TW: Blood, violence, mention of scars and description of panic attacks
WARNING: Spoilers past season five of the MHA Anime.
He had to focus.
There were a million things he could have been thinking about at that exact moment as he ran through the fake city. He could have thought about how he was finally awake, feeling like he was alive for the first time in….who knows how long. He could have been thinking about all the trauma he’d gone through, how he’d miraculously survived being kidnapped and trapped in a warehouse of villains. But no- those thoughts would send him spiraling, maybe even back into that horrible state. He couldn’t do that right now. He had to focus.
Two identical infants lay in the cradle. “One you bore, the other is a Changeling. Choose wisely,” the Fae’s voice echoed from the shadows. “I’m taking both my children,” the mother said defiantly.
Once upon a time there was a peasant woman who was unhappy because she had no children. She was happy in all other things – her husband was kind and loving, and they owned their farm and had food and money enough. But she longed for children.
She went to church and prayed for a child every Sunday, but no child came. She went to every midwife and wise woman for miles around, and followed all their advice, but no child came.
So at last, though she knew of the dangers, she drew her brown woolen shawl over her head and on Midsummer’s Eve she went out to the forest, to a certain clearing, and dropped a copper penny and a lock of her hair into the old well there, and she wished for a child.
“You know,” a voice said behind her, a low and cunning voice, a voice that had a coax and a wheedle and a sly laugh all mixed up in it together, “that there will be a price to pay later.”
She did not turn to look at the creature. She knew better. “I know it,” she said, still staring into the well. “And I also know that I may set conditions.”
“That is true,” the creature said, after a moment, and there was less laugh in its voice now. It wasn’t pleased that she knew that. “What condition do you set? A boy child? A lucky one?”
“That the child will come to no harm,” she said, lifting her head to stare into the woods. “Whether I succeed in paying your price, or passing your test, or not, the child will not suffer. It will not die, or be hurt, or cursed with ill luck or any other thing. No harm of any kind.”
“Ahhhhh.” The sound was long and low, between a sigh and a hum. “Yes. That is a fair condition. Whatever price there is, whatever test there is, it will be for you and you alone.” A long, slender hand extended into her sight, almost human save for the skin, as pale a green as a new leaf. The hand held a pear, ripe and sweet, though the pears were nowhere ripe yet. “Eat this,” the voice said, and she trembled with the effort of keeping her eyes straight ahead. “All of it, on your way home. Before you enter your own gate, plant the core of it beside the gate, where the ground is soft and rich. You will have what you ask for.”
No one else saw it, or if they did they didn’t say, or didn’t care. But you knew just how hard Lenny worked himself. The young man was desperate to prove himself, to prove his value to the gang. You hardly ever saw him sit down. He was always working sentry duty, out searching for leads, cleaning weapons, working his ass off to prove himself. He did almost as much as Arthur.
You really only ever saw him sit down to eat, or to read. Sometimes you or Hosea could coax him over to the fire to relax for the evening, but even then you could see him always thinking, trying to find a new way to be useful.
Maybe Hosea noticed. He often would pull Lenny aside under the pretense of little chat. But you couldn’t help but wonder if he was just trying to get Lenny to sit down and breathe for once. The wise older man missed nothing in camp.
You did what you could to help Lenny. You brought him coffee when he was on late night sentry duty. Made sure he ate supper every day. Just little things.
You were absolutely smitten with him. He was so smart, so kind, so brave and loyal and just… good. Sometimes your heart ached with how sweet you were on him. You’d mostly flown under the radar, you thought. Lenny never seemed to notice anyway. You weren’t sure if that was a good or a bad thing. Hosea and Susan may have had their suspicions though. Those two kept a keen eye on everything, and you couldn’t help but notice Hosea always pulling you into his conversations with Lenny, or Susan always handing you Lenny’s things to mend. But everyone else seemed blessedly oblivious to your pining.
When Lenny approached you to help him on a job, you jumped at the chance.
Standing there proudly, every bit herself took Kyler’s breath away. He was sure now - Acacia could never pretend to be something she wasn’t - and he really envied that.
Acacia represents the theme of being true to oneself the most. She is the epitome of this, but at the same time she isn’t irrational. She puts other people and the interests of the hideout in front of herself, she plans and strategies and keeps secrets that would hurt the people she loves. All her life she is fighting all her other desires for the simple wish to live true to herself, the girl that loves magic and art, connection and fun, never meaning to inspire so many people along the way.
His discipline was of range she has never seen before. It was more than desire, more than need, more than love. His willpower was absolute. He could achieve anything he would set his mind to and it scared her and excited her at the same time.
NowKyler represents in many ways the opposite to Acacia. He is defined by his discipline and willpower, by how much he can overcome himself and who he is to adapt to his circumstances, to survive. He sees the truth, doesn’t fight what he can’t change and accepts what doesn’t align with how he sees life. In a way he can see the world the most objectively, because his desires always come last to him. Which is also the cause of most of his grief.
Wes cared easily, felt intensly and shined brightly in his lose canon way. A complete opposite of him, but Kyler found himself drawn to his reckless passion. It was that kind of life he gave up by rationalizing his feelings, the kind of living he never dared to imagine, but sometimes secretly wanted more than anything else.
Consequently he is drawn to people like Wes. Wes seeks freedom, the freedom to care and feel and do whatever he wants. Now he isn’t actually free, because the power he has combined with such intense passionate feelings come with a prize for a spirit like him, but he acts like it. He dares. Challenges the world and life for the rules set on him. In a way he is the most selfish of the trio, since he doesn’t have any scruples, no loved ones to hold him back, no responsibilities he considers. What he doesn’t realize is that giving himself the space to feel so much for everything, he irreversibly binds himself to it. He cares too much, and he can’t escape the impact of that.
I mean you already know how much I love themes of identity and true selves so this is an incredible breakdown of the main trio
Having them all have different uses of their emotions to their advantage. Acacia’s loving caring side being slightly tactical with what information she does and does not share. Kyler’s reluctance to Emote ™ and how this does allow him an objective view of the world. Wes using his passions to get his views across.
Looking at Grayson before was always like looking at a distorted mirror of everything Kyler tried to cut from himself, everything he hid and supressed glaring defiantly at him.
It was different now. It felt like a cetrain…not peace exactly, but maybe truce.
Someday we’ll find it, The rainbow connection. The lovers, the dreamers, and me.
A new string of rabies has rendered 80% of the North, Central, and South American populations infected or dead. Four survivors have managed to keep themselves safe for the past two and a half months, but with the world crumbling around them, it gets harder every day.
“You can’t be here,” the whumpee protests, squirming in their bonds as the caretaker starts to cut them loose. “You have to leave before, before—”
“Hey, quit moving!” the caretaker admonishes, frowning when they accidentally nick the writhing whumpee with their blade. “I don’t wanna hurt you.”
Accustomed to orders and threats, the whumpee immediately stills. I don’t want to hurt you usually means the exact opposite, in their experience, but they need to protect the caretaker, even if doing so means punishment.
The caretaker offers them a reassuring smile as they saw through the ropes. The whumpee pouts, their bottom lip trembling as tears pool in their eyes. The last thing they want is to put the caretaker in danger, and if the whumper realizes they’re here, they’ll be killed.
The whumpee’s voice quivers as they frantically try to convince them. “Please, please, listen to me. You gotta get out of here before he finds you. Please, go, p-please. I can’t see you get h-hurt.”
[ID: a digital sketch of a man holding a lute. He has light brown skin, dark brown curls, and freckles. He’s wearing a dark green embroidered jacket, light green embroidered vest, cravat, and tall shirt collar. He’s looking off to the left and smiling. end ID]
The Stray Spirit Update: …I’m Done Writing It?
I’m done writing it!
Now that I’ve incorporated my proofreader’s feedback, I can officially say that there’s nothing left to do for the writing of the book itself.
Don’t get me wrong, there’s plenty more to do before I release in the fall. My illustrator is working on the last few illustrations, I almost have the final cover art (front/back), and I’ve got a lot of formatting, distro, marketing, etc. ahead of me. I’ll also be working on pre-order giveawaysandARCs in the future! But the actual text of the book? It’s done!
I’ve never been great at drawing Emry (sorry, bud), but I took another stab at it to celebrate. Really looking forward to sharing the book with you all soon.
The ballerina’s portrait is cursed. I see her dancing in the greenhouse, her face twisted in grief and rage.
(The following is a verbatim transcription of an account found inside the frame of the Werner painting ‘Ballerina’ during its restoration. According to its owners, the Vogt family, the painting had always been called by the family ‘The Little Kuznetsov’.)
My mother loves this painting, the small, delicate portrait of a ballerina. She says it is beautiful, and gazes at it every day, drinking in the fine lines, the feathery costume, the traces of gleaming silver at brow and throat. It is a dream, for her, a dream of beauty and grace.
The painting is the stuff of my nightmares. Since I was small, I’ve seen the ballerina. I’ve seen her dancing in the library, pirouetting on the balconies, flitting along the halls. The costume is the same, the hair, the form, but her face… her face is twisted into a mask of suffering. She wants to stop, I know she wants to stop, but she can’t. She cannot stop dancing.
She is like a ghost in this house, and she has always frightened me.
I hoped she would go away as I grew older, but she has not. Instead, I see her more often now than ever, sometimes even by bright day, not in twilight or moonlight or candlelight as I did before. I think she sees us - she never dances into anyone - but she has never looked at anyone.
Not until the day that she does. I enter the greenhouse at twilight, and she is there, dancing between the long lines of pots and planters, and in that moment she turns and looks at me, her face twisted with grief and anger, and for a moment she holds out an imploring hand to me. Then she is gone, leaving me shaking and sweating with the shock of it, the terrible pleading in her tortured eyes.
pratchett will write an entire book about the grim reaper pretending to be santa claus while the grim reaper’s granddaughter goes about hunting down the dumbass who decided to kill santa, and then right when you think you’re done and the oddly pointed shenanigans are winding down he hits you with “humans need fantasy to be human. to be the place where the falling angel meets the rising ape,” and knocks you into next wednesday
“Why does the third of the three brothers, who shares his food with the old woman in the wood, go on to become king of the country? Why does James Bond manage to disarm the nuclear bomb a few seconds before it goes off rather than, as it were, a few seconds afterwards? Because a universe where that did not happen would be a dark and hostile place. Let there be goblin hordes, let there be terrible environmental threats, let there be giant mutated slugs if you really must, but let there also be hope. It may be a grim, thin hope, an Arthurian sword at sunset, but let us know that we do not live in vain.”
She woke with the violent lurch of her shoulder slamming into something hard and cold that clanged loudly and set her ears ringing. She felt the bruise forming already and she gasped with pain, but before she could get her bearings she was rolling back the other direction. This time her momentum was halted not by a barrier, but by the unyielding chains connecting her manacled wrists to a metal hook set into the floor. Her stomach churned and she heaved, but nothing came up. Head pounding, she groaned and dragged herself from the floorboards up to her knees, squinting as her surroundings came into focus in the uneven light.
A ship. She was on a ship. Correction: she was in the brig of a ship. And as she peered through the bars to better gage her surroundings, she realized that she was not alone.
“Welcome back, little thief,” said a deep, rasping voice through the shadows. “You picked the wrong mark this time. Out here, on the water? It’s rare to get a new plaything. Yet, here you are.”
A temor ran through her as he paused and took a step towards the bars. “I think we’re going to have a lot of fun together.”
Warnings: lady whumpee with male whumper, implied attempted noncon, fear of noncon, mild referenced gore
.
.
“Going to meet with Marshall again, eh?”
A ripple of chuckles runs around the bunkroom. Adelaide slows her movements momentarily, but then returns to quickly retying her boots, ignoring what is clearly a taunt. Why it’s a taunt, she hasn’t yet figured out, but everything these men say to her is meant to either insult her or get a rise out of her.
Footsteps approach, a pair of worn black boots stopping just in her line of vision. She knows it’s Jones without looking up. “Yeah, we all know all about your little, eh…visits.”
TRAITS:Human of the Northern Vale, (@zmwrites this is for you) First of His Name, The Unbroken, King of the Northern Vale, Companion of the Quest, Victor at the Battle of The Underneath, Goblin-Bane, Consort of the Voice of the Emerald Groves, Friend of the Champion of the Northern Vale (I could add more… but I won’t… for now)
STRENGTHS: Charismatic and Dutiful, Cares Deeply For His People
WEAKNESSES: Unchecked, and often Unable To Overcome Grief or Rage
EXTRA: Alaric was the youngest person go be crowned King of the Northern Vale in hundreds of years, gaining the title at fourteen and receiving full rulership at sixteen
FIRST IN TEXT INTRODUCTION;
“We have waited so very long for you, Champion of the Northern Vale. And now you are here.”
Sadie could not help but look up from her bow then, taking in the King properly for the first time. He looked like a king, or at least every king Sadie had seen in movies or read in her books; everything about him was golden, his hair, his skin, the crown upon his brow. He gleamed like something not entirely real, not entirely tangible.
Their eyes met and she gave him a tentative smile, unsure how to respond to the scrutiny of a monarch. The King grinned in response, and he suddenly looked so young, beholden of a boyish sort of charm. Sadie realised that he couldn’t be any older than twenty-five for all that he was the King of an entire Vale, and inexplicably her nervousness fell away. She grinned back.
TRAITS: Champion of the Northern Vale, Human, of the ‘Earthlands’
STRENGTHS: Curious and Eager To Help
WEAKNESSES: Naive and Prone To Burning Out
EXTRA: Wielder of the Champions Gift; Pyromancy
FIRST IN TEXT INTRODUCTION;
The missing girl looked so small on his laptop screen, a tiny blip in a hallway stacked with grand paintings, all too-long school blazer and halo of brown curls. Connor always felt a kind of kinship with these news stories, a kind of sadness. The missing were his kind after all, no matter where they ended up. As the therapist they had gotten him when he was fifteen and still angry would have said, obsessing over other missing kids was futile. Connor knew that from experience now, after years of chasing and always coming up empty and hollow. He knew not to dwell. But in the process of scrolling away, of putting Sadie Blaine behind him, he caught it. At the very end of the clip, before the unexpected glitch that had reporters frothing at the mouth, the missing girl reached out and touched the painting. Or so he had thought at first glance. Now Connor saw what he had missed before, the missing girl was not touching the painting, no. She was going through it.
TRAITS:Champion of the Valelands, Human, of the ‘Earthlands’
STRENGTHS: Fiercely Loyal and Fiercely Independent
WEAKNESSES: Uncompromising and Untrusting
EXTRA: Wielder of the Champions Gift; Meteoromancy
IN TEXT INTRODUCTION;
The newcomer stood apart from the rest of the gathered crowd, reminiscent to Sadie of King Alaric’s pale, manic shadow; silvered rather than golden, in constant motion as opposed to the King’s assured stillness, slender where the King was solid. But he was of a height with the King and adorned with the same aura of power, the same look of regality.
“Connor,” King Alaric said, a smile of genuine warmth bleeding through his serene mask, “You’re home.”
The man, Connor, came forward, embracing the King like a brother, a friend, and for the first time Sadie noticed his attire, yet another stark contrast to King Alaric’s court robes; jeans, sneakers and a red hoodie. Her heart leapt into her throat.
“You’re a Champion!” She said, starting out of her chair in a rush.
He looked at her then, and when he spoke it was like the crack of thunder rolling through the hills, the toil of a storm overhead, “I used to be.”
BASICS: ‘Valiant’ Valiant As The Sword Strikes True, 293 moons (approx. Twenty Four), She/Her
TRAITS: Elf of the Emerald Groves (the Western Vale), Queen Consort of the Northern Vale, Companion of the Quest, Voice of the Emerald Groves
STRENGTHS: Intelligent and Incredibly Skilled in Combat, Logical
WEAKNESSES: Never Acts First, Prideful
EXTRA: Valiant is one of the founding members of the Free Council, set up in the Valelands after Connor’s quest was complete
FIRST IN TEXT INTRODUCTION;
Champion! They cried again and again.
Champion! Champion! Help me! Champion!
Shecouldn’t help them though, couldn’t do anything but make it worse. She tried to tell them that, to make them understand but their voices kept rising, frantic, reverent, relentless. The trees and the grass and the bugs, the animals and the wind, all pleading for their Champion. Sadie clapped her hands over her ears at some point to ward off the sound but it made no difference. Someone began to scream and sob amongst the cacophony, it took her a while to realise she was making those noises, throat raw, tears streaming down her hot cheeks.
It took her even longer to realise the sounds of the living around her had faded, just one voice, soft and soothing, spoke to her.
“Hush, hush,” it whispered.
Sadie blinked up at the owner of the blissfully quiet voice and gasped. She was beautiful, skin as dark and rich as the night sky, hair a regal spill of thick black twists over one shoulder, ears long and pointed. Impossibly pointed.
“Are you a dream?” She asked, awestruck by the woman’s obsidian eyes, the quick flash of amusement behind them.
“No, I am Valiant As The Sword Strikes True, daughter of the Emerald Groves. And I have been looking for you.”
The stranger withdrew his weapon, just as, “For Teffrin,” emerged from his lips.
Annchi screamed as the man’s blade pierced through a lady sitting closest to him, blood spilling from her mouth. Theo withdrew his sword and charged forward.
A dark hand came from behind the stranger and yanked his head back. A blade slid across his neck, so smooth and quick he almost missed it. He knew it had happened when the stranger dropped his blade, hand coming to clutch his slit throat.
His attacker knocked him to the ground, her curly hair short and coiled tight, her skin deep and, now blood-spattered. He was about to thank her. But he stopped short, fear sinking deep in his spine. The women was dressed in black, in a leather vest and shirt, her arms bare. One arm decorated with a a snake tattoo, running from her forearm up to her shoulder.
Theo raised his sword. “Seize her. Seize the serpent!”
The other knights made no move to do any such thing, while the woman stared at him dourly. “Who are you?”
“Who are you?”
“Theo, this is Emogen.” Annchi gestured towards her, alarmingly calm in the fray. “My guard.”
“This is your guard?” Theo stepped in front of Annchi, brandishing his sword all the while. “A serpent?”
Emogen scoffed, wiping the blood from her dagger on her trousers. “Former serpent.”
“As if there’s a difference.”
“Theo, it’s alright. Em’s in my father’s employ.”
“So you might want to drop the sword, knight, before you take out one of his majesty’s inside men.” She smiled in that slink way only a serpent could smile. “Or women.”
“In the name of Teffrin!”
Theo turned towards the ring, body firm between Annchi and the serpent woman. Out in the ring, a knight sparred with a new intruder, he fell moments later. Beside him, his horse lay impaled on a spear of black metal. Metal that melted into sludge.
“For the abandoned god,” the intruder roared, hands burning as another spear grew in his palms. straight from the forge of sorcery. He raised it, pointing it towards the stands.
Theo grasped Annchi’s chair and wheeled her back, diving in front, shield raised. “Get her out of here,” he demanded the serpent, against his better judgement. “Now!”
The spear lodged in his shield, the force of it knocking him back a step or two. Then it melted, red-hot. He flung the shield aside before it had a chance to scald him. The black metal hit the ground and gurgled like living tar. “Throw me a shield.”
Golden light struck the ground behind the intruder, distracting him from his target. The intruder turned and raised his weapon, roaring out Teffrin’s name once again, only to be thrown aside in a blast of light.
The attacker raised a bow that shone like stars, and felled the mage with one arrow to the neck. As he fell, the spear in his hand melted like magma against his flesh.
Theo was so numb, it took him a moment to realise why everyone was screaming. Why they were standing and shouting and pointing, not at the dead mage with the melted ribcage, but at the attacker with the bow. Because he stood in the centre of the arena, hands and feet sheathed in gold, wings white like a dove stretching from his back. A young man and a wolf by his side.
“Is that a seraph?” Behind him, Annchi’s voice trembled, but there was a delight in her awe.
In Theo, there was only dread. What would bring a seraph to them, of all places? And who was he seeking?
Chuck leaves the world to end, slowly and painfully. When the Winchesters hit the road after two years in the bunker, they learn an awful truth. The world is dying, all right, but Chuck’s made sure the Winchesters never will.
