#where i live now. its not like where i grew up. not like the foothills of Appalachia but its more familiar than the Chihuahuan desert was

[opens-up-4-nobody]

...

#there's something really beautiful about experiencing the weather patterns of a new place #where i live now. its not like where i grew up. not like the foothills of Appalachia but its more familiar than the Chihuahuan desert was #when i go home to ohio everythings so green. so green. unimaginably green and the towns are in the woods. the hills roll #and trees billow deciduous and packed so tightly the treeline is like a wall of plant matter. here there are trees but they are tall and #evergreen. patchy in places like shrubs in the desert. the grass grows green but also pale tan and dead. houses are routed in valleys #between mountains. they're made of wood and not stucco but they still look strange and the landscape is crumpled together tall. and there's #water. it rains. days can be dreary and gray with drizzle. i forgot what thats like. when a single low stratus cloud blocks out thewhole sk #and fog clings to the trees. my school bus used to drive by a lake where thr fog was so thick i didnt kno how the driver could see the road #but somehow i forgot how much joy suspended water vapor gives me living in a place where when it rains it pours so hard the streets flood #and the greedy ground drinks the landscape dry. but there are new things as well. here smoke rolls up over thr mountains and gets stuck in #the valleys so that the weather forcast reads: Smoke for days on end. im used to tornado warnings and heat warnings and dust storm warnings #but ive never expected Smoke as a type of weather. and im sure there's more to experience. ive only been here like 3 weeks. its not as gree #as home. the storms dont seem to get quite so violent. the woods are so full of bears that its an active threat. but its not the desert #and while ill miss the shapes of desert plants and little lizards. when i look up at the pine and spruce trees i feel like i can breathe a #little easier. well see how i feel once the long cold winter sets in haha #but i dunno. part of me still longs for a violent thunderstorm. one where u can feel the temperature drop and u csn feel it building all da #one that bends the trees and smells like ozone. it was never like that in thr southwest and im not sure that happens here #but maybe thats just a desire for chaos and violence as a product of my pathological internal control. i cant be spontaneous so let nature #bring the fear to me. some of my favorite memories are watching lightning strikes #so it goes i suppose #unrelated #listen. is it fucked up to have ohio nostalgia? maybe so. but in my defense i grew up in the pretty part of ohio lol

[sushistyless]

mist.

Rain can be a hassle to Harry especially because he’s always late. But when dark and stormy nights lead to finding someone a bit special, he has to admit, he’s forever grateful for the dark clouds.

(writer harry, fluffy & rainy stuff, 6k+)

my masterlist.

————

Harry always had a bit of a problem with being on time.

Usually, it was his day dreaming tendencies that conveniently forced the clock to tick out of his head, drowning the noise of the outside world and opting for the vivid, lively & observant fashion he lived with in books. The entirety of each minute spent in those worlds, being in some way or another -- a moment he would dream about later.

Most of his life was filled within his own thoughts & feelings, a curiosity stemming in the depths of his mind. And ever since he could remember, he'd been this way.

Much of his teenage life and childhood was spent in the city, the daily ways of hustle bustle following each moment. He loved staying there and is grateful for the opportunities he got — don't get him wrong! — but... he craved to have a life where things weren't as overwhelming. He wouldn't say he's shy, but he liked being in his own company, an affinity to observe the intricacies of the world and the different realms of literature rather than soaking up the role of the main character on centre stage.

He always preferred the quiet, and leaned towards the introverted, solitary life. And his job as a writer suited him pretty well, he'd say. Working from home, he didn't really have any events he could formally be late to, which is why it wasn't the biggest concern to him. With a ton of pent up creativity, he found writing (and painting too, sometimes) to be a wonderful medium for him to pour out all that jazz.

His first 'inspiration' for a lifestyle that 'called out' to him was when he was quite young. He remembers his mum taking him to a small village near the hills, and how his seven year old self was utterly enthralled by the beauty and charm of the place.

"Mum! Look!" he had said, scampering around in the fields while running behind a yellow butterfly, committing each curve of its wings to his memory, with pure ecstasy fluttering through the soreness of his cheeks as a result of a smile grown so wide. His mum was amused to see the joy that radiated off him– an amount she'd never seen before.

Later that night, after he'd finally (and very reluctantly) agreed to leave the fields, she'd tucked him into bed, warmth coursing through his veins under the cuddly comforter. She whispered, telling him to never lose that spark in him. He merely responded in a soft, dreamy tone, giving her a lazy smile when met with a kiss on his forehead, "I-it's just, everything's so pretty here! Don't y'think? Jus' wanna stay here forever.''

"Yes, Harry," she laughed, in awe of her son with a gleaming sparkle in his eyes, "And maybe one day you can live some place like this, alright? But for now, sleep, sweetheart."

And he had eagerly nodded his head.

Now, it was only fitting that Harry had bought a cottage in the countryside near the foothills of a little town a few miles away from the city. And suffice to say, he lived a happy life, with inspiration seeping into each flower that grew out in the garden in front of his little cottage, blooming with vibrantly coloured flowers, and in the sunset that came each evening. Dusk, in-fact, was the most pretty sight he'd seen in his entire life he thinks. No complaints, he said when having literal cumulus clouds floating around with rays of sunshine peeking through them, almost making the scene seem scrapped right out of a renaissance painting — the only lost elements being the angels hiding behind them (and, yes, he had actually painted that too).

Love also manifested from his creative side often resulting in tons of hand drawn pictures of different varieties of butterflies and plants pinned to the walls inside his home.

Harry's life was his muse, so each time he sat to write, the words just spilled right out his heart onto the parchment, staining it in perfect handwriting.

(—Or, in a less 'aesthetic' way, mostly his hands typing away rather fast on the keys of his laptop, periodically pushing his glasses from sliding down his nose, but hey, same effect!—.)

He eventually did start writing books and many collections of poetry, so he did struggle with deadlines from time to time, but it wasn't that bad. It wasn't very bad because it didn't require his presence, he thinks, but it still required some time management. And he promises he's getting better at it.

But... we can still say that Harry had a bit of a problem with being on time.

He'd been standing in a little library located farther down the trail from his house (he still grins like an idiot at the thought of having his very own house), that stood on a street lined with shops and cafés. The scent of old books swilled in the air, vintage posters and dark rows of shelves matching the aesthetic of wooden floors and rustic trinkets hung up on the dusky-coloured walls. His fingers picked at the edges of the pages of the book, his third time reading magic through the eyes of The Little Prince.

He'd gotten only a little bit lost in it, his ring clad hand absently lifting the cup of matcha he had previously ordered on-the-go, bringing it to his lips and titling it forward, only to taste just a single drop of flavoured residue and realise that it was empty from the periodic sips he had taken with each flick and turn of a page.

Oh, he thought to himself and frowned. He hadn't realised that he finished it that fast. With a finger wedged between the closed book so as to not lose the page and cup squashed in the same arm, he fiddled to reach out to the vintage field bag slinging over his shoulder.

Finally, through the dishevelled strands of hair obstructing his vision, he managed to open the bag and get a hold of his phone from inside it. Switching it on, he pondered. It couldn't have been that long. Alas, when the screen lit up showing highlighted numbers of 7:28 pm, well, he was shocked (and glad there wasn't any matcha in his mouth, for he would have most definitely spit it out).

And, it hit him that he was late.

It wasn't much of a surprise that he would overstay past his intended time here in the library. But today was an important day.

He had ordered a record player a few months back and he was fluttering on the inside with a little spark. He'd counted down the days until it would arrive, smiling wide as he crossed down each day approaching it, and promised himself early this morning that he'd come and read only for a little bit, then easily go home before 7 pm so he would be there when the precious package was delivered.

Music was a big part of his life, of course. It helped him write, helped him imagine. Helped to dream a little more. And maybe he could even go as far as to say it was like fuel to him. The idea of his suited songs played on the vinyl was enough to excite him.

With widened eyes, he quickly shoved the phone back in, then flustered, taking steps towards the door. He was excited– sure, but he couldn't help and felt a little more doubtful and wary of the delicate player being properly delivered than gently held in his safe arms. It was expensive to say the least (top of the line and yada yada) and although it wasn't his yet, he already deemed it to be his precious possession.

On a normal day, warm, slanted rays of the sun would reflect on his face through the glass windows as he stepped from behind the cover of the thick shelves– but today was gloomy. A thick, dark blanket of clouds was spread across the sky, leaving no place for sunlight to pass through.

With having completed the satisfaction of saying a goodbye! to the store owner — Miss Akane, a kind and eccentric old woman who Harry had gotten quite close to after tasting a lot of her homemade sweets — he strode towards the door, skillfully pushing it open against the windy, mildly chilly air.

And that was when Harry realised that he really needed to hurry.

It was true when he thought today was going to be a rainy day. It'd be only a matter of a few seconds before the scent of wet mud would linger in the air. He walked quickly on the trail towards the mountain side, relaying one last glance to the line of shops. Harry usually caught sight of a few people walking down the street but it seems as though everyone knows that the weather is going to be stormy. He'd grown accustomed to the view by now, having moved to the countryside just a few years prior.

The fitted burgundy coloured chequered pants covering his legs, flared and shifted tightly against his calves, while his torso carried a very lovely sage-green vest, all bundled along with his bookbag tucked underneath his overcoat, effectively shielding him and his possessions from the heavy breeze and potential rain.

As he saw the soil being gradually dotted with raindrops and the plants around him weighing down with the trickling water, he knew it was even more important to reach home fast.

——-

Harry's footsteps become more sunken, the trail having become mucky and threateningly prone to little puddles as he nears his cottage. The rain races with increased velocity, the sound of it hitting the ground and rumbles of thunder providing a soundtrack to the activities and errands of his current life.

Harry reaches close to home, and he had initially thought he would rush in and worry himself, examining the much awaited wet box, because the past few deliveries he had got weren't very considerately delivered. He thought it would be sitting out, left in the harsh rain.

But really, he's confused.

He brings up his hand, the tip of his finger swiping out a drop of rain that clung to his eyelash, already squinted eyes straining even more as if to make sure what he saw through the rain was reality.

Instead of seeing a drenched parcel, he finds someone sitting on his partially covered porch, her hazy gaze fixed on the entwined hands in her lap. The light, pastel amethyst coloured shirt she's wearing grows the slightest bit transparent — not entirely soaking through, but sleeves wet enough to loosely cling onto her body — the expanse covering her torso accentuating her collarbone region. Her hair sticks to the side of her forehead, cheekbones glistening under the influence of the rain. Eyelashes frame her profile from the view he's provided with, cheeks seeming hollow like she bites down on them. A coat is draped over some large box on the right, evidently wanting to keep whatever it was dry.

She certainly doesn't seem like a delivery person, the lack of a uniform making it clear that a courier was not what she was, only adding to Harry's confusion.

Hm?

The little shade up front does little to barricade the rain as it slants towards her, the entire scene looking like her mere presence was magnetic to the forces of nature.

The ideas of why she was here and what his reply would be start noting through his head like pieces of paper being crumpled with each possibility that came up, clearly hesitant in the conversation that he already started in his head. Licking his lips, he readies himself to speak. What should he say?— the lack of socialising with new people peeking through the flurry of jumbled words projecting in his mind.

He gulps, moving closer until he's at a good distance from her, pace slowing down distinctively as his heels dig into the soft ground below. Finally, he musters up the courage to speak, inhaling and exhaling before flicking off a chocolate coloured curl that weighed onto his face, curtaining his vision. "H-hi."

The girl's figure immediately perks up, a sharp intake of breath drawn past her lips, clearly taken by surprise as her face snaps up to him. Her irises have a wild essence in them, widening as they meet his own & flickering around, taking in his features before spewing words of her own, "Oh! Hi."

She clears her throat, posture now becoming straighter, her right hand comes up to toy with a crystal pendant adorning her neck. "Uh," she flustered innocently, confused while forming her question, "Do you live here?" Her body turns completely towards her right, eyes effectively focused on the door of the cottage, giving Harry an obvious reference. Her voice is low & fragile, with woven delicacy as if she's afraid that if she gets louder, it might break glass. Harry's sure that if it was any softer, it would've been completely muted out by the echoing roars of the colliding clouds.

Harry's eyes follow her line of sight, nodding his head at her questioning, "I... I do, yes. Can I help y'with something?" He adds on in the end with sincerity & curiosity edging his tone, still comprehending her sweet voice and sudden presence. He hardly got guests, and if he did, they were mostly his family flying out on occasions to see him. But they too dropped in once in a blue moon. He was, let's just say, deep within an area of solitude. So he was more than shocked when he found someone he'd never known quite literally sitting at his doorstep.

There's a moment of silence in their conversation, giving Harry's gaze enough time to wander off & examine the object placed beside her. The jacket had ridden up at the side, a tiny sliver of the picture plastered over the box making his eyebrows knit the slightest bit.

The girl, whose eyes are mostly just fixated on Harry, immediately notices and clicks out of the dazed dream as she fumbles through the blurry rain, "Oh, right!"

Harry observes as she peeps out, standing to her height, hands already beginning to unveil the surprise under the full of her jacket, which's outer surface is glistening with the water, while the inner remains dry.

"I think... this is yours?" Her voice tilts in pitch nearing the end of her sentence, questioning him with unknown facts once Harry's eyes land on a package with a familiar picture stamped on.

He remembers the same photograph that was displayed on the online site he ordered his turntable from, a light beige colour coating the artistic marvel. With the stickered details of his address pinned up top, the edges of the box had become a little moist and worn out, but overall in good condition.

His features contort to realisation, "Oh— oh, yeah! Thank you s'much." He says with a heart full of gratitude & sudden confusion, stepping closer to finally land on the wooden shaft of the porch and scurry beside her.

She sheepishly nods at the acknowledgement, busying herself to pick it up, the box seeming entirely too large for her arms to hold. Harry quickly swoops in while giving her a soft, grateful look, enough to not evade her personal bubble, but assist her as he quickly supports it from the other side. Her lips tug slightly at the edges, the moment giving her time to take in the ringlets of hair that stick to his forehead and making her smile subconsciously grow the tiniest bit wider as he retrieves it completely.

"I was actually just passing by here when the delivery guy happened to catch me, and assumed that I lived here. I tried to tell him— really — but he was in a rush and he... just kept it and left," she rambles, managing to sneak a quiet smile in there, the cold shaft of wind making her shudder for a moment.

There's a moment of hesitancy, the slightest second of silence wallowing in the air as she collects her words and gathers to deliver him information that might ease his apparent confusion.

"I didn't want to leave it like that 'cause it seemed pretty important. I knocked again but nobody answered, so I only stayed to make sure it was alright until someone came by." Her voice decreases in amplitude as her sentence progresses, speaking shyly as her irises stutter on Harry's frame for a second too long. Explaining the entire situation to the best of her abilities while still tripping over her sentences, Harry offers no response because, well...

What the fuck?

Harry is... at a loss for words, to put it simply.

She did all that? For a simple parcel? For him?

Initially, he'd thought she was waiting there for some help she might need. Then again, everything that had happened was all a jumbled mess in his head — the thoughts in his mind unclear to himself. He didn't know what he was expecting when he arrived and saw her in the first place.

But, she was just so sweet. The entire thought was so incredibly kind, and— it just swelled his heart with so much joy and gratitude. A lot of people have helped him throughout his life, but nobody has ever been this sweet or innocently considerate. He's just on cloud nine with the idea of being worthy of all that, with no part of his brain telling him how to react.

He thinks that among the pouring rain and rumbling chaos, he had the honour of encountering a literal angel.

When he doesn't respond immediately, worry quickly fills her eyes, "I-I'm sorry if it's not what I should've done, I just thought..."

"No, no! Not at all! I jus—" He takes a moment to gather his thoughts, dissipating her worries as she visibly releases a breath. Adoration swimming through his irises, a butterfly induced feeling fills his tummy when he catches her wistful gaze drifting into the window of his soul.

The rain danced like spray, buzzing off the wooden roof & echoing through his ears, the sound of some drops sharper than the other- growing clearer and heavier by the second like the rhythm of his heart. The wind murmured to the trees, a whirring accompanying the puddles that began to plink with the hammering intensity of the rain, almost pleading him to say something— anything.

"That's just s'sweet of you. Thank you so much. You didn't have to do that, but y'did. And 'm so, so sorry I made y'wait out here..."

He is filled with gratitude but he also feels terribly guilty. It was because of him that she had to wait out for so long. It was chilly out and to be sitting out for that long under the icy weather, a sniffle would surely rift into a full blown cold. It's now that he notices the goosebumps trailed along her skin as she crosses both her arms in front of her chest in an effort to keep warm.

"No, don't worry! It's– it's okay. Really." She spares maybe a second of full eye contact with him, giving him a soft smile on catching the praises before casting off her gaze, focusing on the mucky shoes covering her feet as the droplets trickling off it caught the light. "The rain's quite pretty anyway."

Harry offers her an easy (but still regretful) smile at that. It was nice of her to try and console him even through small sentences.

"And... you like vinyls?" she converses curiously once her hands are free again, standing still with her fingers intertwined in her front once again. Harry can't help but wonder if it's a nervous tick she has, and he also can't help but smile a little at the thought, cherishing how he does the same sometimes.

"Yeah, jus' have some kind of charm, y'know?" The words just slip through his mouth like he's talking to himself, stifling his beam as his face drops to face the ground for a second, the faintest dimples indenting the apple of his cheeks and a simmer of warmth reaching them as he gives it his best to not crack into a fit of smiles. "Do y'like 'em?" He looks back at her.

The attempt at making his excitement subdued instils a kind of joy across her face, a honey swept tone coating her words as she replies, "Oh, yeah! Been wanting to get one for myself actually, but they're pretty expensive. Promise I wasn't stealing yours though." She chuckles a little easier now, knuckling at her eyes as a drop of water seems to latch onto her eyelid.

"I believe you. And trus' me, I've been saving up for it for months now, so y'not alone." He reciprocates her laugh, keeping it casual, but his mind internally goes through a shot of excitement.

"It's no–" she starts, a loud streak of thunder rumbling much too loud, cutting off the conversation as her widened eyes flit off to wander in the distance. Harry mimics her actions, the noise enough to demand anyone's attention. Her lips part at the loud sound, teeth digging into the plushy lower one, while the thinnest crease of worry lines her forehead. "But, um, I think I should probably head back now. The rain is only getting worse..."

It's now Harry's turn to worry, concerned because the last thing he could ever want for anyone is to walk back during a growling, full-blown thunderstorm. "Are y'sure? You're most welcome to come in..." he trails off, feet trudging against the cold floorboard as he shuffles towards the door, "It looks pretty bad out there. Y'can wait here until it calms down— only if you're comfortable, of course." He adds the last part quickly, speaks with sincerity- a genuine request on his part. And honestly, it's the least he can do. He knows that it was after all, her choice to wait here, but he still feels shitty knowing that he could have reached earlier and avoided her from all this trouble.

Her gaze is still downcast, an expression emulating the ghost of a smile, seeming like she's mulling over the options in her head, while her hands work to wriggle the coat back on her shoulders. "Oh no, it's fine! I love looking at the interior of houses —" she looks back at him with a breathy smile and a bit of hope arises in Harry, wishing she'd say yes so he would have some company- even if it was only for some time. She continues, "— But I really don't mean to intrude. Thank you though," she continues with a soft gaze, an apologetic undertone lacing her words.

His heart deflates when she declines his offer, the slight tug of his lips dulling only the slightest bit, yet understanding that it was her choice based on what she felt would be safe for her, but he hates to think that she'd feel like a burden if she were to stay.

"Please, you won't be intruding in the slightest. Honestly, s'the least I can do. Please feel free to come in, it's no trouble at all. Again, I'm so, so sorry." All he really hoped was that he could spend even a little time with her because he knew there was a possibility that he would likely never meet her again. But, if she felt it was safer to go her own way, he would respect that, of course, and just continue to think back to the small conversation they once had.

She laughs a little louder now, surprisingly to Harry as if enthralled by the amount of gratefulness and (un)necessary apologies he smothers her with, "Hey," she whispers, "I waited here voluntarily, so you really don't need to apologise."

His internal sorrow evades a bit when she makes an effort to lighten his mood, the tiniest blush threatening to creep up his cheeks.

"I know, 'm sorry—"

"Oops, there you go again."

"—Shit. I promise, I didn't mean to. I'm so so—"

"Sorry?" She completes for him, grinning like Harry's done the cutest thing and in fact– giggles. Proper giggles.

Can you believe that?

And if Harry couldn't take his mind off her presence, he surely can't now, wondering what he's done to have the honour of hearing the sound bless his ears. It's pouring, raining like cats and dogs, but this conversation takes him to a place of happiness where he imagines the sun would shine with the warmest, most yellow & buttery orange tinged glow. He just met her for stars' sake— he doesn't even know her name! But... he knows that he likes being the reason she laughs. He likes making people laugh in general, some kind of satisfaction hiding deep in his own smile when they break into laughter, but he reckons she was just much sweeter to witness.

Agh. He's such a sap, he knows... but he still means every word. Besides, it's in the safety of his mind, it's okay.

"Yeah... that." He bites his lip, hoping she wouldn't catch him avoiding her gaze. "Y'sure you'll be okay?"

"I'll be okay," she hums low, words drowning in the sound of the thunder as it penetrates through the grey clouds once again. Buttoning up the most part of her coat and descending down the porch, she shoots him a smile, a small 'bye!' accompanying her actions of waving at him.

"Bye! Please be careful!" he adds on. It felt strange. He didn't want to say goodbye. The conversation hadn't for a minute felt forced and it's... something he hasn't experienced in a long time. He wished it would last longer.

"I will, thank you! It was really nice meeting you!" He watches as her figure teeters down the clearing that led to his house, looking back at him from over her shoulders.

"You too," Harry mutters, a smile taunting his lips at the sight of her doing the same all while prancing about in the rain. But as she leaves his line of sight, he wonders. Would they ever even meet again? A sigh escapes through his mouth, the slopes of his shoulders softening with a pout that stretches across his face. And oh, he even forgot to ask her her name. It was too late to do that now. It'd just be plain weird if he ran out in the rain and startled her for a silly question.

So he's a bit bummed. Still, he's glad that he even had the chance to encounter her.

Turning around with bitten lips after successfully manoeuvring the package so he could hold it comfortably in one arm, he shuffled to reach for his key, pulling it out and swiftly unlocking the door. As soon as he steps in, his senses are waded through by the pillowy warmth of his house, lofting with the homely smell of cinnamon and vanilla. It's nice to be able to come to such a lovely home everyday, and he's so grateful for that. Water drops drip down his clothes, pit-pattering against the wooden floors. A thud noise resonates through the room as he shuts the door, the cold ruffles of wind effectively shut out while keeping the toasty atmosphere inside undisturbed. A little fireplace decorates the corner of the generously sized living room, green plants sitting across the window panes that are curated with occasional flowers here and there. The sheer curtains don't do much to cover the view of the rustic French windows, earthly tears trickling down the glass as he gazes through the fluid stillness upon the field outside– the one that's usually bright and green but now runs dark & deep with water, the attire of raindrops looking like serrations of lines cutting through the wind.

He's quick to discard his drenched coat, opting to hang it on the hook beside the dark ocher coloured console that stands in the foyer-like entryway, carefully placing the box on the cabinet. Littered throughout the pastel coloured walls were various delicately framed paintings– most of which he had made, and some being his versions of the works of Van Gogh (big fan he was)-- all very special, having given him some kind of inspiration to write in the past.

Running a heavy hand through his hair, he shook his head, the rebellious drops of water splattering into the air. Stumbling to the middle of the room, he all but threw himself on the feathery hold of his couch. Melting into the softness instantly, his posture relaxes, as the brown of his bag- a stark contrast to the beige of the couch lands with a splat beside him. Eyes closing ceremoniously once his head rests on the top of the couch, the pad of his fingers rub the inner corners of his eyelids. Realising he has contacts on, he frowns and stops, also thanking his past self for wearing contacts– the rain would've just fogged up his glasses and he preferred to know where he was walking. Plus, he would've not seen her very properly and that indeed would've been a pity.

Deciding that the itchiness was probably a sign for him to remove his contacts, he lifts himself off the couch and makes his way towards the bathroom.

It's just as Harry's removed his first lens that he jolts at the sound of the doorbell. With half blurry vision, all the more confusion sparkling through his veins and messier-than-ever-hair, his lips part. A second later he scurries to the front door. Opening it up the slightest, he swears his heart drops to his stomach. He can't see all that well but when the familiar voice calls out to him again, he can't help but smile at the knowledge of who it is.

"Is that offer of yours still up?"

Harry's never been happier for having a problem with time, and greeting a kind girl at his front door through blurry vision and unruly hair.

————

"Have you really made all of these paintings? They're... beautiful." It makes Harry's heart hurt at the enthusiasm Y/N shows for something he does. That's another he's learned, the sweet girl's name is Y/N. It suits her really well, he realises.

"Yeah, s'all me," he shyly smiles, setting the mug of chamomile tea down on the centre table in front of her. She's sat on his couch, a blanket wrapped around her form to keep extra toasty although she'd declined the offer in favour of the room already being warm enough. But Harry had insisted and pulled out his favourite, fluffiest blanket.

"More than beautiful actually, they're just— you're really talented." She gushes, shifting her gaze from the acrylic pieces hung on the wall to the tea now placed in front of her, accompanied with a soft whisper of an oh, thank you.

"'M glad you think so." His stifled smile stretches wider on his cheeks, little indents beginning to form a dip in them, "I think, art is just so fun to do. Being able to express yourself in paintings, music, film, and of course, writing. Words are so incredible." His voice considerably lowers as he progresses, realising how he's started to rant a bit.

"Oh," Y/N gazed at him fondly, amusement tinting her eyes, "So, I've somehow managed to stumble in the home of a young, mysterious artist - in the middle of the fields - while there's a beautiful storm raging outside, then?"

"You make me sound way cooler than I am," he  laughs silently, fiddling with his rings, "that is a cute idea for a novel though."

"It is cool. Maybe I'll become a writer one day just to write about this."

"I'll join you. Co-writers we'll be," he gleamed at her, the hidden knowledge that he could very well begin plotting a novel at this very moment shucked to the back of his head.

"That would be perfect."

—————

The storm brewed the entire night but eased off by early morning, the night spent with soft words exchanged, and conversations that flowed like the streams of rivers outside. Harry swears he felt genuinely the happiest he had felt in a while.

He also would admit that he quite enjoyed when just before Y/N left, he revealed he was a writer himself. She blushed, jaw dropped because she had been prattling on and expanding on the 'Mysterious Artist in The Mountains' arc, in a pretty... amateur way she had said.

"Well," she giggled, trying to hold a serious face, "Mr. Styles, I shall take your leave. Now that I am presented with the information that you are a wonderful writer by profession, I expect thy to write some poetry about me the next time we meet."

"You should certainly expect it," he played along, bowing to her slightly.

"God, no, I'm joking," she laughed back, "but it really was nice to meet you, Harry. Thank you for everything." Gathering her belongings in one arm, she moved to stand at the threshold of the front door, Harry's presence following behind her.

She was just so sweet, Harry thought. Her smile bought with it something so honey like, a warm ray of light engulfing the room— and the sparkle in her eyes, kindness. She was beautiful too. The kind of beauty that wasn’t so conventional, more so the beauty that came with love that you simply had to have grown in with each second spent together.

"T'was a pleasure meeting you too, m'lady." He continued, a sweet smile still coating his face as he guided her out. (And although she was joking about the poetry, Harry had begun thinking of the same idea before she even proposed it.) Y/N simply reciprocated his expression, silence between them while the birds chirped in the back now that the rain had cleared out.

"Hope to meet you again… soon." She added quickly in the end and looked up to him with a glee in her eyes, speaking softly, “Bye, Harry."

A sense of déjà vu took over as he remembered the scene similar to the one he experienced a few hours back.

"Take care, love," he said, beaming when he saw her walk down the porch and look over her shoulder, excited for when they’d plan to spend more time together.

Except this time, he would happily declare that he knew her name too.

————

SOO, here is writer harry!! honestly, I started out with this piece like months ago and only finished it recently lmsiehdsjhs and I wasn’t sure if I should post it, but here we gooo :(( very soft vibes, I think. writer h is just like that.

thank you ever so much for reading :(( I really really hope you enjoyed!! <333

read more of my work on my masterlist! see you on the other side ;)

#maybe I’ll follow up with a part 2??? #also the ending seems so half assed I’m sorry sheushjs #anyway just thank you SOOO much for reading :( #my writing #Harry styles writing #harry styles one shot #Harry styles x reader #Harry styles x yn #Harry styles fluff #writer harry styles #artist Harry styles #Harry styles blurb #soft harry #harry fluff #sushistyless #mist #strangers to lovers

[thesistersarcheron]

Casslain prompt: Cassian trying to find the perfect Solstice gift for Elain?

Pairing: Cassian x Elain (pre-relationship, ACOFAS AU) Rating: Gen Note: I took this and ran with it, anon! Let's dive into an AU where Cassian and Nesta are merely enemies-to-allies-to-friends, and there's just something about Elain that Cass hasn't yet put his finger on...

Winter

"And this one is for... Elain?" Feyre gaped at the tag on the massive box in front of her.

Cassian tried not to be too obvious about his nerves as Rhys hauled the largest gift in the pile across the parlor and set it at Elain's feet. Still, his wings rustled as he shook out the excess energy jumping along his limbs, and he knew Azriel and Mor both marked it.

He would never live this down.

But... he didn't want to live this down, either.

This wasn’t any gift. This was a gift for Elain. Sweet, gentle, cultured Elain Archeron, the utter opposite of the brutish, brutal Lord of Bloodshed, but... There was just something about her that made this important to him.

Perhaps because Elain didn't have five hundred years of Solstice presents—some brilliant, shining trinkets to spoil her, others rushed, last-minute gags—stored in a trunk where she could shove this one and forget about it like most of the other people in this room who were watching them now.

And this was his first gift to her. It was important. It would set the standard for what he privately hoped would be many years to come of holidays just like this.

Well... it was his first gift if he discounted the little blown glass flowers and animals, the woven bracelets and minuscule tapestries, and the geodes no larger than his thumbnail that he’d been daring enough to sneak past Nesta during those early days when Feyre's sisters still haunted the House of Wind.

Those were mere trinkets he found pacing the Rainbow while he practiced keeping his newly-healed wings aloft after they'd been shredded and tried to expel the itching call to battle in his limbs as he prepared for a war.

But the first the little lamb he had placed in Elain's palm when Nesta disappeared to gather their lunch had gotten a promising glimmer of reaction from the ghostly, catatonic young female in her seat by the window, and her lips had almost twitched into a smile when he knelt before her and whispered about the foothills just south of the Steppes where its crystal eyes were mined, so he’d kept bringing her the silly little bits and bobs he bought on his walks for a handful of coppers each.

But that gift-giving spree had backfired. Not just in the way his heart started thundering every time those pale fingers started taking the initiative to pluck the gifts from his hand before he could place them in her hand or gallop the little glass horses and dogs over her knee, but in the way it left him utterly stumped when the air grew cold and Solstice drew nearer and nearer. To replicate those gifts would be lazy.

So he'd had to think.

He’d already replaced Rhys’s rusty old gardening set with a new one of Illyrian steel months ago. It had been expensive, and he had only been able to convince a defected Illyrian blacksmith to take his money and the commission. Anyone else might have thought it an insult to make tools instead of weapons, but he was lucky the old male thought it an interesting challenge.

He couldn’t get her a painting, either. Every single still life Feyre finished ended up propped against the wall outside of Elain’s room in the increasingly cramped townhouse, waiting for her to choose her favorites and hang them.

A book was out of the question; he already bought her elder sister another silly little trinket in the form of a miniature, illuminated book, hoping the same tactic that amused Elain would help draw withdrawn, sullen Nesta out of her shell.

Nuala and Cerridwen hounded Rhys for the newest kitchen gadgets often enough that they were sure to have better tools than anything Cassian could imagine if he knew anything at all about baking. His knowledge of cooking extended to dumping meat and vegetables into a pot, hoping for stew, and scrubbing dishes when it didn't turn out.

But Elain. What could she possibly want? Nuala, Cerridwen, and Mor saw to it that she had plenty of dresses and perfumes, and Rhys had opened the Night Court's trove of jewels to her months ago when she and Feyre started easing into their new roles as members of the royal family. She had seeds aplenty, just waiting for spring in the little shed in the garden.

But... there. There was one thing Elain didn’t have this time of year now that her garden was shrouded from the cold, and knowing the Night Court as Cassian did, it was bound to he a long, brutal winter even in shining Velaris. Something inside him had withered on her behalf when he arrived at the townhouse a week ago and saw the rose bushes hidden away beneath all that burlap.

But now he had one thing, just as small in scale as the little figurines in comparison to that magnificent garden, that might be something she wanted.

“Oh," Elain gasped she pulled the wrapping back on the box.

Feyre was peering around Rhys's legs, but it was Mor, eyebrows high in recognition at the sight of Cassian's familiar wrapping paper on that box, who asked, "What is it?"

"It's a terrarium.” Elain's voice was hushed with awe. Her heartbeat started pounding so loudly and so quickly it echoed in his mind.

She leaned forward, as if to lift it from the box herself, and Cassian stepped in. He hefted the brass and glass contraption from the box, entirely deaf to Mor's quiet "gods-damn," as he did so. It was heavier than it looked, even with Fae strength. He set it carefully in Elain's lap—the thing was easily twice as wide as she was, built like a small house, and he already knew it would dominate the window seat in her bedroom—and watched through the glass as Elain examined it with wide eyes. Anticipation thrummed along the fibers of every muscle in his body.

He had been nervous the entire time he stood in the shop where he bought it, like one wrong twitch of his wings would send shelf after shelf of glass crashing to the ground... And handing the massive, obvious gift over to Rhys, with his eyebrows raised nearly to his hairline, earlier in the week hadn't been any easier, but the way her sweet, rosy lips had parted made the entire endeavor worth it.

“You can have enchantments placed on it, if you'd like," he explained, trying to sound more reassuring than anxious. Doe-brown eyes flickered to his, just slightly distorted by the glass, and he saw them beginning to fill with tears that tugged at his heartstrings. "To prevent wilting or reduce the amount of sunlight and water the plants inside need, and so on... But I figured you might want to try it the natural way first. You just need to set this up by a window, and you'll have a little garden all winter long."

Elain’s lip wobbled, and the scent of salt assaulted him, made his ribs squeeze and constrict his breathing, but she only said, “Oh, thank you, Cassian.”

She reached forward, curling her little, calloused fingers around his own, utterly unaware of what that small, innocent touch did to him, and squeezed.

-----

Hope this was to your liking, anon! Thank you for such a fun prompt! 💕

#cassian #elain archeron #casslain #cassian x elain archeron #elain #a court of thorns and roses #my fics #a court of thorns and roses fic #a court of frost and starlight #unedited and kind of rambly but i had fun <3 #cassian x elain

[void-botanist]

9 (in my defense i'm a social scientist ajdjfjfkfj), 18 and 27 for the character development ask game!

I'll take Zel for this one because I really don't talk about her enough. I'm also going to do these out of order because I went on a whole adventure for number 9, the question about socioeconomic status.

Is your character more likely to admire wisdom, or ambition in others? Wisdom is what she most actively admires, because she wants to be capable and collected and not chaotic, and to avoid more pitfalls of being ambitious. Once upon a time she had ambitious academic and career goals: when she started college in Takolem City, she wanted to be a veterinarian. She made it about a year and a half in her veterinary science program before various factors led to her transferring to a school in Winchester and finishing out a degree in literature, and she has a lot of regrets about how that went. She's also just plain envious of her brother, who somehow managed to get all the way through a doctoral degree and then land an extremely cool space job almost by accident?? Rude???

How does your character normally deal with confrontation? It really depends on the context and who's involved. In public, or with people she doesn't know well, she tries to defuse things with humor and sarcasm, often @ herself. But in private, especially with people she knows well, and especially her brother, she accelerates pretty quickly from defusing with sarcasm to full-on shouting match. Except it's not really a "match" with Zalen because it takes a lot to make him yell at anyone. She's never shouted at Anni, but Anni also doesn't really confront people that much.

Is your character’s current socioeconomic status different than it was when they were growing up? I possibly thought about this way too hard and went kind of sideways, but I think I understand socioeconomic status better as a concept? If I say anything that makes you go ?? feel free to reply/message me/send another ask.

Anyway, the short answer is yeah, mostly. Zel grew up in a tiny rural mountain town in Takolem. Goods that had to be brought in from elsewhere—even up from the foothills—tended to be more expensive, but the town and its nearby neighbors could produce most of the basics themselves (food, water, soap, furniture, etc.) and the community tended to be pretty cohesive and supportive of mutual aid. Universal basic income was provided to adults by Takolem's government, but it was scaled by average costs for basic requirements of living. Those requirements were defined broadly, but still, for Zel's hometown, the payouts were some of the lowest in the country, even as prices for external goods rose in tandem with costs of living in other areas. Zel's grandfather had a decent job that shored up the UBI payouts to support a four-person household, but a lot of the tech that Zel owns now would have been luxuries during her childhood.

Zel now lives in a major city in Deridis, where UBI payouts are generally higher, even if the exact details of why are different for Deridis's goverment. She could coast on UBI for a while since she's only supporting herself in a small apartment. But it's nice to have the extra money (and tax write-offs for some of her tech) and she likes streaming. So that's kind of the economic part. The socio- part of the question is more complex. (To be clear, I'm looking at this from a US perspective because that's what I know.) I haven't thought a lot about how it's conceptualized in-world, but in both of these contexts blue collar jobs and trades are actually valued, and more even income and wealth distribution means that there isn't a stark division between "haves" and "have-nots" in terms of numbers or social standing (I know making use of resources like tutoring or extracurricular activities is more complicated than just how much time and money people have available to them, but on those basic levels there's more equality). Zel does sometimes struggle with no longer living in the same community as she did growing up, because she doesn't have the benefits of directly knowing people and being able to learn from them. She still hasn't really succeeded in building up a new community around herself that she can rely on and contribute to. There's also an element of how different species' cultures influence one another. Zel's home culture was mostly in conversation with local tree and mushroom person cultures, whereas Deridis has a strong relationship with orea-nawwen cultures, which does change some of the underlying attitudes and species distribution across different types of jobs. So overall Zel has a higher socioeconomic status now than when she was a kid, but it's complicated especially when you look at it in terms of social class.

#Zel and Zalen do actually like each other. There are just a lot of difficult feelings there #ask games #hard mode ask game #rose brambles #c: Zel #wip: tfa

[winstonbinch]

Silverton Mountain - A Backcountry Rite of Passage

Silverton is serious. Located in a remote part of the San Juan Mountains, it’s close to 7 of Colorado’s 53 fourteeners. The mountains are big and steep. They make the Front Range look like foothills. Navigating the tight switchbacks over Red Mountain Pass on the way into town for the first time makes even someone comfortable with heights pay attention, particularly if you’re driving at night in snow. There are fast passing trucks, no guard rails, and it’s a long way down.

But the extreme terrain isn’t the only draw. Silverton is a unique place. The town was established in 1873, after the Utes ceded it, or more accurately, were pushed from the land. Many of the original buildings still exist, its mining roots still visible. The last mine shut in 1992. A trip here is a journey back in time. While there’s a boutique hotel in town, The Wyman, there’s nothing fancy about Silverton. It’s a rugged, adventure town, and not for everyone. On the Silverton Mountain website, they advertise it as “all thrills no frills.” That’s no lie. 

Alaska is often referred to as the “North Shore of skiing.” It’s where the top skiers and riders go to test their limits, scare themselves, and get a good adrenaline rush. Silverton is an experience in that mold and a good introduction to big mountain backcountry.

I made my first trip in 2009, with two good friends, John Winsor and Alex Bogusky. Having been in Colorado since the early 80s, John was a mountain goat. Alex and I were both East Coasters and relatively new to big mountain backcountry. I grew up in New England and primarily skied in Vermont and Quebec. Alex was originally from Miami, and learned to ski on trips to Colorado.

Like many East Coast skiers, I could ski fast and hold an edge. I moved to Boulder in 2006, and got hooked on backcountry, touring with John, Alex, and Mike Alkaitis, who also happened to be an AMGA-certified guide, in Rocky Mountain National Park. I also spent many a weekend testing my nerve and skills in the East Vail Chutes, Vail’s notoriously consequential sidecountry, and on the East Wall of Arapahoe Basin. 

After a few seasons living in Colorado, it felt like the right time to step things up. At that point, I didn’t feel ready for Alaska, but I remember reading a New York Times article about Silverton. The first line of the article read, “CHANCES are you’re not good enough to ski Silverton Mountain - or to ski it with grace, anyway.” That was all the encouragement I needed.

I found exactly what I was looking for and then some. Jagged peaks, open bowls, steep couloirs, cliffs, tight trees, adventurous ridge walks, and a terrific guide, Fabio Grasso, now Silverton’s head of snow safety. Not only did it challenge my ability, it tested my fitness level. With only one chairlift, most of Silverton is accessed by human power. The hikes range from 5 minutes to an hour. The mountain tops out at 13,487 feet. Depending on your group’s speed and ability level, you can expect to get 4 to 6 laps. There tends to be 8 people per group with a single guide. Each run you ski all the way down to the road and are picked up in an old beat up school bus. The runs are long. Up to 3,000 vertical feet, and there’s no easy way down. 

A lot of people work a helicopter drop into the day. In addition to the single chairlift, it’s one of Silverton’s differentiating features. It gives your legs a break and is an adventure in itself. But even with two helicopter drops, I remember being completely worked afterwards. This is not a trip you can just roll into without a workout plan. But as exhausted as I was, I was equally exhilarated. The experience changed me. It took my adrenaline addiction to new heights, gave me more confidence, and opened my eyes to the wonder of big mountain backcountry skiing. It sparked a love affair that’s perhaps even stronger today. 

Two seasons ago, I returned for my first visit in 12 years, having since then opted for trips to British Columbia and Alaska. This time I wasn’t just in Silverton for the endorphin rush. I was there to do some good in support of SOS Outreach, a  non-profit that gives young people in underserved mountain communities access to mentorship and leadership opportunities. 

We were staying at the historic Grand Imperial Hotel, which dates back to 1883, for a weekend of brainstorming, community building, and skiing at Silverton Mountain and touring around Red Mountain Pass with the San Juan Mountain Guides. I was joined by two longtime ski buddies, Tod Francis, an SOS board member, and Dustin Robertson, a fellow marketing consultant. 

Dustin and I rolled into town a day early, grabbed a burrito and coffee at the Coffee Bear, and then headed up to the mountain. It was MLK weekend. Conditions were thin by Silverton standards. It meant that we needed to walk far for the goods. Early in the day, we made a long hike up to what’s called the “Billboard.” The exact sort of hike that gives Silverton its reputation. It’s roped and the final pitch is basically a vertical climb. To give you perspective, we had a special forces officer in our group. This was his first time at Silverton. He could handle the terrain but was visibly anxious on the climb. Once on top he told us, “I jump out of airplanes at night with night goggles. This was scarier.” Even the bravest of us get a little gripped up there.

So, is Silverton as challenging as the hype makes it out to be? Well, no, if you’re sending the gnarliest lines at Jackson, Snowbird, Arapahoe Basin, Crested Butte, or Big Sky. Or if you’re already going big in the backcountry or taking trips to British Columbia, Alaska, Norway, or the Alps. It’s also not without its annoyances. If you get stuck in a bad group, your day can be rough. They do a pretty good job of matching people to others with similar ability levels, but people lie. Dustin and I skied with a couple of mogul rippers from Park City, but it’s best to show up with as many friends as you can. I also recommend going later in the season. March or April is when the snow is best. The snowpack is also safer and more stable. You’re likely to get access to more challenging zones. I also suggest skipping the helicopter unless they can guarantee access to the very biggest lines you cannot hike to.  

Silverton is a stop adventurous expert skiers and snowboarders should make at least once. Particularly, if you’re just getting into the backcountry, are up for earning your turns, and enjoy  spartan and remote mountain experiences. It’s a place unlike any other. My time there gave me the courage to pursue even greater objectives. 

#silvertonmountain #colorado #backcountryskiing #sosoutreach

[powdermelonkeg]

Hyrule Brochure: A Potential for BotW’s Future

Hyrule’s map in BotW is pretty sparse as far as cities go. Yes, it’s got more than any other Zelda game, but it also has like, 90% of its map being pure dead space.

So I decided to play around and make what I imagine Hyrule would look like, as far as cities go, if it were allowed to properly rebuild and not get totally wrecked by Ganon again.

Credit to Eragon2589 on DeviantArt for the free-to-use map icons. I love these little buttons so much.

So, these are the canon towns we get in BotW; Hateno, Lurelin, Tarrey, Zora’s Domain, Goron City, Korok Forest, Rito Village, Yiga Hideout, and Gerudo Town. I’m counting Yiga Hideout as a town because if the Yiga were a little nicer, it WOULD be marked one.

Adding the various stables on makes the place look MUCH less empty, but still; what can we do with this?

Well, I’ve spent the last several days locating all the significant ruins and landmarks, with one or two extra things thrown in, that I think would make this place much more populated.

Maps are free to use if you want them, btw. Have fun!

As a general rule of thumb, I want to make the towers and stables their own cities. The towers are a good landmark and beacon of safety, and the stables have all the building blocks to start building up a village.

If I’m particularly inspired, I’ll give some background on what the town is/does!

Starting off with the Rito! Their village has grown into a town, and the stable at its foothill is its own village now. I called it “fledgeling” because that’s where the Rito and Hylians would intermingle most, so the Rito aren’t exactly flying around here.

Beacon City is built around Tabantha Tower; the Rito have turned it into a sort of lighthouse, reflecting light off into the distance to help guide nighttime fliers home. Because of this, it’s a very popular stop for mail carriers, and where they go, development and cultural mixing follows.

Kaysa Town is built around Great Fairy Kaysa’s fountain; it’s a popular tourist attraction, and she gets plenty of offerings, so win-win!

For the Gorons, we’ve only got two more cities: Silversmith Village and Din’s Spire. Silversmith is built around the culture in the southern mines, and it has down-the-road access to the Goron Hot Springs. Din’s Spire is less of a town and more of a landmark, due to the sheer cliffs all around it, but the huge (and notably not in the burning death zone) hot spring lake makes it a popular rest stop for people on their way through.

I decided not to rebuild the northern mines; they’re pretty busted up and lava soaked, so my assumption is that they were abandoned either due to hazards or due to the ore being stripped out.

Korok Forest wouldn’t change much, besides the Royal Family declaring it a protected area. The Koroks don’t seem to have much interest in expansion, and they, as far as I know, don’t live in houses.

Gerudo Territory is MUCH more expansive than the others so far, and with good reason.

Gerudo Town itself is now Gerudo City, and the Kara Kara Bazaar has grown into a town. Canyon Stable has developed a village (mostly full of Gerudo husbands so they don’t have to travel a million miles just to see their families).

The Gerudo have control of one of the towers in their region, and the town built around it is Overlook Town. It mostly serves as a training grounds for young Gerudo warriors.

The City of the Seven developed when the Seven Heroine statues were recovered and restored; the town around them was built to honor them, and then it got a LOT of foot traffic from those wanting to see the legendary statues.

Tera Town rose up much in the same way Kaysa Town did up in Rito territory, centered around the Great Fairy Fountain.

Mesa Village and West Gerudo Town are both smaller Gerudo settlements; West Gerudo sprung up out of access to snowmelt from the Gerudo Highlands, and Mesa Village, because of its relative safety from Molduga and access to oasis water.

Finally, Gerudo Valley, in reference to Ocarina of Time. This town is a Gerudo-only zone, and is more a fortress than a town. It exists both to keep an eye on the Yiga and to gain control of the mountain pass, making people go through Canyon Village to get to Gerudo instead of avoiding Gerudo customs.

Speaking of the Yiga, they’ve taken two new spots for themselves; Gerudo Tower, which they’ve renamed Kohga Tower in honor of their late Master, and Banana Labyrinth, which serves as their highest security area. Imagine if you’d had to go through the LABYRINTH to get the Thunder Helm back.

Up next we’ve got the Zora. Truthfully, their territory spans as long as Zora river and WELL into the ocean, but these are the only cities that, technically, a Hylian with adequate gear can enter.

Mipha’s Landing is an above-water city built expressly for doing trade. It got its name from the late Mipha; since the tower reaches up into the sky, it was hoped that someday, her spirit would sit atop it for a rest and see all that her people had been able to do thanks to her sacrifice.

Lakebed Village is in Lake Hylia, and it’s actually a slowly-repopulating Lakebed Temple, from Twilight Princess. Meanwhile, Great Bay City is a port town above water and an aquatic metropolis below, full of music and dance and exotic wares.

And finally, Hylians.

Hoo boy.

I’ve split this up region by region but

THIS is how many living spots they’ve got.

Silver stars indicate military towns. Red stars indicate military outposts.

I USE THE TERM MILITARY VERY LOOSELY HERE. Hyrule, since it doesn’t interact with its neighbors, only has the Yiga and the various monsters to fight against. Anything labeled “military” means that it’s staffed by royal employ, meaning knights and Sheikah and the like.

Let’s start with Akkala. The northeast labyrinth has been converted into an emergency bunker, in case Calamity strikes and people need a safe place to hide. Not only is it difficult to break into, it also has a completely empty lower level that’s PERFECT for long-term seige.

City Tempest got its name for being near-constantly wracked by storms. Despite this, though, it remains a popular vacation spot for people who don’t mind a little rain; the Skull Lake and the giant flowers are worth it.

Valley Town rose up out of both East Akkala Stable and Robbie’s workshop. It doesn’t get too much foot traffic, but it doesn’t really need to.

Midna Village, I built where the ruins of Shadow Hamlet are. I figured it was a fitting name, and the area is almost constantly covered in the shadow of Death Mountain.

Four Brothers’ Base is a knight outpost that’s up extremely high, spanning huge bridges between the four Tingle isles.

Then Parapa Palace, in reference to Zelda II: Adventure of Link, was built in place of the Akkala Citadel and functions as a mini Hyrule Castle + Castle Town. In real life, monarchs would have several palaces to go between, kind of like how well-off people nowadays would have a summer home. So, I followed that trend! This is Zel’s summer palace.

And you guys know what Tarrey Town is. Although interestingly, as it expands, it goes vertical into the stone column it was built on.

Onto Central Hyrule.

Camp Rauru is training camp and lodging for new knights. Rebonae Village and Kasuto City were made out of the Wetland and Riverside stables respectively, though Kasuto (also an Adventure of Link reference) gets substantially more foot traffic due to being on the way from Castle Town to Dueling Peaks.

Outset Town got its name, lore-wise, from the fact that it’s the first bit of land Link from BotW visited after leaving the Great Plateau, and meta-wise, because it’s the starting point for Wind Waker Link.

Aquame City surrounds the Coliseum, which is how it grew to be so popular. The grand stage holds sparring matches and various other shows regularly, and it’s a pleasant boat trip from Castle Town to get there.

Saria Town was built out of the old exchange ruins, and it’s in walking distance of the ruined Sage Temple—which, at this point in time, would have been rebuilt—and its existence is both an AoL reference and an OoT one (but mostly AoL, I’ve kind of fallen in love with its map).

New Mabe is where you can find the new Lon Lon Ranch! The ruins there are actually called the Mabe Town Ruins in game, and they’re right by the Ranch Ruins!

Eldin’s pretty sparse as far as Hylian towns go. It’s got Gut Check Camp, where Sheikah train for endurance and elemental resistance, and Windfall Town, a place that sees a LOT of gemstones pass through, freshly mined. That includes rupee ore, mind you!

Faron Province is a little more spaced out, due to the nature of the region. Lurelin’s grown since BotW, becoming a trading bay; meanwhile Cora Lake’s Sheikah Tower has expanded into Parache Town, and the Highland Stable has become Malanya Village. Both of those locations are VERY fond of horses, and they’re a bit competitive, especially during archery season.

Ordona Hamlet is a tiny village tucked away into the middle of Faron. It came about due to the Lakeside Stable, and it’s named that because I am STILL salty that the Zeldevs didn’t put an Ordon Village reference in the game.

Eventide Outpost is more of a testing ground for boats than anything particularly significant, population-wise. The even tides that gave the isle its name make it an ideal location to work out the kinks in new watercraft (and occasionally, the lieutenant in charge of that base demonstrates how to launch a raft into the sky with octo balloons).

Hebra’s the most militarized area of Hyrule, and ideally, it functions as a reserve of men and tech in case Calamity rises again. If there’s anything that BotW’s era learned, it’s to never underprepare for Gann’s return.

Fort Lomei is a converted base, just like the Banana Labyrinth is to the Yiga. This one, though, is patrolled diligently by knights who use daily-changing codes, and it’s impossible to navigate without the locals’ help.

Fort Pikida is situated in that weird stone cavern-y area, and it’s a supply stach and Hebran monster patrol site. It’s the soldiers there’s job to make sure that the Lynels that like to roam the region don’t get too close to residential areas.

Hia Miu Outpost is a training spot for knights sent to the Hebra region; any new soldier to the area has to prove they can handle themselves by going into the Hia Miu shrine and taking on the Major Test of Strength Trial. (Fun fact, did you know that the X-test-of-strength trials reset themselves every blood moon?)

Snowpeak Fortress exists both because it makes a fantastic secondary base for the Hyrulean royals to plan, and because i am once again salty about the lack of Twilight Princess in this game.

Sturnida Resort is built around hot springs! It’s a nice spot for people living around Rito Town and Fledgling Village to take a vacation without having to trek all the way across the country to do it.

Snowfield City came from Snowfield Stable, and it’s the Windfall of Hebra; it sees a LOT of people coming in and out of the region, and the view of the northern lights you can get from there? You’d be hard-pressed to find a Hylian that didn’t have it on their bucket list.

New Tabantha was built on the ruined spot of the original Tabantha Village; you can visit there in-game! It’s a quiet town that raises highland sheep for a living, and its team won the Hebran Triathlon three whole years in a row.

Then, the Tanagar Restricted Zone. If you’ve ever been there, you know EXACTLY why it’s restricted.

Most of the Guardians inside have been dealt with, but the ruined temple remains a hazard testing ground for new tech. It’s off limits to everyone but those with the HIGHEST clearance; I’m talking a direct letter from Zelda herself.

The Thyphlo Secret Camp is exactly what it says on the tin. It’s a place for Hyrulean lieutenants to meet for top-secret missions, and it’s one of those places that you need to be SERIOUSLY high rank to even KNOW about.

Over on the edge of Lanayru, we’ve got New Goponga, built where the old Goponga ruins are, and the Crenel Garrison. The Garrison was built to take care of the Lizalfos problems in the waterways, keeping it safe for Hylians and Zora travelers alike. Goponga, on the other hand, is what Lurelin was in game; nice, friendly, and centered around fishery.

In Necluda, we’ve got New Deya where old Deya was ruined (I think BotW Link was born in old Deya!), Watchtower Village built around the lakeside of the Dueling Peaks tower, and then Dueling Peaks City, a HUGE trade hub that was once the Dueling Peaks stable.

Kakariko Village is now a Town, Hateno has grown into a full blown trade harbor, and a tiny village has started to form around the Hateno Tower, making Firly Overlook.

But what I most love is the City of Hylanay.

Back in the game, it was the ruins of the Lanayru Promenade. So I had the promenade rebuilt, then people moved in around it, and now, Hylanay’s basically Hyrulean Venice! I want to visit it.

On the Great Plateau, we’ve got Aboda Town, named after Spirit Tracks’ Aboda Village in reference to the starting point in each game. This Town has access to the original Temple of Time, but because of the nature of the isolated plateau, it doesn’t see a lot of new faces often.

Over around Thundra, we’ve got Tanagar Village overlooking the canyon, built out of the old Tabantha Stable. The village actually builds downwards into the canyon; people have windows carved right out of the cliff face!

Thundra Village is built into the rocky slopes surrounding Thundra Plateau and the Ridgeland Tower. Their houses are built in the shelter of the giant mushroom things that grow so well in the area, and they’re famous for their signature dish of escargot.

The Serenne Exchange is up north, encompassing both the old Serenne Stable and the Maritta exchange ruins. You can buy practically ANYTHING there; if ever there was a supermarket in Hyrule, it would be right there.

The Royal Lab was rebuilt out of its ruins post Calamity, and it’s directed by Purah, who still hasn’t cured her immortality yet. It’s not uncommon to hear explosions as you pass by that place.

And then Camp Rutile is a small observational outpost, meant to keep track of the activity on Satori Mountain. Supposedly, the mountain’s health reflects the state of the rest of the kingdom, so the researchers assigned there are tasked with monitoring it EXTREMELY closely.

And Hyrule Castle. It’s Hyrule Castle.

Now completely bolted into the ground! :D

If we put all these locations together, we get a very nice, very well populated Hyrule, with LOTS to see. This is how I would design the future of BotW’s Hyrule.

Thanks for reading!

#loz #zelda #worldbuilding #headcanons #MAPS #CITIES #I WANT A POPULATED HYRULE #botw

[kingofkingdom-archive]

So Much Like Stars - Part ONE

Pairing: Boba Fett x Fem!Reader

Part ONE (read part two here!)

Rating: Explicit

Summary: You’ve known nothing but snow and cold wind your whole life. When a mysterious hunter arrives at your village, you find yourself drawn to him.

Warnings: Explicit sex, p-in-v sex, vaginal fingering, breathplay, power dynamics/power play, royalty kink (?), dom/sub dynamics, naked female clothed male, come marking, unprotected sex, mentions of death (no character death)

Word count: 8.2k+

A/N: This fic is entirely self-indulgent. No one asked for it, but here it is. Boba Fett fucks and we all know it. Or maybe you disagree, in which case you’re wrong. Anyway, enjoy! As usual, there’s no use of Y/N here and please heed the warnings before reading.

Across the windswept, snowy plain, you watch as the ship approaches its landing. It slows, rotates, and then lands face-up on the flat expanse. It’s maybe a kilometer and a half away from the outlook you’re perched on; your binocs are old, no longer reading distance, so the best you can do is guess. The wind blows the snow towards the east, blurring the landscape into obscurity for anyone without a trained eye.

Your cloak, woven from the heavy fur of the Kintur that roam your planet, keeps the driving wind from seeping into your bones. Every inch of your skin is covered, from your leather boots and thick leggings to your goggles and well-worn face mask. You carry a pack, as you always do, to which are strapped your net-shoes that allow you to traverse over massive snowdrifts. At your hip is an old Republic-issue blaster and at your side is your staff, which often acts more as a tool to clear paths and knock snow from tree boughs than anything else.

This planet is nearly uninhabited save for the village you were born in. Seeing a ship is rare, and it’s even rarer to see one that’s unaffiliated with a galactic government. You take note of its location and strain to see if you can spot the pilot as he emerges, but you have no such luck.

You sigh, the wind whistling in your ears, the drifts of snow shifting and growing around you. Father will want you back soon. The newcomer is undoubtedly going to head towards the village, and you’ll need to be there when he arrives. You stow your binocs away in your pack and unstrap your net-shoes, attaching them quickly to your boots.

The trek back is one you’ve managed countless times before - that doesn’t make it any less dangerous, but the sheer cliff faces and howling, punishing winds are not strangers to you. 

Your village is small by the standards of other planets in the galaxy, from what you’ve heard (the Elders’ stories of Coruscant never fail to amaze you), but in your eyes it’s vibrant and bustling despite the harsh climate. There’s almost always a tavern with its lights on and music flowing out, a friendly face and warm hearth never far.

It’s located in a secluded valley between towering mountains, out of sight of the vast plains from which the mountains seem to erupt without warning. There are no foothills; only flat land interrupted by harsh terrain. It’s very easy to find death in the mountains, but they have sustained your people for generations. Hunting is your main source of food, whether it be the Kintur that also provide their hide or the massive snow-bison whose fat and bones keep your diets regulated. In the warm season water flows endlessly - the streams that run from the mountain peaks are known to have healing properties, and often they seem to glow with a supernatural shimmer. There is a small mine some distance from the village where many men work, and though the job is a dangerous one, the mountains never run out of the ores you need.

Your people’s existence is not especially complex, but they are tougher than most. The landscape requires it.

You arrive back at the stone walls surrounding your village and greet the gatekeeper, a man who recently inherited the job from his father. 

“Hello, Isrwill.” You plant your staff next to you and lean on it, taking your weight off of your feet. “Have you heard anything of the visitor?”

The man nods. He’s about a decade older than you, but underneath the goggles and mask his face is youthful, eyes kind and always merry. “Savakya returned not long ago. She says he will make it here within the hour.”

“Did she say anything of his appearance?”

“Only that he wears armor, and a helmet. She could not make out any features, other than that he’s shaped like a man.” Isrwill leans back against the wall.

“Ah,” you reply. “Well-dressed for the weather, then.”

He shrugs. “Yes, but also well-dressed for battle.”

You can hear the concern in his voice. The question is one you’re sure your whole community is asking: what has brought this foreigner here? 

“Thank you,” you tell him, and he nods while pushing the gate open.

Once inside the walls, you remove your net-shoes as well as your goggles and immediately head toward the building where you know they’ll bring the stranger. Your father will already be there, conversing with the Elders and with the Committee to prepare for whatever news or needs this foreigner might have. There are protocols in place for such an event, but they haven’t been used in your lifetime. As you walk to the meeting-house, you try and recall the words you studied so long ago, when your father taught you your people’s laws and customs.

The meeting-house is constructed of solid, ancient wood, imported from a forest planet and stark against the gray stone that most of the village’s homes are built from. Inside there is a massive hearth cut from a single stone, the fire inside it already raging. In the center of the main room there is a curved table; on one side sit the Elders, on the other, the Committee. At the head sits your father, next to your empty seat.

“You made it safely, my child,” he greets you when you arrive, a swirl of snowflakes following you in. Smiling, you pull down your face mask.

“I always do, father.”

He smiles from his place at the table, giving you a look. “That does not mean I do not worry.”

Rolling your eyes affectionately, you lean over to kiss him on the cheek. The other people at the table chat amongst themselves, though you can feel the undercurrent of unease at the visitor’s imminent arrival.

You walk around to take your place, setting your pack, staff, and outer layers near the hearth to dry. You are left in a long-sleeved, high-neck shirt and tunic over your leggings, your hair done up in its usual braids. Usually you would go home and change into something more suitable for Committee business, but there was no time. 

You turn to your father, who sits next to you with all the grace and poise befitting a benevolent leader.

“Isrwill told me the stranger is arriving soon. Do we know any more?”

He nods, though he doesn’t look entirely pleased. “Yes. From what Savakya described, it seems he’s a Mandalorian.”

The name isn’t familiar to you. “Is that a race?”

“No.” Your father leans back in his chair. His arched brows bely a concern that is rare to see on him. He strokes his white beard, staring off into space. “The Mandalorians are more of a culture, a people. I’ve only ever heard stories of them. They say they are fierce warriors, and that many of them are bounty hunters by trade.”

That’s odd. You frown, confused. “Bounty hunters? Why wo-”

You are interrupted by three sharp knocks on the doors. Beside you, your father calls out “enter! ”, and the doors swing open.

Two village men, two of the strongest of your people, flank a man clad in armor. His helmet has a T-shaped visor with a short antenna, and on his back is a rifle. You take note of the blasters strapped to his hips as well as something that could be a weapon at his knee. 

Isrwill was right. Well-dressed for battle.

You sit up straight and keep your eyes trained on the Mandalorian. Though you are a member of the Committee, you are also well-versed in how to use a blaster, perhaps the best trained of any at the table. You are also a protector of your fellow Committee members, the Elders, and most importantly, your father. 

“What business brings you to our planet, Mandalorian?” Your father’s voice is stern, strong in a way you hope to emulate when you inevitably assume his role.

“I am in search of a bounty, your excellency.”

The hunter’s voice is deep and slightly muffled through the helmet’s vocoder. He sounds weathered and rough, though you imagine that’s life as a man who fights and kills for a living.

“Sir will suit me just fine,” your father tells him, a hint of a smirk in his voice. “As for your bounty, it is highly improbable that any individual has survived outside of our village longer than a day. There is no stranger here but you.”

The Mandalorian sighs, looking down at the floor and then back up again. “I’m afraid I disagree, sir. The tracker isn’t wrong. He must be hiding somewhere in the mountains.”

Your father shakes his head. “Those mountains are impossible to pass without a guide. If he was there, surely he is dead by now.”

Though you can’t see his face, the hunter’s helmet is surprisingly expressive. He looks at your father for a long moment, and then glances around at the other people at the table. His gaze finally lands on you.

You set your jaw and stare back, unintimidated. A man with guns does not scare you, no matter how he tries.

“Alright,” he says, but you suspect he is not satisfied with this information. “Might I at least inquire about some lodging for the night?”

-

Later that evening, you find yourself in your favorite tavern, sitting in your usual booth, watching the townsfolk mingle and chat. Your drink of choice is a fermented ale that is produced in the warm season and aged for consumption outside of those short couple of months. 

No one pays you any mind unless they’re a close friend or they have news. They know to leave you alone, to let you sit with yourself as you prefer to do.

You’re watching a young couple you grew up with dance to the music when the tavern’s door swings open. You glance over at it but do a double take when you realize who stands in the doorway.

The hunter.

Around you, conversation quiets as everyone takes in the stranger. His helmet scans the room, like he’s looking for someone in particular. Internally you scoff. The bounty would never show his face here, he’d stand out too much amongst your people.

The hunter’s visor stops moving, aimed directly at you.

Kriff, you think, taking a swig of your drink. He wants information, and he’s not going to give up quite as easily as he did with your father.

The Mandalorian walks into the room, headed directly towards your booth. People watch, heads turning to track the stranger’s movements across the floor. His steps are heavy, intentional, large frame imposing as he approaches you.

Certainly a man built for survival. For conflict. If he were a different person, you might find it attractive.

He stops when he reaches your booth, looking down at you just as you stare up at him, brow raised. 

“This seat taken?”

You shake your head and gesture to it. “Not at all.”

From the corner of your eye you can tell the rest of the tavern’s patrons are watching, waiting. As the hunter sits, you wave your hand discretely, telling them to return to their conversations, to each other.

The noise picks up again.

“You’ve got some influence here, princess.”

The name both rankles and sends a shiver of something unwanted down your spine. Now that he’s closer, knees almost brushing your own, you really get a sense of how intense this man’s presence is.

A warrior, to be sure. None would debate that. 

You narrow your eyes at him. “We are not the subjects of a king, hunter.”

He scoffs, leaning back and resting his arm on the back of the booth. “Forgive me. What are you to them?”

“I do not see how it concerns you.” The words are harsh but your face remains neutral. Your father taught you how to deal with men like this - how to steel yourself against posturing, against prodding, against teasing.

The Mandalorian chuckles. “I just like to know who I’m talkin’ to. No need for the theatrics.”

You don’t respond. He’s the one who approached you - you have no desire to get in his good graces.

He sighs, glancing over to the wall at your left, his right. “I’d never heard of this planet before the tracker brought me here, much less your people,” he tells you. It’s not a surprise.

“That’s how we like to keep it. We stand no chance against something like the Republic or the Empire. Our only means of survival is staying under the radar.”

His visor is trained directly on you, staring, studying your face. You stare back, wishing you could somehow get a sense of what he looks like underneath the mask.

“How long have your people lived here?”

You know it’s not because he’s genuinely curious. Your mind is buzzing with all the different reasons he’d have for asking - he wants to know how familiar you are with the landscape. He wants to know how well-established your system of governance is here. He wants to know if you know how your people arrived. 

He wants to know how vulnerable you are.

“Generations. Since before the Elders’ grandparents were born. Memory of our arrival here has been lost to time.”

He tilts his head. “Is yours the only settlement on the planet?”

You nod. As far as you know, anyway. Attempts have been made to reach out, to try and see if any other peoples live in the outer reaches of the landscape, but none have returned successful. 

The Mandalorian hums. He glances over into the tavern, at the other patrons and the bartender. You watch as the bartender, a woman a few years younger than your father, uses a rag to clean out a cup, but you can tell she’s watching your table from the corner of her eye. When she notices the hunter’s helmet turn towards her, her eyes flit up to you, then over to him.

The hunter waves, as if to signal that he wants something. The bartender glances back at you and you nod. She sets down the cup and begins walking over.

You look over at him. He’s already staring back, chin tilted down like you’re a riddle he’s trying to solve.

“What can I do for you, sir?” The bartender’s voice does not waver, but it’s tense nonetheless.

He gestures to your drink. “I’ll have what she’s having.”

The bartender nods and leaves. You take a sip of your ale, finding comfort and clarity in the warmth it brings you. 

Across from you, the bounty hunter shifts in his seat, removing his gloves to reveal a pair of  calloused hands. You glance down at them and follow their movement as they reach up, thumbs curling under the bottom of his helmet, and lift. 

The hunter’s weathered face greets you. He’s a man, like any other, like you expected him to be. His brows are arched and dark, but the rest of the hair on his head has been burnt away by something that left scars across the crown of his head and his face. His eyes are cold, haunted, calculating as they look at you.

He sets the helmet on the table with a thud . 

“You’ve seen death,” you observe, holding his gaze with your own. “Been close to it.” His brown eyes narrow and he crosses his arms over his chest.

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand, princess.”

Ah, you think. He underestimates me.  He thinks you’re the coddled daughter of a village leader, fed by the kindness of your people and adored for your status. You raise an eyebrow and take another swig of your drink, smirking into the amber liquid. 

You set the cup down on the table. “There is more in those mountains than snow and wind, hunter.”

He doesn’t move, save for a slow blink. “Tell me, then.”

You sense movement from the corner of your eye - the bartender has returned with his drink. He nods to her in thanks and she gives a tight smile, glancing at you before hastily returning to her station.

The hunter takes the cup and brings it to his lips. You watch as he takes a sip, swallows, and his eyes widen. A small cough forces its way up and out of his throat.

You smile at him, a hint of a grin that curls the corners of your mouth. 

“A bit strong for you?”

He glares over the rim of the cup and pointedly takes another swig. He sets the cup down, large hand dwarfing it. 

“What is in those mountains?” His voice has gotten lower, rougher, like you’ll be intimidated by a show of verbal force.

“Nothing you’ll concern yourself with,” you reply, refusing to back down. “Unless you want to encounter your own mortality again.”

“I am perfectly fine with a bit of a scare.”

You bark out a laugh. “You wouldn’t survive an hour out there without a guide. And no one here will take the job, not when the options are either a fruitless search for a dead body or a shootout between two criminals.”

He leans forward, face pressing close to yours, warm breath blowing across your cheeks. His nose is inches from your own.

His voice drops to a low murmur. “I didn’t come here for a bounty, little one.”

Your brow furrows and you draw back, pressing your shoulders against the cushioned stone behind you.

“Word has got out of a large deposit of kyber somewhere in this system. The Empire has not yet caught wind, but soon they will.”

You don’t recognize the name of the material he’s referring to, but you do recognize the Empire and know exactly what something like that might mean for a small, defenseless village such as your own.

It’s much different than a simple bounty hiding in the mountains.

“Why didn’t you tell the Committee this?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know if this is where the deposit is. I didn’t want to cause unnecessary concern, especially considering the… size and scale of your village”

You purse your lips and lean your head back, staring up as you consider this development. This man has come in search of something you aren’t sure exists, and if it does, it means certain death for you and your people. 

You look back down at the man across from you. “Then why did you decide to tell me? You’d have been better off going to my father with this information.”

He huffs out a chuckle, then grabs his drink and takes a swig. He sets the cup back down and rests his arm on the table beside it. “Because I need a guide, little one. Someone with knowledge of the terrain, who I won’t have to watch out for. I’m willing to pay handsomely.”

The dots begin to connect in your brain. You raise a brow at him. “I have no need for your credits. They’re next to useless here. Besides, how can we know this - this kyber is there at all?”

“Is there anything unnatural about the mountains? Anything that would point to something powerful within them?”

You frown, thinking on it for a moment. All of the ores found in the mine are naturally occurring, the creatures that live on the peaks are all native, and the --

It hits you. Your eyes widen ever so slightly, and your heart rate increases. A falling feeling in your stomach takes the sensation from your legs for a moment, ice cold and burning all at once.

“The water.”

The Mandalorian tilts his head. You glance around to make sure no one’s heard you. Everyone in the tavern seems oblivious to the two of you, despite their stares earlier.

“We have to leave,” you tell him, fishing a couple of coins out of your pocket and depositing them on the table. “We can’t discuss this here. Come with me.”

Hastily you stand, taking your cloak from its hook on the side of the booth and pulling it on. The hunter follows suit, sliding his helmet back on and looking around the room.

You start towards the door, heavy footsteps following behind you.

-

You bring him to your home, the only place where you know you won’t be interrupted. You live in a small building tucked in a quiet corner of the village, between a storage silo and the village’s north wall.

Inside, the hearth has been going all day, fueled by coal and snow-bison waste chips. There are four rooms; three downstairs and a bedroom upstairs. You bring the Mandalorian to your study, where the fire roars and there’s a few soft chairs and a couch to sit on. He takes a seat on the latter and removes his helmet, watching as you search your bookshelves for something.

“Care to tell me what you meant by ‘the water’?” He slouches, thick thighs spread over the couch cushion.

Your eyes follow the movement of his legs for a split second. It’s supremely distracting, how inviting he looks right now. You glance up at his face and see a small smirk on his lips. A blush colors your cheeks, caught in the act of looking. To hide it, you turn back to the bookshelf, scanning the spines of your books.

“In the warm season there are streams that flow from the mountaintops to the valley. It pools in an area not far from here and forms a small lake, not much more than a pond, that freezes over once the cold sets in again. For centuries we’ve brought our sick and dying there to be healed.”

The hunter hums. “And it works?”

You nod, turning to look over your shoulder at him. “I was brought there as a child. I would have died of the fever had it not been for the water. Our Elders drink if regularly after they reach a certain age, once they haven’t been killed by the elements.”

“Are you saying your people live longer because of it?”

You pause. That has never crossed your mind, since using the water’s magic has always been normal to you, a yearly practice like any other. “I don’t know. How long does man usually tend to live?”

“It depends,” he says. “I’d say a hundred years at most.”

That has you taken aback. You look over at the bookshelf again - this is life-changing, world-shattering information. Dread begins to settle in your chest, like everything you thought was real is a lie.

The hunter leans forward, hands on his knees, concern etched on his scarred face. “How long do your people live, little one? How many years?”

You inhale and look over at him. “Hundreds. A thousand, if we’re lucky.”

“Kriff,” he swears, leaning back with a hand over his mouth and nose. 

Turning back to the bookshelf, you resume your search to calm your racing mind. You find the book you were looking for, a collection of stories gathered by your family over generations.

“Here,” you say, sliding the book out of its place and taking it over to the hunter. He scoots over, but only slightly, so when you sit next to him you’re tucked snugly between him and the arm of the couch. His thigh is warm against your own and you get chills down your neck when he shifts to put his arm behind you, around your shoulders.

You clear your throat and open the book, letting it rest on your legs.

“There are a few accounts that speak of the water,” you tell him, flipping through the pages until you find the one you’re looking for. It’s half a page of writing, the other taken up by a crude map of the mountains.

“The waters are life-giving,” you read, tracing along the words with your index finger. “They shimmer and glow in the sun when it shines upon us. The source is deep within the mountain, covered by ice and snow in the cold season. No one has seen the source of the waters and survived. Many have tried. It lies in the heart of ongrol territory.”

“Ongrol?” The hunter’s voice is deep, low in your ear. You look up at him, absentmindedly biting your lip between your teeth.

“Yes,” you reply. “A vicious species of massive snow lion. It’s rare to see one and live to tell the tale. I’ve only ever seen their prints.”

He hums, eyes flitting across your face as he studies you up close. “How large are they?”

You shake your head. “We can only guess, but certainly bigger than this building.”

The Mandalorian nods, his eye contact with you intense and unwavering. You meet it head-on, the warmth you feel in your bones spreading into your thighs and your ribs and your --

You blink and turn back to the book. The map is shaded to indicate the creatures’ territory, with a dot to indicate the general location of where the source is thought to be.

You point to an area just outside the shaded region. “This is as far as I’ve been. I can get us to the source - it’s the ongrol that are the problem.” You look back up at the hunter. “You’re sure the kyber is what’s causing this?”

He nods. “It’s one of the most powerful materials in the known universe. Little else could heal your people the way it does.”

“How do we hide the signature from others, to keep them from finding it?” The unspoken question there hangs in the air as you speak; how do we protect ourselves from attack?

He furrows his brow, shaking his head ever so slightly. “I’m still trying to work that part out, little one.”

That does not do much ease your anxieties, but you have to accept it for now.

You close the book with a sigh and stand to return it to its place on the shelf. When you turn back, the hunter has placed his other arm on the back of the couch, spread out like a king on a throne.

He looks comfortable - at home, here in yours. It’s unlike you to bring a stranger into your dwelling and not feel uneasy about it. Yet here he is, and it’s like he belongs right there on your couch, armor and all. You cross your arms, observing him.

“Do you know the name Boba Fett, princess?”

You shake your head. “No, I do not.”

He smiles, like your answer pleases him. “It's mine.”

Boba. The name is unusual, but it suits the man before you.

“I’d tell you mine in return, but I’ve grown fond of the names you’ve chosen for me, Boba Fett.”

A deep sound pushes its way out of Boba’s chest through his throat - half a chuckle, half a growl. He gives you a once-over with his dark brown eyes, like he can see right through your thick base layer and loose tunic. You watch as he does so, trying to calm your nervous breathing. His gaze is so penetrating, so intense, that after a moment you have to turn away from him, towards the fireplace.

The orange-blue flames dance in front of you, warming your face even further. A mirror hangs above it, but your eyes are focused on the hearth.

You hear Boba shift behind you, metal on fabric. “Tell me, little one,” he says. You can sense him moving closer. “Do you have any suitors, here in the village?”

The question makes your heart race even faster. “No.” You refuse to look at him, knowing that what you see there will render words impossible. “I’ve not had any interest in them.”

“But have men tried? Asked to court you?” He’s right behind you now, the warmth of him nearly matching that of the flames in front of you. The hair on the back of your neck stands on end. You can see his shadow from the corner of your eye.

“Yes,” you nod. “They have tried.”

Boba hums. His hands come up to gently, but firmly, rest on your shoulders. He slowly smooths his gloved palms down your arms, taking them from being crossed over one another to resting loose at your sides.

You risk a glance up at the mirror in front of you. He’s already looking at you, eyes locked on yours. You meet his gaze and dip your chin ever so slightly, so you’re staring at him from beneath your lashes.

A ghost of a smirk dances across Boba’s lips. He breaks the eye contact and you watch as he looks down at the nape of your neck, one of few exposed pieces of your skin. His right hand brushes your hair from over your shoulder onto your back, gathering the long tresses together. The women in your village grow their hair out as long as they can, not only to use for braids, but also to keep warm. 

Boba’s fingers brush lightly against you, the rough material of his gloves a contrast to the smooth skin of your neck.

“Why haven’t they been successful, princess?”

You clench your jaw. Boba looks back up at you, his hand resting across your nape, fingers curled ever so slightly. The feeling of it makes your thighs tremble, your core responding to this silent, easy display of authority. It shows on your face, how much you like this, and you know Boba sees it.

“None of them could give me --”

Your words are cut off by Boba’s hand snaking around your neck, firm grip tightening around the column of your throat. You gasp, a soft, breathy noise, and the man behind you chuckles. His thumb and forefinger press into your jaw, forcing your head up, though your eyes are still locked onto his reflection in the mirror.

You choke out the rest of your sentence. “-- Give me what I need.”

“Is that so,” Boba murmurs, the words a deep rumble in his rough voice. He presses just a bit tighter, and your eyes flutter closed in response. “I think I know just what you need, my dear.”

His words burn through you like fire on wood, like a cold wind rushing through an open window. Your legs grow weak and your hands grapple at him, trying to find something to hold onto. Your left hand catches on the gauntlet covering his arm and you draw it around, so his arm covers your hip and his hand rests possessively on your lower stomach.

“What a pretty thing you are,” Boba mutters, sliding his hand lower on your front until his fingertips brush your mound. You let your head drop back against his shoulder at the feeling of him cupping your most private of areas, like it’s his, like it’s always been his. Your legs shift further apart to make room for his wide palm. “A stoic princess who desperately needs someone to take care of her.”

You whine at that, at what he’s offering you. It’s true; of all the eligible men in the village, not one has taken you to bed and been able to let you fully cede control to them. They see you as a leader, as someone not to be messed with, as someone to be respected above all else.

“Oh, yes,” Boba hums, curling the fingers of his left hand into your cunt, hooking them into you through your clothes. “They might follow your orders, little one, but you’ll follow mine.”

It sounds like paradise, letting him have you like this. You nod against the armor on his chest, movement limited and head growing dizzy thanks to the hand around your neck. Boba presses his lips close to your ear, his large body now curled around yours.

“Listen to me, sweetheart.” The pet name makes you melt against him. “I am going to go take a seat, and then you’re gonna take your clothes off for me. Can you do that?”

You open your eyes and there he is, in the corner of your vision, gaze dark and full of heated promises. You study his face for a moment, memorizing his features while he’s close like this, and then you nod.

“Yes, Boba.”

“Good,” he tells you. He then moves his hands away, and though you mourn the loss of his touch, knowing what’s to come keeps you patient.

He turns, walks back over to the sofa, and sits. He spreads his legs as he did before, arms on the back of the couch, watching you.

Boba looks so much like a king in that moment that it makes you want to bow before him, to prostrate yourself like you aren’t the daughter of the Chieftain. To worship him as he demands. 

The thought crosses your mind as your fingers begin to unwrap your tunic, taking the woven material from its intricate adornment on your body. You feel a blush rising on your cheeks at the implications - what would the village think of their leader’s daughter, the one to assume his role in the future, imagining such things about a stranger?

Your mind wanders, racing, thinking of seeing him upon a proper throne, all silent confidence and heated gazes from behind the visor of his helmet. Maybe he’d bring you there, show you off to a court, hold you in his wide palms like a treaty. Set you upon his lap like a rare trophy from your far-off snow planet. You’d wrap your arm around the back of his neck and listen to his dealings while he kept a firm hand on your upper thigh.

Dignitaries and crime lords alike would watch, whispering, unable to look away.

It thrills you, to have these secret desires.

You deposit the tunic on the floor next to you and toy with the hem of your top, pulling it out from where it was tucked in your pants. Boba’s eyes zero in on the strip of skin that is revealed as you raise the shirt higher, higher, and higher, until in one motion you’ve slipped it over your head and off entirely.

He stares at your chest and it makes you smile. Men will be men.

Feeling emboldened by the way Boba is looking at you, you turn around and hook your thumbs in the waistband of your pants. You slowly slip them down your hips, over your thighs, and past your knees, bending over as you do so.

Behind you, you hear shuffling. You toss the pants to join the tunic and shirt and turn to see Boba’s codpiece and gloves removed, his hand shoved down the front of his pants.

“I’m enjoying the show, little one,” he says, and waves at you with his other hand, even as you begin to see movement at the crotch of his trousers. “Continue.”

You smirk, a sly thing at seeing the effect your bare form has on him. You tuck your fingers under the band of your bra and pull up. Your arms block your view of Boba’s face as your breasts are revealed to him, but the hungry look in his eye once you can see him gives you a good idea of it.

“Kriff,” Boba swears, jerking himself faster, rougher. The sight of it makes your breathing become heavy, the labor of it causing your chest to heave. His eyes drop from your face to your tits - somehow, you don’t feel embarrassed or ashamed like you might usually. 

You just feel wanted. It’s intoxicating, that he wants you for you , not your title.

There’s only one article of clothing left on your body now. You turn around again, your back to him, and take the front hem of your underwear in your fingers. Slowly, almost teasing, you slip it over your hips, arching your back and pushing your ass out towards Boba. The underwear slips down your thighs until it falls to the floor.

You straighten up again and look over your shoulder at him. He gestures with his free hand, a ‘come here’ motion that you’re all too eager to follow.

“Beautiful kriffing body,” he murmurs as you approach. He reaches out and puts his hand on your hip, fingers curling into your ass cheek. His eyes stare at your mound, at the patch of hair there. “Bet you’re already wet for me, huh?”

He glances up at you. You blush, watching as he removes his hand from his pants and snakes it in between your legs, calloused fingers feeling the evidence of his effect on you. His fingertips catch on your clit, rubbing and feeling and stoking the fire within. You moan wantonly, comfortable in the privacy of your home.

“You are. Kriffing soaked. Just begging for my cock, aren’t you?”

His words make your pussy clench just as he slips one of his thick fingers into you, surely spreading his own fluids across your tight, hot skin. The girth of it forces a whine out of you, brows furrowed, and your hand flies down to hold onto his as he fucks you with his finger. Your other hand comes to rest on his shoulder, gripping his armor.

“Look at you,” he mutters, baring his teeth as he watches you writhe on his hand, using his thumb to rub your clit just so. Your mouth drops open in pleasure, sparks shooting down your legs and up into your belly at the feeling. 

Boba hums, circling his thumb and flicking it over your puffy, sensitive nub. “What would your people think if they saw you moaning like a whore for an old man, hm?”

Your legs turn to jelly at the force of the arousal that hits your cunt. You sway forward, knees buckling, and Boba catches you as you fall. 

He uses the hand on your ass to guide you into a sitting position on his lap, so now you’re straddling him, bare chest pressed to the cool metal of his armor. You tuck your face into his neck and revel in the feeling of a second finger teasing at your opening.

“You like that, little one?” His words cause his throat to vibrate, and the deep tone draws your lips in to kiss at it. Your nose brushes against the underside of his jaw as you move from kissing to licking, getting drunk on the taste of his sweat on your tongue.

Boba groans, sliding the second finger into your cunt with ease. You sigh, blowing cool air across the skin you’ve just wet with your tongue. “You do.” He runs his free hand up your thigh, holding tight to the firm muscle there, toned and strong from a lifetime in the ice and snow. “So desperate for my cock.”

You nod, though your lips hardly leave his neck. “Please, Boba,” you whisper into his skin, pressing yourself as close to him as you can get. 

His fingers still their movements within you and you whine. Boba shushes you, and you have to bite your lip to keep from pouting when he pulls his fingers from your pussy. He presses a kiss to the crown of your head and leans back.

“I want you on your hands and knees, princess. Right here on the couch.”

You nod frantically and there’s not a moment of hesitation in your haste to follow his order. You arrange yourself next to him, forearms propped on the arm of the couch and your knees keeping your ass aloft in the air.

Boba turns and positions himself behind you with ease, half standing with one foot on the floor, his other leg bent and kneeling on the cushion.

He may call himself an old man, but he’s got the physicality of someone half his age. It makes the spot between your legs hotter and wetter just to think of it. Your cunt throbs for him.

You look over your shoulder and watch as he reaches into his pants, hand spreading your wetness across his dick, and your eyes widen as he draws it out from the confines of his trousers. Your gaze zeros in on him; he’s thick and long, just as you suspected, and every inch is one you want to feel as deep inside you as possible. Honestly, it makes sense - you’ve always heard that the men with the most to make up for do so in their personalities. 

Men like Boba don’t have to compensate, which makes them all the more attractive.

You glance up to his face. He’s smirking down at you, eyes traveling down to your ass, pushed out and open for him. He runs a hand along the soft swell of your rear, caressing you like you’re precious, like you’re prized.

“I could get used to this,” he tells you, guiding the head of his cock to notch at your opening. “Seeing a future queen all bare and ripe for me.”

Your eyelids flutter as you feel him press in further, deeper. The sight of him kneeling behind you, fully clothed while you’re naked as the day you were born, sends a wave of arousal through you. Your brain doesn’t even register what he’s called you, how wrong he is, because you can’t think of anything beyond his dick.

“C’mon, Boba,” you whine, his slow pace driving you mad. “Fuck me like you mean it, old man.”

The noise that comes out of his mouth is almost non-human with the way it reverberates around the room. His hands dig into your hips and he thrusts , unrelenting and rough, spearing you onto his thick cock until his balls slap your clit. You choke out a moan, your eyes rolling into the back of your head at how perfectly full you feel.

“Ah,” he grunts out as he immediately sets to fucking you roughly, deeply. “The little princess does want to be treated like a whore.” His words are accompanied by the lewd sound of his cock moving in your wet cunt, his hips slapping against your own. You moan, loud and uninhibited, unable to conceive of shame or propriety.

For your whole life you’ve been looked up to, treated as both fragile and untouchable.

Boba Fett fucks you like you’re nothing more to him than a pet.

He snarls his words into the air. “Woulda fucked you there on that table in the cantina, shown the whole village how well you take me.”

You keen, arching your back further to give him a better angle. He runs his left hand up your side, gripping your waist and pulling you back onto his cock in time with his thrusts. He’s deeper inside you than anyone’s ever been - you’re beginning to think men in your village must be small, or maybe Boba’s just unnaturally big, because you think you can feel the head of his cock bruising your cervix. 

The thought of him taking you in the tavern has you clenching down on him even tighter. Maybe you would have gotten on your knees for him, hid beneath the tablecloth and kept his cock warm in your mouth.

“That turn you on, princess?” He slows his thrusts just slightly, drawing out so he can slam back in with even more force. You cry out, nodding, tears forming at the corners of your eyes.

“Of course it does,” he grunts, and you can feel the crest of your climax steadily approaching as he speaks, letting yourself get lost in the fantasies he’s bringing to life. His thrusts speed up again, rough and brutal, just as you need.

“You were just waiting for someone to -- ungh -- come along and fuck all the thoughts outta that clever little head, weren’t you?”

You whine, because he’s right - your normally sharp, observant brain has been put out like water over a fire. Boba leans forward, placing his hand on the arm of the couch next to your elbow, and brushes his lips against the back of your neck. It changes his position enough that his cock hits you just that much deeper, pounding against that elusive sweet spot deep within your cunt.

“Kriff, Boba --” You barely get the words out, your voice hoarse and strained and your mind turned to mush. “So -- so big.”

Against your ear, you feel more than hear him chuckle. His teeth catch on your earlobe, hot breath skating down the side of your face.

“Yeah? You like having my big cock in your tight little pussy?”

You keen, high-pitched and desperate. “Please, Boba, I’m gonna --”

His teeth trail down the side of your neck, biting firmly enough to leave a trail of red marks across your skin. Once he’s satisfied with his work, he leans up again so he can grip your hips more firmly.

“Gonna come, little one? Go on --” his words trail off for a moment - or maybe your hearing fades out as the crisis within you rises to its limit. Right as you’re on the edge, your face flush with sensation and your cunt fluttering around him, his rough voice fades back in.

“-- wanna feel you, princess. Come for your king.”

You have no choice but to do as he says.

Boba’s words scratch that small, hidden itch in your brain you’d taken a glance at earlier. Your mind whites out for a split second, as blinding as a snowstorm, before you return to yourself.

He’s still fucking you. Using you. Oversensitive and trembling, your senses absorb the world around you - Boba's hands on your hips, the scrape of his armor against your thighs, the crackle of the fireplace somewhere over your shoulder. 

The rhythm of Boba's cock inside you, chasing the same high you'd found moments earlier.

You moan, pushing back, encouraging him to find his release. A glance over your shoulder gives you the sight of his eyes focused on where he's thrusting into you, lip curled, a drop of sweat trailing down over his jaw.

Boba glances up at you and smirks, though the flash of teeth makes it more of a sneer. "Where do you want me, princess?"

A serene smile crosses your face and you pretend to think on it for a moment, lazy in your post-orgasmic haze.

"On me," you reply. "Wherever you want."

He grunts, looking back down, and thrusts a few more times, deep and bruising. As soon as he pulls out you mourn the loss of him, the fullness inside of you, but you're rewarded with a vision unlike any you've seen before. Boba takes himself in hand, and with a loud groan, cums across your ass, his spend dripping down your thighs and onto your pussy lips. He covers you with himself, marking you up.

Once he's finished, Boba runs a hand through the cum on your skin, pressing firmly and rubbing it in.

"Been wanting to do that since I saw you in the meeting hall, little one."

You hum, eyes fluttering closed at the thought of it. What a scandal - the Chieftain's daughter falling for the stranger, the first foreigner to visit the village in living memory.

Behind you, Boba shifts off of the couch. He stands beside you and then you register that he's moving you, strong hands arranging your limp body so he can pick you up. One arm slips beneath your knees and the other under your back.

"Bedroom's upstairs," you murmur. 

He brings you there, tucking you into bed carefully and then turning to undo his armor. As you watch him methodically remove each piece, you get the feeling that you're privy to something rare. Though you're sleepy, your eyes remain open, intent on keeping this memory clear.

The thought crosses your mind that this man must know so much of the universe. He's probably been to hundreds of planets, has hundreds of stories.

You've only ever known snow and wind. 

"Boba?"

He's just finished with the last of his armor when you speak. He sits down on the edge of the bed next to you and puts his hand on your side.

"Yes, princess?"

You gaze up into his eyes, dark but soft when looking at you.

"What's the most beautiful place you've ever been to?"

He smiles at that, letting out a soft chuckle. "I've been to so many places that it's hard to keep track, little one."

You pout. He moves to settle into bed next to you, under the layers of fur and fleece that keep you warm.

"You must have a favorite," you insist, curling up against him, head resting on his bicep.

He's quiet for a minute, thinking. You wait, though sleep threatens to pull you under. Boba's words lull you out of the beginnings of your slumber.

"I think you'd like Naboo," he tells you. You've read about it, about their system of governance. You can't recall seeing any pictures or illustrations, though. 

"It's very green," he explains. "There's meadows and forests everywhere. Their cities are vast, the buildings beautiful in themselves. I traveled there with my father when I was young."

You want to ask more, to learn about this place so different from anything you know. Your mind is racing with imaginings when you fall asleep, cozy and warm against Boba Fett.

In the night, your dreams glow as bright as the sun.

#boba fett x reader #boba fett fanfiction #boba fett fucks #mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian fanfiction #star wars fanfiction #boba fett x female reader #female reader #reader insert #reader insert fanfiction

[warrioreowynofrohan]

Today in Tolkien - March 15th

Today is the Battle of the Pelennor Fields, and it’s hard to know what to say about it because all the events are already so well-known to readers of The Lord of the Rings. But I’m going to try to situate things more clearly in time, because one of the things I noticed on this read is how fast everything happens - when Aragorn arrives it is still only mid-morning.

It should also be noted that the Battle of the Pelennor Fields is not the only battle of the day: Thranduil and the elves of Mirkwood defeat the forces of Dol Guldur in the Battle under the Trees, and Lothlórien repels the second assault by enemy forces.

Pre-Dawn

In the night, Frodo and Sam gather gear and food and make their escape from the Tower of Cirith Ungol. Their escape from the main gate produces a cry from the Watchers, and a Nazgûl dives down in response, but they are not spotted by it and escape down the road, then jump off a bridge of stone into thorn-bushes. They rest a while and then move northwards alone a ravine; they are in the Morgai, the foothills of the mountains of Mordor.

Aragorn with the ships of the Corsairs comes near the city:

“At midnight hope was indeed born anew. Sea-crafty men of the Ethir gazing southward spoke of a change coming with a fresh wind from the Sea. Long ere day the masted ships hoisted sail, and our speed grew, until dawn whitened the foam at our prows.”

The assault on the main gate of Minas Tirith begins:

Far behind the battle the River had been swiftly bridged, and all day more force and gear of war had poured across. Now at last in the middle night the assault was loosed. The vanguard passed theough the trenches of fire by many devious paths that had been left between them. On they came, reckless of their loss as they approached, still bunched and herded, within the range of bowmen on the wall. But indeed there were too few now left there to do them great damage, though the lught of the fires showed up many a mark for archers of such skill as Gondor pnce had boasted. Then perceiving that the valour of the City was already beaten down, the hidden Captain put forth his strength. Slowly the great siege-towers built in Osgiliath rolled forward through the dark.

At the same time, the news that the first circle of the city is burning and men have abandoned the walls is the final straw that drives Denethor fully to despair, and produces his choice to burn both himself and Faramir to death. Pippin follows him to the tombs of the stewrads and kings, and when Denethor gives the orders for the pyre Pippin at last understands what he intends. He first tells one of the servants on guard to move slowly and not bring fire, then tells Beregond what is going on, and then runs to find Gandalf. He has to run a long ways, since the Silent Street is in the sixth circle and Gandalf is at the Great Gate in the first circle. And as he arrives the gates of the city are broken.

In rode the Lord of the Nazgûl. A great black shape against the fires beyond he loomed up, griwn to a vast menace of despair. In rode the Lord of the Nazgûl, under the archway that no enemy ever yet had passed, and all fled before his face.

All save one. There waiting, silent and still in the space before the Gate, sat Gandalf upon Shadowfax: Shadowfax who alone among the free horses of the earth endured the terror, unmoving, steadfast as a graven image in Rath Dînen.

“You cannot enter here,” said Gandalf, and the huge shadow halted. “Go back to the abyss prepared for you! Go back! Fall into the nothingness that awaits you and your Master. Go!”

The Black Rider flung back his hood, and behold! he had a kingly crown; and yet upon no head visible was it set. The red fires shone between it and the mantled shoulders vast and dark. From a mouth unseen there came a deadly laughter.

“Old fool!” he said. “Old fool! This is my hour. Do you not know Death when you see it? Die now and curse in vain!” And with that he lifted high his sword and flames ran down the blade.

Gandalf did not move. And in that very moment, away behind in some courtyard of the City, a cock crowed. Shrill and clear he crowed, recking nothing of wizardry or war, welcoming only the morning that in the sky far above the shadows of war was coming with the dawn.

And as if in answer there came from far away another note. Horns, horns, horns. In dark Mindolluin’s sides they dimly echoed. Great horns of the North wildly blowing. Rohan had come at last.

This whole passage is exceptional, but I have to draw attention to that third-last line, heralding the coming of the Rohirrim with the same alliteration (“In dark Mindolluin’s sides they dimly echoed.”) that is characteristic of their poetry. This is Tolkien at the height of his craft.

Dawn

The Rohirrim ride from the forest to the city during the night. The arrangement of the battlefield is as follows: first the out-wall of the Pelennor, the Rammas Echor, with breaches in it from the army of Mordor’s attack; then enemy armies; trenches of fire around the city, with gaps in them for siege engines; more enemy armies; and then the city wall. The Rammas Echor is largely unguarded, its forces having been drawn off for the attack on the city. (The Rammas Echor here is still about 3 leagues, or 9 miles, from the city.)

The Rohirrim, split into three groups for easier mobility, pass the Rammas Echor, and hear the ram break the gates of the city, and at that moment they blow their horns and charge.

Morning came, morning and a wind from the sea; and darkness was removed, and the hosts of Mordor wailed, and terror took them, and they fled, and died, and hooves of wrath rode over them. And then all the host of Rohan burst into song, and they sang as they slew, for the joy of battle was on them, and the sound of their singing that was fair and terrible came even to the City.

Frodo and Sam also see the darkness break:

Away to their left, southward, against a sky that was turning grey, the peaks and high ridges of the great range began to appear dark and black, visible shapes. Light was growing behind them. Slowly it crept toward the North. There was battle far above in the high spaces of the air. The billowing clouds of Mordor were being driven back, their edges tattering as a wind out of the living world came and swept the fumes and smokes towards the dark land of their home. Under the lifting skirts of the dreary canopy dim light leaked into Mordor like pale morning through thr grimed windows of a prison.

“Look at it, Mr Frodo!” said Sam. “Look at it! The wind’s changed. Something’s happening. He’s not having it all his own way. His darkness is breaking up out in the world there. I wish I could see what is going on!”

Morning

It would be far too long to describe in detail all the events of the morning - Théoden’s victories and death, Eowyn slaying the Witch-king, the battles against the mûmakil, and the arrival (still at mid-morning - about 9am, “the third hour of the morning” as Gimli later tells it) of Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, the Dúnedain, and the men of South Gondor in the ships of the Corsairs, suddenly displaying the standard of the King of Gondor to the dismay of their foes.

Pippin brings Gandalf to the tombs of the kings, and Denethor burns, and Faramir is saved. All this happens rapidly too; it is all over by the time they hear the death-cry of the Lord of the Nazgûl. Pippin find Merry and brings him to the Houses of Healing, and Eowyn too is brought there, and Faramir is there already.

Frodo and Sam follow an orc-path northward from the ravine, and almost-miraculously find water.

Afternoon

The afternoon is much more briefly told than the morning. The Battle of the Pelennor Fields continues until sunset, while Gandalf waits with the patients at the Houses of Healing. Frodo and Sam move east through the Morgai, and then rest and eat.

Evening

Gandalf bring Aragorn to the Houses of Healing, where Aragorn heals Faramir, Eowyn, and Merry. And then through the night he goes to the houses throughout Minas Tirith where there are wounded people, and heals them, as do Elladan and Elrohir.

Frodo sleeps, and Sam keeps watch for a time.

Far above the Ephel Dúath in the West the night-sky was still dim and pale. There, peeping among the cloud-wrack above a dark tor high up in the mountains, Sam saw a white star twinkle for a while. The beauty of it smote his heart, as he looked up out of the forsaken land, and hope returned to him. For like a shaft, clear and cold, the thought pierced him that in the end the Shadow was only a small and passing thing: there was light and high beauty for ever beyond its reach. His song in the Tower had been defiance rather than hope; for then he was thinking of himself. Now, for a moment, his own fate, and even his master’s, ceased to trouble him. He crawled back into the brambles and laid himself by Frodo’s side , and putting away all fear he cast himself into a deep untroubled sleep.

#tolkien #the lord of the rings #today in tolkien #denethor #pippin took #gandalf #theoden #eowyn #meriadoc brandybuck #frodo baggins #sam gamgee #aragorn #faramir

[the-river-person]

Worldbuilding Tangent Part 2

First bit here. Now I wanna talk about the Forest and Snowdin Town. Obviously the name is a pun based on Snowed in. But why is there snow there? They’re underground. It shouldn’t work like that. This one is gonna be a bit long because I’m prone to rambling, but I had fun... so yeah. (Also, a reminder that these are my own observations and analysis of the Game’s text and that despite my obsessive researching of caves and such, as well as my attention to textual evidence, it is still only my interpretation of how this area MIGHT work if we attempt to apply real world systems to a video game world that was almost certainly not made with reality in mind. It’s also possible that I misunderstood or don’t know enough about the trees or natural systems described and that things couldn’t work that way without some kind of magic, whether that of the Monsters or some natural source of it.) I’ve heard some theories about snow falling through openings in the mountain above them, and while I do think such openings exist, they aren’t likely to be the direct cause of the snow. This is because snow falling through them would need to be in single spots or piles directly beneath the hole and not evenly spread out like a winter wonderland. A second bit of evidence for this is that when we go to fight Papyrus, or in fact pass through that exact spot even later in the game, we are subjected to a fade out screen with a snowy pattern, which is implied to be a snowstorm of some kind. So some kind of weather exists here Underground. This lets us know that the specific cave Snowdin sits in is big enough to have its own weather system which gives everything a fairly even level of snow, freezes ponds into patches of ice, and coats the pines of the forest with a dusty white. When you first exit the ruins and have the purple stone wall behind you, there appears to be a thick forest of trees on on both sides, the right side appearing to be a drop off until you pass trees that go between screen and controllable character, indicating that this side has the same trees as the opposite side of the path. The trees of this part of the forest have no hint of green leaves or needles on them, which might suggest that they be high up on the tree itself. After some research on trees that could survive very cold temperatures and were fairly hardy but still seemed to match the image I see on screen, I’m guessing that these are either a fictional species of conifer, or they are White Spruce Trees which have lost their lower branches as their upper branches grew thicker to catch any sunlight streaming from holes and openings in cave ceiling. It is possible that these trees might be petrified and very old, but its unlikely as we see ordinary pines growing elsewhere in the Forest. There has to be natural openings for light enter into the Underground which are not enough for someone to see stars through, yet are big enough or plentiful enough that light for the forest to survive is possible. Due to the river we see in this part of the forest there is plenty of water for the trees to survive. Since there is no tree in the world that can survive a permanent winter, and no new trees can grow without some kind of melting of snow and ice, we are left with a few options. Either the trees are very old, which is possible since the average age of White Spruce is 250-350 years but trees up to 1,000 years have been found, or Snowdin Forest area has some kind of seasonal cycle with a very short warm season and a long cold season. However there are some problems with the idea of a cycling season. We know in the books of Snowdin Library this passage is found, “Fearing the humans no longer, we moved out of our old city, HOME. We braved harsh cold, damp swampland, and searing heat... Until we reached what we now call our capital. “NEW HOME.”” By which we know that the different biomes of the Underground existed before the Monsters lived there and are not a result of their magic. And though none of the Monsters we’ve seen actually require a permanent cold environment to survive, there is no mention at all of a warm season. Even the name of the area and the town is Snowdin, indicating that the snow is probably perpetual. So our cave must be big enough to have a weather system yet cold enough to maintain snow and ice for a long time even with openings in the roof for a Taiga Biome forest to survive. Ice Caves are naturally occurring cave systems that reach cold enough temperatures to form Ice and Permafrost. Several factors can cause or contribute to the formation of Ice caves. Two relevant types of these are Evaporative Cooling and a Cold Trap. Because the trees we see had to have had a period without snow and ice in order to spread their seeds and begin to grow before the eternal Winter of Snowdin, we can probably guess that at one point this cave was quite warm. It had a significant amount of water, though it was unlikely to be as wet as Waterfall. It was also home to mountainous areas and vast lowland areas as well as mostly limited sunlight. The Cavern was big enough to contain a weather system of its own, allowing for rain and humidity. Since we know that to reach the entrance to Snowdin Forest in the game we have to go down the stairs in Toriel’s home, this puts the First section of the forest at the same level as the ruined city we saw a glimpse of earlier in the game. But this part of the forest is actually situated on what might be some sort of cliff or mountainous area. The game’s path leads across the flat peaks of the area, but allows you to see brief glimpses of vast valleys with forests made from a more Christmas Tree like tree than the ones we see immediately outside the door to the Ruins. We also see the river briefly at the very beginning, but not during the long period where we are traversing the peaks. When it reappears immediately behind Snowdin, which is indicated to be at the other end of the cave with the rock wall immediately on the other side of the river, its becomes likely that the river followed the wall of the cave all the way around and that the player went the opposite direction across the highlands. The valleys themselves are far lower than the peaks you traverse, which would put them lower than even the City of Home in the Ruins. If Frisk climbed the mountain and fell to the Ruins, and the level below those is Home and the Snowdin Highlands, then the Snowdin Valleys are probably well below the normal ground level of the Surface world outside the mountain. Some have suggested that like the bridge into Snowdin Town, the background of valleys might also be painted murals done by Papyrus or some other monster. Due to the moving sprites of the tiny house and its occupant as seen from the cliff next to the Mysterious Door, as well as the fact that the landscape moves differently than the rest of the setting as the player walks, it’s absolutely certain that it is a real landscape and not a painting. Returning to the Ice Cave idea we have sufficient moisture to begin Evaporative Cooling, which involves water being warm enough for evaporation and causing warm moist air to flow out exits of the cave and cold dry air of Winter to enter the cave. Its possible that some of the entrances are high on the mountain, only allowing cold air to enter, but since the cave is so vast there would need to be multiple sunlight allowing entrances in the ceiling, and they can’t all be in the highest snowy peaks but in various places on the mountain and in the foothills. Our water would have been warmed by the same processes that keep Waterfall from freezing over from Snowdin’s cold in the present day, the thermal forces of Ebbot’s Volcanic core. That and sunlight would have caused Evaporative Cooling to kick into gear. Normally Ice Caves caused by Evaporative Cooling have yearly cycles where the flow of air reverses and warm air is sucked into the cave instead of cool air. Which at one point was probably how the cave worked, allowing for the growth of trees that would flourish in the Taiga like conditions that would have begun to form. The larger trees of White Spruce and the smaller trees, which are probably Douglas Firs because some varieties are estimated to live at least to 500 years and well beyond 1,000 at most, would have been able to grow from seeds fallen into this area and possibly enough to seed more. But then something happened which stopped the process. The area grew just cold enough to form a Cold Trap. This operates on a lot of the same principles, with convection drawing cold winter air into the cave while any warm air is sucked outward. The difference is that due to the cold air in the cave being significantly colder than the air outside during all points of the year, the process doesn’t reverse but remains static during the Summer and continues drawing in cold air during Winter. But how did the cave get cold enough to start that process? It was likely that the volcanic activity of the Mountain was greater at that point and then as time went on the Magma either cooled or receded further from the area, letting the evaporation stop during the coldest part of the cycle, kicking off the Cold Trap. So by the time the Monsters arrived it was growing cold and most plant life in this part of the Underground was dead or hidden in smaller warmer caves. The river flowed too fast to be frozen solid, and the trees were able to survive but not put out new seeds because no new warm season ever came. It’s possible that the Snowdin Cavern will grow colder and colder as time goes on, or it might maintain its temperature. I’m not sure exactly as far as that goes. But I do know that unless something changes the perpetual winter in the area all the trees will eventually die and the Forest will probably just be a lot of dead frozen trees, or they’ll rot with a bit of moisture and come crashing down. There are areas here and there as you make your way through Snowdin Forest where we see only the tall trees with mostly barren lower trunks within the screen’s view and only blackness beyond them. Both before and after these sections we catch glimpses of the vast valleys and hills of the cave, which means that these patches are not cave wall, but areas of mountain top forest so thick that the light is being obscured. One theory might suggest that the trees are attempting to grow towards the openings in the cave ceiling to get as much light as possible, or that only the huge trees in the areas directly beneath the openings were able to survive, leaving the smaller Firs to take over the lower valleys and hills, which makes sense since that species needs much less light than the White Spruce trees. Now that I’ve established some plausible explanations (Hopefully) for how this cave might work, let’s take a quick look at how much space is being used. We know that the Town itself is on a cliff at the edge of the large cave. In fact its partially inside the cave that leads to Waterfall.We know this because the River, which joins up with us again behind the town, has a natural rock wall behind it, suggesting that the town is actually more enclosed than most of Snowdin’s peaks, even if it is connected to them by a bridge. Our peaks are probably gigantic groups of stalagmites formed who knows how long ago and flattened or broken at the tops somehow, allowing for forests to take seed on accumulating soil. (It is possible that they are Hornitos or some other type of volcanic formations from Ebbot’s volcanic activity, especially since areas of the Underground were almost certainly initially carved out by flowing magma and then altered as water and weather took their toll over time. But most volcanic based Speleothems are significantly more fragile than limestone and water based ones, so its possible, but not likely. Aside from the town and the single house we get to see in the valley, we see no signs that this area is being put to significant use. It’s not a matter of not enough Monsters, because we know that hundreds of them dwell in the Underground and that more and more are crowding to the city, mostly in hope that they’ll be free to escape to the surface soon. There are some monsters and animals living in the forests themselves, but for all the sheer size of Snowdin Caverns, it seems mostly empty. There could be instances out of sight where Monsters have made their homes. Small caves dug into the side of cliffs and plateaus could be made into perfect little houses, and groups of houses, factories, or even greenhouse farms could be set up in areas the player can’t see in game. But it would all be conjecture as there is no in game evidence that this is so for the Snowdin Cavern.

#wow #this was very long #but it was fun #undertale #textual analysis #snowdin forest #snowdin woods #snowdin town #speleothems #mt ebbot #caves #caverns #winter trees #cold trap #ice cave #undertale theory #game theories #this isn't very organized cause i didn't have a plan #sorry if it doesn't make much sense

[satonthelotuspier]

This is for Day 6 of Xichengclipse and there is a disclaimer or two. Firstly, this is angst, with Major Character Death (but eventual happy ending).

Secondly, this is a little different to anything I've written for MDZS before. In this story I've gone with calling the character name of the legend they're associated with for the fic.

Wen Qing is Chang'e the moon goddess,

Lan Xichen is Yu Tu (the moon/jade rabbit - more below)

Jiang Cheng is Jiu Wei Hu (the nine-tailed fox - more below)

I did a little reading for this prompt and ended up cherrypicking some parts of various legends and mythology surrounding the nine tailed foxes, and Chang'e, and Yue Tu, her rabbit companion, and mashing them all up together with a big dose of my headcanon.

I read that Yue Tu 月兔 (Moon Rabbit) is also referred to as 玉兔 Yu Tu (Jade Rabbit) so of course our first jade LXC became Yu Tu for this fic.

The nine tailed foxes, 九尾狐, Jiu Wei Hu became JC's name as a fox demon. The legend of them achieving immortality at 1000 years old, being able to cure poison by eating their flesh, and their location, are all lifted from various writings on these little scamps, but the flowers Chang'e sends Yu Tu after are pure headcanon.

Nine Petals On A Flower Signify Pearls

A city suffers plague, and Chang'e sends her trusted companion Yu Tu to find a fabled flower of legend that can cure the incurable.

Yu Tu leaves the moon to search for the cure, but stumbles upon a nine-tailed fox, wounded by mortals after an attempt to capture him. Might the fox know the answer to where the flowers are located?

For day 6 of Xichengclipse, featuring LXC as the fabled moon rabbit and JC as a nine-tailed fox.

Chang’e came to see him that morning, bringing with her a sense of purpose, and her ever present sadness. She was known better on the earth below them as the moon goddess who had stolen the potion of immortality from Hou Yi, the hero archer.

In reality she had seen what a burden immortality was, and rescued her brother from having to live an eternity of struggling on alone, at the cost of her own suffering.

Yu Tu, the jade rabbit who had ascended to the moon with her, known as her ever-present companion, was aware she would have a definite reason for visiting, so he shifted to human form and made tea.

They sat in companionable silence for a little while, before Chang’e brought up the reason for her visit.

“I worry about a city below, Yu Tu, it appears they are undergoing pestilence. The healers do not seem to have any medicines that counteract the poisons brought by the plague.”

Her tone suggested she knew of a cure, so he kept his counsel, allowing her to continue at her own pace.

“When I was mortal, I heard tell of a legend, that many li north of Tianwu, there was a land of verdant hills. There was one where nine-petalled flowers grew amidst scattered jade and cinnabar, and bore pearls of whitest sheen, instead of seeds. These pearls could cure what could not be cured.”

Yu Tu understood her intent immediately.

“I will prepare to depart immediately, My Lady.” he rose, and bowed low to her.

“You are willing to chase a rumour and a legend, brought up from my imperfect memory of a time long ago, when I was a human?”

“My Lady seeks to heal, as ever. I will not fail you.”

“Thank you”

***

Within a short time Yu Tu had descended and was searching for the land of legend, where the pearl Chang’e had referred to was to be discovered.

He travelled north of Tianwu, and discovered a land of many hills. It was verdant, with the soft feel of early spring, where the world was waking up from its winter sleep again. He searched the hills, but found none where jade and cinnabar were scattered far and wide, in beds of white flowers. He wandered even further north, until he eventually came across a mountainside that was wreathed in mist. Making his way into the misted foothills he began to pass strewn jade, and red staining cinnabar and his excitement grew. There were no white flowers to be seen, however.

Yu Tu continued to walk up the hillside, hoping that the flowers were merely higher up, hidden in the mist-covering.

He was surprised at the sudden report of an animal in pain, it cried out, intermingled with rage and a feral warning. He drew Shuoyue, the sword Chang’e had gifted him with for his quests on earth, and approached the direction the noise had come from cautiously.

He soon found the source. A group of mortal humans held ropes that jerked and pulled about this way and that, and Yu Tu followed the length of them, to identify that they were attached to a Nine-tailed fox, they cut into his flesh, and he howled and hissed and spat at the men as they tried to subdue him, but he refused to give in.

“Try not to damage him, we should get good coin for him alive.”

Yu Tu didn’t need to hear anything further, he shot forward and sliced at the ropes with Shuoyue.

He had the element of surprise, and an armed opponent seemed to send a quiver of fear through the humans, who scattered before his sword, running without putting up much of a battle.

When he was sure they had fled, he turned to the fox, who had ripped the bindings free of his body, and rose to his full height, now in human form, violet eyes blazing with his anger and pain.

His tails, snow-white except where they were limned with violet at their very tips, swirled around him in an understandable mixture of fear and excitement. He was confronted with what was essentially a rabbit with a sword, and the predator in him reacted almost as strongly as the reasoning side that saw the danger, and understood that Yu Tu had saved him.

Yu Tu didn’t pay it too much attention, or it might have had a stronger hold on him, but there was a part of himself that panicked at the sight of a fox, all sharp, vulpine features and sharper teeth.

Whatever might have happened, didn’t, however, as the fox fell into a dead faint at his feet.

Yu Tu moved over, tentatively at first, in case it was merely a ploy to take him off guard, but he soon realised it was genuine. He quickly rolled the fox onto his back, and began to check his wounds. There were several deep cuts, and he had lost quite a lot of blood. He bandaged up the worst, with pieces torn from his robes, then lifted the other into his arms. He had to take them to somewhere enclosed, safer for the fox.

Some searching further up the mountainside revealed a cave which seemed to be where the fox made his den.

He lay him out on the nest that had been built in one corner of the cave, away from the drafts, and went to collect water from the stream nearby.

He spent a little time cleaning and bandaging up the rest of the fox’s wounds, then tenderly cleaning his sharply handsome face.

Handsome? Yu Tu examined that thought. Objectively yes, he was. Should a rabbit find a fox handsome? Perhaps not.

He ran a thumb gently over the other’s finely arched eyebrow, then over the sharp jut of his cheekbone.

He pulled his hand away, then rose to his feet.

Yu Tu considered his next move. He had done what he could for the fox, and he should get on with looking for what he had come for. Although, he had kept look out on his way to the den, and had seen no white flowers with pearls instead of seed pods.

He went to stand by the cave mouth.

He really should move on. Even if the cure wasn’t here, there had to be other hillsides where the flowers could be found.

He trusted Chang’e hadn’t been wrong about this, and he would find the cure. People’s lives were depending on it.

But he still couldn’t bring himself to step foot out of the fox’s den just yet.

He moved back to sit next to his nest. He couldn’t keep calling him just the fox, so he decided he would be Jiu Wei Hu as a name, and not just a creature.

***

It was the next day before Jiu Wei Hu awoke from his sleep. He immediately scented the rabbit in his territory, and tried to sit up.

Yu Tu made a soothing noise, and pinned him down with a gentle hand at his shoulder.

“Be still, or you will pull open your wounds,” he advised calmly, and those violet, fox-eyes found his amber coloured ones.

“You saved me,” his voice was low, deep, and rough, as if it wasn’t used often.

“I did, and helped heal you, you still need to aid it with rest, though.”

The muscles beneath his hand relaxed.

“Why?”

“Why not? If I see humans planning to sell a creature for profit, should I not help? And I am a healer, how could I not heal your injuries?”

Jiu Wei Hu considered his words, and seemed to find them sensible; he nodded.

“Thank you.”

Silence.

Then; “What brings you here, immortal moon rabbit?”

Yu Tu watched him carefully. How had he known? Was he in danger?

“I am nearly a thousand years old, yet I know of only one rabbit healer who can become human and move around in the world of mortals.”

At his words Yu Tu tensed. He was nearly a thousand years old? Were the legends of what happened to a nine-tailed fox in his thousandth year true?

There was an amused laugh rumble in Jiu Wei Hu’s chest.

“You are quite easy to read, Yu Tu. To answer your question, I am the only nine tailed fox left here, so I cannot know for sure. But I shall soon find out, thanks to you. I shall enter my thousandth year in three days. Perhaps I will ascend and become a celestial fox. Perhaps I will stay here and be a very old fox demon.” There was a burning excitement in his eyes. Despite he words he genuinely did believe his destiny was to ascend the heavens as a celestial.

“Before I do, if I do, how would you have me help you, in return for saving my life?” Jiu Wei Hu asked.

Yu Tu should perhaps be cautious, a nine-tailed fox demon was a likely to bamboozle as help, their nature was cunning and sly and mercurial.

He wanted to believe the other was genuine, however.

“Chang’e talked of a white flower, with nine petals, that bloomed and bore pearls instead of seed pods. These gems are meant to cure the incurable. I came in search of them, to stop a plague. So far I’ve seen no sign of anything of the kind. Perhaps you know of what she speaks, living in this place?”

There was a sudden, barking laugh come from the other, and though it seems to aggravate his wounds he laughed for quite a while, as if unable to stop. Then he sat up, despite Yu Tu’s warnings, and changed back into his fox form.

He was pure white, and sleek, with nine fine, bushy tails weaving in the air behind him.

Yu Tu was a little confused at first, but realisation dawned, and his heart sank.

Jiu Wei Hu returned to his human form, with a rueful look on his face.

“I am the flower you are looking for, Yu Tu. A taste of my flesh is said to cure poison,” Jiu Wei Hu watched Yu Tu carefully then, consideringly. “Are you still willing to help and heal me knowing this?”

Although he was bitterly disappointed in his failure, of course he was. Jiu Wei Hu was a living thing, deserving of his healing skills too.

“Of course,” he answered, instantly and firmly.

Jiu Wei Hu watched him for a while longer, before seeming to accept his words. He settled back into his nest.

His patient woke frequently throughout the night, and Yu Tu stayed by his side. They talked when he did. The fox was quite thorny and kept much close to his chest, but listened carefully when Yu Tu spoke of his duties as a healer, his life with Chang’e, and the same before he had ascended to the moon with her.

He did speak briefly on his past, but never in detail; he was a proud, haughty fox, who had a wicked sense of humour, and a lightning fast temper, as Yu Tu discovered.

As the night progressed, Yu Tu began to think more and more on the subject of the other becoming a celestial fox, and secretly he began to hope the legend was true. Should the other ascend, there would be opportunity to spend time together, to get to know each other.

Even if the legend wasn’t true, he could prostrate himself and beg some of her elixir of immortality from Chang’e. Having the other as a companion to spend eternity with; well it wouldn’t be dull.

He would tell the other tomorrow, and they could return to Chang’e and let her know the pearls didn’t exist, and try to work on another cure.

He was drifting on the edge of sleep just before dawn, when the sudden sound at the mouth of the cave made him jerk awake. He reached for Shuoyue, but it was too late, and he felt the demon binding ropes the humans had used on Jiu Wei Hu tighten around his neck and wrists. Why had he not expected them not to track him to the fox’s den? He was likely about to pay for his stupidity with his freedom.

There was a sudden, explosive growl from the nest, as Jiu Wei Hu awoke, and slipped out of the ropes beginning to close around him. He leaped forward, claws and fangs flashing in the meagre light filtering in from outside.

“You will not touch him,” he snarled, and tore through the group of slavers. He was deadly and beautiful, vicious and unforgiving, and soon the cave was strewn with bodies and blood.

He turned to look at Yu Tu, “Are you hurt?” his chest heaved, and he started forward, then checked himself as he realised he was covered in gore and blood.

Yu Tu saw the movement too late to warn, and the sudden appearance of the end of a sword through the front of Jiu Wei Hu’s chest made him cry out in horror. Yu Tu ragged himself free of the ropes, and shot forward, beheading the leader, who had kept himself hidden, in a single sweep of Shuoyue.

He dropped his sword, then caught Jiu Wei Hu as he fell forward.

Yu Tu wrapped his arms around his shoulders, holding him in his lap.

He hated that he was a healer and he knew there was nothing he could do to save him against that wound.

Jiu Wei Hu looked up at him, a rueful expression in his violet eyes again, “I suppose we won’t find out if the legends of the nine-tailed foxes were true.”

“Please…” he didn’t know what he begged for, the other not to make light of it? Not to die? Not to leave him when he had only just found him? He cupped that sharply angled face in a hand, “I wanted you to stay with me. Why did you sacrifice yourself for me?”

A soft expression passed across the fox’s face. “Because Chang’e needs you, you told me so yourself. Maybe you’ll meet me again in my next life.” He coughed, and it was full of blood, “Use my essence to cure the city of plague, you may as well accomplish what you came here for.”

The words broke the dam and he felt a tear escape the corner of his eye and roll down his face. It dropped onto the other’s lashes and held there as they drifted close. They didn’t open again.

He wasn’t sure for how long he sat on the cave floor, numb, holding on to Jiu Wei Hu’s body, but he knew eventually he had to offer some form of funerary rites. No matter what the fox had offered, he couldn’t bear the thought of using his flesh for any reason.

He lowered Jiu Wei Hu’s head carefully to the cave floor, and went in search of something he might dig a grave with. When he returned, there was no sign of the fox’s body. There was half a minute when he was prepared to scream and rage his agony at someone daring to steal it, when he noticed the small, white pearl nestled on the ground.

The legend Chang’e had heard hadn’t been entirely wrong, after all, the nine-petalled flower had just been of a particularly thorny genus.

He lifted the pearl up, gently, reverently. He wasn’t sure whether he could bear to allow the use of this pearl anymore than he could have Jiu Wei Hu’s body. But perhaps he might reconcile himself to the fact as he made his way back to Chang’e’s side.

***

Present Day

Chang’e came to see him that morning. She carried a small vial of elixir and placed it on the table next to the tea cups.

“You felt his soul stirring, then?”

Yu Tu nodded. He intended to descend and search for his Jiu Wei Hu. He wasn’t entirely sure how he would find one mortal in a sea of them, but he would search forever, if he had to. He had already waited this long.

“Thank you, Chang’e,” he said as he picked the elixir up and tucked it into his sleeve.

“It’s the least I can offer as thanks for what your Jiu Wei Hu sacrificed,” she said simply, and they finished their tea in companionable silence.

***

Yu Tu didn’t expect to stumble upon Jiu Wei Hu instantly, not in a city of millions. He wasn’t too discouraged, therefore, after several hours of searching turned up nothing. He had a strong impression the fox’s soul was in the general area, so he would concentrate himself here. In the meantime he needed to take a break and study the map for large gathering areas where he might find the other.

He stopped at a tea house, and ordered tea and his favoured mooncakes, spreading his map on the table as he waited for his order, to study.

There was a museum nearby, and a university campus. They were good places to start, where people came and went.

He looked up as the waiter brought over a tray with his order, and jerked out a hand automatically, his heart stopping dead in his chest. His movement had accidentally knocked the tray out of the waiters hands, and everything went smashing to the floor, drawing the attention of the entire patronage of the teahouse.

“I’m so incredibly sorry.” Yu Tu said carefully, and the young man looked at him with his fiery brown eyes, a flash of irritation crossing his sharply fox-like face. He quickly tamped it down though and settled it into something closer to a rueful smile. Yu Tu’s stomach dropped in reaction. He had seen that expression on that face so many times that night in the cave.

“It’s fine. Please be careful while I clear this up, sir, or you might cut yourself.” The young man, Jiang Cheng according to the tag on his uniform shirt, said, and he bent to begin picking up the shards of pottery and smashed mooncakes, and placing them on the tray. Yu Tu got up and bent to help.

“You don’t need to, sir, leave it to me.” There was a slight touch of exasperation in his voice, and Yu Tu smiled widely, this reincarnation of Jiu Wei Hu’s soul kept all the other’s irritability.

Jiang Cheng looked at him like he was a lunatic, which, considering he had virtually knocked the tray out of his hands, and now grinned like a fool, wasn’t unexpected.

“Are you feeling alright, sir?” Jiang Cheng asked, doubt in his voice.

“I’m feeling wonderful, thank you.”

Honestly so-so about the execution. The idea probably deserved more words than I wrote it as.

#xichengclipse2020 #xicheng #lan xichen #jiang cheng #wen qing #mdzs fanfic #mdzs #the untamed fanfic #the untamed #alternative AU #Mythology #Chinese folklore & legends #major character death #angst #eventual happy ending #mo dao zu shi #mo dao zu shi fanfic #Shay's stuff #blood

[aaannmariee]

Baguio City: The happy place I want to visit, You should too!

When I was a child, I always hear the word Baguio from my parents and relatives. It is just funny to think that I used to think that Baguio was a typhoon, in tagalog 'bagyo'. I always hear from my mother and relatives using this dialect that I don't understand. Growing up, I always asked about Baguio and I found out that it was my mother's place. And my mom's dialect she always uses when talking to our relatives is called Ilocano. I came to think that I want to see the place where my mama grew up, and because of the good comments I have heard about Baguio, how beautiful it is, how refreshing and cool the air, and how simple their lives were. Baguio, also known as the Summer Capital of the Philippines. Established in around 1846 by the early spanish colonizers of the pine-covered highlands of the Benguet Province. As time passes by, Baguio was discovered and became the eight ancient wonder in the world.

After this pandemic, our whole family plans to visit and travel around Luzon, my Mom’s place and especially the summer capital. Baguio, on the Philippines’ Luzon island, is a mountain town of universities and resorts. Also called the “City of Pines,” it is particularly popular in summer due to unusually cooler weather. At its center is Burnham Park, with gardens and a lake. Nearby, Baguio Cathedral, completed in 1936, has a rose-hued exterior. The main thoroughfare is Session Road, lined with shops, restaurants and entertainment options.

Burnham Park is the place where people visit more. You can ride a bike, take a boat ride, or just walk around the park and enjoy the breathtaking place. It always feels like it is your first time whenever you visit it again and again. I remember my Mom and Sister’s voice reminiscing experiences there by even writing this. Oh, how excited I am for those bike and boat rides!

After spending time seeing the place, you will definitely be hungry and get something to eat especially in its cold weather, right? right!

The restaurants there have delicious foods that you will never forget. One of the most popular dishes is the bulalo steak sage, that warms your stomach in cold weather, it is very delicious! Here is the list of the 8 must-try bites and sips that are distinctly Baguio; Baguio Longganisa, Dipasupil, Strawberry Shortcake, Vizco's. Ube Jam, Strawberry Jam & Peanut Brittle, Good Shepherd, Raisin Bread, Baguio Country Club, Hot Chocolate, Choco-Late de Batirol, and Message In A Bottle, Baguio Craft Brewery.

Let's try the desserts!

"Great snacks while waiting for the bus.", "I just love these belgian waffles!" you can really tell how delicious it is! Well, Belgian waffles are ranked no. 4 out of 6 famous bakeries in Baguio. The highly recommended dessert shop in Baguio is the "Pamana lechon tsokolateria cafe", a chocolate shop located in Igorot Stairs, upper Rd. Actually you can just walk and not ride anymore because the cafe is just near the park.

Woh! I was suddenly hungry again hehe. Okay, let's move on!

I am pretty sure that you always hear the word 'Igorot', I am one of those called Igorot when in fact I am part of one of the various tribes which is Ifugao nevertheless say since people have kept on generalizing . Sometimes, people make fun of using this word and even use it to tease people who are dark, ignorant or just for stupid reasons. But in reality they just don't have any idea how wealthy they are in terms of money and of course in culture. I think the world has no idea on how they look right now, I don't know with you but do I look like someone you imagine a Igorot would look? Check my account and my whole "angkan" or clan's account (email me if you disagree,winks). Not much of the people and Filipinos know but this tribe have contributed so much in the country's overall food supply, like you know where does much of the "gulay" (vegetable) comes from. Igorots have massively influenced the Philippine's Agriculture. Though, true enough not all of those who farm are greatly blessed as much as the overall farmers but here in the Philippines as we know, most of the looked down poorest are such.

The Igorot are any of various ethnic groups in the mountains of northern Luzon, Philippines, all of whom keep, or have kept until recently, their traditional religion and way of life. Some live in the tropical forests of the foothills, but most live in rugged grassland and pine forest zones higher up. They are clustered in the Cordillera region of Luzon. It is true that they are famous for rice-terrace farming but saying that some of them have been known to be cannibals in the past is an exaggeration which only downgrades them. While the rice terraces were important to the Ifugao economy, they also served a cultural function, requiring intensive cooperation among the people. By the early 21st century, however, the number of Ifugao in the area had greatly diminished as many migrated to more urban centres. Meanwhile, Ifugao is a province in the Philippines situated in the Cordillera Administrative Region., which I have mentioned earlier we are part of or where my Mom is originally from.

But it would be great to give some amazing facts about igorots:

1.) The first ever Filipino to ride an airplane is an igorot - In february 1912, during a manila carnival celebration, Governor Walter Hare invited 120 tribes men from the cordilleras. One of the tribe's men named Gagaban who is an igorot chief accepted the American pilot Lee Hammond's invitation to fly with him. Before Gagaban, no other native had ever flown as a passenger.

2.) The first ever igorot beauty queen that captured the heart of manila - At just age 13, Eveline Chainus Guirey was the most famous beauty who cost a massive sensation in Manila in 1902. She was the eldest of the ten children of the Guirey family. She was the youngest beauty ever in the history of Philippines Manila carnival.

3.) The Igorots were never slaves by the spaniards because they fought for their independence - Contrary to the history textbooks that are commonly used in schools in the country which are stating , "We can never know the history of the FIlipino people during the Spanish period because they were slaves to the Spaniards or at least forced to play the role of slaves." The Igorots were never actually slaves of the Spaniard nor did they play the role of slaves. On the contrary of these books, Spanish records make it clear that they fought for their independence with every means at their disposal for 3 centuries and that resistance to invasion was deliberate, self-conscious and was continuous.

Additional Trivia would be that originally slash-and-burn farmers, they have since begun to practice more sustainable forms of farming. The Isneg are also known as good fishers, and have a penchant for coffee. Kalinga. The Kalinga tribes are perhaps the most diplomatic of all the Igorot.

Strawberry picking completes Baguio tourist’s experience!

LA TRINIDAD, Benguet-- This capital town of Benguet not only receives a spillover of the tourists who go to Baguio but also a visit here completes the experience of the visitors to the country’s summer capital, through its strawberry picking activity. Strawberries in Baguio are the best. Let us not forget strawberry picking!

What is your happy place? Where is that certain place you can consider as your epitome of tranquility? Well for me that would be family and that makes me want to make Baguio one of those I can call my wonderland. A place where I can also take not just a lot of instagramable pictures to post or put on my day stories but memories stored in my heart that I could share with my future children (forgive my futuristic approach,laughs). Memorabilias that I could gather with my family, Oh how wonderful it is to be able to witness and experience such culture and sights that have not just cultivated a lot of inspiration not just around the country but the entire world. Just imagine that historic park that couldn’t even be compared to the famous parks in other countries or how about that luscious strawberries that you can pick on your own. I don’t know about you but one thing this pandemic has made me realize is to live to the fullest, it would be great that we could go back and see the world or visit some of its God given majestic place nevertheless it would be greater to be able to see your own country’s tourist destination. I mean, we can not be just a tourist to other countries, right? Let us go ahead and visit to experience our very own. My very own, Baguio! Voila!

#@queenlupitajones #creativenonfiction

[chrysalispen]

Prompt #18 - Panglossian

AO3 Link HERE

=====

The Yard of Saints was what people now called the high and lonely promontory that guarded the pass between old Ishgard and the crystalline wastes of Mor Dhona.

It once had another name, or so Biggs' father had once said, but most folk had long since forgotten it. The few souls who braved the Coerthan wilds, grown even colder and more inhospitable in the face of the Eighth Calamity, came no closer to the Yard than the ruins of old Dragonhead, and it was in the old camp that a man in patchwork armor -- some soul from a nearby settlement volunteering for the watch -- had watched him gearing up to head into the foothills with a squint and a cynical smile.

"Sure you ain't goin' up there alone, engineer?" the man asked. Biggs shrugged.

"I'm thinkin' there ain't much in these hills nowadays to kill a man," he said. "Other than the blizzards."

"You'd be thinkin' wrong. Even if there weren't wild aevis up there-- You ain't heard about him, I guess."

"Maybe. Who's 'him'?"

The man spat to one side and threw a piece of kindling onto the struggling campfire. "The chief says it's naught but old folk tales, but there's rumored to be a skinchanger who stalks them ruins up on the point. A giant that protects the Yard from intruders, or so the old folks' tales say."

Biggs knew the story. The Ironworks had not a few legends of their own passed down about the company's founders. Among them was a tale in which Cid Garlond and Nero tol Scaeva had been attacked by a pack of slavering beastkin while undertaking a mission in Coerthas, and would have died if not for the interference of a mysterious samurai. The story itself was constant enough that Biggs felt some of it must be true, though he rather doubted the descriptions of the founding fathers' timely saviour: those details seemed to be embellished with each telling.

Aloud he said, "There's plenty of folk tales about the land, aren't there?"

"Not many who've faced the blade of the Guardian and lived to tell the tale." The man coughed, fished around in his belt pouch, and produced a pipe which he began to tamp with moko leaf. "S'pose it's your funeral anyroad, mate."

He had, admittedly, almost turned back halfway up the slope. The ruins on the promontory had been ruins even in the Warrior's day, so it was said, and they were even more hazardous in the aftermath of the calamity: the aevis up here would eat anything, even each other, and it was as much as a man's life was worth to get caught up here after dark, especially with the snow that almost constantly fell in Coerthas.

Well, he'd made a promise. He'd spend the night in the mausoleum if it came to that.

His feet crunched through hard-pack and grit; it was cold up here, much colder than Mor Dhona even in the dead of winter. Biggs shivered, tugging his worn scarf tighter about his cheeks and jaw, and leaned upon his walking-stick as he continued the ascent. The gunblade he carried on his back was surely covered in ice by now, the trigger frozen solid. He tried not to think about that as the sun began to sink beneath the outline of the peaks.

The brittle and over-bright sunlight turned orange, the shadows slanting deeper across the snow, and he knew he would not be able to finish his business and return to camp before night fell. Every small sound, no matter how insignificant, wore its warning into his limbs. The road was silent - or, he fancied, save for his footsteps, which every predator in Coerthas was like to hear as loud as they seemed in his ears. He forced himself to set his fear aside even as his mission took on an almost talismanic importance.

Press on, he told himself. It's not far. Press on. But the engineer's certainty that he was being watched- stalked- only grew, seemingly in proportion to his fatigue. Every minute seemed an hour, and he became quite certain that the man in the camp had been correct and he was walking to his death.

Thus he was not at all surprised when the enormous purple aevis appeared from behind the remains of an ancient stone wall with a grinding snarl that set his knees to trembling. Its jowls dripped with saliva and levinbolts gathered at its wing-tips, ready to fire. The three that he knew had been following him since he set foot in their territory had fanned out to cover his flanks, preventing any means of their prey's escape.

Mouth suddenly as dry as a cotton boll, Biggs slowly reached for the hilt of the antique gunblade he'd taken along, a gunblade that had once belonged to Nero tol Scaeva and more a visual deterrent these days than a proper weapon, waiting for one of them to break his guard and spill his innards to the snow with a single rake of its wicked-looking curved claws-

-and the keen whistle of steel cut through the air. The severed head fell to the snow with a dull thud and the rest of its body followed, limbs still twitching.

Its two companions attempted a pincer attack, claws flexing as they spewed flame- but it availed them nothing; their unseen assailant struck again and the creatures collapsed alongside their fellow. The snow before the crumbled outbuildings of the ruin was no longer blinding and pure white, but deep crimson and rusting brown. The pack leader bared its teeth in a threatening snarl, but it folded its wings and cringed in supplication as the swordsman took a step forward into the diminishing light of dusk: a great hulk of a man, taller even than Biggs himself.

"Pathetic," sighed a voice that was to his ears like gravel grinding beneath the heel of a boot. "I have no desire to toy with you, beast. Away."

The aevis fled.

Biggs could not make out the face in the dark, only a pair of eyes like chips of ice and a long mane of hair. The hand, snugly wrapped in layers of leather and cloth, rested upon the hilt of a long and curved blade whose like he had never seen before. He had the strangest feeling that he had not so much been rescued from certain death as he had simply watched one small pack of predators fall prey to a much more dangerous animal.

"And you," said the swordsman. "What do you here?"

Throat so constricted that he barely trusted himself to speak, he held his parcel skyward.

"I go to the Yard," he said hoarsely. "A gift, for the Warrior."

After a long and tense moment, the hand that lay ready to draw its weapon fell away.

"Go, then," spoke its owner. "The aevis will not give chase so long as the scent of fresh blood remains in the air."

"Thank---"

"Do not thank me. I do this for her," the giant said. Biggs could see nothing of the face, only the motion of hair flowing like the river under ice as the chin lowered. "Go do what you came to do and leave this place- before I decide a savage makes better sport than dragons."

He didn't need to be told twice. The gunblade remained untouched, its weight seemed to drag at his ankles as he all but scurried his way up the hill.

~*~

The Warrior's final resting place - an Ishgardian-style mausoleum within which also rested one of the Ironworks' founders - sat at the center of the Yard. The tomb was a very different place from her enshrined monument in Idyllshire; the latter was covered in detritus year-round, mostly the various hand-painted wooden icons with a likeness of her face. The Children of Light carried the pictures with them on their pilgrimages to the shrine, where they'd light candles and hold a vigil to pray to the Warrior for luck and protection.

From all G'raha Tia had said of her, it was a safe bet to assume the Warrior of Light would have been sorely grieved to know that in the tenebrous days of the Eighth Umbral Era, she was the subject of worship. It wasn't his place to gainsay them, though. There was hardly enough ambient aether to perform basic tasks still let alone summon the Warrior as a primal. And so long as it brought no harm to the land, far be it from him to deprive folk of whatever means they had to hold onto hope in this blighted world.

The mausoleum itself was devoid of such trinkets, save a fresh bouquet of Dravanian spotted orchid. There were always fresh flowers atop her tomb whenever anyone came by to care for it. Neither he nor anyone else in the Ironworks knew who kept bringing them, and they had long ago resigned themselves to the fact that there were some mysteries they might never solve.

Biggs collapsed against cold stone and half-melted ice with a deep sigh, placed a handful of kindling on the floor, and struck a flint until the sparks took. Wind was already whistling around the edges of the structure and he was very sure there would be more snow overnight. Best to stay here until morning light and make his way down the mountain while the dragons slept.

He didn't realize he had dozed until he heard the grinding of the hinges on the heavy door. Startled to full wakefulness, the president of the Garlond Ironworks reached for the gunblade and turned to face the interloper, thinking one of the dragons had followed him after all.

The Guardian of the Yard stood in the doorway, staring at him with bleak and empty eyes. His hand fell away from the hilt, trembling slightly.

"I only mean to stay until dawn," Biggs said, his voice steady. "Give me until then. You can share my fire if you like."

The man said nothing, but crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. Now that Biggs could see more clearly, no longer half-panicked and powered by adrenaline, he could see a face that was far younger than he would have expected. Even more surprisingly, the man appeared to be of a Spoken race that had not existed in this part of the star for so long most thought them to have vanished entirely: the pearlescent curve of a third eye gleamed from beneath the curtain of wind-tossed blonde.

"You said the Warrior was your friend?"

Biggs regretted his words almost instantly, spoken more to make conversation than out of any real curiosity. He was quite sure somehow that the man might have taken a notion to kill him, from the feral darkness that shifted behind those eyes.

But a strange smile curved his lips.

"My enemy," he said. "But also my friend."

"You knew the Warrior of Light personally? But that would imply you were alive when- I mean, surely that's-"

The smile faded and Biggs was more certain than ever he stood a chance of dying at this man's hands. "A lesser creature like yourself knows nothing of what is possible, and what is not, for one such as myself. Or her. Do not presume to speak of it."

His heart hammered in his ears as silence fell, save the crackling of the fire. He fought the urge to wipe his clammy palms on his snow-damp breeches, awaiting that whistling sound which he knew would presage his final moments.

It never came. A soft sigh echoed through the corners of the tomb: the sound of a sated predator deciding the hart that shared its lair was no longer tantalizing enough to devour.

"I have sought her return longer than you have lived."

He is mad, Biggs thought. He must be mad. To hold onto hope in the face of all that has happened, for two centuries, that the Warrior herself might still live. Even Master Scaeva didn't think-

"...You believe that she lives? That she will come back to Eorzea?"

"Mortal death means very little to those with the means to transcend the physical." A feverish, almost manic light danced in the man's eyes, or perhaps it was merely the flickering of the firelight reflected upon marble. "What is the body but a mere vessel?"

Uncertain what to say, the engineer could only nod. The motion went unnoticed.

"Yes, my friend will return to me when the time is right," the swordsman said. That unsettling smile returned, soft and joyful and utterly insane, and it was then Biggs saw that this fell and terrible creature loved the Warrior of Light as much as the founding fathers had loved her- in his own twisted and destructive fashion. "And when she does, I will be waiting to receive her with open arms. Thus our dance will resume: as timeless and eternal as our very souls."

At this declarative - and ominous - statement, silence reigned over the mausoleum and its inhabitants, both living and dead, once more. Biggs was certain he would not be able to find the wherewithal to sleep that night, but sleep he did: lulled into dreams by the hypnotic flicker of the light and his own fatigue from the climb.

And when he awakened at dawn to place his gifts upon each grave -- silk flowers, fashioned into the likeness of the Althyk lavender the Warrior was said to have loved -- he saw that the fire had burned to embers, and he was alone.

#ffxivwrite2020 #prompt 18: panglossian #zenos x wol

[thinkingagain]

Muffin himself had learned some new tricks. The animals who visited the Demesne had given him much to imitate. He had never mastered elephant, but was good at hippo and had several times impressed everyone with whale.

Sir Sleepy of the Bunny Nest (A Novel of the Revolution) Book Three: The Be Attitudes Chapter 6

While Sir Sleepy of the Bunny Nest journeyed across the globe, returning to the Demesne only occasionally over several years, other changes were taking place on those warm, fertile grounds in the foothills of the Piedmont. For many Magic Animals, the Demesne had become a permanent home. Others came and went freely.

Muffin spent many nights guarding the Demesne Beast, who didn’t need much guarding anymore. Often Muffin tried to talk some other Demesne member into taking that duty, usually without luck. The Beast was pouting and sulky, still prone to fits of poetry-reciting, always moaning about its lack of love no matter how much care it received. Muffin required it to run around, jump over ropes, and chase balls. If its mood hadn’t greatly improved, at least it was more fit.

Muffin himself had learned some new tricks. The animals who visited the Demesne had given him much to imitate. He had never mastered elephant, but was good at hippo and had several times impressed everyone with whale. He had also kept up with the backcountry and urban wiliness that had been the basic source of his talents. Lately he had taken to finding, in the Piedmont Mountains, solitary hunting Beasts. None of them ever figured out how they lost their weapons.

Jack had always been a rabbit who liked to test himself. During and after his years in Los Angeles, where the weather was never chilly for more than a day or two, he had often gone up into the mountains for the winter and was still doing it in his first years at the Demesne. He liked the snow on his face, the way his fur would grow icy and brittle in a rain storm on the verge of freezing. He found warm spots out of the wind to sleep in, a small burrow beneath rocks, a thick patch of brush. He liked the aliveness, the risk, the way the weather scraped against his arms and legs. He watched other animals working hard to survive and thrive. They taught him things about his own survival and many new acting moves.

While Jack still regularly engaged with Beasts in Demesne-planned actions, he also came across Beasts on his solitary rambles. He’d see them working hard to get their Beast vehicles going in the cold to bring home provisions for themselves and their Beast families. Others enjoyed the atmosphere around them in ways not that different from Jack, testing their abilities in the cold. Sometimes Beasts strapped long flat pieces of metal under their feet and used them to slide fast down snowy mountainsides. It was called skiing. It seemed fun, although they often crashed while showing off.

The most recent winter, however, Jack hadn’t left the Demesne. It grew cold on the Demesne too, if not as severely as in some places. “Think maybe I won’t go out this winter,” he told any animal who asked. “I feel like taking it easy for a bit.” On the coldest nights at the Demesne, Jack would lie down in a pile of animals and warm himself against them. Sometimes he would even sit playfully on the head of the Demesne’s hapless Beast, or on its belly. He would push up against it for warmth, and nipped it only if it nipped at him. “It’s cold out there,” Jack was sometimes heard muttering.

Lucky Blue had spent his time mainly on the Demesne. He continued to coordinate efforts with and against Beast technology. Yet he still had the desire to travel. He slipped away from the Demesne when circumstances allowed and searched for different experiences of Beasts and their machines. He had grown to enjoy the more play-oriented Beast technologies. He had tried, for the first time, hang-gliding and windsurfing and the skiing that Jack had told him about. He had flown a kite (“silly, but fun”) and had jumped from an airplane and landed in a tree. He had ridden skateboards around Beast beach towns in summer, ocean winds blowing through his fur. He spent time at amusement parks and carnivals, sometimes sneaking into the latest high tech space rides, sometimes riding the old-fashioned Beast merry-go-rounds, where he would sit high on the Beast wooden imitation horses, sometimes for hours.

Leo continued to give many lectures and organized multiple discussion groups based on requests from other Magic Animals. He followed many ongoing Magic Animal conversations and kept close attention on developments in Beast intellectual culture. He spent many hours slipping in and out of Beast libraries, wearing shoes and jeans and a shirt and dark glasses and a baseball cap to cover his ears so that he couldn’t be distinguished from any large, sloppy Beast. With help from Lucky, he had used contemporary Beast media to order copies of necessary Beast reading. He also sat in on online Beast chat rooms. Still, contemplation stayed crucial for him. He never did too much of anything and still had many hours to ponder his many reflections.

The Madam, in breaks between Demesne actions, also found new work now that she was no longer endangered by the Commandant. She had explored whether there other humans like herself. She had found some who could experience animal awareness and who would benefit from learning more about who they were. It seemed like she could identify, in early stages, people like the Commandant who might become overwhelmed with apparently secret and powerful knowledge. People like that needed to recognize that they weren’t the only person who had unique awareness. They could have friends and live a worthwhile life and avoid falling into paranoid delusions about their grandeur.

Ling Ling and Olivia, friends before Olivia had disappeared, had become close again. Ling Ling would go down to the Demesne Lake in the morning. The two of them, panda and grey whale, would debate, hotly, which was more likely to be kicked out of the Demesne. They had also begun singing together. Ling Ling kept suggesting that they record a few songs then would get embarrassed and say that she would never record. Olivia laughed along with all of Ling Ling’s games. She liked especially the one in which Ling Ling would drag the Demesne’s hapless Beast down to the lake and demand that it stop delaying and finally kick them out. “I’ll be the one left in the cold,” Ling Ling would say; “No,” Olivia would counter, “that’ll be me.” When they felt refreshed by the game, they went back to saving animals of all kinds.

Green Bear and Basil the frog, who had long been travelers, found the technology systems of the Demesne greatly useful and had happily given up roaming. After early mornings, relaxing outside, they would hack whatever needed to be hacked until lunchtime. Then they would break for food and a nap and, eventually, take a long walk, sometimes with others, filled with erudite and polite conversation on many subjects. Mei Xiang, great revolutionary panda leader that she was, still showed up at the Demesne now and then to talk with them, or with Leo, or with anyone else would wanted to talk. Her purposefully limited vocabulary grew even more subtle inflections and nuances. Her team was still the largest of all Magic Animal groups anywhere in the world. She continued to provide wisdom regarding any Demesne subject of relevance whenever she was asked.

Matilda the hippo continued to work with Magic Animals who had been psychological victims of the Commandant’s manipulations. Maximillian the Emperor Penguin spread animal goodwill and information to all who sought it out. McAlister and Smoochie, those jovial frog companions, sang on their nightly rounds through the Demesne hills. Young Mountain Goat romped on hillsides and rocks. El Tigre and the Rattler split their time between stealth tiger missions and long relaxing sessions of sitting in the sun or the shade, licking their fur.

All of these animals, complex as they were, had problems they continued to think about. Yet being animals, however magic, they always made sure to enjoy their lives as they handled the problems they had and then wisely put those problems in the past. Each of them, alone and together, reflected often on the wonderful dream that the Sir had dreamed. They were living fruitful lives because of it and because of their own determination to live wisely and well.

#bunny #rabbit #revolution #empire #satire #animals #animal rights #politics #adventure #theory #fantasy #science fiction #environmentalism #sir sleepy #wisdom #wisdom text

[talvin-muircastle]

Victory Song

"She has the soul of a Bard," they said, "a pity she lacks the voice."

Passeria loved music. As a baby, music was the only thing that would still her when she was cranky. As she grew older, she tapped, plucked, beat rhythms on anything she could find. She had her first wooden flute not long after she could walk, and her first harp before she was ten summers old. With any of these, she could make a pleasing sound--but no tune could pass her lips without a wince from the audience. Her speaking voice was unremarkable, neither good nor bad, but the gods that had blessed her fingers with music stole it from her breath.

When she had seen thirteen summers, a Queen's Bard passed through their village. This was a rare thing, for they lived in the Marches, a day's march from the foothills that marked the border of the Kingdom, and such a noble personage did not normally risk himself so close to the fell things that dwelt in those woods. He played for them, and he sang, and Passeria's eyes shone even as her heart broke, for it was a delight to hear such music, and torture to know it would never be hers. The Bard saw her little wooden flute and invited her to play with him, an honor that the cheering villagers would not permit her to refuse.

That night, after most had gone to bed, he found her. "Your elders have spoken to me of you. Come with me. You will play. And then you will sing. And we will talk." Shaking, she followed.

He had her play her flute again, and her harp, and he had her try her hands upon his own lute. He listened closely as she beat out rhythms on her little drum, his foot tapping along the while. Then came the dreaded command: "Sing for me, child."

Tears in her eyes, she did, and she hated herself for every note. She knew the words by heart--oh, she could sing beautifully, in her heart!--but the song was that of a sickly crow, not a beautiful songbird. He nodded solemnly, and asked for another song, and she sang it. Three songs he demanded of her, each more challenging than the last, and she hated him for humiliating her so.

Finally, "Enough. Here, drink this. It is watered down, and you must replace those tears you lost." She drank, making a face at the hint of wine in the water. "Mind me well, Passeria, for this is very important: you are a Bard, and let none ever tell you otherwise. You have the talent for music, but more importantly, you have the magic that only our kind possesses." She wiped her eyes on her sleeve and blinked at him, made now uncertain by his words.

"Master Bard," she whispered, "please do not mock me so." In answer, he left his own chair and took a knee before her, his eyes meeting hers.

"Passeria, I do not mock you, but speak only the truth. There is a power in your voice that I can sense. Not all music is meant for human ears, young Bard. The Gods granted me my gift that I might please Kings and Dukes and Knights and Guildmistresses. That is no small thing in this world--but the Gods granted you a gift that can part the waves of an evil sea. You have within you to do something that I cannot--that only a bare handful of men and women in this Kingdom can do. I knew this as soon as you started singing--I only made you sing three songs so I could fully judge the strength of your gift, and it is a powerful one. The Gods only grant such a gift in the time and place where it will be needed." She shook her head, understanding and yet not.

He sighed, and raised an admonishing finger, "Mind me well, Passeria! Someday--it may be soon, it may be when your grandchildren dance around you--but someday you will hear singing like unto your own! When that day comes, you must answer it with your own song! If you do not, many will die. That is your gift and your burden. Will you promise me that you will remember this?"

She gulped and said, "I swear." For the first time since they had played together by the fire, he smiled at her. Then he stood and turned to go.

He stopped at the door. "Oh, yes: the lute is yours now. You are worthy of it. I will tell your Elders." Then he was gone.

The Bard rose with the sun the next morning and rode on his way. The Elders, puzzled but obedient, confirmed that the lute was indeed hers--as was the olive-green cloak permitted only to recognized Bards. He was the King's Man, and his orders carried the weight of the King's Law.

He had also commanded that young Passeria should learn the ways of blade and bow. "She'll need them," he had said.

She wore the cloak, and practiced the lute, and found to her surprise that she was passable with the bow and better than most with the sword. The villagers were more respectful when they asked her to play of a long evening, and she went on the march-rides with the hunters, watching for sign of the evil things from over the frontier.

She never sang.

When she was sixteen, the evil things came.

It was late autumn, and the harvest was almost finished. The herds had been culled for the winter and the meat salted down. Three hunters went out looking for whatever had been savaging the pigs that were left to run wild in the woods. One came back, minus an arm.

The evil things of legend had come down out of the mountains, the evil things that had not been seen since their mother's father's mother's time. They had no names: some had the shape of beasts, some had the shape of men, some had whatever shape they pleased, but they were all bone-white, their blood did not darken as it dried but stayed crimson until the rains cleansed it, and they killed for pleasure rather than need. "Evil" was the only name that fit.

That first day, they sent runners to the garrison a day's travel further in, and they gathered what they could and withdrew inside the palisade.

The second day, they peered over the sharpened stakes of the wall and listened to the screams of the herds as the things savaged them and ran them to death.

The third day was quiet. Evil had sated itself in the night and needed to sleep.

The fourth day they knew despair, for if the runners had made it to the garrison, the soldiers would have arrived by then. They were cut off and alone.

The fifth day, the evil things attacked.

Passeria stood the wall with the hunters and the veterans, loosed arrows until her quiver was exhausted, then another took her place while she gulped down water and replenished her ammunition. They had many arrows--arrows and bolts were as good as coin at tax-time when you lived in the Marches. The Evil things had a sound battle-plan, even so: keep throwing themselves at the walls until they ran the defenders out of arrows. Foolish for any mortal host, but the monsters had the numbers to make it work.

The First among the hunters patted her on the shoulder as he came down for his own water and arrows. "How are you holding up, Passeria?"

"Well enough, I suppose. Most of my shots hit. I just hate that damned song of theirs!"

"Song? Ah, that raucous keening of theirs? Has a rhythm to it, I guess...I suppose a Bard would find it more vexing than most." Another light clout on the shoulder, and he was back to the wall and his work.

She leaned her head against the water barrel and listened to the monsters at the walls. That song...that damnable song. Everyone else seemed to tune it out, but it got inside her, into her bones, and it resonated there. Horrible, ugly, screeching...

She dropped the cup and turned to stare at the wall. What a disgusting sound...like her own singing voice.

She left her bow and quiver at the water station and climbed the short flight of steps to the top of the palisade. Someone growled a warning at her to "be careful with that thing!" and she realized that she had her sword in her hand. She looked out at the screeching, tumbling horde of their foes, and she took a deep breath.

The first note was as painful to sing as it was to hear, but it caught the attention of a thing with the head of a dog and the body of a ram that had been clawing at the logs, ignoring the arrows studding its flanks. So she sang to it, and it sat back on its haunches, staring at her raptly right up to the point that it slid back into the ditch, bright red blood mingling with the muddy pool at the bottom.

She sang louder, and more of them stopped and stared. A few raised their own voices, a chorus of demons in answer. She jumped down from the palisade, voice faltering for only a moment, and scrambled out of the ditch to face them directly.

The first thing died with her blade in its throat, never moving a muscle.

The second was man-shaped, and sang with her even as she slid the sword into its belly.

The third died under the axe of the First Hunter.

The fourth fell to a hammer blow from the smith.

The fifth opened its mouth to sing and took a shepherd's sling bullet in its gullet.

She sang and sang, voice croaking out refrains to every song she knew, and when that failed her she sang wordlessly, scales of death and blood and slaughter. The moon was high in the sky when the business was finally done, and one of the shepherds caught her as she collapsed.

The next morning they loaded her onto the back of one of the three surviving horses, which rolled its eyes at the stink of decaying bone-white flesh and blood that would not turn brown. The hunter's First and the Headwoman's son led her between them, and whenever they encountered a roving thing, she sang to it in a voice that cracked from overuse while it died under their blades. That night they reached the garrison.

The winter was hard, but the King sent wagonloads of provisions, and promised that the spring would see new herdstock sent from his own lands. Other Bards, others like Passeria, dwelt with the garrison, and patrols were pushed out almost to the foothills.

A hard winter, but filled with song.

#My Writing

[imaginecoderealize]

Hi everyone 😊 have you any headcanons or stories about boy's childhood?(with Hansel and Nemo )

We hope you enjoy this small glimpse into the kids’ lives before they became the heroes we love!

- Mod Apostle and Mod Nautilus

LUPIN:

- Lupin started out smaller and weaker than most of the otherstreet kids, but he proved to also be the cleverest. The other kids began tolook up to him and treat him as a leader, despite his youth and small size.They were so skilled at their work using Lupin’s methods that people began toavoid the popular markets they haunted. The police took notice and the kidsonly grew more talented at playing hide and seek with the police and makingthem look like fools. 

- Lupin’s first brush with being a ‘thief with a heart ofjustice’ was when he saw a frail old woman robbed and thrown down into analley. He always picked the pockets of the rich and considered it poor form topick on ‘easy targets’. He stole back the woman’s purse, only to find it veryheavy with gold. He was tempted to keep it, but recalling the woman’s frailty,he dutifully brought the purse back to its owner. The old woman exulted overhow honorable he was and gave him his first ‘finders fee.’ Which turned out tobe more money than he could steal in a month.

- Lupin was intelligent, but he preferred practical studies tobook learning. (His teacher did make sure he knew how to read and write, etc.Even though he balked about it being boring.)

- He and his fellow urchins often made up their own gameswhich helped them with their thieving.

- Lupin usually had to sleep outdoors, so thefirst time he had a bed of his own he was so happy that he didn’t even want tomess the sheets up. … Of course, about twenty seconds later he jumped right onin and rolled the sheets around himself like a cocoon.

- Lupin was surprisingly nervous the first time he left France, though he would never admit it. He loved the adventure, of course, but there was something a little anxiety-inducing about taking those first steps.

VAN:

- Van was always a dutiful brother and son. His father passedaway when he was still quite young, so he felt it was his duty to care for hismother and little brother. They didn’t have a lot of money, so he learned tomake the things they needed and repair clothing and other things to extend their life. He became quite skilledat woodworking and made his mother a beautiful vase that she kept on herdresser that held three flowers, one for each of his family.

- Van and his brother always went berry picking in the summer.It was the brothers’s favorite time of year when their mothers would make themmagnificent pies. One time Van decided to make a pie for his family… withpredictable results. The mess in the kitchen was extraordinary, but his mothercouldn’t scold him because he tried so hard, and pretended to enjoy hiscreation. It may have been better for his future friends if she had told himthe truth.

-  Van was a smart, serious student. His favorite subject inschool was mathematics. He taught his little brother to read. 

- Vanwas always athletic and participated in many different sports.

- Would always help his mother with the sewing andclothing repair. He learned how to knit when he was eight years old, and becamequite skilled. His family could never leave the house in winter without ascarf. And gloves. And a hat. 

- He was always very open about how he doted over his family. He once had his heart on his sleeve….

FRAN:

- Fran grew up surrounded by beautiful natural wonders. Of ascientific bent since childhood, he found it soothing to walk in the woods andstudy nature. He could often be found reading in the shadow of his favoriterock, or collecting various specimens to study in his little attic laboratoryunder the eaves of his home. 

- Fran had a cute spaniel that always stayed at his side whenhe was a kid. They went on many adventures together. Fran even taught her tosniff out certain plants or other things to use in his experiments.

- Fran helped keep his parents’ gardens. He had his own littlepatch where he grew his own medicinal herbs. 

- Fran’s favorite subject was obviously science, especiallyalchemy and biology. He was equally good at all subjects and was recommended togo to college in the U.K.

- Knew he wanted to be a doctor for as long as hecould remember. He was the greatest teddy bear doctor in all of Switzerland,always performing regular check-ups. Of course, if someone came to him with adoll that needed repairs, he’d have to go to his mother… but he would alwayssupervise the procedure!

IMPEY:

- Impey was alone much of the time as a young child. He neverreally fit in with his peers and always dreamed of leaving his little villageand seeing what the world beyond held. Many vampires hated the cities, but Impeyknew that his future would lie in the cities beyond his claustrophobic littletown even before he saw the train. 

- Impey was an eager student once his imagination was ignited.The Old Man was delighted with how smart he was. He read voraciously once hehad the opportunity, though he found history boring. He hated stories about waror weapons, but he loved the romances. (He cried easily over tragedies.) 

- Impey’s first device was a telescope to look at the moon,made from a cardboard tube, a piece of glass and a broken mirror. He was veryexcited and proud of his creation. 

- Impey never had any sense of a bedtime, and often tinkeredand experimented with machines all night. The old man would often find himslumped over his work bench fast asleep. In that way, not much has changed.

- Impey didn’t change too much from when he was akid, so he would always be running on fumes. All too often, his old man wouldfind him passed out with a wrench in hand and grease stains on his cheeks. Heonly put a stop to it one time after Impey caught a bad cold. “That’ll teachyou to not get proper rest, now you have no choice.” (I think it’s cute we both had the same idea about Impey sleeping on his work bench - Mod Nautilus)

(Because there is so little information about Saint’s youth,this is longer and more… dramatized… than the others… – Mod Apostle)

SAINT:

- Saint doesn’t remember his childhood before he was a slave,erroneously believing he was born into slavery. The trauma of the sack of hisvillage made him block it from his memory. He was born in an ancient isolatedvillage in the eastern foothills of Mesopotamia. Its isolation meant that theever-changing political situations and the rise and fall of cultures passedthem by harmlessly, until an avalanche caused the king’s military to divertcourse and they raided the peaceful village. 

- Saint was a priestess’ son. He was a gentle, fragile child.His task was to read and memorize the holy books, study their rituals, andlearn from his mother how to lead their people. He was a dreamer who loved thestars, the quiet hills at night, and the sound of his mother’s voice singingthe sacred songs. 

- Despite being two years younger, his brother always lookedafter him. They played games, told stories, read every book in the village,especially the tales about a time when they lived in a city overlooking thesea. Neither of them had ever seen a body of water larger than small lakes andrivers. They had never even seen the great Euphrates or Tigris. They promisedeach other to go to the sea someday. To sail away and find their lost city andbecome kings. Saint said he would be the high priest and talk to the gods,while his brother could be king and govern the people. The village elder’sfortune said Saint would suffer much and travel far before he found hisdestiny, but then such things seemed incomprehensible to the children who builtstone forts for castles and tended their goats. 

- Later, after he forgot his past, he still sought out tabletsand and stories of the gods and sacred texts, never wondering how a slavelearned to read. Despite the differences in language, he was able to teachhimself the new alphabets and lettering. He kept a horde of discarded tabletsand broken styluses buried in a hole with his few belongings, including a stonenecklace given him by his only friend, the boy who he no longer recognized ashis brother. 

- Saint sang to himself at night sometimes when he could getaway with it. They soothed him and helped him to sleep. He still remembers thesongs, though the source is lost to him.

- In a life usually filled with misery, Sainttreasured every bit of ‘ordinary happiness’ he could find. Usually, this was inthe form of watching the sun rise. It was such a little thing, but he lovedwatching the light slowly paint the sky different colors. The sun looked like abig bright ball that he wanted to play with, but he was content just to feelits warmth.- Out of all his duties, Saint enjoyed fishing themost. He wasn’t able to do it often, but being near the water always made himfeel at peace. He enjoyed the fact that what he was doing allowed people to befed. He wanted to be a gracious host for many people from a very young age.

HANSEL (AND GRETEL):

- Hansel’s favorite memories are of the summers before the warstarted. His mother would bake cookies and make a picnic lunch and Hansel wouldtake Gretel on forest adventures. Hansel would gather wildflowers and makeflower crowns for Gretel and the siblings would splash around in the brook andlaugh and play until nightfall. 

- Gretel occasionally had trouble sleeping and would visit herbrother’s room. He would let her cuddle with him and told her fairytales untilshe fell asleep. 

- Hansel made friends with the deer of the forest and lovedtaking Gretel out to feed them sometimes.

- Hansel became Omnibus’ precious son, and she knew that treating him as such would tie himfurther to her. She taught him personally about the duties of Idea, somethingthat was usually reserved for a fellow Apostle. Saint would often joke withOmnibus about how he was being spoiled. 

- Omnibus would teach him in the garden, and he wouldoften occupy his hands by tending to her garden. It shone even brighterafter receiving attention from him, and afterwards Omnibus would reward hisobedience with a cookie shaped like a daisy. Those were always his favorites…

NEMO…?:

(FUN TRIVIA! According to Jules Verne, Captain Nemo’s birthname was Dakkar. Mod Nautilus has adopted this into her Code: Realizeheadcanons, so if you see the name “Dakkar” floating around—it’s pre-RevolutionNemo.)

- Dakkarwas a polyglot from a very young age. Languages always came easily to him,among them English, German, and French. (And back then he actually spoke… um…he didn’t sound like… HE DIIIIIDN’T TAAAAAAAAAALK LIKE THIIIIIIIIIIIIS.)

- Dakkar had two little sisters that meant theabsolute world to him. Oftentimes, late at night, he would sneak out of hisquarters to spend time with them. Once he started getting caught, he would slippast by dressing up as a beautiful woman. As long as he kept his mouth shut,nobody noticed.

- … He was always very, very proud of being called “brotherdearest”.

- Dakkar was an accomplished pianist, but he much preferred playing the pipe organ, saying that it stimulated his mind more.

-  He was sixteen years old when he became a lead strategist in the uprising against Britain, though he participated in any way he could long before then. He has always been passionate about the things important to him, and the freedom of his country was the most important thing to him growing up.

*BONUS* SHOLMES:

- Herlock —er, Sherlock as he was known backthen—has an elder brother named Mycroft. Though Mycroft is just as much of agenius as his little brother, the two of them often clashed on a moreclandestine subject: housework. See, much like Sherlock, Mycroft was also arather deplorable housekeeper and they would often compete to see who could getout of the most chores. It became a game for them, one which Sherlockultimately won by devoting his time to a new hobby: the violin.

#code: realize #code realize #Arsene Lupin #abraham van helsing #victor frankenstein #Impey Barbicane #count of saint germain #nemo #herlock sholmes #Hansel Hexenhouse

[victortortor]

princess mononoke au

I. The Demon God

II. Journey to the West 

Slowly, the land began to change.

The dense, rolling woodland became arching and steep mountains, with treacherous waters and little creeks and streams. A great plain lay between two cliffs, then more peaks beyond. Then as Lan Wangji crossed them, he began to see signs of human civilization. At the foothills of the great mountains, rice paddies filled the land, and thin wafts of gray smoke signaled a village nearby.

Yet… it looked so very different from Gusu.

The first settlement was ramshackle and half-alive, half-dead. There seemed to be an outbreak of some sorts, and Lan Wangji saw local soldiers blocking the roads leading down into the valley. A quarantine? It would be no good to enter then.

He was running low on food. He could forage, but it would be easier to simply buy things from local settlements. Besides, with so many rice paddies, it would be impossible for them to not have cheap rice.

Even so, he and Bichen wandered onto the next one. It was best not to risk it here, and he would rather not grow ill, along with caring for his cursed arm.

Between the first and second village, Lan Wangji encountered a scuffle of sorts.

A woman’s scream was suddenly heard, then abruptly cut off. Sounds of commotion prompted him to quickly pull of the road, toward the farmland that stretched to the north of it. What he saw made him draw a quick breath.

There were many soldiers stationed in the area, likely serving the local lord. Lan Wangji wasn’t particularly surprised by this, but he had never expected that they would be attacking the villagers.

It couldn’t be because they were a menace, and it was doubtful they were doing it for the sake of looting, either. For someone who served the local landlord directly, it would be easy to simply… take.

So this was not harassment. It was simply killing was sport. Without hesitating, Lan Wangji held up his bow.

He aimed, intending to disarm a soldier on horseback, and all of a sudden, his arm spasmed just as he let the arrow fly.

For the first time in a long time, Lan Wangji missed his target. The arrow flew hit the soldier’s neck with such force that his head was thrown off in an impossible manner. The empty stump spurted blood, and the rest of body slowly fell of the horse.

For a moment, he could not understand what had quite happened, until someone shouted, “There’s someone else!”

“Look, a warrior!”

“Get him!”

Arrows flew his way, and two more men on horseback approached.

Lan Wangji quickly recovered from his shock. “Bichen, go!” He had no wish to fight them all, and to flee would be the best option. It was wrong of him to have gotten involved in the first place— someone died because of him.

But showing one’s back to the enemy proved to be a bad choice. More arrows were aimed at him. Thankfully, they all missed his steed.

One of the soldiers got close enough to attack him with a sword, and Lan Wangji’s arm jerked once more. Acting on its own, it jerked up, and to both the soldier and Lan Wangji’s own shock, blocked the sword with nothing but skin.

The impact of the blow caused the sword to spin out of the soldier’s hand, and a stray arrow suddenly pierced his palm. He screamed in pain, and Lan Wangji shouted, “Let me pass!”

He urged Bichen to run faster, as fast as he could. No one followed him.

However, by the time he was sure he was alone, the traces of the demon god that he had been following were gone— and he did not dare to backtrack.

Lan Wangji took a moment to pull up his sleeve, exposing the skin of his right arm to the air.

The cursed area was larger than before. It throbbed, as if reminding Lan Wangji that it was the curse that had made him kill that man.

The second village was in better shape than what Lan Wangji had seen of the first. There were people out and about, but their expressions were grim and their clothing brown and dirty. It did not take long for Lan Wangji to realize that the white cloth of Gusu marked him as a stranger and outsider.

He could hardly tell where were the cheapest places were in the marketplace, and he simply chose an arbitrary seller. The woman at the stand looked at him warily, then at his clothing that was far too clean.

“A bag of rice,” he said quietly, and held out a bit of gold. When leaving Gusu, he had only taken some of that with him, unsure of what sort of currency, if any at all, the people of the west would use. Surely, however, they would always take gold.

Yet, it seemed it wasn’t the case. The woman snatched the gold bit out of his hand, but upon squinting at it she snorted and said, “What’s this supposed to be?! A bit of rock won’t get you anything here, you know!”

There was nothing he could do about that. If gold meant nothing here, then Lan Wangji would simply not buy anything. He could feel eyes that had been on him the whole while quickly look away, likely disappointed that he was not as rich as his clothing made it seem.

“Excuse me,” a mellow voice spoke just as Lan Wangji was about to take his leave, “May I see that bit of rock?”

Before the lady could respond, a man quickly took it out her fingers. He took it and examined the nugget carefully, and said, “If this esteemed lady does not want it, I would gladly take it. Name your price, young master, for this bit of gold is worth far more than that bag of rice you wished to have.”

“‘Gold?’” The woman demanded, as if the word was foreign to her. Nevertheless, she quickly snatched it back. “It’s mine! He gave it to me first! Here, have your rice!”

She threw bag at Lan Wangji, who swiftly caught it. It seemed that it was worth far less than what he paid for, but he did not mind. More importantly, it was best to leave now, for it seemed that he had attracted far more attention than he had expected.

In the future, perhaps it would still be best to avoid such settlements, then.

When he reached the edge of the town, a voice once again called out to him.

“Excuse me!”

Lan Wangji did not turn back, and Bichen did not falter.

“Young master,” the man called again, and he recognized it as the one that belonged to the man from the marketplace. “Young Master Lan!”

Lan Wangji jolted to a stop.

“Ah, I didn’t mean to surprise you,” even though he most certainly did. Bichen began to trot, and the man jogged lightly to keep up. “I am just here for a bit of fair warning. There are quite a few men behind you right now, intent on following you and killing you in your sleep— then taking your gold.”

Lan Wangji did not look at him, and stared straight ahead.

“I am called Meng Yao,” he said. “I am but a simple traveling monk, but I have met another one of your people before, the Lan people, yes? No one else wears such pure white clothing, with an elk instead of a horse, and walks with such regality. You are far from home.”

“...”

“I rather suspect you would like to run away now,” Meng Yao said kindly. “It would be best to avoid the bandits tailing you. May I follow you? I promise I mean no harm. I hope my assistance in town can prove that.”

Lan Wangji was quiet, then allowed Bichen to begin to gallop. “Keep up,” he said.

They camped in a cave, the fire burning while the night raged on in fury— rain pelted the entrance, and wind howled.

As soon as the rice was finished cooking, Meng Yao quickly filled both their bowls and handed one to Lan Wangji. “For you, Young Master Lan.”

He took the bowl, but said, “Don’t call me that.” He had already forsaken his name and his family, so it would be no good if someone called him that.

Meng Yao eyed him carefully, then finally nodded in agreement. They ate in silence for a while, until he finally said, “The truth is, I saw you during that skirmish with the local soldiers. I have to thank you; I was caught in the middle, and you gave me the opportunity to escape.”

Lan Wangji continued to eat. Guilt gnawed at his stomach.

“You possess great strength,” Meng Yao said, “But you are one of few words, aren’t you?”

“...”

“If I can confess more,” he continued, “I first mistook you for someone else.”

Lan Wangji could piece it together from there. “You have met my brother.”

“I must assume so, for he was your spitting image.” Meng Yao set down his chopsticks and bowl, having finished. “I traveled far, far away. I had not eaten in weeks, and your brother found me and gave me food and supplies and nursed me back to health. During that time I grew fond of him, and he grew fond of me.

“I inquired if he could possibly travel back with me once I regained my strength, and he told me that he would never go west. His people never did.”

The unspoken question lingered in the air. Lan Wangji considered Meng Yao’s words. His brother had never told him of an encounter with a foreign man, but it was not as if Lan Xichen had always told him everything. He judged MengYao honest in his words, and he had no reason to doubt his goodwill. Still, he was reluctant to speak on the matter of the boar and his cursed arm to him.

Instead, he pulled out the iron ball that had been found in the demon god, and he gave it to Meng Yao. “Do you know where this is from?”

Meng Yao took it, examining it carefully. He held it closer to the fire. “... Where did you find this from?”

Lan Wangji was not willing to say more.

“Very well, no need to tell me.” Meng Yao tossed the ball back to him. “Tell me, young master, did you there used to be a village right here?”

“No.”

“There was, about a decade ago,” he said. “However, natural disaster after natural disaster struck the area— lightning, fires, floods, earthquakes, and all of them at once. They were all natural, you see, but unnatural. The gods really were angry at this place, and many people died. That’s how it always is, when it comes to the gods. People die when they are angry, and you can’t do anything but swallow your tears, and move on. No one lives here now, just angry ghosts and maybe the remnant of an angry god.

“When you shot that soldier today, you did out of kindness, didn’t you? And you aren’t very happy that you killed him. Perhaps you’ve never killed a human before.” Surprise must have flickered in his expression, for Meng Yao said, “Don’t worry about it. People say I’m very good at understanding people.”

He said, “Most people are not like you, young master. People die every day, from all sorts of things. You must have seen it in the village today— people are always dying. Even if they aren’t dead, they’re dying. They only care that they are dying, because no one else will care for them but themselves. If you kill someone, so be it. They were already dying.”

“...”

“Your face says you disagree,” Meng Yao said. “And I don’t intend to argue with you, but your expression simply reminds me of someone else who also disagreed.”

Lan Wangji said, “Who?”

Meng Yao said, “Far to the west from here, there is a town that goes by the name of Yiling. It is a town that specializes in ironworking, and beside it is a massive forest, known as the Forest of Gods. There, the beasts are impossibly large, and gods roam among the trees. But the man who built Yiling up from nothing, Wei Wuxian… I feel as if you and him would get along very well.”

The Forest of the Gods… and Wei Wuxian. Lan Wangji finished eating quickly, then set his bowl down as well. “Thank you for the information.” In the end, even though he had not said thing, he felt as if Meng Yao had figured out all of it anyway.

Meng Yao smiled politely and looked to Lan Wangji’s things discreetly. His strange stone arrowheads, his elk, his clothing… and he put those things aside. “I am simply repaying a favor,” he said. “If your brother did not need anything, it only makes sense to help you. Come, let us retire for the night.”

They did so, and Meng Yao woke, Lan Wangji was already gone.

III. The Land of the Impure

#mo dao zu shi #my writing