so dark. She allowed her hand to slip from her friends’ grasps, moving to lean on bended knee. Jay heard the other two breathing quite heavily as well, and even a plop as Chip seemed to collapse out of the corner of her eye. She followed suit, sprawling onto the wood and closing her eyes, catching her breath. Jay wasn’t extremely tired, but she needed to recuperate.

“Oh god, you kids just had to make a racket up here, didn’t ya?”

Jay breathed out a chuckle upon hearing the raspy voice. “Hi Earl.”

“We were partying, Old man Earl!” Gillion said preppily, unsurprisingly not as out of breath as the others.

“Earl, you got…” A huff from Chip. “You got orange juice? Perhaps? Please?”

“Hmph, you’re fuckin lucky I do.”

Tired cheers chimed from the pirates.

“But you have to go down to get it with dinner. Chop chop.”

“Ohh, come onnnnn,” Chip whined, joining in with the groans of Jay.

“I’ve seen you work, you’re not that tired,” Earl scoffed. “Maybe you shouldn’t have wasted all your energy on destroying the ship! And your vocal chords.”

“Hey, I don’t think we sounded that bad,” Jay said.

“Whatever, just come down and have dinner, I’m definitely not hefting everything up here.” Earl barked out a laugh and proceeded to go back down, ignoring the cries of Jay and Chip.

Soon Gillion’s face popped into Jay’s view. “Are you alright, Jay?” He glanced over. “Chip?”

“I’m coming around,” Jay assured. She stretched her arms up, making grabby hands. “Pull me up?”

Gillion complied, grabbing her arms and lifting her, though at a faster-than-preferred pace. Jay let out a yelp as she got back on her feet before stretching with a groan.

“Thanks, Gill.”

“Hey Giiiilll? Big man? Can I go next?”

Jay looked to Chip, who also had outstretched arms. Gillion walked to him and helped him up as well.

“Thanks, buddy.” Chip patted Gill on the back.

“No problem. Honestly, I did not think you would tire out so easily.”

“Well we need to gain back our energy, then,” Jay said, starting to follow Old man Earl.

“Hey, uh, Jay, um.” Chip caught her attention, and she turned back to see him with a raised hand. He moved it to scratch the back of his neck sheepishly. “That was… that was fun.”

“I agree,” Gillion said with a nod. “I was reminded of some… rather fond memories, actually. And it was a good exercise. We should do it more.”

“Yeah, yeah actually, same. I agree.” Chip looked up at Jay, his face rather tentative. “So, thanks for that, I guess.”

Jay smiled. “You’re welcome, dweeb,” she jabbed. “You’re being more affectionate than usual, but I appreciate it.”

“Hey, don’t call me a dweeb!” Chip’s expression morphed into one of offense. “I just thanked you, that’s so insensitive of you. That’s actually insensitive.”

“I let you fulfill your showman dreams, you’re the one being insensitive right now.”

“Showman- hey, I actually like the sound of that.”

“Yeah you would, you drama queen.”

“You’re calling me dramatic? Have you seen Gill?”

The sound of bickering paired with Gillion’s oblivious chimes trailed below the deck, leaving a fond memory to the glittering dark waters and the twinkling stars still dancing along.

#jrwi #just roll with it #just roll with it fanfiction #jrwi podcast #just roll with it podcast #jrwi riptide #prismatic writing

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torresxpatrick · 3 years

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|| for malachi // @maelstrcm

Patrick found himself at The Dive, as he did most nights for the past couple of weeks. The irony of it wasn’t lost on him. His clean & serene tag was screaming at him from his jacket pocket, but Patrick wasn’t worried. His sobriety wasn’t fragile; at least that was what he liked to tell himself. His time in prison was a nice precursor to his sobriety as he had to cold turkey quit all his vices; drugs, sex, alcohol. A few relapses here and there but right now, Patrick was perfectly content sipping on a cola. He was munching on a basket of fries, still deciding on his actual meal, tucked away in a booth away from the hustle and bustle of the bar. The man was lost in his own head, scrolling through his phone when he heard a familiar voice ring out from across the restaurant, ordering something from the bartender. Patrick’s head snapped up and he scanned the room to find if his suspicions were correct. His eyes landed on the dark figure, turned 90 degrees away from him but Patrick was sure it was Malachi. He stood and ambled up to the other, clapping a welcoming hand on the other’s shoulders. “Malachi mother fucking Winters.” He cheered, incredulously.

#starter.#starter:malachi.#(( lemme know if i need to change anythin!!~#addiction mention tw #prison mention tw

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gingermintpepper · 4 years

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Doubt [1/20]

Rating: General Characters: Drole, Gloxinia Summary: In which Drole contemplates his decision to join Stigma. Ginger’s Commentary: I promise all of these aren’t this long.

The night air is thick, oppressive even as the endless fields stretched beneath it portray an illusion of serenity. The forest is still behind him, the fae locked in uneasy restfulness, their unconscious minds unable to fully hide their doubts in their king's ability to protect them from the war burning the earth to ash just beyond their borders.

Drole wonders, not for the first time, if he's made a mistake dragging Gloxinia into this battle.

His steps are quiet as he wanders into the vast meadow, moonlight spilling over satiny petals like cursed mercury. He'd only just managed to convince Meliodas to rest, even if for a moment. Now all that was left was the other restless monarch, the king who was far more aggressive hummingbird than delicate butterfly.

"It's a beautiful night."

Violet becomes dusky blue beneath the weight of the darkness surrounding them, yet even in this deep black, Gloxinia's scarlet hair maintains its eternal luster. A part of Drole is struck by how akin to a funeral procession the view before him is - the immortal glow of the king of fae surrounded by blushing flowers ripe for the picking, red hair the mar of blood flowing freely from the uncleanable wound.

He's careful not to crush the foliage as he walks, a private smile illuminating his face for but a moment, "Yes, it is."

Gloxinia spreads his wings, wordlessly relocates to Drole's shoulder as the titan settles himself. There's no need for words between them at this hour, nothing that can be said to change the decisions they'd made while drunk on sunlight and adrenaline. Still, Drole cannot suppress the guilt he feels, the twinge of regret sitting high on his breast as he replays the events in his mind.

Fairies, he remembers Gloxinia once telling him, have no business in secular wars.

It was a fair stance to take. The fairies were not like any of the other races. They bore no will to procreate, had no instinct which drove them to survive. No greed with which to make them consider expanding their kingdom. Their lifespans stretched far into the millenia and with time came distance. Gloxinia was an old creature, older than so many of the systems and kingdoms of the world. Older than the generals of both sides of this war. To him, every conflict must've seemed the squabble of overactive children. His only duty was to the Sacred Tree and to his people. So long as he stood, it mattered not if the demons and goddesses and everyone in between burned the world to nothing. His duty would be fulfilled.

And Drole had convinced him to risk it all to fight in some petty, fleeting war.

"Stop that."

His tongue is clumsy from unspoken doubt but he manages a sound of confusion.

Gloxinia's tiny fingers prod at the spaces between his vast eyebrows, languid motions befitting the childish curl to his words, "I can hear you thinking from over here." A soft giggle, and though Gloxinia weighs nothing, Drole can feel him rolling onto his back atop his head, focuses as strands of unbroken red begin to drip into his face, "You're worrying over nothing. I already made my decision."

He raises his hand, extending a finger so Gloxinia can sit on the digit. He feels more at ease when he can see who he's talking to, finds peace in the eye contact, in making sense out of the tangled up signals of Gloxinia's ever enigmatic body language.

"I've not said anything," Drole murmurs, entranced with the way the fae king folds his wings and perches himself on the brunt of the back of his palm. He'd hated sitting there initially, resolute in his decision to stand with his own two wings if he had to speak to Drole man to man. Time had eased his pride.

Gloxinia's nose scrunches cutely and he averts his gaze. Quite suddenly, Drole is reminded that the fairy before him can read hearts.

"You're not exactly doing yourself any favours here, Drole."

Embarrassment is a sensation one must become acclimatized to quickly in the presence of the fairy king. It was one of the first lessons Drole had learned as his companion, but even the best students faltered in their mastery of certain teachings. Airy laughter trickles forth from gentle lips and under the moonlight, shaking shoulders glow with marble's perfect sheen. Gloxinia is beautiful and already, the laugh that had been so absent in recent days had returned from its abrupt journey.

Somehow, he manages to compose himself. Tilts his great head so he can focus on the multitude of stars wishing him peace from the vastness of sky, "I'm sorry."

He hears a put-upon sigh, the sort that accompanies a helpless quirk of the lips and a softening of piercing eyes. Gloxinia flies silently, again, perching his body on the broad slope of Drole's shoulder. When he speaks, the titan can hear the age in his words, feels the fine hairs on his flesh prick up from the power of the utterings alone. "Nothing that's worth protecting isn't also worth fighting for, Drole."

And he understands what Gloxinia is trying to do, but he cannot help the tempest of his thoughts, "You don't have to fight."

The fairy laughs at that and though the sound is genuine, there is an edge of desperation to it, a harshness that makes Drole think that perhaps, he's missing something, "I'm not stupid. Those Goddesses," and he pauses, chooses his words carefully like he fears Nerobasta will descend upon him for his unfavourable thoughts, "they're determined to have the Forest for themselves. It was only a matter of time before they turned their attention to us to fulfil their needs."

That, Drole could sympathise with.

The Demons had been causing mass hysteria in their valleys and plains, terraforming the land during their hunts, draining their resources, murdering Giant and Human alike in their bid for more ground to use against the Goddesses. Drole had the most elite of his warriors join him in a bid to retake their mountain and the surrounding lands.

He had been the only one to return home.

Since then, his Titans had been scattered and broken, seeking shelter in mountains and forests while their king tried to put together a plan that would see them victorious over this new and most formidable of adversaries. Except Drole had no idea what he was doing, had no clue whether or not he had made the right decision joining this conflict. In that respect, Gloxinia was the better of them; a ruler who had carefully weighed his choices and sided with the lesser of the evils to preserve as much as he could. Drole had simply been backed into a corner.

He frowns, the delicate expression out of place on his usually stony countenance, “Do you think we picked the right side?”

Gloxinia’s tiny elbow digs into the side of his jaw, a snicker falling from bitter lips, “It’s war Drole, there is no such thing as the right side.” The whimsy in his voice fades to sobriety, sharp edges of elbow against bone soothing as the frail touch of Gloxinia’s palm rests upon Drole’s face, “We just need to make sure that we’re on the winning side.”

#long post #Jesus Christ #ginger writes #seven deadly sins #nanatsu no taizai #nnt #drole the patience #drole nnt #gloxinia #gloxinia the repose #gloxinia nnt #writing #Hopefully I stop feeling embarrassed about posting writing directly to tumblr lmao #There's 19 more of these fuckers #drolxinia

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stagekiller · 5 years

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Cont from x

@blackfiire

Leather straps groan with each futile attempt. Background music provides a quiet & serene environment; just the right kind to allow Dr. Valeska focus - the Mayor’s whimpering compliments Schubert’s composition. The fabric belt around his dark green robe is promptly fastened around a slender waist, quick flash of pearly teeth accompanied by a soft noise as he spares a glance to Blackfire’s direction.

Mr. Mime - who already seems to be on the verge of tears, hurries to fulfill the woman’s command. Her words earn a tug of his skirt, as if she pointed out something embarrassing. Simultaneously, however, they also earn a snicker and a smack on the bum as he passes by surgeon Valeska - a smack that’s forceful enough to send his poor goon stumbling forward. If he hadn’t cried before, there were definitely traces of liquid staining his grease-painted face NOW.

“ Okay, boys, bring over the cameras. ” Freckled hand waves a bunch of lackeys operating some hospital machinery. It seems to be a micro-camera, the kind doctors would use to secure footage of intestines whilst operating. However those normally do not come connected with GCN’s streaming equipment. In this case, it seems they’ve been modified; and this whimsical ordeal is about to be broadcasted live. “ We’re about to be... ” Penetrating gaze lands on the surgical gloves that noisily smack against freckled skin. Mayor James’ eyes shrink to the size of a pinhead, his head shaking violently in response. Jerome flashes him a grin & a wink before slipping on the other glove, paying attention to ALL sanitary procedures of course. “ - on air.”

Mayor Jame’s body writhes against soft padding of the surgical table, his limbs pinned down with straps & extended to paint him as a big, starfish-shaped blob. Duct tape covers his mouth, an artful touch to ensure only discreet screaming; Jerome wouldn’t want to be too cheesy with this one. Machine approaches menacingly, pushed by groaning clown-faced punks. And when it’s finally hovering over the Mayor’s struggling form, in true Jerome fashion, the ginger shoves his face in the camera. Hoarse voice holds a jovial tone, disregarding the Mayor’s desperate pleas for help that seem to intensify the moment he spots that blinking red DOT at the screen.

“ Hello, Gotham! ” That familiar Glasgow grin. “ Welcome to our little... operation. ” A moment is spared for emerald hues to traverse over the Mayor’s suffering. Ah, he relishes in it so obviously. One may have noticed a small sigh slipping through his grin. The next second his focus is back on the performance, however. “ We’re coming to you live from Gotham’s General. ” Tone drops to a monotone, feigned sobriety adding a comical touch to his expression. “ With the upcoming elections, it is only fair that we give voters a chance to see what kind of man they’ve been rooting for. ”

A gloved hand violently tugs the hospital gown, exposing soft & floppy flesh. Dark, curly hairs frame the Mayor’s belly button. Sight elicits a discreet chuckle from scarred lips.

“ And by that I mean, what kind of man he is on the inside. ” Scalpel glistens just as his devious grin does, ominously hovering over the Mayor’s belly.

#// honestly i dont even know what im writing anymore i just roll w it #// also this is from forever ago SORRY :"D #{ blackfiire }#surgery //

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goldendichotomy · 5 years

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-) A START (-

SKINSHIP - bonding through the intimacy of touch, especially of closeness between parent and child.

If parenting is a partnership, then that of yours was a dichotomy. That word that would come to mean plenty flew over the head of a small youth, a creature toddling after a mother with bright laughter and callused hands or a father with soft eyes and a gentle line for a mouth. Every argument was a closed door affair, with voices pitched, late hours, music playing like serenity from record players attached to room to room speakers until they were drowned out into a white noise. You grow used to the sounds without connecting them, realizing that Sinatra meant money or Bach referred to the cold edge of parenting disagreements.

You grow older. Bit by bit, and you learn. Cooking, the beginnings of art, the raising of your voice in song from callused hands. Theories and thought and the open palms you offer other children, the tired broken ones big kids leave behind, from a soft line of a mouth. You learn. You learn so much, you learn to hold the world in your hands and to create more beautiful things. From her, you learn a twisting open heart that makes you dream of faraway places, of people and things. You learn to dance, and to put color on your mouth and eyes that make you smile until your face aches.

He tuts. He snaps his teeth. You learn soft fabric rubbing over your face, hands bringing your body to stillness. Instead come tight suits and solemn features, all of which don’t fit the shape of you until, one day, they do. Only sometimes itching when the right song plays. When she paints her mouth bright, glistening red, and your stomach aches so painfully you think it might burst.

ALEATORY - relying on chance or an uncontrolled element in the details of life or in the creation of art.

So much of your veins are poison when she tells you. Years past and gone, both your minds trapped between something small and something massive even with your bodies already grown and gone. You play the game on phone calls, claim duty and brightness in classes that you flip away from whenever you have the chance. Fill yourself with clear liquids and small things that come in baggies at the proper celebrations. It’s here you fell in love, you think; fell in with the beautiful creature that kissed pills from your mouth and undressed you with a tenderness you didn’t recognize as anything but tragic with your broken mind.

It becomes a game of sorts. She folds paper into beautiful flowers, leaves them on your preferred seat in lecture halls to open and read the ink guts hidden within. So you write her letters responses in backgrounds of paintings displayed on college walls. On evenings -- or mornings and afternoons too tedious for the life you choose -- the two of you collide. She tastes like success, like a future underneath all the chalky substances and strawberry alcohol. Her fingers feel like silk. Every breath against your chest makes you want to live for it, consume her until your lungs can mimic that pattern for every future day.

But that is something. This is something else. You see what this is by the plastic in her hands, the tremble in those fingers no matter how steady her voice is. She says keep, says don’t want, says career and future and you’re so fucking proud of her that you want to be sick. Or you’re sick over something else. A thing you don’t want to put words on, you don’t know that you can. Saying it is realizing it, is truing it. Is how you shudder when she says adoption, starts to speak of papers.

You think, I am useless. I am fool sailors on Odysseus’ boat that did not plug their ears and thought something good would come of it, lost to the story for their choice. Picking at your nail beds until blood blossoms, you think, I am in love. I want, I want, I want more than I want to know those old tastes or feel her lungs, I want.

Aloud, you breathe in and rattling sound. Take her hands in your own, slender to large. Cradle them like sacred items. I don’t have anything, you say, I don’t have a future. But I want it. Not to force you into anything, vanish if you so desire. But I want it, even if I don’t know how to keep it safe.

You’ll have to, she says solemnly. Takes her hands from yours to cradle your cheeks. Mouth to mouth. To forehead. To tip of nose, before drawing back. You’ll change your mind.

And you, wild and foolish to a fault, hear only the first part. Call it a light switch flickering, a coin landing on the other side, wind turning over leaves. You take to classes like religions left behind. Skirt old familiar buildings full of music and bodies at night, an illness you cannot fill your body with and survive for much longer. You adjust. Not change, there is something pure about that word, something selfish about what you are doing that doesn’t match it. Even if those phone calls back some states away become more sincere now, it is selfish, and you sink into it deeper for finding pride in that.

Except.

After graduation. Long past family meals and farewells, with the cap left behind and gown lost somewhere on the way, she finds you. Swollen to the touch with the beating of a drum beneath her skin that mesmerizes you, charmer to snake. She invites you with her. Solidarity in sobriety, laughter leaving her as she takes you to one of your old haunts. Hip to hip, arm to arm as you judge the others around you who are lost to sins both your bodies have only recently abandoned. Imagining futures and failures. Successes and joys for anyone that pauses long enough for you both to create their story.

She parts, for a moment.

Is it not funny, how much can happen in a moment?

A beautiful body can crowd your space, the kind you’d like to paint if you had canvas and easel before you, making paints with the make up of attendees or the liquors scattered around. He smiles like you’ve been friends for generations. Offers a drink. Laughs brighter when you decline. There are words in your ears that make up for the alcohol. Fingers on your wrist, and your skin is scalding apart. Fingers on your waist, and your heart is a jack rabbit caught in a trap. You sway. Laugh nervously, laugh until you can pretend you’re not shaking, you’re not following him, that you aren't eager and wild and falling onto a bed you’ve never felt before with a body unfamiliar in so many ways framing your own against the mattress.

You come apart there. Dead and broken pieces left behind in sheets tangled and tossed to the side. Someone else emerges into the morning light, fingers loosely locked into those of a stranger who’s name you choose not to learn, who you will never hold hands with or kiss again after a final one over coffee and bagels.

Only a few more days pass before the final change, the last knot in the noose of who you were before is formed. She is small and delicate, she is everything beautiful about her mother and pieces you don’t recognize as hers, know cannot be yours in their purity. Every cry shakes the hospital room. Could be the sound that made Mount Vesuvius erupt and swallow Pompeii in ashes. And you love her, you love her more than life, more than yourself, more than the selfishness that cleaned you up as quickly as anything. You love her more than art and the people who raised you.

Her name is Philomene, her last name is yours, and her mother is resplendent with sweat on her cheeks and blood between her legs still being bathed away by nurses.

There is nothing to do but kiss her. Even if it feels different than it did before -- or if the feeling is just one you did not recognize until now -- you kiss her, for thanking her for this life in your arms cannot be done through words. Instead, you say, I love you.

And she, to all the things unsaid -- Your life will be very difficult. I love you too.

MUTTERSEELENALLEIN - utterly alone, as of refugees from their home country; alone in the desert.

Into the phone that feels like glass against your ear, sharp and slicing with every shifting motion and cheap word you have to spill, you speak. Croak, maman, I think we need to come home. I can’t do this by myself anymore, I want-- and laugh like the next words weren’t deadly, like they wouldn’t leave your darling alone on the streets if they came true, cold and wailing as she stumbled on unsteady legs. Nothing’s okay, maman, please. Please help me come back.

For a moment, there is silence.

No. There is breathing, and a rhythm beneath it. Faint music that you must be hallucinating, the sweet notes of Bach as though you were already home. Avoiding one more of their arguments to the rise and fall of a piano. Bach, for parental arguments. You flex stiff fingers on the black plastic clutched by your white knuckles and wait. Pretend you cannot hear those murmurs, for you do not dare try to translate them. The minutes creep. Strangers on the street come and go, not even a look to the man and little one crowding into a phone booth.

Then, a more present breathing, a hitching that you catch before it instinctively strikes into your own. Inhale. Hitch. Pause. Exhale. Too light for anyone but your mother. Alec, she says, wavering in the lilt of her voice you’ve grown familiar with from a time you cannot hope to remember. Yet here you are, reaching for it. Struggling to breathe as you lean your head against the dirty glass of the stall around you.

Alec, again, a shattering prayer around you both. We love you very much, but. You see, you’ve... these are your choices. And we can’t support them. So I don’t think you should come back home to us.

You take little time in setting the phone back into place. Staring down at your hands, ten thousand things that could have been spoken explode into your mind like a cacophony. The only person that will be with me when I slit my throats is a little girl, not a man. Brittle. Who is the ‘we,’ maman? Did he teach me to take care of the others on the sides of streets? Brutalized. But I’ll change, I promise, please there is nothing else for me here, please maman I--

But what leaves you is this: a savage sound, an animal one, a fist that hits the glass and then hits it again, and again, and mimics until cracks from the pressure and slices at your knuckles. No. Until she weeps, the sound too much, her ears fragile and her eyes filling with water that spills just like that from your own. Sinking besides her, you pull her into your chest and let her bury her face there. Pretend blood does not stick to the loose strands of hair from her braid that kiss your fingers.

I’m sorry, you say, though a little thing like her cannot understand for what.

#-) HISTORICALLY #ok holy shit #a) i had to stop here because idk how much longer it would've gone #b) inspired by eugene ly thank you my dude because tbh it was unnerving how much of alec's premade backstory #matched eugene's experience and at midnight i didn't know how to handle that #c) clearly i have a lot of thoughts about growing up adopted in louisiana and turning out queer but having a child right out of college #d) more than could fit here #e) i don't expect anyone to read all of this it's like 20+ paragraphs #f) not beta'd #g) general tw warning of mentions of sex drugs parental abandonment birth and etc.

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nansheonearth · 2 years

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What I love about women's festivals and women's lands is how supportive they are for sober women. Every fest I've been to has had some sort of sober space. Most have entire sober camping areas. There's usually a few sober workshops. There's literally an entire women's fest called Sobriety And Serenity for sober women.

Also there doesn't seem to be that same culture of pressuring women to drink/smoke more than they'd want, if they want to at all. Like there's no "c'mon take one more shot" like this sister knows how much she wants to drink. No one thinks you're square for being sober.

And it's such a good vibe when everyone gets to just do their own thing. At BMG I remember drinking chatting at the concert with a sober woman and a woman smoking. We're all on different levels but the vibe is the same. I love that my friends get to have the full party vibe and be comfortable at the same time.

#radfem #sober #serenity and sobriety on the land #sobriety #women's festivals #women's land #sisterhood #solidarity #separatism #female centered #female only #o #big mouth girl #the land #michigan

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onetimeblast · 5 years

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21 People Tag Game?!? I only have like 5 friends

Rules: Answer 21 questions and tag 21 (ISH) people you want to get to know better. FIRST OFF, I was SOO flattered when @rulerofnocountry tagged me in this and second, this was so much easier to do on a laptop haha. 💻

Nickname: Manders, mandas, and Amanda Panda but that last one are pretty much reserved for my dad and my brother and MAYbe my future husband. please do not call me Mandy. You will be off the friend's list QUICK. 🙅🏼‍♀️

Zodiac: I am a born Aries but I am on the cusp of Taurus! So Taurus love relaxing in the serene environment but us Aries also love to be the first starting a challenge. My personality is all over the place.

Height: 5′2″

Last Movie I Saw: Avengers Endgame??? I think. 😅

Last Thing I googled: Katy Perry Russel Brand (because Jon Cozart tweeted about it) 🤷🏼‍♀️

Favorite Musicians: Okay, I really don’t have a favorite but I will recommend some plus songs!! Sad Forever by Lauv, Truth Hurts by Lizzo, anything by Shawn Mendes, Ed Sheeran, and John Mayer. Plus Robert Plant who is from Lez Zeppelin, especially his Raising Sand album which I listen to driving and while writing. Lastly, Dean Lewis and his work! Dean Lewis, Ed Sheeran, Shawn Mendes, and John Mayer are all on a Calm playlist! Can’t forget the lovely Harry Styles!!

Song Stuck in my Head: None actually! But I did have a mix of Harry Styles and Shawn Mendes yesterday while at work! 💃🏽🕺🏼

Other Blogs: protectteenwolf and uncommongracepublications! I may have others but ya gotta ask!

Do I get asks: Sadly, no... 😭🥺😞

Blogs following: Ummmm I think I follow like 536?? and maybe half of that follows me?? Honestly no idea. 😬

Amount of sleep: 8 hours are needed but I’ve been getting 6. Like tonight! 🤪

Lucky Number: Don’t have one

What am I wearing: Okay this is a creepy question LOL 😳 but it’s an XPLR black glow-in-the-dark shirt and light blue polar bear PJ pants

Dream Job: Legit, film director and producer!! I just applied to work in NBC this coming fall for two shows in New York! I live in Rhode Island so I can commute there and back during the day and may stay over the weekend IF NEEDED CUS it's HELLA EXPENSIVE and I have student loans to pay. Hell, it's expensive to live lol 💵💵💵

Dream Vacation: Croatia, Italy, Canada, Iceland, New Zealand, ya know, all the lands lol

Favorite Food: Italian food plus all dem potatoes. Being an Italian, Irish American isn’t easy on the weight loss journey. 🍞🥔🍝

Playing an instrument: I am learning Ukulele m but I played the clarinet for about 6 years and I can sort of play the piano but it has been a while. I can read music but doing hearing to note match isn’t that easy for me.

Languages: English but slowly learning Italian!

Favorite Song: Just go back to the same question up top! I don’t have a favorite as its mainly when the mood hits me, I pick certain music at that time.

Random Facts: I am a twin and I am the youngest one. I also have to sleep with a fan on and sometimes hug a pillow at night. I also have 10 journals filled with diff things and I am trying to write a full book! So watch out for the publication's blog for some testing pieces of that book! I don’t drink and though I can’t say I won’t ever but I think I have an addictive personality and would like to stay away from an addictive thing.

Describe Yourself as Aesthetics Things:

Navy blue with some kind of black mixed in

Paintbrush strikes always dancing on my skin

Slow, visual reader

Waking up early to go onto a plane with the people dearest to you and leaving behind all of the worries at home.

An introverted extrovert who tells it like it is and will speak up if their opinion differs from those around especially when it may help the community to grow but also likes being alone and in peace with their own thoughts and hobbies.

Advocate for sobriety when driving and any other destructive decisions like texting and driving.

21 People are probably not the most possible thing but like we will find out!!

@shawmednes @mndes @bribethe-door @happymendes (that's literally 4 people. How the heck does any person know 21 people. How am I suppose to keep up with 21 PEOPLE?!?)

ALSO LIKE if you guys ever need a playlist to focus, I find this playlist of movie scores helps a TON! Spotify

#21 tag game #tag game #ummmmmmmmmmmm #no idea #I have no friends??

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sockablock · 6 years

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Something New for Me and You

• (start) (prev) (next) (Read on AO3) •

Chapter 6: The Still-Hanging Spotlight

Yasha leaned against a stone column outside the front entrance, facing east and idly watching boats bob up and down along the Eistus River. The arrival of winter meant fishing season was over now, but the few brightly-colored vessels still on the nighttime waters left her with a sense of serene, floating ease.

And then suddenly, the doors burst open behind her. A wild stream of people poured out, all well-dressed but looking very harried, roughly shoving past each other and heading straight for the sidewalks. Strangely enough, there were also two tiny gnomes flanking the horde, shouting over the noise and doing their best to direct the flow as smoothly as possible.

Thanks to her formidable stature, Yasha was able to wade through this onslaught with relative ease. She caught fragments of frantic conversation as she moved—what on earth was that; I can’t believe it; horrifying, so horrifying; my lawyer will head of this; poor old Brinjay—and while none of it actually made any sense, all of it was extremely worrying.

“What happened?” she asked when she reached the entrance. “What’s going on?”

The gnome to her left, a tiny brown-haired man, spoke first.

“A guy in the audience went insane,” he explained. “Started writhing and screaming and attacking, it looked like he changed into some kind of monster! Is that something that happens, usually?”

“Knock it off, dear,” sighed the other gnome. “That’s not helpful. Miss, you should stay put,” she added, looking up at the massive woman next to her. “It’s not safe in there anymore.”

Yasha glanced through the doors, watched panicked guests tumble down the stairs.

She met the gnome’s concerned gaze and shook her head. “I cannot do that,” she said. “My friends are still in there. I need to go.”

And then she pushed a handful of guests aside, and headed in.

•

Caleb’s chair flew back as he leapt to his feet, the flames in his hands shedding a low orange glow over the tablecloth, over Jester’s frantic expression, over Nott’s wide and fearful eyes. With only the stage spotlight and the moon leaking in through cracks in the curtains to illuminate the area, he could barely make out anything worthwhile—just snatches of a lumbering silhouette behind the mad shifting of fleeing audience members. From what he could tell, whatever the man had become was massive. It stretched taller than any human could, was wide as a bear and made furious swipes with rake-like claws at anything and everything that moved.

Then it roared a low, wet, wretched roar.

“What is that thing?” Jester cried, whipping around to face him. “What the fuck?!”

“I-I don’t know!” he shouted back. “I’ve never seen anything like it before! We need to get out of here, it is too dangerous!”

“But what about the others?” she demanded. “What about Molly and the performers and everybody downstairs?”

Nott squinted, and pointed at the stage. “There are still people there too!” she said. “I think I see Desmond, the lizard-man, and…and Toya.”

Sure enough, perched twenty feet in the air on her small wooden platform, the little dwarf girl was now backing up, raising her hands and trembling. She spoke too quietly for anybody to hear, but her eyes were filled with terror and her shoulders quivered. And then suddenly, she took a step too wide, placed her foot too far, felt the wind rush past and saw the ground fly up to meet her—

“Kylre!” Desmond screamed, “catch her!”

A massive shape rose through the darkness. It glinted for just a moment in the moonlight, reached out its arms, and landed back onto the stage with a resounding thud.

“Thank the gods,” Desmond breathed as Kylre turned to him, cradling Toya in his grasp. “Quick, get her out of here, get yourselves somewhere safe. This isn’t going to end well, friend.”

The lizard-man immediately took off behind the curtains. Back down on the carpeted floor, Jester, Caleb, and Nott’s attention returned to the strange, rampaging creature. The area around it had cleared out as patrons ran away, and it had switched to crushing tables under its girth, throwing vases against the walls. It shattered a window with a chair and punched an ashen fist against the ground and then—only then—did it notice their trio: the only ones not moving to escape.

It gave that cry again, a mix of pitiful and terrifying. It advanced.

“Oh, shit,” said Nott, “oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, are we going to have to fight?”

Caleb glanced around wildly, saw the outline of a stampeding horde blocking the exits and a sea of debris blocking the stage. He looked down at his palms, still crackling and ablaze.

“Er,” he began, “I, fuck, I don’t—”

Jester cut him off. “Let’s goooo!” she yelled brightly. clapping her hands together. Immediately, snapping into reality before all of their eyes, came a giant, shimmering purple lollipop. It immediately swung into the creature’s head, eliciting a roar of anger. The monster clutched its skull in agony, then looked up and locked onto Jester.

“Whoops,” she said. Her arms were outstretched and glowing faintly. “I think maybe I just made it mad.”

Caleb prevented himself from anxiously combing his fingers through his hair and setting it on fire. He turned to Nott and asked, urgently, “Did you bring your spell components?”

She quickly nodded.

“Good,” he said. “Hurry, send a message downstairs to alert Fjord and Beau what is happening. We need them to evacuate people and send backup. We will not be able to fight this thing alone.”

“Alright, Caleb!” She shoved a fist into her coat, rummaged around, and yanked out a copper wire. And as she began murmuring the commands for a Message Spell, Caleb took a deep breath, pulled deep into himself to draw upon all the knowledge he still possessed. Suddenly, the air around them turned blistering and dry and a sphere of flame coalesced around his hands, grew scorching, and he sent three blasts of burning fire towards the grotesque creature as it roared and drew ever closer.

•

Despite being on the clock, Fjord eventually gave up on sobriety and joined Beau in having a small drink.

“It’s just been a shitty few days,” she muttered gloomily. “Something happened that really pissed me off.”

“Wanna tell me about it?” he asked. “I promise I won’t judge.”

She sighed. “It’s stupid. You’re gonna judge me anyways, but basically, yesterday in the mail I got—”

FJORD TOUGH—STOP—THIS IS NOTT—STOP—I HAVE AN URGENT MESSAGE—STOP—THINGS ARE FUCKED—STOP

Beau leaned over the counter and watched Fjord get up from the ground. He looked around in bewilderment and kicked a few shards of broken glass aside. A couple other curious bar patrons also glanced over, though they seemed too intoxicated to really care.

“Whoa there,” said Beau. “You good? You look like your bean just got freaked. Did you fall on any glass?”

He rubbed his temples. “Nah,” he muttered, “nah, I think I’m okay. Did you, uh, did you just…hear something?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Uh…no? Are you sure you’re okay?”

He sighed and gestured at the bottle on the table. “Maybe we should’ve picked something weaker to start with,” he shrugged. “Or maybe I’m more of a lightweight than I thought, because—”

FJORD TOUGH—STOP—THIS IS NOTT AGAIN—STOP—SOMETHING ATTACKED US—STOP—DURING THE SHOW—STOP—YOU NEED TO EVACUATE FLETCH—STOP—AND THEN COME UP AND HELP US—STOP—ALSO THIS IS PROBABLY NEW FOR YOU—STOP—IT’S A MAGIC SPELL—STOP—AND YOU CAN REPLY TO THIS MESSAGE—STOP

This time Beau punched him in the arm. “Seriously dude,” she said, “open your eyes, are you sure you’re g—”

“Something’s happened,” he frowned. “I…I’m not sure what exactly, but I just got a message from Nott, I think? She says there’s been an attack in the Moondrop. She says she wants us to get everybody out, down here.”

Beau’s eyes went wide. “What? Are you serious? Is…is she serious? How do you know it’s not a prank, or something?”

“I don’t,” he agreed, “but she sounded pretty urgent. And you know how thick the soundproofing is, something really could’ve happened and we wouldn’t’ve noticed. Maybe…maybe it’s better to be safe than sorry?”

She shook her head, and then shrugged. “Sure, whatever, man. What do we do?”

He glanced around. “I’m gonna to ask the customers to clear out,” he said. “I’ll need your help guiding them safely and making sure they don’t panic. Sound good?”

“Gotcha.”

“Okay,” Fjord said. “In that case—”

FJORD TOUGH—STOP—I NOTE THAT YOU DID NOT REPLY—STOP—ARE YOU OKAY—STOP—DO YOU REQUIRE ASSISTANCE—STOP—BECAUSE WE CAN’T REALLY GIVE YOU THAT NOW THINGS ARE SUPER BAD HERE—STOP—LIKE REALLY REALLY BAD—STOP—PLEASE HURRY—STOP—I’M NOT KIDDING—STOP—AND YOU CAN REPLY TO THIS—

“Yes, godsdammit, Nott!” he shouted at the ceiling. “I heard you, loud and clear! We’ll be up as soon. Is that alright?”

There were a few seconds of silence.

YEAH OKAY SURE

Fjord sighed and rubbed his forehead. Then he slid Beau’s drink aside and climbed up onto the counter.

“Ladies and gentlemen and other welcomed guests,” he called as calmly as possible, “excuse me, but I have an important announcement to make.”

When the crowd did not quiet down, Beau rolled her eyes, grabbed two bottles of liquor off the shelves, and smashed them as aggressively as she could against the floor. Everybody’s heads instantly turned towards her.

“Listen up!” She yelled. “Your bartender has something fuckin’ important to say! And if you all wanna live, then you’d better pay attention.”

•

Gustav lowered his tablet, which had suddenly gone dark, and tapped on his headset. “Hello?”

He glanced over at Ornna, Molly, and the Knot Sisters, standing around him behind the large curtains, securely offstage. They all shrugged.

“Desmond?” he tried. “Hello, Des? Your connection stopped, what was that scream? Is everything—”

Then there came a mighty roar, and muffled shouting. That would have been fine, almost expected given the scene, but then…then…

Kylre exploded through the curtains, Toya in his arms, followed closely behind Bosun and Desmond and a trail of chains clattering in their wake. He didn’t even stop—just barreled past the rest of the group and vanished down the hall.

There was a brief pause, punctuated by another scream from beyond the stage.

“What the fuck,” said Ornna. “What—”

“No time!” Desmond yelled, grabbing her by the shoulders. “Something’s attacking us! There was…there was…”

“Someone in the audience just turned into a fuckin’ monster of some kind,” Bosun said. His eyes were wide and his breath short. “We’ve gotta get out of here now, go hide somewhere or get to safety. Everyone’s running, Gustav, and we should do the same.”

Gustav’s eyes darted around. Molly could see a war tearing him apart—protect the Moondrop, or protect his troupe.

After a few seconds of turmoil he turned to them and nodded decisively. “Alright then,” he said quickly. “Okay. Everybody, to the back exit. Come on, come on, time to go.”

•

“I don’t see why you had to do that,” Fjord said as they pushed the last of the patrons onto the sidewalk and handed over control to Yan, the other bouncer. “Those were expensive bottles.”

“Cry me a river,” Beau huffed. “Besides, they were technically 25% off tonight.”

Fjord rolled his eyes and began heading up the outdoor stairs leading to the Moondrop. “So when you pay it back, you can pay it back cheaper.”

“Sure.” Beau rolled her eyes behind him. “Because I’ll definitely be paying for those.”

He nodded, ignoring her sarcasm. “Let’s see what it was that Nott was going on about now,” he said, reaching for his keys.

“I really hope that was worth it,” Beau muttered. “Otherwise we just ruined an entire bar’s evening, and those two bottles of liquor.”

Fjord tugged on the handle. “I can’t imagine it’s that—”

Typically, warm lighting and the cheerful hum of behind-the-scenes life would greet them past the open door. But now, instead, the lights were completely off. The air was tomb-silent and cold, save for a low and distant commotion somewhere beyond the main stage. And then came that long-off scream, and that hushed roar.

“Well fuck,” said Beau. “I guess...I guess that’s what she was talkin’ about, huh?”

“What the hell was that?” Fjord whispered. “Some kinda monster? Is that what we’re supposed to fight?”

“You’ve got magic, don’t you?” she returned. “You’re probably more equipped than I am for this kinda thing.”

He immediately shook his head. “No way. I barely know what I’m doing magic-wise. At least you can punch shit real hard. Didn’t you used to go to school with monks, or somethin’?”

Beau shrugged. “Yeah, maybe,” she said, “but I don’t really think that’s gonna help. This is fucked.”

They both stared down the hallway for a few moments. Then they turned back to one another.

“Runnin’ seems pretty good right now,” he admitted. “I’m not sure we could even help, in this situation.”

Beau nodded. “I like that plan. Maybe we can—”

Then there was another sound. Shrill, muffled by distance and barely audible, but what Fjord and Beau managed to catch was:

“EAT SHIT, YOU STUPID ZOMBIE THING!”

Their eyes immediately widened.

“Was that—”

“No way, is—”

“Aw fuck,” they both said at exactly the same time.

Fjord ran a hand through his hair, and Beau shook her head.

“So…we’re going in, then,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

“Yeah,” Fjord said. “Yeah. Let’s…let’s…fuck it, man. Just...just fuck it.”

•

Molly’s head whipped around towards the stage. From where they stood he could only make out a tiny sliver of the performance hall beyond, shrouded in darkness, with occasional flickers of movement. Unfortunately, there was nothing to indicate whether or not—

“But it sounded exactly like Jester,” he said with a frown. “Fuck, I have to—”

Gustav grabbed his wrist and shook his head. The other members of their troupe were already fleeing down the hall.

“We need to get out of here,” he said urgently.

“Are you kidding me?” Molly hissed back. “There’s something loose in our home and I think, gods, I think my friends are fighting it now!”

“But what could you possibly do?” Gustav pressed. “Please, Mollymauk, please, come with the rest of us. Don’t worry about the bar, worry about yourself.”

Molly looked over his shoulder, heard a distant whoosh of air, a heavy impact, and more panicked screams. He glanced down at his sides, where two prop scimitars were strapped against his hips. He met Gustav’s worried gaze.

“I’m going out there,” he said firmly. “I can’t just sit back and—”

And then Beau and Fjord rounded the corner, out of breath and looking determined. They came to a halt just in front of Molly and Gustav. For a second, both pairs just stared at each other.

Beau spoke first. “We’re, uh, here,” she said. “To help.”

“Nott says something is out there attacking audience members,” Fjord explained. “And right now she and Jes and Caleb are tryin’ to fight it. We’re, well, I guess we’re also—”

Molly immediately held up a hand, and they paused. “You’re coming to fight too?” he asked.

Beau and Fjord exchanged glances.

“Uh…” Fjord said, “I guess?”

Molly nodded. He unsheathed one of his swords, which wobbled slightly as it moved through the air. But his grip was resolute. He took a deep breath and looked at Gustav once more.

“I’m going.” His voice was soft. “Please,” he added.

Gustav’s shoulders relaxed just slightly as he gave in. “Okay,” he said. “Alright. But…but be safe, son.”

Molly gave him a small smile. Then he raised an eyebrow at Beau and Fjord. “Well then?” he asked. “Are we getting in there, or what?”

•

In the corner of his vision, under the glow of the still-hanging spotlight, Caleb saw three shapes emerge from backstage. One was lithe, one slightly stockier, and one with large, curling horns.

“Oh good!” he called, calling more fire from nothing. “The cavalry is here now!”

“Took you long enough!” Nott screamed. She had produced a crossbow from…from somewhere, and was crouched behind an overturned table for cover. Her eyes, though still light blue and disguised, were manic with anxiousness and adrenaline. “Fjord, you suck at replying!”

“Talk later!” Jester yelled, and punched her fist, and her spectral lollipop swept down to bludgeon the creature. “Fight now!”

Beau immediately leapt off the stage, grabbed a fallen chair, screamed as she barreled towards her target. Fjord stayed in place, either immobile from fear or taking a moment to assess the situation. Apparently it was the latter, because after a few seconds he thrust his hands out and murmured a few strange words and a cold green blast of energy flung outwards, rocketed through the air and collided with the monster’s skull. Caleb was so distracted by this peculiar arcane display—what was that, it didn’t look like a normal spell—that he almost didn’t notice the other flash of light just under the stage.

Mollymauk had jumped off as well, was now advancing with two scimitars in his hands. One was surrounded by a bright, radiant glow that illuminated the second blade, which was coated in a thin layer of hard, crackling ice.

Well okay then, Caleb thought. Perhaps he was not the only one with a strange and magical past.

Part of him almost wanted to laugh at how familiar this all felt, taking something down with a group at his side, reveling in the heat that left his fingers and admiring the skills of his friends. But then the creature roared again, and his attention snapped back to the battle.

Now, under the fury of the group’s assault, it was beginning to look rough. Blasts of green light exploded against its ashy hide, pockmarked with crossbow bolts and lollipop-dents and slashes from Molly’s swords, singed and sporting chair splinters like porcupine quills, that were scattered along its unnatural, protruding skeleton. Its malformed head whipped around violently, overwhelmed by the relentless onslaught and unable to focus on one target. Its body jerked, spasmed, and with no other options something inside it, deep and buried and survival-driven, took control.

Its instincts said: run away.

It saw the grand door leading outside, where the last of the guests had just vanished out of sight.

It saw a direct path, littered with broken furniture and bent silverware.

And then it saw Beau step in the way, advancing with half a table swinging in her grasp.

Another flash of fire exploded across its back, it felt the wind of a downward scimitar-strike and it roared again, made up its mind, started to flee. It barreled towards Beauregard and then her eyes immediately went wide with panic and terror, as the realization sunk in that she wouldn’t be able to escape before it hit, that she wouldn’t have time to dodge, that all she could do was brace herself and tuck in her elbows and hope that its jagged spikes wouldn’t tear her to bits—

—and just as she was about to be bulldozed over, another massive shape burst past her in a flurry of feathers, screaming a deep, enraged cry. It tackled the monster at gut-height, and Molly just barely danced out of the way as Yasha and the creature went soaring ten feet back, her shoulder buried in its stomach and her eyes glowing in the darkness.

They collided with the floor. Yasha on top, the monster beneath her dragging a disgusting trail of ash and slime and shards of bone against the wood.

They both came to a stop. For a moment or two, the creature just lay there and gurgled faintly.

And then it went still. And silent.

Yasha stood up and tried to wipe the ooze off her shawl. It sort of worked.

“Is that what everybody was running from?” she asked calmly, and prodded the grotesque, grey slough on the ground with her boot. “Are we done, then?”

They all stared at her. Beau had stars in her eyes. Fjord sighed, and started making his way down from the stage.

Then the house lights came to life. Four Crownsguard in full riot gear burst into the performance hall, trailed by a dwarf woman in jeans and a leather jacket.

They all looked at the dead monster. They looked at the motley crew of guests and employees standing around it. Everybody just sort of stood there for a few long, quiet seconds.

“Well then,” the woman said eventually, gesturing to the creature lying at Yasha’s feet. “I see you all have taken care of the immediate threat. I’ll remember that, in case we end up arresting you.”

And then, before anybody could say another word, she turned around and stuck her head back out the doorway. “Grenn!” She shouted. “Go tell the posh folk to go home! And get me those performers from out back. I think it’s time we all had a little chat.”

And then, she faced their group again and crossed her arms. As she shifted, her jacket nudged to the side and revealed a silver chain hanging around her neck, ending in a gold badge shaped like a shield. It shone in the light, before vanishing again back under her clothing.

“I’m Detective-Sergeant Norda,” she said. “Find me some chairs that aren’t broken, will you? This could take a while, and I’d like to sit down.”

•

“No way,” said Molly, shooting to his feet. “You can’t do that.”

“Mollymauk,” Gustav said firmly, “don’t argue this.”

“But he’s innocent!” Molly said. “I know he is, he—”

“And where’s your proof?” Norda demanded. “How do you know?”

They were all gathered at the far left of the hall now, clustered around one of the only undamaged tables remaining. Norda leaned forwards on her elbows, glaring at the group amassed before her. Gustav and most of the troupe were seated, Molly angrily pounding a fist against the tablecloth, Yasha standing in the back with her arms crossed next to Bosun and the non-Moondrop stragglers. Nott had ducked behind Caleb and emerged a moment later with a fresh Disguise Self, and Jester was scribbling away in a notebook she had produced from her purse. Six more Crownsguard had also entered the building, four splitting off to investigate and dispose of the creature, the other two joining the rest in unsubtly watching over the proceedings.

It was unnerving, to be sure.

Norda shook her head at Molly. “I appreciate your loyalty to your employer,” she said coolly, “but I would more appreciate it if you would calm down. You’re lucky I’m letting you all off.”

“You saw the security footage,” Beau said. “You have to.”

“I don’t have to do shit, kid,” Norda said immediately. “Especially not what you tell me to do. My decision is final, based on what I’ve seen and what I’ve been told. I’m taking Mr. Fletching here, noting his cooperation in the matter, and I’ll release him once we get indisputable evidence of his innocence. And all of you are on thin fucking ice, too. Right now you’re in the peaceful waters of my good graces. Ensure that you stay that way. You performers, depending on how this goes, we may need to question you. So don’t even think about leaving this city tonight.”

She leaned back and sighed. “Go get your things and go home, alright? Hurry up, so you don’t look too suspicious. If we see anything out of place, that turns up in your possession, I’ll drag you to jail myself. We’ll update you further as things develop.”

She gave a short nod and pushed her chair back. “Good evening,” she said. “Thank you for your cooperation.”

She stood up, waved a hand at her officers, and turned around. They all scrambled to follow her, leading Gustav along with them as they did.

And then a minute later, they were all gone.

In the ensuing quiet, Molly put his forehead against the tabletop. Nobody spoke for a bit.

Then Desmond sighed and put a hand on the tiefling’s back. “It’ll be okay,” he said. “Gustav’s innocent, they’ll see that and then let him go.”

Bosun scoffed. “Will they?” he asked. “Are you sure? A man died tonight, they’re going to want someone to blame.”

“What if...what if Gustav is guilty?” Ornna asked, and quickly raised her hands when a number of outraged faces swiveled towards her. “I’m just saying,” she sighed. “We all love him, yeah, but...it’s possible. It’s not like he tells us everything, and sometimes he can be a little shady.”

“We’re all shady,” Molly grumbled through the tablecloth. “That’s what makes us so delightful.”

“It is also why the law does not like us,” Yasha reminded him gently.

“Gustav had to work damn hard to get the money and respect he needed to run this place,” Yuli agreed. “We all did.”

“And now it’s gone,” Desmond nodded. “Or, at least, it seems like it. But we can’t let this break us apart, right? We all need each other more than ever, now. We need to stick together.”

Beau cleared her throat. “Speaking of sticking together,” she said, “uh...wasn’t there another one of you in the troupe? Giant and scaly, carried around a dwarf kid, answers to the name of ‘Kylre’ and ran off just after the fight started?”

There was a moment’s pause.

“He was trying to keep Toya safe,” said Ornna slowly. “I think he went to hide backstage, right?”

“He wasn’t outside with the rest of us,” Mona said, “so he must still be there.”

Fjord shrugged. “Beau and I ran through a few rooms on the way to the fight,” he said, “but I didn’t see ‘im. Though he could’ve hunkered down somewhere out of sight,” he added.

“We could go look for him and Toya and tell them the coast is clear, if you’d like?” Jester volunteered. “So you all can get your things.”

“That would be...very kind of you,” Bosun said. “If you all aren’t opposed…?”

Nott opened her mouth and Jester immediately kicked her in the leg. “Not a problem at all! It’s the least we can do.”

Molly stood up and sighed. “I’ll come with you,” he said. “You’ll probably need someone to make sure you don’t get lost, and to talk to them once we find them.”

“I will come also,” said Yasha. “I do not have any things here to retrieve.”

“C’mon then, you guys,” Molly said, waving the group on forwards. “The sooner we find them, the better, probably.”

•

“Okay,” said Fjord as he and Jester returned to the green room. “I swear, we searched our area a thousand times up and down, and nothing. Not even a smidge of slime or a strand of blonde hair.”

Molly rubbed his face and shook his head. He was pacing across the carpet now, the rest of the group sitting on the couch and watching him with expressions ranging from concern (Yasha, Jester, Fjord, Caleb) to amusement (Nott and Beau).

“I don’t get it,” he said. “It’s not like they should be hard to spot. For the gods’ sake, Kylre is probably eight feet tall.”

“Probably more,” said Jester. “He’s super big.”

“Right, sure,” Molly conceded. “But my point is, I don’t think we would have overlooked him if he was still in here. So the question is—”

“Where did he go?!” Nott jumped up. “That’s what you were going to say, eh?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Well, yes.”

“Hell yes!” Nott punched a fist into the air. “This means that we’ve got a mystery on our hands! And you know what that means!”

Jester immediately shoved Fjord to the side and ran over to stand next to Nott. “It means that Brave and Lavore are on the case! There’s no puzzle we can’t uncover, no crime we can’t decipher, no code we can’t solve!”

Beau frowned. “Shouldn’t it be ‘solve’ for the puzzle, ‘decipher’ for the code, and ‘uncover’ for the crime?”

Nott shrugged. “We’re open to constructive criticism,” she said, “but not right now. Right now, we’re on the case! Mollymauk, when was the last time you saw this Kylre of yours?”

Molly rolled his eyes. “Onstage, Nott. Where else?”

She nodded slowly. “I see…I see…well then, what was he doing when you saw him?”

Molly shook his head. “He was running away. Gods, is this really going to help?”

Jester immediately nodded. “Definitely,” she said. “It’s a practiced art, detective-ing.”

“I am a very big fan of you both,” Caleb said carefully, “but are you sure that this is the best way to go about searching for them? I feel like this has something to do with the Labenda Mysteries series we watched last week. Not to cast aspersions.”

“I don’t know that spell,” Nott said, “so I couldn’t even if I wanted to.”

As Beau had a small fit in the background and Yasha clapped her on the back, the others returned to the situation at hand.

“I guess we could look around in the alleys and stuff,” Molly suggested with a shrug.

“Do they live around here?” Jester asked. “They could have just gone home.”

Yasha shook her head. “They both reside in the Moondrop,” she said. “In an old dressing room. It is...difficult for folks like them to find apartments and such in a city like this.”

Nott gave a glum nod of understanding.

Caleb tapped his chin slowly. “Perhaps this is a silly idea,” he said, “but I could send Frumpkin out to skitter around the rooftops, see if he can see anything outside from above. Maybe they did leave, and just went to hide somewhere.”

Fjord nodded. “Sounds like a good idea to me,” he said. “In the meantime, we can make our way out too and take a look around. I don’t want to be in here for too much longer, to avoid drawin’ suspicion from the authorities.”

“You mean the sheriff?” Nott asked immediately.

Fjord gave her a puzzled frown. “No? I’m pretty sure she said she was a Detective-Sergeant.”

Beau coughed a few times. “Can we just go?” she asked. “Before I literally have an aneurysm.”

“I will need someone to hold my hand,” Caleb said. “And guide me. When I look into Frumpkin’s eyes, I cannot see or hear.”

Jester instantly volunteered. “Ooh, ooh, I can do it!” she cried. “I love holding people’s hands.”

Molly gave her a small smile. “Great,” he said. “Now we have the affectionate leading the deaf and blind.”

•

“This is kind of freaky,” Fjord said. “Is it always like this?”

“Probably?” Nott guessed. “He doesn’t really do it that much, but it has been so far.”

“It looks like we can almost see what Frumpkin is seeing also,” Yasha noted. “Flashing in his eyes.”

They were all outside now, standing just under the alley stairs that led up to the Moondrop. At this point, the city had completely melted into night, dark clouds overhead and the flicker of streetlamps all around them. Cars still inched along the roads out front but back here, behind the building, it was relatively quiet. The far-off sound of a flowing river leaked past the brick and concrete around them. Light snowfall was beginning to drift down, and they all pulled their jackets in tighter except for Caleb, who was distracted, and Jester, who didn’t seem to mind.

“Do you see anything yet?” she asked the wizard. “Have you found them?”

There was no response.

“He can’t hear you,” Beau said with a tone that suggested this was her fourth reminder in the last ten minutes.

“Let’s just wait, dear,” Molly said gently. “I’m sure the moment he does get something, he’ll let us know.”

“It’s really cold out here,” Nott grumbled.

“You should put on a coat then,” Jester said. “So that you don’t get sick.”

“I’m wearing a coat,” Nott sighed. “It’s just under my gnome disguise.”

“You know,” Fjord nodded, “I was gonna ask about that.”

“I’m magic. Not as magic as Caleb, but still magic.”

“Got any spells for makin’ fire, then?” he asked conversationally. “Somethin’ to keep you warm?”

“No. I wish I did, though, ‘cause I hate this. It never got so cold where I used to live.”

“Oh? Where was that?”

“Felderwin. South.”

Fjord smiled. “Hey, me too! Southwest, but still south.”

“Really?” Nott asked. “Were there goblins where you were? ‘Cause if yes, then—”

Caleb suddenly thrust a hand forward and grabbed blindly at the first thing in front of him, which was Yasha’s shawl, and tugged urgently. “I see something,” he said. “Something very large. A...a shadow, of some kind. It just ducked into the building, and the door is very loud behind it.”

“What kind of building?” Jester asked. “What kind of shadow?”

“He still can’t hear you,” Beau moaned.

“It is gone now,” Caleb sighed. He was still staring off into the distance. “But it was quite large. Large enough to be Kylre, I think. And Frumpkin is only a block or two away, so it is not impossible that our missing friends took off a short distance, just to be safe.”

Then he blinked, and shook his head, and the light faded from his eyes. They were back to their usual, non-glowing blue. He blushed faintly and released Yasha’s shawl.

“Sorry,” he said. “I got nervous.”

She shook her head. “It is fine. Now say again, where was this?”

“And what kind of building?” Jester demanded again. “Like a restaurant, or an apartment building, or a shoe store, or a bookstore, or a jewelry store, or a candy store, or a—”

“I am not entirely sure,” Caleb sighed before they could lose their minds any further. “It was very large, though, and wide, and right along the water. In the marina.”

Fjord rubbed his chin. “Is it a shipping warehouse?” he asked. “I think that’d be the most likely.”

Caleb shrugged. “Perhaps?”

“Can you lead us there?” Beau asked. “Do you remember where it is?”

“Caleb has a perfect memory!” Nott said immediately. “He remembers where everything is.”

“Really?” Molly asked. “Fascinating.”

Caleb rubbed the back of his neck. “That description is not entirely true,” he said, “but it is sufficient in this specific case. Come on, everybody. I can take us there.”

They took off at a decent walking pace, mildly bantering the whole way as Caleb led them down two blocks and through a few alleys, following the path of a tiny cat fifty feet in the air as best as they could on foot. Eventually, after untangling Molly’s scarlet costume coat from the broken corner of a dumpster and waiting for Beau to scrape the gum on her shoe off against a brick wall, they arrived at the opening to the streets. And the sidewalks, and the iron gates leading to the docks. They crossed, avoided a lone driver, and walked up to the gate.

It was chained shut, and locked for the night.

“How do we get in?” Jester asked. “You can’t turn us all into cats or magic the fence open, can you?”

That last part was directed at Caleb, who shook his head. “I cannot do the cats thing,” he said. “And I already used up quite a bit of magic during our fight with the strange grey creature.”

“That’s a weird thing to call it,” Beau said.

“Was? Why?”

She shrugged. “Well, I mean, ‘grey’ wasn’t really a defining feature, you know? I was more worried about the jagged bony spikes and horrible glowing eyes and the fact that it had no skin.”

“Tomayto, tomahto.”

“No, I really don’t think that—”

There was a faint click. They both looked down.

Nott was kneeling on the ground, holding the large rusted lock in one of her hands. In the other, some sort of thin metal tool. There was small piece of black canvas next to her leg on the sidewalk, with more tools on it.

Caleb immediately smiled. “Excellent job, spatz,” he said, and leaned down to ruffle her hair.

“Aw, it was nothing,” she grinned back. “Shall we go?”

Beau threw her hands up into the air in a why-the-hell-not gesture. Fjord looked at Molly, who shrugged.

Fjord turned back to Nott. “What the hell?” he asked. “How did...what was...where were you keeping those?”

“She also has a crossbow,” Jester said helpfully.

“Where?” Molly asked.

Nott snorted. “This is an illusion, remember? I’m wearing a whole belt of stuff over my real dress. And a hoodie. It’s cold out.”

“So you said, earlier.”

“Come on now,” Caleb sighed, pushing the fence open. “So that after this, we can go home and get somewhere warm.”

They all slipped through, and entered the Eistus Marina.

It was essentially a long series of docks and wharfs, connected by walkways over the water and framed with warehouses and smaller shacks. Boats bobbed up and down along the river, and the moon was low overhead through the clouds. The snow had caught up to them now, blanketing the wooden planks under their feet in a faint white dusting.

“That way,” Caleb said, pointing to their right. “That is where Frumpkin saw the shape.”

They followed his path down the main dock, and stopped in front of massive building with a flat roof, tiny windows high up, and a rusted sign with a picture of a flying bird out front. Its doors were styled like a garage’s, one massive sheet of metal lifted up from the bottom.

It was slightly dented, and hung about an inch off the ground.

“This is it,” Caleb said. “He went in through there.”

Fjord nodded slowly. “It is a shipping warehouse,” he said. “That bird, it’s the wandering albatross. It’s the symbol of the Menagerie Merchant Company.

“How do you know that?” Nott asked.

He shrugged. “I used to work for ‘em. C’mon, Yasha, wanna give me a hand getting through?”

She nodded, and followed him to the front.

“Alright,” he said, crouching down. “This could be heavy. It always took a few of us to do, so if we can’t get it to work on the first try, then—”

Yasha leaned over, grabbed the handle with both hands, and with a mighty heave, yanked. The door rattled at first, then shook, then screamed a song of grinding rust and metal until it rested just above her head.

She turned and looked at the rest. The stars were back in Beau’s eyes. Jester clapped.

Fjord stood up, and dusted his legs off. “Well alright then,” he said with only mild embarrassment. “In that case...uh...after y—”

Something shot out of the darkness, something thick and pink and slimy and long, and immediately wrapped itself around Fjord’s waist.

There was a split second where all of them just stared at it, Fjord looking down and saying, “What the f—”

And then he was yanked under the door, shouting all the while and completely, appropriately, bewildered and afraid.

Molly recovered first, immediately shooting below Yasha’s arm and screaming, “Kylre! Kylre, it’s us, it’s us! Stop it, let him go!”

The rest watched him vanish.

They all stared at one another and waited for their brains to process what had just happened.

Then they scrambled to follow him inside, all ducking under one by one.

The warehouse was enormous, filled with crates and boxes and stacks and stacks of random merchandise all waiting to be shipped away or picked up in the morning. It was quite hard to see inside, given the lack of any electrical lighting and only the moon filtering in through tiny windows high above. Fortunately, most of the group wasn’t too inhibited by this—Caleb and Beau were the only ones struggling to see.

Of course, they didn’t need really darkvision to notice Fjord; he was still screaming and pounding against the slick, scaly hide of Kylre as he stood atop a mountain of metal containers. He had the thrashing half-orc in one hand, tongue now freed, and was staring down with gleaming red eyes to where they all stood at the entrance of the storage complex, door whining down behind them.

“Get out!” he bellowed. “Take your friend and go.” He thrust Fjord forwards in his large webbed hand like a child’s toy. The half-orc glared, and stopped yelling.

“Of course,” Molly said slowly, “of course we will. But you’re coming too, right?”

Kylre’s eyes glittered. “No,” he said. His voice was a low tremor. “I will leave.”

Yasha’s brow furrowed as she glanced around them. “Where...where is Toya?” she asked.

“Coming with me,” Kylre said. “We are leaving together.”

“Now, hang on a moment,” Molly said.. His voice was still cautious, but a sharp edge was beginning to creep in. “Why the sudden decision to run off? And why take Toya with you?”

The lizard-man shifted slightly. The crate underneath him quivered. “Danger,” he said. “We are in danger.”

“Now, that just ain’t true,” Fjord said. “Not you, anyways.”

“There is no more danger,” Caleb called. “We destroyed the monster.”

Kylre shifted again. This time his beady eyes narrowed. “Destroyed? You destroyed?”

“Yes,” Caleb said. “So there is no need to worry.”

Now Kylre was backing up, his head darting around and gaze lingering on the windows, on the large door behind the group. “There is need,” he rumbled. “There is great need. I will go now, take your friend, I will go now, and run away, take Toya—”

“Excuse me,” Fjord said, “excuse me, I’m still in your hands—”

“You can’t just take her,” Beau yelled. “She belongs with us.”

“I will take her,” Kylre repeated. His tone was growing more and more agitated, his motions more frantic. “I will take her, and I will go, and you all will leave us—”

“I sure would like to!” Fjord said very loudly. His feet were dragging against the top of the crate.

“Kylre, Kylre, please,” Molly said gently with a worried look at Fjord. “Please, let’s just talk about this calmly. Can we do that? We are friends, after all, yes?”

There was a pause. Caleb felt his heart retreat into his stomach as he heard the achingly familiar call of a Friends spell.

And then his stomach fell as he saw Kylre begin to nod, begin to settle, then suddenly jerk his head forwards and shake his whole body as he realized what had happened, as he swiveled his gaze to lock onto Molly and open his massive maw and roar, “NO. WE ARE NOT.”

Molly’s eyes went wide with confusion. And then they went wider, because Kylre drew back the fist that was clenching Fjord and with a terrible thrust, launched the half-orc across the room and directly into the opposite wall, where he impacted with a sickening crunch.

Many things happened at once. Kylre began backing up, tensing to leap away as pure instinct took over. Nott whipped her crossbow out of its invisible hiding spot and trained it on the lizard-man. Beau balled her fists up and Yasha’s stance went aggressive and Caleb started preparing himself to hide behind the nearest large object. But over all of that, in the shocked silence, as Fjord tumbled down the wall and crumbled against the ground, Jester saw, and watched, and eyes went wide.

Then she screamed. It was not with fear, or grief, or shock.

It was with rage. Absolute, pure and unfiltered fury.

A bolt of holy fire slammed down from the heavens and blasted into Kylre, enveloping him in searing white flame. The crate beneath him exploded into shrapnel. Jester immediately spun around, darted over to Fjord’s side. Molly re-drew his two scimitars and Caleb, with nothing else left to do, set his hands ablaze.

And then they all froze, as the faint sound of someone singing spun into the air.

Caleb felt the music creep along his ear, sneak through his iron-like paranoia and caress his cheeks. It was a warm sound, that felt like the sunlight through the trees or the feeling of a cat purring under his hands. Despite the tense scene before him, he suddenly wanted to lie down, to close his eyes, to relax and just drink in this warm song. All around him, he saw the others do the same, pause in their movements and sway with the melody. Even Jester, who was bent over Fjord’s quiet body and pouring healing magic into his chest, hesitated.

Suddenly, something else happened. The song abruptly turned sour, turned angry, and Caleb felt a horrible discordant note slam into his skull. It stabbed into his mind and twisted hard, dragged out dusty pictures that he had tried to bury, images of a pair of warm smiles, of a fields of endless grain, of a cold hand and icy pride and quiet night and the sharp hiss of straw catching fire—

—it was almost too much. He almost collapsed on the spot. But something else was running through his hearing now, something deeper than these memories and carved into his bones. It was a voice. It was familiar. It said:

Concentrate. This is not real. This is all in the mind, and the mind is a mage’s greatest weapon.

Caleb shrugged off the terror threatening to swallow him. He saw that the rest had too, in their own way somehow, and were shaking their heads, clearing their minds, pushing off the sound of the music—though he noticed that Beau looked worst of them all.

And then Kylre stood. He looked somewhat singed, and the debris around him glowed from Jester’s fire. He looked up at the windows, within reach but too small to fit through. His gaze turned to the only other exit in the warehouse, a large metal door currently being blocked by two humans, a goblin, and his former coworkers.

He made a choice. He leapt forward, broad, muscular arms swinging out in a desperate, enraged attack.

And he met Yasha and Beau, both ready with a flurry of blows, Yasha’s slow but powerful and Beau making sharp, rapid jabs. Molly, despite having his swords at the ready, seemed too reluctant to actually make any swipes, instead started shouting at Kylre with harsh, guttural words. Nott had no such reservations, instead scrambling onto a crate and beginning to fire as many bolts as she could. And sighing, with nothing else to do, Caleb pointed a finger at Kylre and sent a spout of flame in the lizard-man’s direction, doing his best not to burn any of his friends.

For the second time in only a few hours, the group came together. They weren’t actually going for a kill this time—Kylre was Molly and Yasha’s friend, for the gods’ sake. But as the lizard-man made his intentions clear, that he would do his best to eliminate every single one of them and flee, they cracked down. Caleb’s spells missed more often than not now, left with only cantrips, and Beau didn’t have the advantage of table-pieces to use as weapons, but they were still a formidable bunch.

The only problem was the singing. Every few seconds, they had to pause and clap their hands against their ears, wincing with pain. It was impossible to avoid, and Kylre would manage to land a rough strike whenever Beau or Yasha or Molly heard the song.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, Caleb saw a tiny shape huddled behind one of the crates. It was Toya, crouched in a pool of moonlight, trembling as she sang.

Caleb believed he was a loyal friend to Nott. He believed he was a decent companion for Frumpkin.

But he also believed, over everything else, that he was a complete and utter piece of trash.

“Beauregard!” he yelled, pointing at Toya’s tiny figure. “Make her stop! End the song!”

Beau, bless her heart, only needed a second to understand. “Got it!” she yelled. She immediately broke away from the melee, leapt over crates and pushed boxes aside and launched herself at the little dwarf girl, who immediately yelped with terror and tried to back away. But Beau was too fast, and succeeded in pinning her to the ground.

She was screaming her song now, tears spilling down her cheeks, and Beau looked back at Caleb in confusion. “What do I do?!” she yelled.

“Scheiss, Beau, just knock her out!”

Beau seemed more puzzled than anything else. Then she just shook her head, wound her fist back, and hit Toya in the head.

The child went limp.

And with that, and a final, brutal strike from Yasha’s elbow against his skull, Kylre went down with a mighty thump and the battle ended.

“Ow,” said Fjord in the resounding silence, and struggled to sit up. He winced, and put a hand against his side. “Fuck,” he added.

Molly lowered his swords. They were glowing and icy again, but as he relaxed his shoulders the light faded and the ice started to melt away.

“How are you feeling, there?” he called. His voice was strained, and couldn’t seem to make himself look away from Kylre’s fallen form.

“Alright, I think?” Fjord said. “But I also think my ribs are broken.”

“They were broken,” Jester informed him. “Now they are just bruised.”

“Well then,” he said. “Uh...thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

Beau stood up also, a small blonde girl in her arms. “I’ve got a kid,” she said. “I mean, uh, the kid.”

“Great,” Molly said. “This is...a situation.”

Nott climbed down from her crate and made her way over, Beau doing the same and carrying Toya. Caleb sighed, and his hands went out.

“Now what?” he asked. “What do we do about...all this?”

“We’re gonna have to move him somehow,” Fjord said. “People might come here in the morning.”

“Agreed,” Molly said. “I just don’t understand...why would he attack us like that? Why would he do that? We’re friends!”

“Apparently not as good of friends as you thought,” Yasha said. “I think—”

In the distance, soft but growing louder, a high-pitched wail.

Police sirens.

They all looked at each other.

“Was that a—”

“Fuck, what do—”

“No way, could—”

“Gods, this is—”

Fjord, with Jester’s help, managed to stand. “We gotta get out of here,” he said. “Now.”

“I agree,” Beau said immediately. “I don’t wanna be around for any cops.”

“But what about Kylre?” Molly asked. “We can’t drag him, and they won’t react well to seeing him here.”

“There is nothing else we can do,” Yasha said gently. “And he attacked us. And tried to kidnap Toya.”

“They were friends, though,” Jester said quietly. “I think he really was trying to help her.”

The sirens were getting closer.

“We need to go now,” Fjord said. “We gotta leave him behind.”

“Fuck!” Molly yelled. “I don’t...I can’t...he was my friend!”

Caleb put a hand on his shoulder.

“There is nothing we can do for him,” he said firmly. “And he attacked us first. We have to go.”

“Where can we hide?” Nott asked.

Fjord spoke first. “Molly and I live not too far from here,” he said. “If we can slip outta this marina, we can hole up in our place until everything calms down.”

They all considered Kylre’s unconscious form. They all looked at Molly.

“Fine,” he said angrily. “Fucking...fucking fine.” he sighed, and shook his head. “Come on, then,” he nodded to the group. “Let’s...let’s just go.”

•

💚 ☕ ☕ 💚

#jay writes #something new for me and you #critical role #fic #fanfic #fanfiction #long post #widomauk #caleb widogast #mollymauk tealeaf #critfic #jester #fjord #beauregard #yasha #nott #ensemble fic #modern au #text

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boozemusingsandboom · 1 year

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Dreams Don't Work Unless You Do

“I can do hard things” is a beloved sobriety mantra for a very good reason. ... #dryjanuary2023 #dryjanuary #quitdrinkingapp #communitysupporttostopdrinking #healthyliving #motivation #alcohol-free

One of the huge leaps toward sobrenity (that happy place in sober-serenity land) is discovering that the true rewards, the stuff that makes our spirits and bodies feel so very good, usually calls for some hard work. I know, I know, not what I wanted to hear, either. Sometimes that hard work is purely physical. Melissa Urban, founder of the Whole 30 nutritional program, is constantly…

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#Soberity #Whole 30

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xcrowbait · 5 years

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O, Death

O, Death, Won't you spare me over ‘til a another year?

“I knew you would come.”

Kipling had nearly forgotten the sound of his brother's voice, or perhaps it had changed sometime during the last decade. There was an unfamiliar quality to it, one that haunted the edges of his recollection and struck a chord of bittersweet nostalgia somewhere deep within his chest. Another year, he thought, and he may not have been able to recognize it in a crowd – and suddenly he resented his interrupted progress toward forgetting Calhoun existed at all.

The thief scowled at the squat stack of books that had stolen his attention, one of many dusty towers arranged around the room like some ritualistic tribute to academia. The occasional swathe of disturbed dust painted the unloved library in broad strokes, the messy artistry of time and decay disrupted by skittering animals and prying looters. Alas, there was nothing to be found in the crumbling Vomakha estate aside from the hastily penned ramblings of a crackpot arcanist and the shattered glass memoirs of a sophisticated alchemical machine, it's genius lost upon the ravenous undead that had claimed the place years ago.

There was nothing marvelous about this place now, just a crumbling infrastructure held together by memories and lost promises.

“Did your crystal ball tell you that?” Kipling retorted, thumbing open an untitled journal and distractedly plucking through its pages. He showed the aging paper no tenderness, making a point to fold and crumple its edges as he unceremoniously flipped past diagrams and foot notes. “Or was it tea leaves this time?”

“I sent you an invitation,” Calhoun corrected the other softly, well-meaning but already laced with exasperation. He had long been condemned to the role of unhinged mystic, doomed to a lifetime of listening to his brother write off even the most innocuous statements as attempts to sound cryptic and otherworldly. He'd learned to dismiss the predictable insults, but it didn't make them any more entertaining to listen to.

An unfriendly silence hung between the raven-haired brothers, Kipling leveling a skeptical and largely disinterested stare upon Calhoun while the latter attempted a small, amenable smile. It was a challenge of endurance and social stamina – one that Calhoun always, inevitably, lost. After only a few breaths spent inwardly squirming beneath the uncomfortable quiet, he swallowed thickly and spurred himself to speak again.

“I was hoping we could talk --”

“-- about Deldrach's books.” Smug with the victory of having forced Calhoun to speak first, Kipling eagerly snipped the seer's words short. He'd read the letter thrice before he'd conceded to the idea, and neither brother was under any illusion that he'd shown up out of sentiment. There had been a good reason Calhoun had included the word inheritance.

“About Dad's books.” Calhoun's lips drew into a frown as he crossed the ransacked study, bare feet padding silently through a maze of jagged glass and ruined brick. Oblong footprints marked his path through the dust, as if leaving fragments of his shadow behind to join the debris.

“Or, just the one. I've read most of them,” Calhoun continued, casting a mournful smile across the sporadically spread archive. There had been a time when bold reds and noble blues dressed the debilitated shelves lining the walls, but the color and the warmth had long since been drained from the room until page, binding and woodwork all had been painted the same drab gray. “For how many he stuffed into this library, there was only the one that ended up making a difference. Do you remember what this place looked like when it was still full of life?”

“Why are we talking about this now?” Kipling evaded the question with effortless disinterest, scuffing his thumb against a suspicious rust-colored stain upon the corner of one book before casting it in a thoughtless pitch over his shoulder. It landed noisily among the wreckage of a cushioned lounge chair, the terminal tear of shredding pages simultaneously spurring a smile to the thief's lips while his brother masked a wince.

“Does it really mean that little to you?” Calhoun pressed, only to be met with a curling sneer of the younger's lip.

“This again? I didn't come here for an intervention. Get on with it.” “Can't we just talk for --” “Tick tock.” “It's important, Ki--” “It's not.” “I'm running out of time.”

“You bet your ass you are. Time's money, Cal.” Kipling had already started for the door, pausing only once to issue a sidelong glance to a model airship laying crooked upon a shelf, its moth-bitten sails hung woefully across neatly penned initials: KV. The sight caused his pulse and his pace to quicken, a sudden blustering march carrying him away from Calhoun and every other unsightly thing this place had to offer.

When Calhoun's voice burst across the room it was neither loving nor soft. Instead, there was an unfamiliar desperation warbling from his throat, equal parts frenetic and pleading.

“I'm dying, Kip.”

In an instant, the entirety of the room fell silent in respectful observation of the heavy truth that had suddenly been cast upon it. Even the wind seemed to cease its gentle fluttering, capturing the study in a uniquely haunting moment of stasis that caught Kipling's boots fast to the floor. A slow breath pressed from his chest, and in its place settled a hollowness that seemed to echo the vast nothingness standing between himself and Calhoun; silent as the grave.

His knees were shaking, and there was fuck all he could do about it.

“What?” Kipling blurted the word before he had meant to, eyes scouring over an uneven outcropping of brick as if he might discover his answer there.

“My body wasn't meant to survive the collapse.” Calhoun's voice had leveled once again, calm if not for the subtle tremble rattling the ends of every other word. “The healing was unstable. As unstable as the wards they used to repel the scourge and evacuate us from the scar. The long term effects were questionable at best and --”

“How long have you known?” There was venom in Kipling's words, a sharp-toothed bite at some unspoken breach of trust.

“I've suspected it for a long time, but none of the menders could really confirm. It's just that I can hear them more clearly now. They're saying my name.” Calhoun risked a few steps toward Kipling, studying the tension drawing his shoulders taut. “I think it's --”

“Shut up. You need to see a doctor.” “There's nothing they can --” “You don't get diagnoses from ghosts, Cal!” “The spirits understand more than --” “There's no such thi --”

“I know more than you!” It was Calhoun's turn to speak loudest, and he did with a severity that Kipling had never imagined. It was enough to spark life back into the thief's limbs and he turned at last, wheeling on the other with an attempt at fury that didn't quite reach his eyes. His mouth moved soundlessly, open then closed then open again as he fought to come up with a counterargument and repeatedly came to the conclusion that he had none.

Calhoun was right. He always had known more.

“It's happening. That's … all there is to it. Even someone like you can't find a workaround for this sort of thing, you know?” Calhoun shook his head, making a belated attempt at a smile that didn't seem to comfort his brother in the slightest. Silence rejoined the pair, one that couldn't be mended by any of the platitudes or condolences that coursed through their thoughts and lingered at the tips of their tongues; pondered but never quite spoken aloud for fear the words would feel insincere.

But Calhoun always lost these little stand-offs. Tried and true, it was his voice that sought to shepherd them onward toward a silver lining, bleak as it may have been.

“That's why I wanted to do this now. That's why I spent so long pouring over these books. I found something that I think you'd like to see and, if you'll humor me, I thought, well,” Calhoun was stumbling, even in the wake of his confession and the serenity he thought ought to come with it. A nervous smile tugged at his lips when he continued, briefly turning his gaze to his hands and watching the way his decorated fingers wound around one another. “I thought we could finish this together.”

Kipling conceded by way of saying nothing at all, his carefree flounce snuffed by his newfound sobriety. He gave a small nod, moving to close the gap between himself and Calhoun despite the ten ton weight settled firmly within his chest. He stole small glimpses of his brother's face as they came to stand side by side, noting the familiar heady scent of smoke and sage that seemed to surround the smaller, elder elf.

There was another smell, too. An earthy smell that only ever followed nights where nothing else would ease the pain. Kipling's ears wilted and he swallowed thickly, guilt beginning to roil behind his breastbone and reach in icy claws across his ribs. He hastily turned his attention to the table as Calhoun unrolled a detailed map across its surface, continents and islands strung together by colorful lines and criss-crossing strings so erratically placed that they could only have been conceived by a man standing on the brink of his own sanity.

“Dad devoted his whole life to unraveling this mystery. He and Tasarion discovered the font buried deep below Loch Modan, as you know.” Calhoun planted his fingertip to the detailed dam on the eastern coast of the Eastern Kingdoms, tracing along a thin purple thread as he spoke. “It led to what they could only describe as a network of leylines, but they lacked the tools and the manpower to do more than trace them all across the world. They knew the source of it all had to be powerful -- more powerful than any well they'd ever encountered. There's one journal detailing how they had once seen one vein nurture a sapling to a full grown oak in three days time, while another reduced a slavering worg to bones in an instant.”

“Tasarion eventually abandoned the research. He was afraid of what they'd find, but dad was convinced if he could find the root of it all that there was no limit to what this sort of magic could do. And, rest his soul, he did everything he could but he died before the mists could part. He could have never known.”

Calhoun slid his fingertip south across the map, plucking across a yellow thread that spanned far across the ocean to the freshly drawn (and slightly less ornate) depiction of Pandaria.

“It all leads here. Whatever miracle he wanted to find leads to the sha. I'm almost certain that's the only reasonable expectation and if we could find it, if we could harness it, that's the sort of magic that could do virtually anything.”

Kipling's expression had shifted from despondent to pensive, studying the wild shapes upon the map while he slowly gnawed the blunt edges of his teeth against his lower lip. He squinted once, glancing sidelong to Calhoun as his words drew to a close.

“Anything?” Kipling echoed skeptically, subjecting Calhoun's gentle features to the same scrutiny he'd shown the map moments prior.

“You've heard what the sha are capable of, I'm sure. It would go beyond anything material. You could change things, we could change things. Think of the good we could do.”

Kipling nodded once, returning his gaze to the map as he drew one hand to his lips, knuckles pressed pensively against the wide line of his mouth. His brows slowly drew together, a tiny furrow creasing his brow.

“If nothing else,” Calhoun continued encouragingly, releasing one edge of the map to turn toward Kipling. The trained paper quickly rolled upon itself, stripping the table bare once again. “You would have closure. I know dad never said it, but I think he always meant for us to do this together.”

Something softened in Kipling's expression, and an easier smile found its way upon Calhoun's lips.

“Will you go with me? Before I'm … dead.” The word tasted sour upon Calhoun's tongue, but there was no sense in denying it. The repetition, he hoped, might make it easier to comprehend.

“Cal,” Kipling breathed his brother's name, turning to match the seer's amiable posture and mirror the soft smile he found upon his face. This was what it had all led up to, wasn't it? A breaking point that had taken tragedy and years of repair to attain; the moment where two estranged forces finally came together on common ground and decided to be true to themselves and not the whims of their parents. Warmth flooded his chest as he considered Calhoun and then, in pure spite of the malice that had driven them apart, Kipling bowed forward to wrap his arms around the smaller of the pair.

He drew him close, distantly noting that he'd plain forgotten what his body had felt like as he pressed his cheek tightly against his temple. Calhoun's arms had been smaller the last time they wrapped around his middle like that, but just as loving as they were now; marked by a note of neediness that made him seem so …

… weak.

Kipling lovelessly tightened his grip as he began to speak, a whisper that was as friendly as a serpent's hiss alongside Calhoun's ear.

“We both know you died thirteen years ago...”

The thief freed one arm from his brother, easily reaching past him to coil long fingers about the scrolled map and snatch it from the table in one fell swoop.

“... and it's about time I got to bury you.”

The cost of Kipling's exit was simple: a shove to Calhoun's chest that toppled the unwell and unsuspecting seer to the ground. He fell with all the grace of the journals Kipling had tossed about the room prior, and the same gleeful smile drew the corners of his lips upward as he struck his gawking brother with a wink and swept toward the door.

He was gone with the passing of another breath, and his feet carried him so hastily and assuredly that he was well beyond earshot by the time Calhoun succumbed to the quivering sob that had welled within his chest.

O, Death, Leave the body and leave it cold

#drabble #writing #oc: kipling #oc: calhoun

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loverandservantoftheahlulbayt · 3 years

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🍃🌺🍃 Our Lady Zainab (sa) 🍃🌺🍃

🌺 The Grace of Islam 🌺

🍃 SHAFAQNA – I was given the herculean task of writing about one of the greatest women in Islam, Lady Zainab (sa).

I use the word “herculean”, because no amounts of words will ever be enough to do justice to her role and her sacrifice in preserving Islam. Moreover, even despite the efforts of numerous biographers, very little actual recorded historical fact is available about her. Even the exact dates of her birth, death, marriage, or number of children, cannot be ascertained with complete confidence.

🍃 It is not necessary however to dig up as many facts or versions of her life as are available in order to perceive her purity and the strategic importance of her contribution in Karbala. She is a metaphor for the defiance of the oppressed against the oppressor, the victory of truth against falsehood. It is through her extraordinary handling of the trials in Karbala, Kufa, and Shaam (modern day Syria), she endured that we have caught glimpses of the untold depths of her courage, forbearance, patience and submission to the decree of Allah (swt).

🍃 Lady Zainab (sa), the daughter of Imam Ali (as) and Lady Fatima Zahra (sa), was born to a family formed by Prophet Muhammad (S), the most outstanding figure in history. The Prophet’s wife Sayyeda Khadija (sa), a devoted woman was her maternal grandmother, and her paternal grandmother was Fatima daughter of Assad, who mothered and nursed Prophet Muhammad (saw). There is divergence of opinions about the date of birth of Lady Zainab (sa); some say it was 5th in the month of Jamadi Al-Awwal of Islamic calendar, and others say it was 1st in the month of Shabaan, in the 6th Hijrah year 625 AD.

🍃 When Lady Zainab (sa) was born, Imam Hussain (as), who was then almost three years old, saw her, he exclaimed in delight, and said, “O father, Allah has given me a sister.” At those words Imam Ali (as) began to weep, and when Imam Hussain (as) asked why he was crying so, his father answered that he would soon come to know. It was when The Prophet (S) was asked to name her, when the angel Jibra’il had come to The Prophet (S) and conveyed the message that, “O Prophet of Allah, from early on in life this girl will remain entangled in tribulations and trials in this world. First she will weep over your separation (from this world); thereafter she will bemoan the loss of her mother, then her father, and then her brother Hasan. After all this she will be confronted with the trials of the land of Karbala and the tribulations of that lonely desert, as a result of which her hair will turn grey and her back will be bent.” When the members of the family heard this prophecy they all broke down in tears. Imam Hussain (as) now understood why earlier his father had also wept.

🍃 From very early on Lady Zainab (sa) developed an unbreakable bond of attachment to her brother Hussain (as). At times when as a baby in her mother’s arms she could not be pacified and made to stop crying, she would quieten down upon being held by her brother, and there she would sit quietly gazing at his face. One day Lady Fatima (sa) mentioned the intensity of her daughter’s love for Imam Hussain (as) to the Prophet (S). He breathed a deep sigh and said with moistened eyes, “My dear child. This child of mine Zainab (sa) would be confronted with a thousand and one calamities and face serious hardships in Karbala.”

🍃 Lady Zainab (sa) shared with her brothers and sister the extraordinary position of having such examples to look up to, and learn from, as her grandfather, the Prophet of Allah (S), her mother Lady Fatima (sa), daughter of the Prophet, and her father Imam Ali (as), cousin of the Prophet. In the pure environment that enveloped her, she absorbed the teachings of Islam that her grandfather imparted and after him her father. From her mother too, she learnt to master all household skills with great proficiency. There is very little known of her physical appearance; however when the tragedy of Karbala befell, and Lady Zainab (sa) was forced to go out uncovered. It was then that some people remarked that she appeared as a “shining sun” and a “piece of the moon”.

🍃 As a young girl she was fully able to care for and be responsible for the running of her father’s household. As much as she cared for the comforts and ease of her brothers and sisters, in her own wants she was frugal and unstintingly generous to the poor, homeless and parentless. After her marriage her husband was heard to having said that, “Zainab is the best housewife.” When the time came for marriage, she was married in a simple ceremony to her first cousin, Abdullah ibn Jafar Tayyar (as). Hazrat Abdullah (as) had been brought up under the direct care of the Prophet (S); after his death, Imam Ali (as) became Hazrat Abdullah (as) supporter and guardian until he came of age. He grew up to be a handsome youth with pleasing manners and was known for his bravery, sincere hospitality to guests and selfless generosity to the poor and needy.

🍃 In her character she reflected the best attributes of those who raised her. In sobriety and serenity she was likened to Umm ul-Muminin Khadija (sa), her grandmother; in chastity and modesty to her mother Lady Fatima Zahra (sa); in eloquence to her father Imam Ali (as); in forbearance and patience to her brother Imam Hasan (as); and in bravery and tranquility of the heart to Imam Hussain (as). Her face reflected her father’s awe and her grandfather’s reverence.

🍃 In Medina it was Lady Zainab’s (sa) practise to hold regular meetings for women in which she shared her knowledge and taught them the precepts of the religion of Islam as laid out in the Holy Quran. Her gatherings were well and regularly attended. She was able to impart the teachings with such clarity and eloquence that she became known as Fasihah (skilfully fluent) and Balighah (intensely eloquent). In the thirty-seventh year A.H. (after Hijrah), when Imam Ali (as) moved to Kufa to finally take up his rightful position as caliph, he was accompanied by his daughter Zainab (sa) and her husband. Even in Kufa her reputation as an inspiring teacher among the women had preceded her. There too women would amass together to her daily sittings where they all benefited from her erudition, wisdom and scholarship in the exegesis of the Quran. The depth and certainty of her knowledge earned her the name given to her by her nephew, Imam Ali Zaynal al-Abideen (as), of ‘Alimah Ghayr Mu’allamah, meaning, she who has knowledge without being taught.

🍃 After the death of both her father, Imam Ali (as) and her brother Imam Hasan (as), through the hands of the power-hungry Bani Umayya, Lady Zainab (sa) was stricken with grief and loss, however she stayed committed to her divine steadfastness and fortitude. In the month of Rajab, sixtieth year after Hijrah, Imam Hussain (as) decided to leave Medina and travel to Kufa at the request of the citizens of Kufa, who led Imam Hussain (as) to believe that they would be willing to combat the tyrannical rule of Bani Umayya. When Lady Zainab (sa) learnt of her brother’s proposed journey to Kufa she begged her husband to give her leave to accompany her brother. Abdullah, himself had wanted to accompany the Imam, but since he had been weakened by illness, he gave her permission to go on this destined journey; with her he sent two of their sons, Aun and Muhammad. Lady Zainab (sa) had been prepared all her life for what was written for her and her brother. She preferred to face the trials of Karbala than to ever be separated from him.

🍃 In Karbala, Lady Zainab (sa) remained brave and steadfast as she saw one by one Imam Husayn’s sons, kinsmen and supporters were all butchered on the battlefield. The fateful day wore on. Hussain (as) was wounded so many times until eventually he fell off his horse. His enemies surrounded him and attacked him with swords and spears. Lady Zainab (sa) saw all this from her tent door. When the fighting came to an end, seventy-three brave men had faced four thousand, and after the bloody encounter was over none of the Imam’s supporters were left alive. The Imam’s body was trampled by his enemies’ horses, his head was severed, and even the tattered cloth with which he had hoped to preserve his modesty was snatched off him. Yazid’s army barging in the camps, plundered what they could and set the tents on fire. They beat the women with their swords and snatched away their veils. Imam Zaynal al-Abideen’s bedding was ripped from beneath him and he was left lying feeble, weak and unable to move.

🍃 A major part of Lady Zainab’s (sa) mission started when Karbala tragedy apparently ended with the martyrdom of Imam Hussain (as). This chapter of Lady Zainab’s (sa) life began with conveying the message of Ashura in which she heroically defended the household’s rights and did not permit the enemies to take advantage of Karbala tragedy. On the 11th of Muharram, the members of the Prophet’s (S) family were made prisoners and taken to Kufa. A city where once Lady Zainab (sa) and Umm Kulthum had once lived respected and loved. Now they came to this city of their memories as captives. As they entered, the people were cheering and expressing their joy of victory. But the sermon of Lady Zainab (sa) was so powerful that it converted the glorious show of victory into a mournful ceremony, where the evils of the governor Ibn Zyad, were revealed. The sermon caused for the delighted happy faces to sadden, and many even began to cry. As a matter of fact, her eloquent speech even boosted people’s anger toward the governor. Lady Zainab (sa) addressed the people of Kufa with fury words: “Praise to Allah, and may the blessing of Allah be upon Muhammad and his progeny. O people of Kufa, you are hypocrites and deceitful. You feign to be sorry for the death of my brother and his companions. May you always shed tears. I find nothing in you but flattery, evil acts and thoughts, pride and spite and ill will. By Allah (swt)! You deserve lasting sorrow instead of joy. Shames on you, your hands are imbrued with the blood of the son of Prophet Muhammad (S), the one who was your sole refuge in case of adversity. By your evil act and disloyalty, you incurred the wrath of Allah (SWT) against you. Woe betides you! No one will intercede with Allah (SWT) for you.” Her furious words provoked people of Kufa to avenge Imam Hussein’s martyrdom. This frightened Ubaidullah ibn Zyad and his cruel agents. She also delivered a furious sermon in the court of the caliph that made his authority and despotic rule feel undermined. She said: “I fear no one but Allah (SWT). Make whatever evil plot you can. Blazes are waiting for you in the hereafter. You’ll he accountable to Allah (SWT) for your atrocities.”

🍃 When the members of the Prophets (S) were led to Damascus, they were tied with ropes and herded together like goats. If anyone stumbled they were whipped. The city streets had been decorated and the sound of music filled the air. People came out in throngs wearing festive clothes and rejoiced when they saw the procession, preceded as always by the heads of the martyrs. Bearing themselves with dignity and self-respect, the prisoners were paraded through Damascus. In this manner the captives were paraded until the afternoon when they reached the palace of Yazid. There he was seated on his throne and was much pleased when he saw the forty-four bound captives arrive. The head of Husayn was then brought to him on a golden tray. He struck the Imam’s teeth with his stick and said: “O Husayn! You have paid the price of your revolt.” When Lady Zainab (sa) saw this show of arrogance from Yazid, she drew herself up and bravely addressed for all in the palace of Yazid. A part of the sermon Lady Zainab (sa) gave with utmost bravery in the gathering of Yazid son of Muawiya in Syria is as follows: “What you consider today as spoils of war will become ruins for you tomorrow and on that day you will find what you have sent from before. Allah (SWT) does not oppress his servants. I express my complaint only to Allah (SWT) and have trust in Him. You may therefore do any treachery that you have, make all your attempts, and try all you can. By Allah (SWT), you cannot remove us from the minds (of people), and you cannot fade our message. You will never reach our glory and can never wash the stain of this crime from your hands. Your decisions will not be stable, your period of ruling will be short, and your population will scatter. In that day, a voice will shout: “Indeed may the curse of Allah (SWT) be upon the oppressors…”

🍃 Through Lady Zainab’s (sa) bold and fearless speeches and from the word that spread as a result of their journey, people came to know of the events of Karbala and their hearts were stirred. The continued captivity and humiliation of the family of the Prophet of Allah (SWT) was bringing their cause to the attention of an ever increasing number of people. Word came to Yazid that there was turmoil and unrest in the realm, and illusions of Yazid’s good intentions were being dispelled. It was fear of revolt that caused Yazid to release the members of the family of the Holy Prophet (S).

🍃 After being released from prison, Lady Zainab (sa) asked her nephew, Imam Zaynal al-Abideen (as), son of Imam Hussain (as), to tell Yazid to empty a house and return their belongings, with the heads of the martyred. She stayed in the house for seven days, mourning for the martyred along with the rest of the imprisoned women, and the women of Damascus. She was the first one to offer condolence to the fourth Imam Zaynalal-Abideen (as) on the martyrdom of his father. She then traveled to Karbala and mourned at the grave of Imam Hussain (as) and the Shuhada-e-Karbala (as) (Martyrs of Karbala) It is Lady Zainab (sa), who is responsible for the foundation of mourning (Majalis-E-Aza) of Hussain (as). This tradition which has lived in the memories and hearts of millions of Muslims to this day, has kept the sacrifices of Imam Hussain (as) alive, and brought dynamism to every movement that aimed at removing injustices on earth.

🍃 It was Lady Zainab’s (sa) destiny to proclaim to the world the sacrifices made by Imam Hussain (as) and the other members of the family of the Holy Prophet (S) for the cause of Islam. She exposed the evil deeds of Ibn Zyad and Yazid with courage and fearlessness. She endured physical pain and mental torture with fortitude and was a source of strength to all around her and never once did she rebel against the destiny decreed by Allah. The strength of her submission was divine, yet her lamentation poignantly human. It is claimed that she died in Syria, at the age of 57 in the year 62 A.H. Her holy shrine Zainabiya is located in the present country of Syria, or as some others believe in Egypt and nowadays many of the Shiites visit it.

🍃🌺🍃 By Nishwa Gardez 🍃🌺🍃

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