Skirts in the wind
Crossdressing : Live life!
2010.03.27 07:17 SarahC Crossdressing : Live life!
A safe space for cross-dressers of all genders, as well as their family and significant others. This subreddit is mainly centered around sharing photos of ourselves, but it isn't a beauty contest, it's a community. We encourage discussion, friendly conversation, constructive criticism, and advice above all else.
2011.03.31 06:09 sodypop TIN YEARS OF TROLLX!!!
A subreddit for rage comics and other memes with a girly slant.
2020.03.07 09:28 Milky_madness WindInTheWillows
This is a community about wind in the willows
2024.05.14 20:12 kawaiiglitterkitty Karen Enjoys the View
Had a short encounter with a Karen at lunch today. It's a gorgeous day out, so I decided to walk the downtown where I work. Unfortunately, it's also windy out today. While I was idling the minutes watching a pair of angry sparrows have it out in a nearby tree, a particularly strong gust of wind hit unexpectedly and blew my skirt up. I pushed it down with my hands, but it was too late. Karen had seen me.
She was exiting her car nearby with her teen daughter and scowled at me. "Your entire ass is hanging out!"
I paused, still engrossed in the battle of the sparrows and took a moment to register what she said. I glanced down at my blouse and knee length black skirt with a shrug and replied. "Well, enjoy the view, I guess."
Her daughter busted a laugh and Karen's scowl deepened as she took started to scurry across the street, shouting back "It's called having some class!"
Not the first time a Karen has come after me for my plum rump and it surely won't be the last. I guess next time I come to the office I should leave my ass at home.
submitted by kawaiiglitterkitty to FuckYouKaren [link] [comments]
She was exiting her car nearby with her teen daughter and scowled at me. "Your entire ass is hanging out!"
I paused, still engrossed in the battle of the sparrows and took a moment to register what she said. I glanced down at my blouse and knee length black skirt with a shrug and replied. "Well, enjoy the view, I guess."
Her daughter busted a laugh and Karen's scowl deepened as she took started to scurry across the street, shouting back "It's called having some class!"
Not the first time a Karen has come after me for my plum rump and it surely won't be the last. I guess next time I come to the office I should leave my ass at home.
2024.05.14 17:54 hoggersbridge Engines of Arachnea: A Science Fantasy Epic (Chapter 16: The Leapers)
Link for all the chapters available here: Engines of Arachnea on Royal Road
He was back at Smiley’s taproom with a petite brunette dangling from his arm, the young signal operator whose acquaintance he’d made while assigned as a liaison officer with the Exploratory Corps. There he was, all big and stiff in his brand-new dress uniform, trying desperately to impress someone who was astronomically more attractive than him and making a priceless ass of himself.
“So,” she purred, eyeing him over the rim of her glass, “Tell me again about the surface. What’s it like wandering up there above all us wee mortals?”
“Erm,” Rene cleared his throat, feeling a hot flush creeping up his reddening neck, “It’s, uh, quite remarkable really. Simply fantastic.”
Having run out of things to say, Rene took a snootful of his drink in an attempt to sharpen his wits. It was so hard to focus with her hanging onto his every word like this.
“Ooh, you make it sound so exciting,” Deborah had tittered. Or was it Devorah? Her name had gotten lost in the fumes of fermented honeydew clouding up his brain. Perhaps another sip would jog his memory. Rene downed the horrid swill and coughed as it burned its way down his throat and up his nostrils.
“Would you look at the state of him!” someone guffawed, slapping Rene on the back, “Cool as cucumbers under fire when there’s a hundred dirty Amits breathing down our necks, but prop him up next to a lass and he goes completely to pieces.”
“Ah, piss off,” Rene said fondly. He turned to see Lethway sitting next to him flanked by two buxom blondes, an Amit axe buried deep in his neck.
“I’m only saying. You’ve got to keep your head on your shoulders, man,” Lethway said, as his own tumbled off sideways and hung on by a flap of gristle, “We’ve got a long night ahead of us with our fine lady friends here. It wouldn’t do for you to be sleeping on the job.’
“Why, Lethie my dearest. I’m sure Mr. Louvoture has the…stamina…to keep up,” the brunette said demurely, batting her eyelids at Rene, “Go on. You were telling me about how amazing it is up there.”
“Yes,” Rene puffed out his cheeks and marshalled his scattered thoughts, “It’s like this, see…how can I put it? Words can hardy do it justice.”
“Try me,” Deborah/Devorah said, tugging at his arm with her warm hands. The girl was practically throwing herself at him no matter how badly he was fumbling the ball. Rene my lad, if you don’t make it tonight you’re going to regret it for the rest of your life, Rene thought to himself.
“Alrighty then,” Rene said, deciding to risk everything by gaze deep into her eyes, which if the romance novels were to be believed, were windows into a woman’s soul. She had very pretty irises, all velvety and shining with something bordering on hero-worship.
“When you’re topside and the suns go down beyond the hills, and the clouds weep tears of crimson as the sky rolls over into a bowl of stars holding all the universe above you, it feels like…like…” Rene trailed off.
“What?” she whispered into the hush that had settled over the bar.
“Well, it feels a little like this,” Rene said softly, leaning in for a kiss. Her lips tasted his, the tip of her tongue quivering with longing. She drew him into her embrace, gripping him around the waist and pressing into him.
Awfully forward, these girls from Mound Sierra, Rene thought with some alarm. Not that he was complaining. They spent an eternity entwined like this, the whole taproom cheering and egging them on.
“Woof!” Rene broke away to catch his breath, “Is it me, or is it getting hard to breathe in here?”
“Shut up and kiss me again,” Devorah/Deborah said impatiently, wrapping a leg around his and holding him tight. Rene put a hand on her thigh and found that she was surprisingly hairy for a girl. Feeling a little repulsed at this he tried to peel himself away, but found that he couldn’t move any of his limbs.
“Mmph. Hmmgh!” he mumbled, his voice muffled by her insistent mouth. He cocked an eyebrow over her shoulder at Lethway, who’d just propped his head back up onto its stump.
“Cheers, big fellow!” Lethway tipped a glass in his direction and downed his glass in one gulp, the drink trickling out of him through a large bullet hole in his chest.
“I hate it when that happens,” Lethway said, staring sadly at it. He looked back up at Rene and said: “Oy! What did I tell you about falling asleep on the job. Isn’t it about time you got moving, trooper?”
“Not yet,” Devorah/Deborah sighed, kissing his neck, “First he has to tell me how much he likes my eyes. You do like my eyes, don’t you?”
“Why, of course darling—” Rene began. But then she pulled back to look him in face, and the words curdled and died on his lips.
Gone was the petite brunette in her oh-so-short skirt, replaced by a furry, many-eyed freak with quivering mouthparts. In an instant Smiley’s taproom was torn away to reveal the awful truth of his current circumstances: he was hanging upside down from a tree and caught in monster’s deadly embrace. He was trussed up by his legs which had gone completely numb, and his wrists were bound together by loops of silk that felt as strong as steel chains. Yelling incoherently, Rene started wriggling like a worm on a hook. The creature tightened its hold and pressed its fangs against his throat, delicately avoiding piercing the skin while looking at him through its row of eyes.
It was a warning. Rene wisely heeded it and stopped struggling. After a long moment the monster let him go, although they both continued to dangle upside down. Rene stared at its face in horrid fascination. He saw now that it had four eyes on its flat, squarish face, the centermost pair dwarfing the two ancillary ones on either side of them. In the place of a lower jaw it had four vertical mouthparts, the shorter ones in the middle tipped with curved fangs while the rest functioned like antennae, moving constantly with little taps and clicks, its grotesque head nodding along with them.
Rene thought the motion was reminiscent of a person’s lips as they mumbled, and he had a disturbing suspicion that the monster was trying to talk to him. The fact that he was still alive also lent credence to this theory. After all, if Amits were intelligent lifeforms, why couldn’t this one be as well? Hoping against hope, he stammered out:
“I—I don’t understand. I’m afraid I can’t speak your language. Haven’t got the equipment for it. See?”
Rene bared his teeth at it in a forced smile, tying show it what he meant. But the monster recoiled from him, pushing off the trunk behind him and leaping back some twenty meters away from him. It alighted on a tangle of creeper vines and hung there in all its awful majesty, eyeing Rene through its four unblinking orbs. It had ten appendages including its stubby antennae, each of them ending in a three-clawed hand. Its shoulder and thigh muscles were enormous, though its potbellied torso was as round as a wagon wheel, sporting a disgusting hump of flesh on its back. No doubt it contained even more musculature to support its powerful limbs, which at the moment were bunched up and ready to spring.
He had startled it, Rene realized. His own mouth was probably just as alien and repulsive to its sensibilities as its physiology was to him. Before he could derive some small satisfaction from that, more of the monsters emerged to join the first, darting out of the shadows with an unnatural, jittery motion. They moved in stops and starts, periods of immobility interrupted by burst of blinding speed, here one moment and gone the next.
“It shpeaksh…” Rene heard someone say in a voice somewhere between a dry croak and the gurgling of a water pipe. Rene looked around for the source of the voice and was shocked to find that it was issuing from the largest monster, the one reclining on the vines like some misshapen ape. He couldn’t believe his own ears. It was speaking Fleet cantish, mangling its way through the words somehow despite the total absence of a jawbone.
“Gallivant?” another queried with clearer pronunciation.
“No blade-wing, thish,” the leader clicked its palps thoughtfully, “Too shoft. Too schtupid. Came from the fire giant. Dropped a sheed pod, it did, like a tree in the wind. The sheed shpun a web and floated. Down, down, down.”
“Shoft like a grub,” agreed the smallest monster somewhat belatedly. A frothy substance with the consistency of saliva dripped from its fangs. It took a step towards Rene, stiffening all over. Before he could even blink it had launched itself through the air directly at him. In the same instant the leader also leapt, slamming bodily into its subordinate and throwing it to the ground.
“No,” the leader rasped, letting the other monster limp away having been suitably chastised, “Questions firshht. The fire giant. Are you itsh hatchling?”
It was staring at Rene when it said this. Rene thought quickly. It was a binary question and he felt that his life hung in the balance, the odds being even either way. Heads or tails? From what he’d heard it was clear that the only thing keeping him from lining the stomachs of these monsters was their abiding curiosity. They had witnessed the Divine Engine and his impromptu ejection from it, and they were under the impression that it had been a living thing and that he was its offspring. It followed that the best thing to do was to maintain their interest in him for as long as possible while he thought of an escape plan. Heads it was, then. Rene said:
“Yes. Yes, I am its ‘hatchling’.”
He glanced around until he found his sword where he had left it leaning against the buttress root, still in its sheathe next to the survival kit. If he could just reach down and grasp it in his hands…
“Good,” said the abomination, “And know you the secret of itsh power?”
“Of course,” Rene said, slowly and surreptitiously stretching out his arms, reaching for the sword hilt with all his might.
“Good, good,” the abomination crooned. There was a blur of motion and the leader materialized in front of him, their faces inches apart. It seized him by the hairs and yanked him close.
“Then I, too, will know its inner workingshh. Once I open your head and drink deep from your mind.”
Should have gone with tails, Rene thought as it lunged for him.
Link for all the chapters available here: Engines of Arachnea on Royal Road
submitted by hoggersbridge to HFY [link] [comments]
He was back at Smiley’s taproom with a petite brunette dangling from his arm, the young signal operator whose acquaintance he’d made while assigned as a liaison officer with the Exploratory Corps. There he was, all big and stiff in his brand-new dress uniform, trying desperately to impress someone who was astronomically more attractive than him and making a priceless ass of himself.
“So,” she purred, eyeing him over the rim of her glass, “Tell me again about the surface. What’s it like wandering up there above all us wee mortals?”
“Erm,” Rene cleared his throat, feeling a hot flush creeping up his reddening neck, “It’s, uh, quite remarkable really. Simply fantastic.”
Having run out of things to say, Rene took a snootful of his drink in an attempt to sharpen his wits. It was so hard to focus with her hanging onto his every word like this.
“Ooh, you make it sound so exciting,” Deborah had tittered. Or was it Devorah? Her name had gotten lost in the fumes of fermented honeydew clouding up his brain. Perhaps another sip would jog his memory. Rene downed the horrid swill and coughed as it burned its way down his throat and up his nostrils.
“Would you look at the state of him!” someone guffawed, slapping Rene on the back, “Cool as cucumbers under fire when there’s a hundred dirty Amits breathing down our necks, but prop him up next to a lass and he goes completely to pieces.”
“Ah, piss off,” Rene said fondly. He turned to see Lethway sitting next to him flanked by two buxom blondes, an Amit axe buried deep in his neck.
“I’m only saying. You’ve got to keep your head on your shoulders, man,” Lethway said, as his own tumbled off sideways and hung on by a flap of gristle, “We’ve got a long night ahead of us with our fine lady friends here. It wouldn’t do for you to be sleeping on the job.’
“Why, Lethie my dearest. I’m sure Mr. Louvoture has the…stamina…to keep up,” the brunette said demurely, batting her eyelids at Rene, “Go on. You were telling me about how amazing it is up there.”
“Yes,” Rene puffed out his cheeks and marshalled his scattered thoughts, “It’s like this, see…how can I put it? Words can hardy do it justice.”
“Try me,” Deborah/Devorah said, tugging at his arm with her warm hands. The girl was practically throwing herself at him no matter how badly he was fumbling the ball. Rene my lad, if you don’t make it tonight you’re going to regret it for the rest of your life, Rene thought to himself.
“Alrighty then,” Rene said, deciding to risk everything by gaze deep into her eyes, which if the romance novels were to be believed, were windows into a woman’s soul. She had very pretty irises, all velvety and shining with something bordering on hero-worship.
“When you’re topside and the suns go down beyond the hills, and the clouds weep tears of crimson as the sky rolls over into a bowl of stars holding all the universe above you, it feels like…like…” Rene trailed off.
“What?” she whispered into the hush that had settled over the bar.
“Well, it feels a little like this,” Rene said softly, leaning in for a kiss. Her lips tasted his, the tip of her tongue quivering with longing. She drew him into her embrace, gripping him around the waist and pressing into him.
Awfully forward, these girls from Mound Sierra, Rene thought with some alarm. Not that he was complaining. They spent an eternity entwined like this, the whole taproom cheering and egging them on.
“Woof!” Rene broke away to catch his breath, “Is it me, or is it getting hard to breathe in here?”
“Shut up and kiss me again,” Devorah/Deborah said impatiently, wrapping a leg around his and holding him tight. Rene put a hand on her thigh and found that she was surprisingly hairy for a girl. Feeling a little repulsed at this he tried to peel himself away, but found that he couldn’t move any of his limbs.
“Mmph. Hmmgh!” he mumbled, his voice muffled by her insistent mouth. He cocked an eyebrow over her shoulder at Lethway, who’d just propped his head back up onto its stump.
“Cheers, big fellow!” Lethway tipped a glass in his direction and downed his glass in one gulp, the drink trickling out of him through a large bullet hole in his chest.
“I hate it when that happens,” Lethway said, staring sadly at it. He looked back up at Rene and said: “Oy! What did I tell you about falling asleep on the job. Isn’t it about time you got moving, trooper?”
“Not yet,” Devorah/Deborah sighed, kissing his neck, “First he has to tell me how much he likes my eyes. You do like my eyes, don’t you?”
“Why, of course darling—” Rene began. But then she pulled back to look him in face, and the words curdled and died on his lips.
Gone was the petite brunette in her oh-so-short skirt, replaced by a furry, many-eyed freak with quivering mouthparts. In an instant Smiley’s taproom was torn away to reveal the awful truth of his current circumstances: he was hanging upside down from a tree and caught in monster’s deadly embrace. He was trussed up by his legs which had gone completely numb, and his wrists were bound together by loops of silk that felt as strong as steel chains. Yelling incoherently, Rene started wriggling like a worm on a hook. The creature tightened its hold and pressed its fangs against his throat, delicately avoiding piercing the skin while looking at him through its row of eyes.
It was a warning. Rene wisely heeded it and stopped struggling. After a long moment the monster let him go, although they both continued to dangle upside down. Rene stared at its face in horrid fascination. He saw now that it had four eyes on its flat, squarish face, the centermost pair dwarfing the two ancillary ones on either side of them. In the place of a lower jaw it had four vertical mouthparts, the shorter ones in the middle tipped with curved fangs while the rest functioned like antennae, moving constantly with little taps and clicks, its grotesque head nodding along with them.
Rene thought the motion was reminiscent of a person’s lips as they mumbled, and he had a disturbing suspicion that the monster was trying to talk to him. The fact that he was still alive also lent credence to this theory. After all, if Amits were intelligent lifeforms, why couldn’t this one be as well? Hoping against hope, he stammered out:
“I—I don’t understand. I’m afraid I can’t speak your language. Haven’t got the equipment for it. See?”
Rene bared his teeth at it in a forced smile, tying show it what he meant. But the monster recoiled from him, pushing off the trunk behind him and leaping back some twenty meters away from him. It alighted on a tangle of creeper vines and hung there in all its awful majesty, eyeing Rene through its four unblinking orbs. It had ten appendages including its stubby antennae, each of them ending in a three-clawed hand. Its shoulder and thigh muscles were enormous, though its potbellied torso was as round as a wagon wheel, sporting a disgusting hump of flesh on its back. No doubt it contained even more musculature to support its powerful limbs, which at the moment were bunched up and ready to spring.
He had startled it, Rene realized. His own mouth was probably just as alien and repulsive to its sensibilities as its physiology was to him. Before he could derive some small satisfaction from that, more of the monsters emerged to join the first, darting out of the shadows with an unnatural, jittery motion. They moved in stops and starts, periods of immobility interrupted by burst of blinding speed, here one moment and gone the next.
“It shpeaksh…” Rene heard someone say in a voice somewhere between a dry croak and the gurgling of a water pipe. Rene looked around for the source of the voice and was shocked to find that it was issuing from the largest monster, the one reclining on the vines like some misshapen ape. He couldn’t believe his own ears. It was speaking Fleet cantish, mangling its way through the words somehow despite the total absence of a jawbone.
“Gallivant?” another queried with clearer pronunciation.
“No blade-wing, thish,” the leader clicked its palps thoughtfully, “Too shoft. Too schtupid. Came from the fire giant. Dropped a sheed pod, it did, like a tree in the wind. The sheed shpun a web and floated. Down, down, down.”
“Shoft like a grub,” agreed the smallest monster somewhat belatedly. A frothy substance with the consistency of saliva dripped from its fangs. It took a step towards Rene, stiffening all over. Before he could even blink it had launched itself through the air directly at him. In the same instant the leader also leapt, slamming bodily into its subordinate and throwing it to the ground.
“No,” the leader rasped, letting the other monster limp away having been suitably chastised, “Questions firshht. The fire giant. Are you itsh hatchling?”
It was staring at Rene when it said this. Rene thought quickly. It was a binary question and he felt that his life hung in the balance, the odds being even either way. Heads or tails? From what he’d heard it was clear that the only thing keeping him from lining the stomachs of these monsters was their abiding curiosity. They had witnessed the Divine Engine and his impromptu ejection from it, and they were under the impression that it had been a living thing and that he was its offspring. It followed that the best thing to do was to maintain their interest in him for as long as possible while he thought of an escape plan. Heads it was, then. Rene said:
“Yes. Yes, I am its ‘hatchling’.”
He glanced around until he found his sword where he had left it leaning against the buttress root, still in its sheathe next to the survival kit. If he could just reach down and grasp it in his hands…
“Good,” said the abomination, “And know you the secret of itsh power?”
“Of course,” Rene said, slowly and surreptitiously stretching out his arms, reaching for the sword hilt with all his might.
“Good, good,” the abomination crooned. There was a blur of motion and the leader materialized in front of him, their faces inches apart. It seized him by the hairs and yanked him close.
“Then I, too, will know its inner workingshh. Once I open your head and drink deep from your mind.”
Should have gone with tails, Rene thought as it lunged for him.
Link for all the chapters available here: Engines of Arachnea on Royal Road
2024.05.14 10:36 TheCradledDM Athos 36: The Other Side
be me; ex LizarDM
be also me; Adonis Valintellis (Tiefling Paladin), Thalia Milakos (Human Ranger) and Zaahir Kehmet (Earth Genasi Wizard)
the soldier stifled a yawn as he patrolled the sandy beaches of Kalikos
clouds hid the island from the moon’s spectral glow, casting the land into darkness and turning the often silver seas black as coal
his shift had been a long one and just as boring as expected
where once his mind had been sharp and alert, it now lingered on thoughts of a cold drink and a warm bed
his eyes scanned the shore superficially, passing over the same stones and grassy knolls he’d seen a hundred times before
on any other night, he may have noticed the discrepancies in the shoreline
the new rock that appeared almost boat-like on second glance
but alas, his mind was a thousand miles away, and the javelin hit him without warning
the soldier collapsed to his knees, gasping for air like a fish on land
his armour had spared him from the worst of the damage, but the javelin had done its job
stunned and winded, he was rendered defenceless against the four figures that emerged from the darkness
a thought crossed his mind to sound the alarm; but his limbs refused to move and his lungs pleaded for breath
one member of the pack split from the rest. A stout dwarf with a full beard and a grim expression
they approached the helpless man, drawing a sharply curved short sword from their belt
the soldier tried to move
tried to yell
but the dwarf closed the distance between them and cut his throat, putting a violent end to his struggles
wiping the blood clean from his weapon, Oryk hauled the body behind cover before jogging to catch up with his companions
the Order of the Twins moved like shadows in the night. Their passage muffled by the spells woven about their feet
that said, their infiltration still proved easier than expected
skirting the edges of the island, the party avoided common paths and watchful eyes; slipping between gaps in the meagre defences they encountered
their route took them just below the peak of the island; where a lavish home stared out across the ocean
in the distance, tiny twinkling lights just barely outlined the Athosi mainland
the house itself was lit up like a beacon in the night, and roaming globules of fire identified the few guards on rotation. Six or seven at most
less than a third of what they had anticipated
counting their blessings, the small band of adventurers navigated the narrow pathways around the house and approached the island’s southern side, where a lonely dirt road wound its way towards a grove of trees
they moved swiftly and silently through the long grass that grew on either side, but they needn’t have bothered
the road was unguarded, and the entrance to the grove lay bare
“this is too easy,” Cyrene whispered; fidgeting nervously with an iron band around her wrist. “Where are the rest of the guards?”
she, like the rest of her companions, had a dishevelled look to her appearance
a thinness to her features that implied more than a couple missed meals
Oryk shot her a stern look, and the half orc immediately shut her mouth
turning his gaze to the two half elves to his rear, he was answered with obedient silence
Maia had always been thin, but now she was practically gaunt
her eyes carried a weight, and an ugly scar split her lip on the left side
Iris, her sister, had once identified herself with long curly hair
now, it was cut short, and crudely so. As if done with an altogether uncaring hand
both twins wore the same iron band as Cyrene around their left wrist
a thin piece of metal that coiled around their limb like a snake
with a commanding wave of his hand, Oryk led the party through the grove’s northern entrance and into the trees beyond
moving like ghosts between the thin trunks and shallow underbrush, the group made good progress before they heard the sudden snap of a twig in the darkness
Oryk raised a fist and the advance came to an abrupt stop, scanning their surroundings with tense expressions
a series of soft whispers drifted between the trees, accompanied by the rustling of leaves and groaning of branches
the dwarven fighter drew his sica and his companions complied, unsheathing their weapons in response
they began to spot lithe, feminine figures peering out at them from behind the trees. Staring at the strangers with bright, emerald eyes
the women had skin like mottled bark, and hair that plumed about them like foliage
“dryads,” Cyrene declared, lowering her rhomphaia with the faintest hint of relief
Iris and Maia exchanged a look before lowering their own weapons, albeit keeping them close at hand
Oryk, however, raised his short sword threateningly, and pointed it at the nearest nature spirit
“get back in your trees and stay there. Interfere, and we will not hesitate to kill you”
the dryad in question retreated, but the others stood their ground as a frantic whispering filled the trees around them
something dangerous glimmered in Oryk’s eyes, and his fingers tightened around the hilt of his sica
“NOW!” he suddenly bellowed, his voice deep and commanding
the drayds scattered into the trees, leaving a myriad of foul curses and even fouler odours in their wake
Oryk gave a satisfied grunt and turned to leave, only to nearly walk into the dryad that now stood in his way
a spirit with speckled, ashy skin and a stern, stubborn expression
Oryk approached them with his weapon raised
“get out of my way,” he growled. “I won’t ask a third time”
the dryad stared down at him like a disapproving adult would a petulant child, and when it spoke, it did so with a voice like wind through a canopy
“if you were wise, you would return to your masters. You will not find what you seek here”
its eyes lifted to the party, as if directing its words to them
with a snarl, Oryk swiped at the dryad, only to be met by a cloud of pollen and stinging nettles
cursing aloud between bouts of frantic coughing, the dwarf fled the swarm and started rubbing his eyes, which had already begun streaming with tears
muttering under her breath, Cyrene approached his side and laid a hand on his shoulder
“come now, let me see”
lowering his hands to his side, Oryk turned to face her with a grimace, his eyes puffy and red
“Archons above, Oryk,” Cyrene cursed. “You should know better than to taunt a dryad”
as the words left her mouth, the band on her wrist suddenly tightened and the half orc gave a small yelp of pain
glaring at her through bloodshot eyes, Oryk gave the cleric a venomous look
“and you should know better than to speak out of line”
Cyrene’s hands fumbled at the metal around her wrist, refusing to meet the dwarf’s cruel gaze
the cuff continued to coil and squeeze; writhing like a living being as Cyrene frantically whispered a foreign chant beneath her breath
the words seemed to appease the magic item, and it loosened its grip in response
witnessing this cruel display of discipline, the twins began unconsciously massaging the band around their own wrists; as if reminiscing on a similar experience
shaking the pain from her arm, Cyrene set to work curing Oryk’s ailment, uttering a slew of healing spells
with his eyesight restored, Oryk sheathed his weapon and pushed past Cyrene, wandering into the trees
with little other choice other than to follow, the group set off after him
the party walked for some time before a sound other than buzzing insects and murmured curses reached their ears
a low, rumbling that echoed through the trees. Like a dull droning that came in ebbs and flows
once more the group came to a stop, and before Oryk could even turn to look towards the twins, they had already begun to move
creeping forward with the lightest of footsteps, Maia and Iris stealthily approached the sound, deftly avoiding any stray branches or betraying stones
the droning grew louder and louder, until the pair had stopped just shy of its source
peering around a trunk with sharp blue eyes, Maia scanned what lay ahead
the trees parted around an ancient oak, its roots deep and its branches tall
a hollow sat about half way up the trunk. A small opening just wide enough to put a hand or two inside
but the tree was not so interesting as what lay beneath
coiled around the trunk was a creature with a long, serpentine body
its scales, green and flecked with brown, were hard and interlocked like shields in a phalanx
its head, immense and filled with razor sharp teeth, lay curled just below the hollow of the tree
the low rumbling emanated from the monster’s chest, as it uttered a long, prolonged snore
Maia’s jaw tightened and her eyes flitted over to her sister
Iris’ face had gone pale, and her hand had instinctively dropped to grab at the empty sheath on her belt
a prize taken by their employer
the twins locked eyes, and shared a moment of profound fear
wetting her suddenly very dry lips, Maia gestured back towards the trees and Iris nodded in silent agreement
the two stealthily retreated, keeping their footsteps light all the way back to their comrades
Oryk almost jumped when the twins materialised beside him, emerging from the darkness without warning
“well?” he hissed, his voice rising above the droning snores. “What did you find?”
Iris frantically gestured for the dwarf to quiet down, as Maia shot a terrified glance back in the direction of the oak tree
only when they heard the low droning of the monster’s snores did the pair relax enough to answer
“dragon”
the word held in the air like a curse
Cyrene’s eyes widened, and had it not been for the band on her wrist, she most certainly would have uttered a prayer
even Oryk’s permanently affixed scowl faded as the blood drained from his face
when he finally spoke, he did so with no semblance of his usual condescension
“...how big?”
“8 meters,” Iris answered. “No more than 12”
Oryk nodded, his brow knitting together as he dropped into a crouch
“a juvenile,” he thought aloud. “Hasn’t reached full adulthood. Scorch marks?”
“none that we could see”
“good. Then either it’s too young to breathe fire, or it spits poison”
his eyes narrowed to points as he mulled things over in his head
the group kept quiet, forced to listen to the distant, droning snores as their leader considered their options
after a long stretch of time, Oryk took a sharp inhale and straightened his posture
“it’s asleep?”
his eyes shifted to Maia, and the half elf tensed
“we think so but…”
“we don’t know for certain,” Iris quickly interrupted. “We’ve never encountered a dragon before. We should call off the mission and come back more prepared”
a deadly silence fell over the group as the dwarf went still
“call off the mission?” he repeated
his voice was calm, but the words held a distinct edge to them
like the blade of a meticulously sharpened knife
“and since when did you make the calls in this party?”
Maia shot her sister a look, and Iris lowered her eyes
“never,” she answered
“that’s right. Never,” Oryk reiterated, holding the half elf in his steely gaze. “We do things my way, as we always have”
Iris’ clamped her mouth shut and the dwarvish fighter turned to look at his other companions
“unless you have all forgotten what awaits us if we fail? What will happen if we come back empty handed?”
he was met with silence and a slow shake of Cyrene’s head
“failure isn’t an option,” he continued. “If the drakon is asleep, we need to act now”
his gaze shifted to Maia
“so can you do what I need you to?”
the half elf swallowed and tried to slow her racing heartbeat
“I think so,” she meekly answered
“good. The rest of us will wait in position. We’ll flank the tree from three sides and-”
“-I’ll do it,” Iris suddenly interjected
Oryk’s teeth flashed in a grimace before he turned to face her
“I’ll retrieve the objective,” Iris clarified, meeting the dwarf’s gaze
“Maia is quieter,” Oryk bluntly retorted. “She stands a better chance of getting to the tree than you do”
“but with my magic-”
“-your magic that we need for the escape,” he interrupted. “We have a plan, stick to it”
he turned back to the front and began drawing out a rough plan in the dirt with his sica
“-while Maia sneaks in, we hold here to provide support. Once we have what we came for, we leave back through the northern exit”
Iris’ eye twitched, and Maia reached out to drop a hand on her sister’s arm
“Iris-” she quietly started
but her warning went unheeded, and Iris spoke up again
“what’s the point of saving my magic if we don’t get what we came for?” she argued
Oryk spun with a stormy expression, pointing his blade to her chest
“because I said so!” he snapped. “And you will do what you’re told!”
he may have stood half a head shorter than Iris, but in that moment, Oryk felt like a giant, and in the silence of the trees, his voice sounded like a clap of thunder
Iris’ face paled and Oryk realised what he had done
instinctively, the party held their breath; anticipating a monstrous roar, or the crash of falling trees
but after a few tense seconds, all they heard was the rhythmic rumbling of distant snores
the group letting out a collective sigh of relief that cut through the tension like a knife
tension that returned the moment Oryk opened his mouth
“do you want to be sent across the Chronaean?” he hissed. “Do you want to leave your sister alone?”
Iris’ eyes shifted to Cyrene, searching for some glimmer of support
instead, the half orc looked away, leaving the half elf to face their leader alone
“of course I don’t,” Iris mumbled
“exactly,” Oryk spat. “Stay in line, do what you’re told, and keep your mouth shut”
he turned to Maia with an expression that encouraged absolute obedience
“get the objective, and get out. Nod if you understand”
Maia gave a slight jerk of her head
“good. Now get moving”
the dwarf stormed off into the trees, and Cyrene quickly shot up to follow him
Maia and Iris exchanged a look of resignation before joining their trusted comrades
Maia stood in position by the edge of the clearing, mentally projecting her path to and from the hollowFirst Post: https://www.reddit.com/CradledDnDStories/comments/x8zwpv/athos_1_a_new_world_of_opportunity/
it was a simple job, really
dart across the open ground
jump up to the low branch on the left side
climb over to the main trunk
grab the objective
and do it all again
simple
if it weren’t for the dragon in the way
Maia's heart began to pound in her chest until she felt a hand fall gently across her arm
she turned, meeting Iris' concerned gaze
“you don’t have to do this,” her sister whispered; practically breathing the words into Maia’s ear
“yes I do,” Maia answered, keeping her voice just as quiet. “You heard Oryk. We can’t go back empty handed”
“f*ck Oryk,” Iris cursed. “We’re only here because of him”
in spite of herself, a grim smile lifted the corner of Maia’s lips
it was a rare thing to hear Iris curse
“we could run, you know. Make a break for the mainland”
Maia’s smile dropped in an instant
“Iris, no”
“why not?” Iris replied earnestly. “We can make it. I know we can”
“they’ll catch us. And even if they don’t, what then? We’ve got nowhere to hide. No friends to help us. We’d be on our own”
“we’ve been alone before. We survived, didn’t we?”
Iris’ words were hopeful, but they couldn’t hide the desperation beneath
when Maia didn’t seem convinced, Iris took her sister’s face into her hands
“please don’t do this. I can’t lose you”
Maia’s eyes softened, and she placed her hands atop Iris’
“that’s why I have to do this”
she took a deep breath and tried to put on a half convincing smile
“you don’t have to worry about me. I’ve got this. I promise”
Iris’ thumb traced the scar across her sister’s lip
“I’m older. It’s my job to worry about you”
a frown fell across Maia’s face
“older by 10 minutes”
“and I’ll never let you forget it”
Iris pulled her sister into a tight hug
“don’t you dare get yourself caught”
“when have I ever?”
the two reluctantly parted, and Iris held her sister at an arm’s length
“remember. Once you have it-”
“-run like the Hounds of Chaon are after me”
a smile touched Iris’ lips, and the shadows rose up to swallow her
when they parted, the monk was gone
inhaling a slow, shaky breath, Maia composed herself, and refocused on the tree
30ft to the centre
branch on the left side
over the dragon
down to the hollow
reverse and get out
she exhaled slowly, letting the shake fade from her breath
she had this
Maia broke from the tree line, moving in a swift but stealthy manner
every step carefully laid. Every movement intentional
the dragon’s snores rumbled like thunder, growing louder with each step
before she knew it, she was beneath the low branch
taking a quick stutter step to gain momentum, she threw herself upwards, catching the branch with both hands
thankfully, the branch held firm, and Maia swung her legs up and around it
shimmying along inch by inch, she drew closer to the trunk itself, inadvertently holding her breath as she passed over the sleeping body of the dragon
its breath reeked up close. Like spoiled fruit and vinegar
it took all her strength not to gag
before she knew it, she was at the trunk of the tree and at the next step of her plan
hoisting herself up to a crouched position, she flattened her body against the side of the trunk and began sliding her foot along its length
eventually, she found a suitable foothold and began clambering across to a more central position
the hollow was just beneath her now
and beneath that, the massive head of the dragon
this close, she realised just how easily such a creature could snap her up
with her small frame, she’d be gone in one or two bites
pushing such morbid thoughts out of her mind, she leaned down until her head and arm were low enough to reach inside the hollow
her lungs were beginning to burn from holding her breath for so long, but she dared not exhale
she wasn't sure how good a dragon's senses were, but she wasn't keen to find out either
reaching her arm into the hollow, her fingers touched loose leaves and knotted wood
she pushed a little deeper, searching for any sign of her prize
something cold
something metal
but instead, she felt the hard back of the hollow
frowning, she pressed again, but still felt only the rear of the hollow
had she somehow missed it?
her fingers scrambled around, but continued to feel only wood and leaves
her lungs were really burning now, and she could feel her face flushing with colour from being upside down
regardless, she removed her arm and leaned her head down further, trying to peer inside
in the black gloom of a moonless night, a human wouldn’t have been able to see a thing
but even with her enhanced elvish sight, Maia was granted only the slightest advantage
just enough to make out the shape of the interior and the contents within
dried leaves
knotted wood
a couple insect husks
and nothing else
sure she had somehow made a mistake, she looked again and again
but with each scan, the truth became undeniable
“you will not find what you seek, here”
the dryad’s words echoed in Maia’s head, and with a cold sense of dread, she realised that the spirit hadn’t been speaking rhetorically
the amulet wasn’t here
and with that realisation, Maia’s lungs could hold on no longer
her breath escaped all at once, her awkward position driving the air out in an undignified huff
she clamped a hand over her mouth, but the damage had been done
she had made a sound, however small, and already her breath was mixing with the cool air
time slowed to a crawl as the dragon’s snores came to a stop
she watched in terror as its head, mere inches below her, began to stir
its nostrils flared; drawing breath with a deep, rasping inhale, and its eyes rolled in their sockets
the dragon’s jaws cracked open, revealing a black, forked tongue and rows of fetid teeth
rancid breath assaulted Maia’s senses, making her stomach turn and her head spin
she waited for the creature to open its eyes
to see the tiny morsel dangling helplessly above it
but they never did
to her greatest relief, the dragon remained asleep and blissfully unaware of her presence
relief swiftly turned to dismay, however, as the dragon proceeded to shift; its scales rippling like water across its long, serpentine body
the tree shook violently as the monster scraped against its surface, shearing away bark and causing branches to groan and sway
wrapping her arms around whatever she could find, Maia clung desperately as the shaking threatened to throw her loose
after what felt like an eternity, the vibrations mercifully ended, and the dragon returned to its snoring
but even after the tree had long fallen still, Maia found herself unable move; as if every single muscle in her body had frozen solid
in a moment of clarity, she realised that her hand had found her dagger in the chaos, and that the weapon was now clutched in an iron grip at her side
she almost laughed at the absurdity of the situation
as if a dagger would keep her safe if the dragon had actually awoken
nonetheless, she kept it in her hand, unwilling to relinquish the one defence she had
lifting her gaze to scan the surrounding treeline, she spotted the pale faces of her companions waiting in position. Intently following her progress with their eyes
Iris looked just as high sprung as she was. All but ready to throw herself into the open in order to save her sister
Maia silently prayed that her twin could keep her composure for just a little longer
wetting her incredibly dry lips, the rogue began scaling the tree; taking care to avoid any of the small twigs and leaves that had been shaken loose by the dragon’s shifting
upon reaching her chosen branch she paused, taking a moment to slow her racing heart beat
in spite of everything telling her otherwise, she needed to calm down
stress would lead to mistakes
and mistakes would lead to her death
feeling her muscles relax ever so slightly, Maia continued, stretching her body out to reach the low branch
her feet found purchase, and the rogue began creeping along its length
a few more steps and she’d be home free
“Maia!”
a single word
muffled and distorted, and yet agonisingly loud
Maia’s eyes dropped to the bronze surface of her dagger and saw a young woman’s face staring back at her, their eyes grey and piercing
there was a flash of familiarity in the half elf’s mind, but in that moment, she could barely recall her own name
a million thoughts raced through her mind as her heart pounded like a drum in her ears
one thought, however, screamed louder than the rest
run
Maia’s feet moved before the thought had even finished forming, propelling her from the branch a split second before it detonated into an explosion of jagged splinters
she hit the ground hard, feeling something give in her shoulder
she didn’t have time to dwell on it, as an earth shattering roar tore the world asunder
her feet were under her in an instant, and she broke into a sprint, not daring to look behind her
she knew that if she turned, all she would see is a flash of green scales and a mouth full of fangs closing in to end her life
the air began to reek of rotten fruit and then a body collided with her, throwing her aside
a cloud of noxious fumes ripped through the space she had just occupied, causing grass to shrivel and trees to wither
she felt hands on her arms and shoulders, and then Iris was yelling at her, hauling her to her feet amidst pained racking coughs
they didn’t have time to stop, barrelling through the trees in a mad dash to get away
as furious roars filled the air behind them, Iris stumbled through the underbrush, her legs unsteady beneath her
Maia looped an arm under her shoulder, and now the twins were supporting each other in a tangle of limbs
minutes passed. Or maybe just seconds. And then the two broke from the tree line onto an open road
sea winds rushed up to meet them, and Iris' legs fully gave out as she began greedily sucking in gasps of fresh air
“come on!” Maia urged, trying to drag her sister to her feet
but Iris was of no use now, her eyes bulging and her face flushed with colour
something ripped its way out of the underbrush and Maia turned sharply, instinctively raising the dagger that was still clutched in a death grip
instead of the dragon she was expecting, she found Cyrene and her rhomphaia, halfway through a cut that would have cleaved her in two
recognising each other at the same time, the pair lowered their weapons and turned to the wheezing half elf at their feet
concern flashing across her face, Cyrene dropped to her knees in preparation to cast a spell
before she could begin, however, Oryk emerged from the grove, blood splattered across his hands
“we don’t have time for that. Get her up!”
he raced past them, leading the charge back towards the beach
with a grunt of exertion, Cyrene lifted Iris into her arms like a baby, shoving her rhomphaia into Maia's hands
keeping a wary eye on her sister, Maia followed the half orc as she began jogging after their leader
as they ran, Oryk settled into pace beside Maia, shooting her a questioning look between grunts of breath
“do you have it?”
the half elf's shoulders fell, and she quietly shook her head
“it wasn’t there”
Oryk’s face turned a dark shade of red, and a vein bulged in his head
“what do you mean it wasn’t there?!”
“the amulet is gone. We missed it”
a stream of vile curses flowed from Oryk’s lips, and Maia wisely chose to keep her eyes forward and mouth shut
they reached the beach in record time, and Cyrene carefully laid Iris down into their waiting boat
as Oryk and Maia began pushing the vessel into the rolling surf, the dwarf gave her a hateful glare
“hells spare you when they find out we failed”
“we...haven’t...failed...yet”
Oryk turned his ire on Iris, who lay curled across the edge of the boat trying her best to suck in what air she could
“we...know...where...its...going,” she continued between strained, wheezing breaths. “We...still...have...time...”
leaping into the boat with a splash of water, Oryk waited just long enough for his companions to get in before heaving away with the oars
“we’d better. For all our sakes”
he sliced through the water with powerful strokes, driving them into deeper and darker waters
Maia slunk down beside Iris, taking her sister’s hand into her own
Iris dropped her head onto Maia’s shoulder, and the twins watched as the shores of Kalikos drifted further and further away
Last Post: https://www.reddit.com/CradledDnDStories/comments/1b2taqi/athos_35_mirror_mirro
Next Post:
2024.05.14 03:47 CheckUrCrawlspaces Growing up, my mother forbade me from ever talking about my little brother outside the house. 50 years later, they're both dead, and I'm ready to talk
The garage door shut with a groan behind us, closing us in the gloom of the single bulb hanging over the car.
Mother took a drag off her cigarette and sighed as she exhaled, the smoke filled the cabin of the Ford and stung my eyes.
“You really disappointed me today, Julianne," she tapped her cigarette in the ashtray below the dash, "you embarrassed me in front of the other mothers at the Ice Cream Social, shoveling down seconds and thirds like a pig. I thought I raised you better than that.”
She took another drag, daintily holding the cigarette between her perfectly manicured fingers.
“I'm going to have to tell your brother about this," she continued, “he'll have to come up with a punishment fit for a pig."
I felt my stomach drop. My kid brother, Thomas, was only six, but could be exceptionally cruel. Mother seemed to encourage him and was deferring to him more and more frequently for how the house was run, especially concerning my upbringing.
"Mother, please, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to embarrass you. I'm sorry I was a pig and ate so much ice cream. I promise I won't do it again, I'll never eat any ice cream again," I was pleading with stone, unyielding.
“Hush your mouth. Go to your room and wait for Thomas," she put out the cigarette and got out of the car, I had no choice but to follow.
It felt like walking to the gallows as I stepped inside the house and headed towards the stairs to go to my room. Thomas had grown fond recently of physical punishment, he obviously delighted in Mother whipping me with a belt or, recently, Mother had allowed him to start beating me with a wooden spoon. He would squeal and giggle like a normal child watching bubbles in the wind while I screamed. I was dreading whatever was going to happen tonight, I chastised myself for eating that ice cream, I should have known she would show up. My sins were always laid bare.
Down the hall, I could hear Thomas watching television in the den. I only got to watch TV for half an hour on Saturday morning and new episodes of Happy Days with Mother and Thomas. Thomas got to watch all the TV he wanted. He could listen to the radio and turntable as much as he wanted, as loud as he wanted. Thomas had an entire room just for his toys.
I entered my bedroom, it was a space I occupied, but it didn't feel like mine. Mother kept it spartan, white walls and white bedspread. A crucifix over the bed and a painting of Jesus over the door. I had my desk and chair and a dresser with some of the porcelain dolls Daddy gave me before he died that Mother let me keep. That was it.
I placed my book bag down and sat on my bed, waiting for Thomas. It was a while, sitting there with nothing but my own thoughts and staring at the open door. I felt humiliated, I was almost thirteen and my entire life was dictated by my brother. Mother kept the house in constant lockdown to keep Thomas a secret. No outsiders were allowed in. I couldn't have friends because she was afraid I would mention him or sneak a friend in to gawk at my brother and tease him for being different.
I would never make fun of him, I was terrified of him. Terrified of what he was and what he was becoming.
Eventually I heard his heavy footsteps coming up the stairs and I felt my heart start beating faster and my palms began to sweat. I kneaded my skirt in my hands, trying to calm myself and dry my palms. His slow arrhythmic footsteps came down the hall and I watched him as he entered the room.
I couldn't help but internally recoil at his appearance, even though I'd known him since he was born, I could never adjust to how unnatural he appeared. Thomas had been born at home and had never seen a doctor, but he was obviously unwell.
He was six years old and was barely over two feet tall, but very squat and wide. His skin was thick and gray, the whites of his beady eyes were yellow and his hair was wispy and white like an old man's, spreading out like a halo around his gargoyle face. A slight odor of decomposition hung about him, it reminded me faintly of garbage cans on a hot summer day. I hated when Mother made me help him with a bath, his skin felt like old brittle leather that flaked onto my clothes in gray flecks. His body was dense like concrete, I could barely lift him into the tub. Picking him up forced his hair into my face where that smell of rot would fill my nose, causing me to gag, silently, so as not to offend him and draw any ire from him or Mother.
Today, Thomas was wearing bib overalls with a red and green striped sweater underneath, reminding me of a grotesque doll.
“Mama says you acted like a piggy today at the ice cream social,” he spoke up to me in his unsettlingly high pitched, yet raspy voice, like a child that smoked as much as Mother, "you need to come down for dinner right now for your punishment for embarrassing Mama."
He turned and walked back down the stairs and I had no choice but to follow his toddling form downstairs to the dining table. We entered the kitchen and the table was placed with two settings. Mother was already seated and Thomas clambered up into his booster seat at his normal spot next to Mother. She took a drag off her cigarette and motioned vaguely to the floor without even looking at me.
Neatly situated on the linoleum was my dinner, not on a plate, but directly on the floor. A pork chop, scoop of mashed potatoes, and a small pile of peas. No utensils, either.
Thomas giggled with glee upon seeing my face.
“You have Mama's permission now to eat like a piggy, now. No hands! Piggies just use their face!” He stood up in his chair and reached out for Mother’s ash tray and flung it out over my meal, peppering my dinner with cigarette ash and butts.
"Oops! Piggies don't mind trash though, do they, Mama?” he giggled and the sound filled me with rage.
"No, they don't,” Mother replied coolly while maneuvering her ashtray back in place and carefully putting out her cigarette before saying prayer.
As angry as I was, I got down on my hands and knees and did my best at eating what I could without using my hands. I knew if I refused, it would be far worse. The whole meal, Thomas made pig noises and would reach down and poke me with his fork, making comments about what a fat piggy I was and how he wished he could roast and eat me. I doubted Mother would even object if he actually did kill me and eat me.
Gagging my way through another bite of ashy pork chop, I felt a warm splat over my head and heard Thomas giggling. I reached up and felt he had dumped mashed potatoes into my hair.
Choking down tears, I asked Mother if I could clean the floor and bathe. She rolled her eyes and excused me to clear the table for them as well while she changed Thomas into his pajamas. Picking him up, she walked out of the room and Thomas stuck his putrid little purple tongue out at me before they made it out the kitchen door.
I silently cried while I cleared the table and washed the dinner dishes. Tears splashed down as I mopped up the mess from my food on the floor. I hated how awful Thomas was. I hated how they treated me. Ever since Daddy died and Thomas showed up, I was their punching bag. I missed Daddy so much.
Mother was kinder then, too. She was still severe, but Dad kept her tempered. After he died, there was a change that came over her. I was only six, so I didn't remember her too much from before, but I did remember her gushing on and on when she was pregnant with Thomas. How the baby was a gift from Our Heavenly Father, that it was going to complete our broken family.
My sixth birthday happened right after Daddy died and I remember sitting on the patio crying while the house was full of people after the funeral, normally he would have gotten me a new doll and a chocolate bar, instead I was forgotten. No doll. No chocolate. Just funeral potatoes and a house full of cigarette smoke from the adults.
Nobody remembered. The closest thing I got was my dad's sister, Aunt Judy, sitting next to me on the patio step for a few minutes of comfortable silence before giving my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. I don't think she knew her brother was memorialized on my birthday. Next year, Thomas was born the day before my birthday, so it was completely eclipsed as Mother had just birthed her new love into the world…
I stopped mid mop as a lightbulb finally went off. I had never put much thought into the dates before.
Thomas was born a full year after Daddy died. He couldn't be his dad. Who was Thomas’ actual father?
Washing mashed potatoes out of my hair that evening, I ran over and over the timeline. No matter how I parsed it out, Thomas was only my half brother. Going to bed that night, I kept myself awake, going over and over again to make sure. I couldn't remember any men being around at that time, but that didn't mean much. Adults can easily hide things from children. Tension began throbbing through my head and I felt queasy. Mother had always known all of my secrets, able to sniff them out like a bloodhound out or using Thomas to spy. Now I had one of Mother's secrets and I didn't know what to do with it.
First I wanted to confirm it, but it would mean snooping, which was difficult in a house that was rarely left empty. I would have to try finding Mother's calendar book or journal to see if she mentioned any dates or men.
But when could I attempt such a daring maneuver? Thomas hardly left the house. As proud as Mother was of him, she was very cognizant and protective of his differences and didn't want to draw attention to herself or Thomas like that. Mother herself had few social engagements throughout the week and mostly stayed home to watch her golden child.
I finally decided I would take the risk and fake sick on Tuesday, grocery day, so I could stay home from school while she went shopping. All Thomas did all day was watch TV downstairs, so that should give me about an hour to look through her room for clues. I decided to tuck my head down, try to behave as best as I could to avoid their wrath, and wait for Tuesday.
That weekend limped along agonizingly slow. Thomas was in a fine mood and was constantly seeking out a reason to poke me, punch me, slap me… he'd laugh while calling me a piggy with his off-putting wide mouth. I tried to mostly stay in my room and it seemed like neither of them cared.
School on Monday was a relief, but my anxiety ramped up. The consequences would be dire if Mother caught on that I was faking sick to stay home. I didn't even want to imagine how off the leash she'd let my half-brother become in his punishment for that level of insubordination.
I stayed up all night, my stomach was in knots, but I was committed to my plan. Throughout the night, I screamed as hard as I could into my pillow. Screamed until my throat was raw and I could barely talk. It felt cathartic in a way. When it was close to school time, I put on my heaviest flannel pajamas and began doing jumping jacks until my face was flushed and my scalp was soaked with sweat.
Looking in the bathroom mirror before heading down to talk to Mother, I thought I looked pretty convincing, my skin was flushed and sweaty, my eyes had circles under them from lack of sleep, and my voice croaked like a frog.
Heading downstairs, Mother was already feeding Thomas breakfast. I hesitantly stepped into the kitchen and stood there awkwardly for a second, pawing with my pajamas to keep my nerves steady until she noticed my presence and looked up.
“Why aren't you dressed, Julianne?"
"I don't feel well. My throat hurts and my tummy hurts.” My voice graveled out more than I was expecting, I really had hurt my throat.
She strode over to me and placed a cool hand on my sweaty brow.
"You do feel warm. Take an aspirin from the medicine cabinet and go lay back down. I'll check on you later," with that she turned back and walked over to Thomas, who was frozen in place, glaring at me over a forkful of scrambled eggs. The sharp glint of malice in his beady eyes made me shiver before I shuffled out of the kitchen.
I laid in bed, trying my best to look miserable until I eventually heard the faint sound of the television playing in the den as Thomas settled in for his normal daytime routine and the garage door opened as Mother headed to the grocery store. I bounded out of bed and watched the car back out of our driveway and head up the street.
My heart began to pound as I tiptoed down the hall to Mother's bedroom, a place I rarely even caught a glimpse of, let alone entered. I very slowly opened the door, taking great care to not make any noise to alert Thomas downstairs that I was out of bed.
Creeping into the butter yellow room, I could feel my heartbeat pounding in my skull, this was the naughtiest thing I had ever done by far. I stepped onto the rug to help disguise my footsteps and slowly made my way past the brass bed and towards her desk. My hands shook as I opened the top drawer, I pawed through rapidly and found nothing. I checked the next drawer down and again found nothing of interest, just stationary and envelopes.
Finally, the bottom drawer was what I was looking for, a stack of journals from the past decade. I flipped through, trying to find entries relevant to when Daddy died and who Mother slept with afterwards.
I've never fully recovered from what I read.
July 6, 1968
Edgar died today. Car accident. I cannot believe this is real. My light, my life, my anchor... Dr. Benson gave me a sedative at the hospital and I feel so tired. So very, very tired. Why has my Lord forsaken me so?
July 9, 1968
I feel like I am in a very bad dream, I feel numb and disconnected. All the consolation and pity from everyone makes me feel sick. After the memorial, it took everything in me to not break dishes and to scream at everyone to get out of my house. Julianne was moping about crying and I wanted to throw her out, too.
If I hadn't seen my dear Edgar's body in the hospital and held his urn in my own hands, I wouldn't believe he was really gone. I still don't entirely believe it.
I have prayed to God every night asking him to show me why he took my husband from me and I have gotten no answer.
I skimmed over the next few months, as it was more or less similar sentiments repeated night after night. I finally got to an entry that caught my eye.
September 17, 1968
My battle with my faith has been fraught the past few months, but Hallelujah! I feel I can see the Lord again in all his glory and might, for he has given me a way to reconnect to my Edgar!
I was thinking about the night Julianne was born, right in this very home, it was a difficult birth and she struggled to breathe at first. Ingrid, my midwife, made a comment to me that if the baby had failed to wake up on her own, that Ingrid had ways to make sure she would have made it.
I remember asking if it was a medical methodology and she made it clear to me that in certain circumstances, it was a mystical property she used to bring the air of life into a struggling baby's lungs. She gently alluded to being a practicing member of the dark arts. At the time, I felt quite scandalized to have someone like that in my God fearing home. Now I see her as the answer to my prayers! My angel!
On a whim, I called her and asked if she still practiced such techniques. She hesitantly confirmed that she did. I asked, if she could turn breath into the lungs of a child without, could she turn breath into a child that did not exist? Could she magick into existence another child of my beloved Edgar? She told me she had to do some research and she'd be back in touch.
Ingrid just called back after a few hours and said there was a spell she found, but it was dangerous and might have unpleasant results. I said, yes, of course! I trust my Lord and I believe he sent this woman of blessed magick to me for this purpose.
She says we will have to do it soon, in a few days during the new moon. She has a potion to brew, but it is happening! Praise God!
September 23, 1968
The ceremony was last night, and Ingrid believes it was a success, but we will have to wait. It did not take long, only an hour or two. Ingrid lit my bedroom with many beeswax candles and she had me drink a thick and bitter tea that caused me to become quite relaxed and foggy.
From my inner thigh, she cut me and collected my blood in a chalice, with which she mixed quite a lot of Edgar's ashes and other ingredients which I could not glean from my supine position and groggy wits. Ingrid began to chant, calling upon a higher power, as I pleaded with my Lord to let this work. To give me any piece of my Edgar back. She came to the bed and worked the paste between my legs into my womanly chamber, which was very uncomfortable, but manageable with the numbing effects of the tea.
She continued to sit with me and chant, her hand placed over my womb, until she decided at which time it was complete. She left and I fell into a deep sleep. When I woke up this morning, I felt quite uncomfortable, my body ached and when I used the restroom, a yellow fluid like pus poured out of me, but no sign of any ashes or blood, which gives me hope it was absorbed into my womb.
November 3, 1968
Praise be to our Lord, Ingrid just confirmed for me that I am with child, I had been hoping so, I had not gotten my cycle in October, but I wasn't sure if that was because of the discharge like pus that was still coming. She told me that was common with this spell and a side effect that would stop after the baby came.
I feel like I am floating on air, for the first time since Edgar left, I feel-
I suddenly became very aware of the feeling of eyes on the back of my head. I had become too engrossed in what was written before me and I had lost track of my surroundings. Very slowly, I turned around and my heart began pounding again as I saw Thomas standing in the doorway holding his wooden spoon in one hand. How had I not heard him?
He pointed at me with his empty hand and screamed, just a pure guttural screech from somewhere deep inside his disgusting little body. He charged at me from across the room, his horrible feet thumping solidly along the rug. He began beating my legs ruthlessly with the spoon, causing my legs to buckle. I crashed down to my knees in front of him, and he began lashing at my face, pulling my hair with one hand while wailing away at my head with the spoon.
I had dropped the journal I was holding and was desperately trying to get a hand on the spoon or push him away. All I could hear was him screaming. My arms flailed and I reached around on Mother's desk and grabbed onto the first thing I found and sank it into Thomas’ neck.
The end of Mother's gold letter opener protruded under his jaw. He went silent and he looked at me with utter shock. He dropped the spoon and collapsed on the ground, clutching at his neck as his thick black blood oozed out from his wound, letting out a stupendous odor of rot that filled the room. He didn't really say anything or make any noise. He just twitched for a moment and I saw his eyes glaze over.
In shock, I stood over his little body for a moment and I watched as he seemed to mummify in just a few minutes, like an ash person from Pompeii dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt. Even his blood that looked like shiny oil a second ago became like potting soil on Mother's rug. Reaching out to touch his hand, it crumbled away like sand.
Panic ran through me like a rabbit caught in a snare. Not knowing what to do, I ran. I ran down the hall, changed my clothes, put an extra change of clothes in my backpack and the last doll Daddy had ever given me and I ran. Mother would absolutely never forgive me and I was genuinely afraid she would kill me in retaliation for taking her beloved Thomas away from her. Her precious gift from God. My feet flew over the pavement and took me away from that house.
I called my Aunt Judy from a payphone outside the five & dime, and told her Mother had kicked me out and asked if I could stay with her. She had always had a strained relationship with my mother and it didn't take much convincing that she had kicked out her “only” child. Only Mother, Ingrid, and I ever knew about Thomas.
She gave me a home and took care of me. She never beat me or humiliated me. Even with her love, I was far from okay. For years I would close my eyes and hear Thomas scream, then the sudden silence. I'd see him fumbling at his neck and turning to ash. But I would also remember all the ways he would hurt me and how bad he was becoming. I could never talk to anyone about it, especially not the silent relief I felt I refused to admit to myself. Over time, however, Thomas' screams became a whisper and his silence faded into dust in my mind.
I moved on with my life. I went to college and became a photojournalist, getting to travel the world and watch history unfold. By choice, I never married, but was quite blessed with many beautiful friendships for companionship over the decades. I found balance in my life and a sense of happiness, if not peace. I never could quite stomach mashed potatoes again, though, they always taste ashy to me.
Mother never made any attempts to reach out to me or find me, at least that I'm aware of. Ten years ago, I was contacted by a hospital and they said my mother had been admitted earlier after falling and was about to pass, so she must have kept some tabs on me to know my phone number for her emergency contacts. Apparently she had collapsed in the driveway and a neighbor called an ambulance. I got there and her only words to me were, “take care of him," as she placed a locket in my hand. I opened the locket, Jesus was on one side, Thomas on the other. I didn't say anything to her, just held her frail old hand with nicotine stained nails until she passed in the night. My mother was gone and I felt nothing except a vague sense of relief.
When I got to her house, it was like a time capsule. Other than a newer television, it was just like it was when I'd fled so many years ago. The smell of tobacco smoke hung like incense in the air. It felt oppressive, like a tomb.
I wandered the house in a bit of a daze. The one place I didn't want to go was upstairs. I didn't want to see my old room, or Thomas' room, or Mother's. Putting it off, I went to fix myself some supper, realizing I hadn't eaten in almost a day. I took a pause when I opened the fridge and saw a baby bottle on a shelf. Silently praying she had been babysitting for a neighbor, I fixed myself some toast with sardines and sat eating in the den watching TV. It had been almost forty years and it still felt rebellious not eating at the table and watching TV without permission.
My eyes grew heavy and I finally mustered up the gumption to head upstairs to go to bed. The stairs creaked in a familiar way under my feet and I was taken back to the feeling of dread hearing either Mother or Thomas climbing up. My old room was at the top of the stairs, I saw the door was nailed shut and had rambling quotes about Judas copied from the Bible in my mother's handwriting taped to the door. I sighed gently and turned from the door to head down the hallway, deciding Mother's room was probably the best place to sleep.
I passed by Thomas’ toy room and I heard a murmur from the room. I stopped, curiosity got the best of me and I entered. In Thomas' old toy room was a crib with joyful clown sheets. Dread swelled up inside me as I heard more murmurs and saw the sheets move. Approaching slowly, I peaked under the sheet and gasped.
Tucked inside was what looked like a baby gargoyle, gray and papery looking. Pus leaked out of its milky, bulbous eyes. I pulled back the blanket and saw it had no legs and its arms bent back, like wings on a bird. It was wearing just a cloth diaper, overflowing with tarry looking stool that took my breath away with its pungency, it smelled like Thomas’ blood, but somehow worse. My heart broke for this poor creature, Lord only knows how many years it has been in this crib suffering from its unholy existence.
So this is who Mother had wanted me to take care of…
Not knowing what else to do, I gently scooped him up. Like Thomas, he was shockingly heavy for how small his body was. Placing him on the changing table, I cleaned him and rewrapped his bottom in a clean diaper cloth. It was difficult, he fussed tremendously, crying and flopping around as much as his flipper-like arms would allow. I tried wiping off his oozing eyes and he snapped his mouth, which I saw was full of disturbingly square yellow teeth, trying to bite me. I carried him to the kitchen and rocked him while I heated up his bottle and he became furious with me, almost barking like a dog when my hand would get near his face.
He settled a bit as he fed, but he would still sometimes suddenly spit out the bottle and attempt to bite me. I laid him back in his crib, this abomination in a clown sheet, and I walked down the hall to Mother's room letting out a long sigh.
Combing through my mother's journals in the early hours of the morning, it looked like she tried the ceremony again shortly after Thomas died, but she either lacked Ingrid’s help or didn't have enough of my father's ashes left. Something went terribly wrong. She was vaguer than she had been about Thomas’ conception, but I suspect she had used some of Thomas' remains. The resulting birth she named Isaac.
Mother's journals told a sad tale of her and Isaac's suffering. She never mentioned me, but lamented the loss of Thomas and Dad relentlessly. She was hyper protective of Isaac, as that was all she had left. If her world had been small before, it became microscopic after he entered her life, requiring nearly constant care. According to Mother, he was blind and colicky, sometimes going years at a time without sleeping through the night. She had breast fed him for years, but she had to stop after he grew teeth and began biting her intentionally and feeding on her blood.
I spent a lot of time over the next few days pondering what to do. I had to get her estate in order, she had left me the house, in an obvious attempt to get me to continue caretaking for Isaac, but I didn't want it. I had my own cozy home an hour away from here, filled with happy memories and my possessions acquired traveling the world. Mother's home had a heavy energy I couldn't shake. Her and Thomas were both gone, but the memories of the scoldings and beatings hung in every corner, like cobwebs that would never sweep away.
So, I fed Isaac and kept him clean and tried to keep him company, although he seemed to hate me passionately. I took care of him, all the while thinking about what I was going to do. After a week, I felt resolute in what had to be done.
Gathering up all of Mother's journals in a tote, I made my way to Isaac and picked him up and carried everything to the living room.
The ancient logs in the fireplace meant for display ignited instantly. One by one, I fed the journals into the fire, burning away years of my mother's consuming sorrow. Isaac fussed and moaned next to me the entire time. When the last pages shimmered away into lacy ash, I took a throw pillow off the couch and gently cradled Isaac in my other arm. It didn't take long before he stopped struggling and I felt his little body relax after decades of suffering.
I gently wrapped up a bundle in a clown sheet and placed it in the fire. It burned furiously, like the paper in my mother's journals, and was soon gone. Nothing but ashes and embers.
“Don't worry, Mother,” I said purely for my own sake, "I took care of Isaac for you."
And finally, I felt at peace.
submitted by CheckUrCrawlspaces to nosleep [link] [comments]
Mother took a drag off her cigarette and sighed as she exhaled, the smoke filled the cabin of the Ford and stung my eyes.
“You really disappointed me today, Julianne," she tapped her cigarette in the ashtray below the dash, "you embarrassed me in front of the other mothers at the Ice Cream Social, shoveling down seconds and thirds like a pig. I thought I raised you better than that.”
She took another drag, daintily holding the cigarette between her perfectly manicured fingers.
“I'm going to have to tell your brother about this," she continued, “he'll have to come up with a punishment fit for a pig."
I felt my stomach drop. My kid brother, Thomas, was only six, but could be exceptionally cruel. Mother seemed to encourage him and was deferring to him more and more frequently for how the house was run, especially concerning my upbringing.
"Mother, please, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to embarrass you. I'm sorry I was a pig and ate so much ice cream. I promise I won't do it again, I'll never eat any ice cream again," I was pleading with stone, unyielding.
“Hush your mouth. Go to your room and wait for Thomas," she put out the cigarette and got out of the car, I had no choice but to follow.
It felt like walking to the gallows as I stepped inside the house and headed towards the stairs to go to my room. Thomas had grown fond recently of physical punishment, he obviously delighted in Mother whipping me with a belt or, recently, Mother had allowed him to start beating me with a wooden spoon. He would squeal and giggle like a normal child watching bubbles in the wind while I screamed. I was dreading whatever was going to happen tonight, I chastised myself for eating that ice cream, I should have known she would show up. My sins were always laid bare.
Down the hall, I could hear Thomas watching television in the den. I only got to watch TV for half an hour on Saturday morning and new episodes of Happy Days with Mother and Thomas. Thomas got to watch all the TV he wanted. He could listen to the radio and turntable as much as he wanted, as loud as he wanted. Thomas had an entire room just for his toys.
I entered my bedroom, it was a space I occupied, but it didn't feel like mine. Mother kept it spartan, white walls and white bedspread. A crucifix over the bed and a painting of Jesus over the door. I had my desk and chair and a dresser with some of the porcelain dolls Daddy gave me before he died that Mother let me keep. That was it.
I placed my book bag down and sat on my bed, waiting for Thomas. It was a while, sitting there with nothing but my own thoughts and staring at the open door. I felt humiliated, I was almost thirteen and my entire life was dictated by my brother. Mother kept the house in constant lockdown to keep Thomas a secret. No outsiders were allowed in. I couldn't have friends because she was afraid I would mention him or sneak a friend in to gawk at my brother and tease him for being different.
I would never make fun of him, I was terrified of him. Terrified of what he was and what he was becoming.
Eventually I heard his heavy footsteps coming up the stairs and I felt my heart start beating faster and my palms began to sweat. I kneaded my skirt in my hands, trying to calm myself and dry my palms. His slow arrhythmic footsteps came down the hall and I watched him as he entered the room.
I couldn't help but internally recoil at his appearance, even though I'd known him since he was born, I could never adjust to how unnatural he appeared. Thomas had been born at home and had never seen a doctor, but he was obviously unwell.
He was six years old and was barely over two feet tall, but very squat and wide. His skin was thick and gray, the whites of his beady eyes were yellow and his hair was wispy and white like an old man's, spreading out like a halo around his gargoyle face. A slight odor of decomposition hung about him, it reminded me faintly of garbage cans on a hot summer day. I hated when Mother made me help him with a bath, his skin felt like old brittle leather that flaked onto my clothes in gray flecks. His body was dense like concrete, I could barely lift him into the tub. Picking him up forced his hair into my face where that smell of rot would fill my nose, causing me to gag, silently, so as not to offend him and draw any ire from him or Mother.
Today, Thomas was wearing bib overalls with a red and green striped sweater underneath, reminding me of a grotesque doll.
“Mama says you acted like a piggy today at the ice cream social,” he spoke up to me in his unsettlingly high pitched, yet raspy voice, like a child that smoked as much as Mother, "you need to come down for dinner right now for your punishment for embarrassing Mama."
He turned and walked back down the stairs and I had no choice but to follow his toddling form downstairs to the dining table. We entered the kitchen and the table was placed with two settings. Mother was already seated and Thomas clambered up into his booster seat at his normal spot next to Mother. She took a drag off her cigarette and motioned vaguely to the floor without even looking at me.
Neatly situated on the linoleum was my dinner, not on a plate, but directly on the floor. A pork chop, scoop of mashed potatoes, and a small pile of peas. No utensils, either.
Thomas giggled with glee upon seeing my face.
“You have Mama's permission now to eat like a piggy, now. No hands! Piggies just use their face!” He stood up in his chair and reached out for Mother’s ash tray and flung it out over my meal, peppering my dinner with cigarette ash and butts.
"Oops! Piggies don't mind trash though, do they, Mama?” he giggled and the sound filled me with rage.
"No, they don't,” Mother replied coolly while maneuvering her ashtray back in place and carefully putting out her cigarette before saying prayer.
As angry as I was, I got down on my hands and knees and did my best at eating what I could without using my hands. I knew if I refused, it would be far worse. The whole meal, Thomas made pig noises and would reach down and poke me with his fork, making comments about what a fat piggy I was and how he wished he could roast and eat me. I doubted Mother would even object if he actually did kill me and eat me.
Gagging my way through another bite of ashy pork chop, I felt a warm splat over my head and heard Thomas giggling. I reached up and felt he had dumped mashed potatoes into my hair.
Choking down tears, I asked Mother if I could clean the floor and bathe. She rolled her eyes and excused me to clear the table for them as well while she changed Thomas into his pajamas. Picking him up, she walked out of the room and Thomas stuck his putrid little purple tongue out at me before they made it out the kitchen door.
I silently cried while I cleared the table and washed the dinner dishes. Tears splashed down as I mopped up the mess from my food on the floor. I hated how awful Thomas was. I hated how they treated me. Ever since Daddy died and Thomas showed up, I was their punching bag. I missed Daddy so much.
Mother was kinder then, too. She was still severe, but Dad kept her tempered. After he died, there was a change that came over her. I was only six, so I didn't remember her too much from before, but I did remember her gushing on and on when she was pregnant with Thomas. How the baby was a gift from Our Heavenly Father, that it was going to complete our broken family.
My sixth birthday happened right after Daddy died and I remember sitting on the patio crying while the house was full of people after the funeral, normally he would have gotten me a new doll and a chocolate bar, instead I was forgotten. No doll. No chocolate. Just funeral potatoes and a house full of cigarette smoke from the adults.
Nobody remembered. The closest thing I got was my dad's sister, Aunt Judy, sitting next to me on the patio step for a few minutes of comfortable silence before giving my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. I don't think she knew her brother was memorialized on my birthday. Next year, Thomas was born the day before my birthday, so it was completely eclipsed as Mother had just birthed her new love into the world…
I stopped mid mop as a lightbulb finally went off. I had never put much thought into the dates before.
Thomas was born a full year after Daddy died. He couldn't be his dad. Who was Thomas’ actual father?
Washing mashed potatoes out of my hair that evening, I ran over and over the timeline. No matter how I parsed it out, Thomas was only my half brother. Going to bed that night, I kept myself awake, going over and over again to make sure. I couldn't remember any men being around at that time, but that didn't mean much. Adults can easily hide things from children. Tension began throbbing through my head and I felt queasy. Mother had always known all of my secrets, able to sniff them out like a bloodhound out or using Thomas to spy. Now I had one of Mother's secrets and I didn't know what to do with it.
First I wanted to confirm it, but it would mean snooping, which was difficult in a house that was rarely left empty. I would have to try finding Mother's calendar book or journal to see if she mentioned any dates or men.
But when could I attempt such a daring maneuver? Thomas hardly left the house. As proud as Mother was of him, she was very cognizant and protective of his differences and didn't want to draw attention to herself or Thomas like that. Mother herself had few social engagements throughout the week and mostly stayed home to watch her golden child.
I finally decided I would take the risk and fake sick on Tuesday, grocery day, so I could stay home from school while she went shopping. All Thomas did all day was watch TV downstairs, so that should give me about an hour to look through her room for clues. I decided to tuck my head down, try to behave as best as I could to avoid their wrath, and wait for Tuesday.
That weekend limped along agonizingly slow. Thomas was in a fine mood and was constantly seeking out a reason to poke me, punch me, slap me… he'd laugh while calling me a piggy with his off-putting wide mouth. I tried to mostly stay in my room and it seemed like neither of them cared.
School on Monday was a relief, but my anxiety ramped up. The consequences would be dire if Mother caught on that I was faking sick to stay home. I didn't even want to imagine how off the leash she'd let my half-brother become in his punishment for that level of insubordination.
I stayed up all night, my stomach was in knots, but I was committed to my plan. Throughout the night, I screamed as hard as I could into my pillow. Screamed until my throat was raw and I could barely talk. It felt cathartic in a way. When it was close to school time, I put on my heaviest flannel pajamas and began doing jumping jacks until my face was flushed and my scalp was soaked with sweat.
Looking in the bathroom mirror before heading down to talk to Mother, I thought I looked pretty convincing, my skin was flushed and sweaty, my eyes had circles under them from lack of sleep, and my voice croaked like a frog.
Heading downstairs, Mother was already feeding Thomas breakfast. I hesitantly stepped into the kitchen and stood there awkwardly for a second, pawing with my pajamas to keep my nerves steady until she noticed my presence and looked up.
“Why aren't you dressed, Julianne?"
"I don't feel well. My throat hurts and my tummy hurts.” My voice graveled out more than I was expecting, I really had hurt my throat.
She strode over to me and placed a cool hand on my sweaty brow.
"You do feel warm. Take an aspirin from the medicine cabinet and go lay back down. I'll check on you later," with that she turned back and walked over to Thomas, who was frozen in place, glaring at me over a forkful of scrambled eggs. The sharp glint of malice in his beady eyes made me shiver before I shuffled out of the kitchen.
I laid in bed, trying my best to look miserable until I eventually heard the faint sound of the television playing in the den as Thomas settled in for his normal daytime routine and the garage door opened as Mother headed to the grocery store. I bounded out of bed and watched the car back out of our driveway and head up the street.
My heart began to pound as I tiptoed down the hall to Mother's bedroom, a place I rarely even caught a glimpse of, let alone entered. I very slowly opened the door, taking great care to not make any noise to alert Thomas downstairs that I was out of bed.
Creeping into the butter yellow room, I could feel my heartbeat pounding in my skull, this was the naughtiest thing I had ever done by far. I stepped onto the rug to help disguise my footsteps and slowly made my way past the brass bed and towards her desk. My hands shook as I opened the top drawer, I pawed through rapidly and found nothing. I checked the next drawer down and again found nothing of interest, just stationary and envelopes.
Finally, the bottom drawer was what I was looking for, a stack of journals from the past decade. I flipped through, trying to find entries relevant to when Daddy died and who Mother slept with afterwards.
I've never fully recovered from what I read.
July 6, 1968
Edgar died today. Car accident. I cannot believe this is real. My light, my life, my anchor... Dr. Benson gave me a sedative at the hospital and I feel so tired. So very, very tired. Why has my Lord forsaken me so?
July 9, 1968
I feel like I am in a very bad dream, I feel numb and disconnected. All the consolation and pity from everyone makes me feel sick. After the memorial, it took everything in me to not break dishes and to scream at everyone to get out of my house. Julianne was moping about crying and I wanted to throw her out, too.
If I hadn't seen my dear Edgar's body in the hospital and held his urn in my own hands, I wouldn't believe he was really gone. I still don't entirely believe it.
I have prayed to God every night asking him to show me why he took my husband from me and I have gotten no answer.
I skimmed over the next few months, as it was more or less similar sentiments repeated night after night. I finally got to an entry that caught my eye.
September 17, 1968
My battle with my faith has been fraught the past few months, but Hallelujah! I feel I can see the Lord again in all his glory and might, for he has given me a way to reconnect to my Edgar!
I was thinking about the night Julianne was born, right in this very home, it was a difficult birth and she struggled to breathe at first. Ingrid, my midwife, made a comment to me that if the baby had failed to wake up on her own, that Ingrid had ways to make sure she would have made it.
I remember asking if it was a medical methodology and she made it clear to me that in certain circumstances, it was a mystical property she used to bring the air of life into a struggling baby's lungs. She gently alluded to being a practicing member of the dark arts. At the time, I felt quite scandalized to have someone like that in my God fearing home. Now I see her as the answer to my prayers! My angel!
On a whim, I called her and asked if she still practiced such techniques. She hesitantly confirmed that she did. I asked, if she could turn breath into the lungs of a child without, could she turn breath into a child that did not exist? Could she magick into existence another child of my beloved Edgar? She told me she had to do some research and she'd be back in touch.
Ingrid just called back after a few hours and said there was a spell she found, but it was dangerous and might have unpleasant results. I said, yes, of course! I trust my Lord and I believe he sent this woman of blessed magick to me for this purpose.
She says we will have to do it soon, in a few days during the new moon. She has a potion to brew, but it is happening! Praise God!
September 23, 1968
The ceremony was last night, and Ingrid believes it was a success, but we will have to wait. It did not take long, only an hour or two. Ingrid lit my bedroom with many beeswax candles and she had me drink a thick and bitter tea that caused me to become quite relaxed and foggy.
From my inner thigh, she cut me and collected my blood in a chalice, with which she mixed quite a lot of Edgar's ashes and other ingredients which I could not glean from my supine position and groggy wits. Ingrid began to chant, calling upon a higher power, as I pleaded with my Lord to let this work. To give me any piece of my Edgar back. She came to the bed and worked the paste between my legs into my womanly chamber, which was very uncomfortable, but manageable with the numbing effects of the tea.
She continued to sit with me and chant, her hand placed over my womb, until she decided at which time it was complete. She left and I fell into a deep sleep. When I woke up this morning, I felt quite uncomfortable, my body ached and when I used the restroom, a yellow fluid like pus poured out of me, but no sign of any ashes or blood, which gives me hope it was absorbed into my womb.
November 3, 1968
Praise be to our Lord, Ingrid just confirmed for me that I am with child, I had been hoping so, I had not gotten my cycle in October, but I wasn't sure if that was because of the discharge like pus that was still coming. She told me that was common with this spell and a side effect that would stop after the baby came.
I feel like I am floating on air, for the first time since Edgar left, I feel-
I suddenly became very aware of the feeling of eyes on the back of my head. I had become too engrossed in what was written before me and I had lost track of my surroundings. Very slowly, I turned around and my heart began pounding again as I saw Thomas standing in the doorway holding his wooden spoon in one hand. How had I not heard him?
He pointed at me with his empty hand and screamed, just a pure guttural screech from somewhere deep inside his disgusting little body. He charged at me from across the room, his horrible feet thumping solidly along the rug. He began beating my legs ruthlessly with the spoon, causing my legs to buckle. I crashed down to my knees in front of him, and he began lashing at my face, pulling my hair with one hand while wailing away at my head with the spoon.
I had dropped the journal I was holding and was desperately trying to get a hand on the spoon or push him away. All I could hear was him screaming. My arms flailed and I reached around on Mother's desk and grabbed onto the first thing I found and sank it into Thomas’ neck.
The end of Mother's gold letter opener protruded under his jaw. He went silent and he looked at me with utter shock. He dropped the spoon and collapsed on the ground, clutching at his neck as his thick black blood oozed out from his wound, letting out a stupendous odor of rot that filled the room. He didn't really say anything or make any noise. He just twitched for a moment and I saw his eyes glaze over.
In shock, I stood over his little body for a moment and I watched as he seemed to mummify in just a few minutes, like an ash person from Pompeii dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt. Even his blood that looked like shiny oil a second ago became like potting soil on Mother's rug. Reaching out to touch his hand, it crumbled away like sand.
Panic ran through me like a rabbit caught in a snare. Not knowing what to do, I ran. I ran down the hall, changed my clothes, put an extra change of clothes in my backpack and the last doll Daddy had ever given me and I ran. Mother would absolutely never forgive me and I was genuinely afraid she would kill me in retaliation for taking her beloved Thomas away from her. Her precious gift from God. My feet flew over the pavement and took me away from that house.
I called my Aunt Judy from a payphone outside the five & dime, and told her Mother had kicked me out and asked if I could stay with her. She had always had a strained relationship with my mother and it didn't take much convincing that she had kicked out her “only” child. Only Mother, Ingrid, and I ever knew about Thomas.
She gave me a home and took care of me. She never beat me or humiliated me. Even with her love, I was far from okay. For years I would close my eyes and hear Thomas scream, then the sudden silence. I'd see him fumbling at his neck and turning to ash. But I would also remember all the ways he would hurt me and how bad he was becoming. I could never talk to anyone about it, especially not the silent relief I felt I refused to admit to myself. Over time, however, Thomas' screams became a whisper and his silence faded into dust in my mind.
I moved on with my life. I went to college and became a photojournalist, getting to travel the world and watch history unfold. By choice, I never married, but was quite blessed with many beautiful friendships for companionship over the decades. I found balance in my life and a sense of happiness, if not peace. I never could quite stomach mashed potatoes again, though, they always taste ashy to me.
Mother never made any attempts to reach out to me or find me, at least that I'm aware of. Ten years ago, I was contacted by a hospital and they said my mother had been admitted earlier after falling and was about to pass, so she must have kept some tabs on me to know my phone number for her emergency contacts. Apparently she had collapsed in the driveway and a neighbor called an ambulance. I got there and her only words to me were, “take care of him," as she placed a locket in my hand. I opened the locket, Jesus was on one side, Thomas on the other. I didn't say anything to her, just held her frail old hand with nicotine stained nails until she passed in the night. My mother was gone and I felt nothing except a vague sense of relief.
When I got to her house, it was like a time capsule. Other than a newer television, it was just like it was when I'd fled so many years ago. The smell of tobacco smoke hung like incense in the air. It felt oppressive, like a tomb.
I wandered the house in a bit of a daze. The one place I didn't want to go was upstairs. I didn't want to see my old room, or Thomas' room, or Mother's. Putting it off, I went to fix myself some supper, realizing I hadn't eaten in almost a day. I took a pause when I opened the fridge and saw a baby bottle on a shelf. Silently praying she had been babysitting for a neighbor, I fixed myself some toast with sardines and sat eating in the den watching TV. It had been almost forty years and it still felt rebellious not eating at the table and watching TV without permission.
My eyes grew heavy and I finally mustered up the gumption to head upstairs to go to bed. The stairs creaked in a familiar way under my feet and I was taken back to the feeling of dread hearing either Mother or Thomas climbing up. My old room was at the top of the stairs, I saw the door was nailed shut and had rambling quotes about Judas copied from the Bible in my mother's handwriting taped to the door. I sighed gently and turned from the door to head down the hallway, deciding Mother's room was probably the best place to sleep.
I passed by Thomas’ toy room and I heard a murmur from the room. I stopped, curiosity got the best of me and I entered. In Thomas' old toy room was a crib with joyful clown sheets. Dread swelled up inside me as I heard more murmurs and saw the sheets move. Approaching slowly, I peaked under the sheet and gasped.
Tucked inside was what looked like a baby gargoyle, gray and papery looking. Pus leaked out of its milky, bulbous eyes. I pulled back the blanket and saw it had no legs and its arms bent back, like wings on a bird. It was wearing just a cloth diaper, overflowing with tarry looking stool that took my breath away with its pungency, it smelled like Thomas’ blood, but somehow worse. My heart broke for this poor creature, Lord only knows how many years it has been in this crib suffering from its unholy existence.
So this is who Mother had wanted me to take care of…
Not knowing what else to do, I gently scooped him up. Like Thomas, he was shockingly heavy for how small his body was. Placing him on the changing table, I cleaned him and rewrapped his bottom in a clean diaper cloth. It was difficult, he fussed tremendously, crying and flopping around as much as his flipper-like arms would allow. I tried wiping off his oozing eyes and he snapped his mouth, which I saw was full of disturbingly square yellow teeth, trying to bite me. I carried him to the kitchen and rocked him while I heated up his bottle and he became furious with me, almost barking like a dog when my hand would get near his face.
He settled a bit as he fed, but he would still sometimes suddenly spit out the bottle and attempt to bite me. I laid him back in his crib, this abomination in a clown sheet, and I walked down the hall to Mother's room letting out a long sigh.
Combing through my mother's journals in the early hours of the morning, it looked like she tried the ceremony again shortly after Thomas died, but she either lacked Ingrid’s help or didn't have enough of my father's ashes left. Something went terribly wrong. She was vaguer than she had been about Thomas’ conception, but I suspect she had used some of Thomas' remains. The resulting birth she named Isaac.
Mother's journals told a sad tale of her and Isaac's suffering. She never mentioned me, but lamented the loss of Thomas and Dad relentlessly. She was hyper protective of Isaac, as that was all she had left. If her world had been small before, it became microscopic after he entered her life, requiring nearly constant care. According to Mother, he was blind and colicky, sometimes going years at a time without sleeping through the night. She had breast fed him for years, but she had to stop after he grew teeth and began biting her intentionally and feeding on her blood.
I spent a lot of time over the next few days pondering what to do. I had to get her estate in order, she had left me the house, in an obvious attempt to get me to continue caretaking for Isaac, but I didn't want it. I had my own cozy home an hour away from here, filled with happy memories and my possessions acquired traveling the world. Mother's home had a heavy energy I couldn't shake. Her and Thomas were both gone, but the memories of the scoldings and beatings hung in every corner, like cobwebs that would never sweep away.
So, I fed Isaac and kept him clean and tried to keep him company, although he seemed to hate me passionately. I took care of him, all the while thinking about what I was going to do. After a week, I felt resolute in what had to be done.
Gathering up all of Mother's journals in a tote, I made my way to Isaac and picked him up and carried everything to the living room.
The ancient logs in the fireplace meant for display ignited instantly. One by one, I fed the journals into the fire, burning away years of my mother's consuming sorrow. Isaac fussed and moaned next to me the entire time. When the last pages shimmered away into lacy ash, I took a throw pillow off the couch and gently cradled Isaac in my other arm. It didn't take long before he stopped struggling and I felt his little body relax after decades of suffering.
I gently wrapped up a bundle in a clown sheet and placed it in the fire. It burned furiously, like the paper in my mother's journals, and was soon gone. Nothing but ashes and embers.
“Don't worry, Mother,” I said purely for my own sake, "I took care of Isaac for you."
And finally, I felt at peace.
2024.05.14 01:27 EmoGiArts [TOMT][SHORT][2000s/2010s] 3D street racing animation
Around the early 2010s, I had a DVD that my uncle put on some animated shorts that he found on the internet. One in particular was a 3D animation where two cars were racing on what I think was a hill, one of the characters was a man with a shaved head, another was a woman in a skirt, and the driver of the other car was not revealed (at least that's what I remember) the animation wasn't bad but it wasn't very polished, I believe it was a project made by one person in their free time and posted on the internet, or a project made by animation students, or something similar.
But what happens in the animation is the two cars are racing, they pass at high speed near the woman and the wind makes her skirt lift, then something happens to the faceless driver's car (I believe he fell off the hill) , at the end the guy with the shaved head drives back to the woman, and the woman immediately handcuffs the man, the short ends by showing the woman's license revealing that she was a police officer.
That's all I can remember, which is a lot since I must have been 5 years old when I watched this
submitted by EmoGiArts to tipofmytongue [link] [comments]
But what happens in the animation is the two cars are racing, they pass at high speed near the woman and the wind makes her skirt lift, then something happens to the faceless driver's car (I believe he fell off the hill) , at the end the guy with the shaved head drives back to the woman, and the woman immediately handcuffs the man, the short ends by showing the woman's license revealing that she was a police officer.
That's all I can remember, which is a lot since I must have been 5 years old when I watched this
2024.05.13 19:21 Conscious-Dingo4463 1971. Mercury Marquis Brougham
 | submitted by Conscious-Dingo4463 to classiccars [link] [comments] |
2024.05.13 18:25 sirifuckedurmum Can we non-binary people stop commenting on other people's androgyny?
Basically, I am agender - AFAB - and go by He/They. I present myself decently masculine, but I also have a deep love for feminine clothes.
Today I wore a skirt to school, because I am Irish, and live in a warmer country, so I get hot easily. Honestly, I shouldn't have to defend why I wore one here - but I will because so many people irl asked me why I was wearing one.
I got a lot of weird attention from people in my year, especially because most people see me as a trans guy. (I'm not being paranoid, friends have reported hearing people talk about me in their classes.)
That's not a big deal, however, because being openly queer - some people seem to be very interested in making fun of every little thing I do. My issue is comments that came from queer friends.
One of my friends (bisexual, cis girl) asked why I was wearing a skirt - and commented on it being weird to see me in one. Now she's a little unaware most of the time, so I said I just wanted to wear one and moved on.
One of my non-binary friends though, commented: 'it's so weird to see you in a skirt, that's so unusual.' The weird thing is I have worn skirts (although ankle length) around this friend before.
This has been very long winded, but my point is - why is me showing my androgyny in clothing I'm comfortable in a big deal? And why do other non-binary people who understand the struggle of being non-binary not understand that even though I'm AFAB, I can wear feminine clothing. It sort of makes me feel like if I wear feminine clothing, everyone will automatically see me as a girl - even other enby people.
Idk, am I overreacting?
submitted by sirifuckedurmum to NonBinary [link] [comments]
Today I wore a skirt to school, because I am Irish, and live in a warmer country, so I get hot easily. Honestly, I shouldn't have to defend why I wore one here - but I will because so many people irl asked me why I was wearing one.
I got a lot of weird attention from people in my year, especially because most people see me as a trans guy. (I'm not being paranoid, friends have reported hearing people talk about me in their classes.)
That's not a big deal, however, because being openly queer - some people seem to be very interested in making fun of every little thing I do. My issue is comments that came from queer friends.
One of my friends (bisexual, cis girl) asked why I was wearing a skirt - and commented on it being weird to see me in one. Now she's a little unaware most of the time, so I said I just wanted to wear one and moved on.
One of my non-binary friends though, commented: 'it's so weird to see you in a skirt, that's so unusual.' The weird thing is I have worn skirts (although ankle length) around this friend before.
This has been very long winded, but my point is - why is me showing my androgyny in clothing I'm comfortable in a big deal? And why do other non-binary people who understand the struggle of being non-binary not understand that even though I'm AFAB, I can wear feminine clothing. It sort of makes me feel like if I wear feminine clothing, everyone will automatically see me as a girl - even other enby people.
Idk, am I overreacting?
2024.05.13 14:04 Nearly-Shat-A-Brick Question for the ladies and Scots lads that wear kilts, regardless of the weather.
I was waiting for a train and the wind was blasting down the platforms.
Two middle aged women in skirts that were a deal above the knee were not batting an eye.
I'm wearing jeans and was freezing my fucking nads off. Hunched over like I was sat smack bang in the middle of the Arctic circle.
So, the question is, how do you do it? How do you not feel the cold in a short skirt?
Same question for the Scots lads, just swap skirt for kilt.
submitted by Nearly-Shat-A-Brick to CasualUK [link] [comments]
Two middle aged women in skirts that were a deal above the knee were not batting an eye.
I'm wearing jeans and was freezing my fucking nads off. Hunched over like I was sat smack bang in the middle of the Arctic circle.
So, the question is, how do you do it? How do you not feel the cold in a short skirt?
Same question for the Scots lads, just swap skirt for kilt.
2024.05.13 09:01 EscapingKid Patch Notes - Update 29.2
 | Original Post (pubg.com) submitted by EscapingKid to PUBGConsole [link] [comments] https://preview.redd.it/5nt7qd8p650d1.png?width=1920&format=png&auto=webp&s=9934ae3506f4280dbc5fb67df9c65ba76936e541 29.2 HighlightsPUBG Patch Report #29.2 on YouTubeLive Maintenance Schedule※ The times shown below are subject to change.
Map Service※ Console players can anticipate the next rotation every Thursday at 7 AM UTC.Schedulehttps://preview.redd.it/1bsklrrp650d1.png?width=562&format=png&auto=webp&s=91ddce08aea13b342de0bc2b03dd0463fbd89205Live Server - Featured Map
Live Server - Normal MatchRandom Map Regions - NA, EU, RU, OC, SA & Consolehttps://preview.redd.it/scbnhttt650d1.png?width=666&format=png&auto=webp&s=f98b87eb5549e1d658584583e4c661f5636a63ab※ Rotations featuring Deston will have a 20% probability for each map. For Weeks 2 and 4, fixed and favored maps will each have a 22% probability and etc. maps will be 11% each. Live Server - Ranked
World: Erangel Classic※ Erangel Classic is available in Normal Match as a featured map and is also supported in Custom Match.※ Erangel Classic preserves the essence of the earlier version of Erangel, its distinctive appearance and atmosphere, all while delivering the enjoyable gameplay experiences that players have grown accustomed to. Service Period (UTC)Normal Match (Featured Map)
Custom Match
Detailshttps://preview.redd.it/d6k8yghv650d1.png?width=1920&format=png&auto=webp&s=887aad6ec1609bc13a74b3297d38e42b98a2fa1f
GunplayWhile not identical to the old recoil, Erangel Classic's reduced recoil will enable players to relive the nostalgia of the old Erangel map. However, this adjustment excludes certain firearms such as SRs, Handguns, and the Crossbow.
Tommy Gunhttps://preview.redd.it/6f2ero1w650d1.png?width=1920&format=png&auto=webp&s=343a3008bb65c923d2e900b3e1d184842249c41d
ARs
SMGs
DMRs
LMGs (DP-28, M249, MG3)
Shotguns
UIhttps://preview.redd.it/lo1biziw650d1.png?width=1920&format=png&auto=webp&s=0f656354b0721347ab61e1d6c82cf4a65e8c4582https://preview.redd.it/89qyl3vw650d1.png?width=1920&format=png&auto=webp&s=8ae59c4a17ac807fd17e80bd3182335aef2425a9
Spawnhttps://preview.redd.it/jpgbnq8x650d1.png?width=1920&format=png&auto=webp&s=e9c64049d4d0806d58d9d1f7ce6e9613d5ba4318
World: Rondo※ The following features are available only in Rondo.New Item: Zipline Gunhttps://preview.redd.it/cgmsrxlx650d1.png?width=1920&format=png&auto=webp&s=1cf710bdb86a39a6186f1d8932205baedc5f77e4Meet the Zipline Gun, a zippy new travel tool that lets you navigate Rondo in a whole new way.
In-Game ChallengesTo make teamwork easier, we're improving In-game Challenges based on player feedback.https://preview.redd.it/vkurm56y650d1.png?width=1920&format=png&auto=webp&s=b4c26a25abcd646564fc495eb32db1acaa775614
World Misc.
New Feature: Win Streak ShowdownIntroducing Win Streak Showdown, where premade teams compete in Normal Match for achievements beyond the Chicken Dinner.https://preview.redd.it/91ragzly650d1.png?width=1920&format=png&auto=webp&s=6035b0e2043c6df807b429970982625846777912 How to Participate
Rules
Rewards
Arcade※ The following updates apply to Custom Match as well.Team Deathmatchhttps://preview.redd.it/x8u90z8z650d1.png?width=1920&format=png&auto=webp&s=bb91d6ff386740aa2c8309b112fed612be4fa5d6
Intense Battle Royale
QoLGroup EmoteThe Team Emote feature has been renamed to Group Emote and now offers broader interaction possibilities. Enjoy emotes with even more players!https://preview.redd.it/rbqybo52750d1.png?width=1920&format=png&auto=webp&s=d0d20c6cf448388ceb5366637b3b2ba85c6780d2
Survivor Passhttps://preview.redd.it/849af8k2750d1.png?width=1920&format=png&auto=webp&s=5c40e734910cc713013f4c5cd9b2a0cadeae8afdA new Survivor Pass: Off the Grid is prepared for the 29.2 update. Read more details in the May Store Update announcement! WorkshopNew item sets have been added to the Hunter's Chest and Archivist's Chest.https://preview.redd.it/j687hj54750d1.png?width=1920&format=png&auto=webp&s=22c0e78fcb0df210c160cc22ed971c574a21135f
UX/UI
Performance
Bug FixesGameplay
World
UX/UI
Items & Skins※ Clipping issue: Graphics that are shown outside the visible part of an image/object.
|
2024.05.13 08:45 EscapingKid Patch Notes - Update 29.2
| | Original Post (pubg.com) submitted by EscapingKid to PUBATTLEGROUNDS [link] [comments] 29.2 HighlightsPUBG Patch Report #29.2 on YouTubeLive Maintenance Schedule※ The times shown below are subject to change.
Map Service※ PC players can anticipate the next rotation every Wednesday at 2 AM UTC, while Console players can expect the same every Thursday at 7 AM UTC.ScheduleLive Server - Featured Map
Live Server - Normal MatchMap Select Regions (AS, SEA)Map Select Regions - KJP, KAKAORandom Map Regions - NA, EU, RU, OC, SA & Console※ Rotations featuring Deston will have a 20% probability for each map. For Weeks 2 and 4, fixed and favored maps will each have a 22% probability and etc. maps will be 11% each.Live Server - Ranked
World: Erangel Classic※ Erangel Classic is available in Normal Match as a featured map and is also supported in Custom Match.※ Erangel Classic preserves the essence of the earlier version of Erangel, its distinctive appearance and atmosphere, all while delivering the enjoyable gameplay experiences that players have grown accustomed to. Service Period (UTC)Normal Match (Featured Map)
Custom Match
Details
GunplayWhile not identical to the old recoil, Erangel Classic's reduced recoil will enable players to relive the nostalgia of the old Erangel map. However, this adjustment excludes certain firearms such as SRs, Handguns, and the Crossbow.
Tommy Gun
ARs
SMGs
DMRs
LMGs (DP-28, M249, MG3)
Shotguns
UIhttps://preview.redd.it/gmusqti1450d1.png?width=1920&format=png&auto=webp&s=99df16c7166303624e6c632376dff84da6752ed6
Spawn
World: Rondo※ The following features are available only in Rondo.New Item: Zipline GunMeet the Zipline Gun, a zippy new travel tool that lets you navigate Rondo in a whole new way.
In-Game ChallengesTo make teamwork easier, we're improving In-game Challenges based on player feedback.
World Misc.
New Feature: Win Streak ShowdownIntroducing Win Streak Showdown, where premade teams compete in Normal Match for achievements beyond the Chicken Dinner.How to Participate
Rules
Rewards
Arcade※ The following updates apply to Custom Match as well.Team Deathmatch
Intense Battle Royale
QoLGroup EmoteThe Team Emote feature has been renamed to Group Emote and now offers broader interaction possibilities. Enjoy emotes with even more players!
Survivor PassA new Survivor Pass: Off the Grid is prepared for the 29.2 update. Read more details in the May Store Update announcement! WorkshopNew item sets have been added to the Hunter's Chest and Archivist's Chest.
UX/UI
Performance
Bug FixesGameplay
World
UX/UI
Items & Skins※ Clipping issue: Graphics that are shown outside the visible part of an image/object.
|
2024.05.11 20:13 vilebunny No Poodle Skirt
 | Made this skirt last year from a thrifted sheet and some cotton canvas. Photo mid-errands after spending the morning outside in the wind. My oldest told me I looked like Mary Poppins today, but I’m fairly sure she was getting Mary Poppins and Missy from “Doctor Who” confused. submitted by vilebunny to oldhagfashion [link] [comments] Boots the only visible item under three years, bonus points on the skirt for being handmade AND thrifted. 😆 Also a bonus? Pictures of the pockets. When turned out, they each have a dog on them. Buttons pictured are decorative. Closure is hook and eye on each side. |
2024.05.11 16:59 natedj30 Strange request
 | So, growing up in the 90s in TSCC as a little gay boy with older sisters, I thought this was a beautiful necklace. I mean, the wind in her hair and the folds of that skirt! I cant even! Lol. I always secretly wanted one, and turns out, I still kinda do. Do any of you have one laying around somewhere that you're willing to part with? submitted by natedj30 to exmormon [link] [comments] |
2024.05.11 13:56 nulll_ DEADCOAST Book 1: "HEAT and the Grizzly Reds" - Intro / Chapter 1 - 15-20 Min Read -- Dystopian Future -- Science Fiction.
NOTE FROM AUTHOR: Hello Hello! I am a first-time writer embarking on my first dumpster fire; input is most welcome. I'm not the best self-editor, so get your hiking boots on. It's rough out there. Whenever I read it, I find or create more errors (:
OPTIONAL READS: For the Retro Computer or Programming Enthusiast OR if you are open to other formats of story telling. I tried to combine my love for programming as an UNDERSTANDABLE way to tell a story through a Visual Experience in the Command Line Interface;
A Stand-Alone VISUAL ASCII 'Programming Terminal' Story Prologue. Follow through(Screen Shots of my Command Line Interface) the UNE-EYE Observational Satellite Terminal as Kable extracts Classified Data about his Beloved Military Unit, THE HUMMINGBIRDS, a flying exoskeleton unit. This includes the origin story of a Technology Tree in Book 1.
The story unfolds with the chilling invasion of Vancouver, marking a turning point as DAGGR makes its ambitions clear, culminating in the assassination of the Canadian Prime Minister. This act of aggression leaves the country reeling, exposing vulnerabilities and igniting a global reaction.
The UNE-EYE satellite is central to the international response, a significant narrative element representing the world's most advanced orbital tracking system. Once decommissioned in favour of privacy, the Dutch reactivated the satellite as a strategic move to monitor DAGGR's movements and coordinate a unified international effort against the aggressors. This revival of UNE-EYE symbolizes a crucial turning point, highlighting the global stakes and the interconnectedness of nations in the face of a common enemy.
As Canada grapples with its plight, the DAMU (Deserted American Military Units) rise in solidarity, breaching borders to fight alongside their Canadian counterparts. This act of defiance is mirrored by international forces, including the Netherlands and Ukraine, each bringing their unique strengths to the coalition, underscored by the strategic oversight provided by the UNE-EYE satellite.
Amidst the geopolitical chaos, a man who had all but given up, a boxer on the ropes, emerges from Vancouver's Gastown. Known as HEAT, this leader of the Grizzly Reds becomes a symbol of resistance and hope. HEAT's story, and that of the Grizzly Reds, is one of resilience, rallying not only Canadians but also global citizens to stand against DAGGR's tyranny.
" Deadcoast Book 1: Heat and the Grizzly Reds" is a compelling narrative of survival, alliance, and resistance. It deftly weaves together elements of advanced technology, international politics, and the indomitable human spirit. The inclusion of the UNE-EYE satellite serves as a testament to the complexities of modern warfare and the critical role of global surveillance and coordination in maintaining security and freedom. But something else stirs amongst it. The UNE still shrouds its use, albeit assuring it is for record-keeping purposes- there is no way to be sure. Join HEAT and the Grizzly Reds as they navigate the challenges of Time, War, Science and liberating their fellow man in Vancouver. THE GRIZZLIES NEED YOU, in this action-packed, emotional saga, speaks to the resilience and camaraderie inherent in the human condition.
CHAPTER 1 - The Blood Spattered Maples
ILLUSTRATED VERSION -> HERE <-
The early morning sun cast a serene glow over Vancouver, its golden rays gently coaxing the city from its slumber. The harbour lay still, bathed in a tranquil blend of crimson and amber, defiantly calm as if aware of the day's latent potential for tumult. The awakening streets, pulsating with the vibrant beat of daily enterprise, transformed into bustling arteries of life.
Amidst this urban renaissance, Ryan stood by his apartment window, one eye still tinged a fading shade of deep lavender from last night's ordeals. He absorbed the duality of the world outside – a peaceful façade masking an undercurrent of chaos, much like his own existence. The apartment, a silent guardian of his life's chapters, was awash with tangible memories; some stood proudly like trophies, and others lingered like indelible scars.
"Eugh, need to sort out this money mess," Ryan muttered, his voice a gravelly mix of resolve and weariness. He gingerly touched the bruise beneath his eye, a stark reminder of the previous night's fight. He wasn't just a boxer but a living, breathing paradox. His undefeated record of 12-0 was more than a tally of victories; it was a map of a life spent dancing in and out of shadows. At 17, he was a beacon of hope for Canadian Olympic Futures. Now, at 33, he was a spotlight in his subconscious, illuminating the relentless passage of time and a road riddled with 'what ifs.' Eleven of those wins were echoes from a past steeped in the sweat and blood of the ring before life's currents swept him into the city's gritty underbelly. There, he became an enforcer, not out of choice but a necessity, bound by ties, not of blood but of unbreakable bonds forged in adversity. Stepping back into the ring at 33, Ryan wasn't chasing glory; he was hunting redemption, a chance to rewrite a narrative that had veered off course.
Today's boxing was far from what he once knew; it had transformed into a digital spectacle, a charade he refused to partake in. The sport now paraded fighters adorned with loud chains and face tattoos, pretending to live a life of crime they don't. Vile symbols of fame he doesn't wish for. Ryan had always skirted the fringes of the spotlight, respecting the sport but despising what it had become - a glorified masquerade that he believed led the youth astray. He stared out at the awakening city, contemplating his place in this ever-changing world, just as the first notes of a familiar yet unwelcome voice crackled from the vintage radio on his shelf.
"Ah, jimmy2piece," he scoffed, the name leaving a bitter taste. The vintage radio crackled on, announcing the dazzling exploits of the heavyweight boxing champion, an embodiment of everything Ryan detested about the sport's current state. Ryan's hand lingered over the old radio, a relic amidst the bountiful thrift and trinket that abundantly filled his apartment. The announcer's voice, overly flamboyant in its praise of 'jimmy2piece,' clashed with the morning's tranquillity, grating against Ryan's every nerve. With a flick brimming with contempt, he silenced the intrusive chatter. The ensuing silence was a stark reminder of his path's divergence from the once-noble art of boxing to a life mired in moral ambiguity.
"Enough of this nonsense," he muttered, the disdain in his voice mirroring the snarl on his lips as he spun the dial back to silence.
*Click*
Ryan was a man of contemplation; opening his balcony door, he let the morning breeze mingle with the memories that haunted him daily. These reflections were a tormenting ritual, no matter the joys and love surrounding him. His only respite was constant movement – hobbies, work, art – anything to fend off the sharp claws of the past that threatened to shred the remnants of his self-respect. He had lost ten years to choices and actions that replayed in his mind relentlessly every single day.
"This 'jimmy2shoes' or whatever...pal throws pillows, a poser pretending he's about that gang life; I can see it in his eyes, he's not a killer," he grumbled, gazing out at the awakening city. This day promised a respite from his underground fights – at least for a while. His recent backstreet brawls, a far cry from the glory of the boxing ring, were what paid the bills now. "At least I've bought myself three more months..."
Leaning on the railing of his miniature balcony, Ryan cradled a cup of steaming coffee, his gaze drifting over the streets below. At this moment, the chaos of his life seemed distant, replaced by a transient calm. Despite his bruised, rough presentation, a certain peace enveloped him, a rare stillness that belied the storm of his existence. His thoughts meandered through the serene hum of the city and the gentle brush of the ocean breeze. The skyscape, with clouds dancing to the ocean's rhythm, offered a brief escape from his turbulent past.
Memories of Robin, his mentor and friend, floated into his consciousness. Robin's untimely death in Dubai was a wound that never healed. The sacrifices he had made to keep Robin safe, only to be absent on the fateful trip that claimed his friend's life, weighed heavily on him. "Why did it have to be you, Robin?" he whispered to the horizon, the question, a haunting torment upon his daily routines.
Ryan was a thinker; as he slid over his ashtray from the stool, he sparked up A morning 'dart' (cigarette), as he called them. His past began to creep into his head, as it did every morning. With each inhalation of addiction-soothing nicotine, his blazing thoughts followed as his brain began to become fully active from his sleep. It was a raven on his shoulder tormenting him, pecking at him ever haunting his consciousness. No matter the love he may have found or the happiness, friends, or family surrounding him. The time to reflect was always grim and consistently unbearable. If he stood still, the Ravel's claws sunk more profoundly; the only reprieve was constant distractions. It's why he kept so busy, creative, and active. Ryan constantly kept moving with hobbies, work, or art. Pushing off the switchblade thoughts ready to cut into his subconscious and bleed out whatever self-respect he had left that day. He threw away ten years of his life, and he relives them every. Single. Day.
"Damn man, what's the point of it all?" Ryan's voice was barely a whisper, lost in the morning breeze. His gaze lingered on the horizon, eyes clouded with confusion and pain. "Robin's gone, and here I am, a ship adrift; up shits creek without a paddle. What good can I do? What purpose do I serve? My skillset? My knowledge? Ive wasted my life, nothing is applicable." The questions hung in the air, unanswered. Ryan's life had indeed been a storm of violence and turmoil, from the gritty days working alongside Robin, watching his back to his hard-fought victories in the boxing ring. He had dreamt of leaving the world of fights behind, yet fate seemed to have woven a different path for him, one that he couldn't escape...
The distant sound of boat horns broke his train of thought. These weren't the usual rhythmic calls that echoed along Vancouver's shores; they carried a sense of urgency, growing louder and more frantic by the second. Ryan leaned forward, squinting into the morning light. The sight that greeted him was anything but ordinary. Dark, ominous and foreboding shapes were cutting through the waters toward the Seawall – military-grade ships that seemed like phantoms against the sun's bright backdrop.
"What the...?" Ryan murmured, a wry smile touching his lips as he recalled a line from a 1930s radio show. "Ah yes, the 'Anti-Frackers' upping their game, bravo!" He often found solace in humour, a shield against the world's harsh realities. Ryan was an unbreakable anvil to the world, always struck to sharpen others' steel. But what about his iron resolve? He bore the burdens so others didn't have to, a silent guardian shouldering the world's weight in stoic silence. Yet beneath that armour of stoicism beat the heart of a man grappling with his vulnerabilities, a man with a core as soft as it was intense.
Just like that- The world as we knew it, changed forever.
The morning's peace shattered abruptly as sirens wailed into life, slicing through the air with a sense of impending doom. The tranquil dawn was now a backdrop to a nightmare unfolding in real time. Ryan's eyes, mirroring the turbulent hues of a stormy sea, narrowed in primal alertness. These were not friendly vessels coming to grace the city's harbour; they were harbingers of chaos, their arrival a silent scream in the gardens of Vancouver's tranquility. As the city around him carried on, blissfully unaware of the looming threat, Ryan's mind shifted into high gear, honed by years of confrontation, conflict and reading other peoples intentions. He understood the unspoken language of death, the subtle shift in the air that preluded catastrophe. The serene calm that had greeted the day now seemed like the deceptive stillness before a devastating storm.
PFFFFT~~
Ryan's coffee ejected out his mouth, a clean mist dispersed, dancing in the ocean winds.
His eyes widened in shock. "That... No, that's not right. That honeycomb structure on the bow – that's rumoured military tech, not something you'd find on a civilian vessel. That's definitely not one of our decommissioned ships; Canada has always had a modest military budget- It's not the U.S. either; they've moved on to those massive city carriers," he muttered, recalling the recent unveiling of the U.S.'s latest naval behemoth designed to be a self-sustaining war ecosystem.
"These are destroyers...carriers...and what in the world are those landing crafts?" His voice trailed off as a wave of realization washed over him. A heavy breath escaped his lips, his heartbeat thundering in unison with a growing sense of dread. This kind of military might, sleek and menacing, was straight out of the pages of a dystopian novel. Ryan's pulse quickened, adrenaline coursing through his veins, mingling with an unsettling fear. Vancouver, with its serene beauty and peaceful reputation, was the last place one would expect a military invasion. Yet, as he stood there, the city around him persevered in blissful ignorance. Laughter and the sounds of daily life echoed up to his balcony, starkly juxtaposed against the darkening horizon of his thoughts.
Something sinister was unfolding, and he felt an urgent need to act. "Ah, damn it!" he exclaimed, frustration boiling over as he hurled his mug to the ground, where it shattered into razer sharp ceramic shards—a glimpse of futures past.
The walls of Ryan's apartment, once a gallery of memories from a life half-lived, now felt like they were closing in on him. The space that had been his refuge, adorned with mementos of a tumultuous past, suddenly felt like a prison. He felt trapped, not by physical barriers, but by the weight of the unfolding crisis. Who could he call? Who would believe him about an impending military assault? Was there even time?
Each option seemed as hopeless as the next, leaving him feeling powerless. His fists, which had once brought him victory in the ring, now seemed futile in the face of this immense and unknown threat.
BOOM
A thunderous crash tore through the city's fabric, piercing the veil of laughter and routine. Giggles changed to Shrieks, the buzzing of cars in the city turned screeching of panicked tires. It was a boom resonating with such force that it seemed to shake the very resolve of the most robust steel, a sound that demands attention and captivates a person, a sound of death; it rattles you to the bone. This explosion marked a pivotal moment that would forever alter the course of Vancouver's history and, indeed, the world's.
The resounding echo of the first explosion heralded a declaration of war on all that was ordinary. In Ryan, the shockwave ignited a transformation. Despair morphed into an unyielding determination, a fire kindled deep within. His skin prickled, each hair standing on end as if his nerves were braille, spelling out the moment's urgency.
"Are they firing at us?" Ryan's voice was a mix of disbelief and rising panic. The thought seemed almost too surreal to entertain. He hesitated momentarily, grappling with the reality of the situation. The explosion's roar, so fierce it shook the foundations of his apartment, jolted him back to the present. Racing back to his balcony, what he saw confirmed his darkest fears.
The ships in the harbour were no longer silent, ominous spectators; they had unleashed their fury, sending plumes of smoke and debris skyward. Vancouver's skyline, once a proud testament to peace and progress, now served as a harrowing backdrop to an unfolding apocalypse. Below, the streets descended into chaos. People scattered in a frantic attempt to escape, their screams piercing the air, a chorus of dawning terror.
Ryan's heart pounded against his chest, each beat a call to action. He was no hero, never the 'good guy' in his story, but he did value life above all. Standing there, witnessing his city being torn apart, he knew he couldn't remain a passive observer. Indecision and shock gave way to resolve.
"MOTHA FU-" he cursed, his words lost in the burst of an explosion, spotted at the last second.
The world around him had erupted into a maelstrom of fire and fury.
An air burst shell detonated with ferocious intensity a mere 50 meters from Ryan's sanctuary. The explosion ripped through the building, an unforgiving hatred that jolted reality itself. The blast wave, a monstrous force of destruction, assaulted his apartment, shattering the windows with an ease that mocked Vancouver's fragility. Glass shards, transformed into lethal projectiles, hurtled through the air with a hunter's precision, each piece seeking its target. Instinctively, Ryan lunged for cover, his only protection a vintage oak promotional board, a relic of a bygone era. This wooden guardian, decorated with the iconic image of Stan Lee, stood as a stoic defender, a symbol of comic heroism now repurposed to shield flesh and blood from the brutal onslaught.
A low hum erupts from the depths of his being as the fireball swirled around him. "Breathe... I can't... don't fall asleep... don't...sleep..." he whispered, fighting the encroaching darkness. His cobalt eyes, glazing over open, fighting to the last light, flickered between consciousness and oblivion. The distant, muffled voices of mentors past echoed in his mind, a fading chorus in the theatre of his memories. Ryan looked to his left, cast one last lingering look at the Vancouver sky, a canvas of blue that seemed so distant now. As his vision began to narrow, a tunnel drawing him away from the light, Ryan felt the grip of darkness pulling him under heavy, yet weightless. Once so vivid and alive, the world around him was fading into shadows.
Amid shrapnel-induced unconsciousness, Ryan's mind catapulted him back to a pivotal moment from his youth – the Ontario Canadian Olympic Trials.
The stadium's noise swirled around him, but it was an entirely different world within the ring. There, it was just Ryan and his opponent, every move a testament to the sacrifices he and Robin(Ryan's longtime mentor both inside, and outside the ring) had made together.
Ryan's style in the ring was unique, a blend of calculated ferocity in speed and agility. He adopted the elusive, angular movements that Robin had honed while serving alongside the hardened Ukrainians on the frontlines of Kyiv. This style was compelling and unpredictable, frustrating his opponents with swift and efficient strikes. Ryan's ability to slip away from counters, almost serpentine in its execution, left them grasping at straws.
Point fighting for the Olympics was a system that worked well with Ryan's style but not necessarily with his mindset. Ryan was a fighter at heart, and sometimes, when pushed, the disciplined techniques would give way to a rawer form of combat. Robin, who always believed in Ryan's potential, saw this as his greatest fault and biggest asset to "push past." In his gruff but encouraging voice, Robin would often spew "The stink in that mind, You've got a head on you that'd make an onion cry," highlighting Ryan's occasionally impulsive nature, and inability to control his emotions when it mattered. This characteristic made Ryan fearless in the ring but also sloppy, open, and vulnerable. It often led him into trouble outside of the solace in prizefighting.
In these trials, Ryan's physical attributes – his slender frame, broad shoulders, wide back and a peculiarly long wingspan that gave him an imposing presence in his weight class – it made him stand out. His frame synchronized with his style, creating a truly unique spectacle of genetic gifts, hard work, and skill.
These memories blended nostalgia and pain as they flickered through Ryan's mind. They were reminders of a path once trodden, a journey shaped by the influence of a mentor and the determination of a fighter's spirit.
As the Olympic Trials set to begin, Robin looked to Ryan to instill confidence for his upcoming bouts, but Ryan was in his element. It was fight day, the fun day, the day to show off all of the hard work. Ryan had confidence, and his style in the ring displayed it in full. He moved with an angular rhythm that was both art and battle – slipping, landing a quick stiff counter cross, then gracefully stepping out of reach inches from returning fire. He made it look fun and easy, as if playing with his prey before fangs clench throat, delivering the killing bite. Looking closer, you can only see fire and determination in his bright eyes. He found purpose in the beautiful science of boxing. His strategy was that of a technical boxer, The Counterpuncher; 1. To bait his opponent into committing, then counter, fight long, fight smart. 2. Beat em' up, Frustrate em', then start slinging the heat in the uppercuts and lead hooks.
The bell rang and the fight was officially underway. Ryan controlled the ring with his long frame. Each exchange was rapid yet controlled, a dance of precise strikes and evasive maneuvers. The world's complexities faded in these moments, leaving only Ryan and the pure essence of the sport he loved. He felt invincible, a force of nature within the confines of the ring. To Ryan, the fight was more than a competition; it was a performance, an exhilarating escape from the mundane. It was true Purpose.
The intensity of the round reached a frustrating outburst by his opponent, who grabbed Ryan by the back of his head– 'SPLIT' called by the referee, his hand placed between them. A judge calls for a correction, catching the referee's attention only for a split second. In this second, Ryan's Opponent saw an opportunity. Lifting his head to move away, Ryan locks eyes with his Opponent, sporting a grin and delivering a sly headbutt as a parting gift. It's against the rules, but part of the game's harsh reality if gone unnoticed. Expelling energy and detesting it was a waste of fuel. It was a jolting reminder of "at all times"(protect yourself), a stark contrast to the discipline and respect Ryan upheld, starting his boxing journey in Thailand under "Muay Thai" rules, ideology of the worrior spirit and discipline. There was a sense of Honor in Lumpinee Stadium.
The outcome of these unsavoury tactics here is an advantage for the opponent. Ryan's inner pools erupt, his mind swirled with raging white waters, crashing and colliding against each other, two oceans with opposite currents meeting in his consciousness. His once technical thoughts, muscle memory mixed with fight iq burst with flames, erupting and incinerating all strategy in his path. His eyes widened, open like he'd found his primal genetic ancestry hidden deep within. The slaughter and the war of history. The bloodshed of 1000 lifetimes. He felt it all. Manic in thought. Ryan wanted to take his glove off and rip his cheeks open from the inside out--
BREAK - Ryan snaps back into it, erupting in stoic, silent, primal rage.
The ground rushed up to meet him as he crashed onto the canvas, the taste of iron and the sting of defeat mingling in his mouth. The crowd's roar faded into a distant echo, a stark reminder of how quickly the tides of battle could turn. Robin's voice sliced through the ringing from the corner, resonating with a force that commanded attention.
"Get your shit together, JUMPIN JESUS RYAN! HEART OF GOLD AND HEAD OF STONE – GET UP, YOU LITTLE COWARD! YOU'RE LETTING IT WIN, AGAIN! STOP THIS ONION HEAD NONSENSE AND DANCE, BOX THIS FELLA – YOU'RE BETTER THAN THIS, ACT LIKE IT, BELIEVE IN IT!"
His words were more than just a call to action; they were a lifeline thrown into the stormy seas of Ryan's mind. Each syllable was drenched in the raw, unfiltered wisdom that only a life spent in the cauldron of combat could forge. Robin's tone was a volatile cocktail of fury and concern, the urgency palpable in his voice. His palms crashed against the ring mat; each hit thunderous punctuation to his fiery sermon.
"You've got the talent, kid, but it's as good as ash if you keep burning it to the ground. I'M HERE FOR YOU, IM RIGHT HERE. SNAP OUT OF IT AND BOX THIS PLASTIC PATTY! MOVE GOD DAMNIT, GET UP!"
On the canvas, Ryan lay dazed, the echo of Robin's voice ringing in his ears. It was more than a mere pep talk; it was a wake-up call that struck a chord deep within him. Amidst the haze of the crowd murmurs and the pulsating pain that coursed through his body, clarity began to emerge. Lying there, Ryan grasped the essence of Robin's message –
"coward? letting it win? Playing my ego are ya Robin...hes right though. Im throwing this shit away."
This moment, sprawled on the canvas under the glaring lights and the crowd's gaze, became a crucible of transformation. The raw emotion and the hard-hitting truth in Robin's words ignited a spark in Ryan. It was time to rise, shake off the shadows of rage, and embrace a fighter's true spirit like he had learned in Thailand – not just with fists but with heart and mind in unison.
Staggered yet stirred by the dual impact of the physical hit and Robin's piercing words, A padded fist crushed into the rings canvas, followed by a kneee and the eruption of the crowd. Ryan was back, and he began to pull himself up from the canvas. His resolve, momentarily dimmed, now reignited with a fierce, clear, calculated intensity. Memories of the gruelling hours spent in the gym flooded back to him – the relentless sparring sessions, the time spent in Thailand, the sweat and toil, and the invaluable lessons etched into his being under Robin's stern tutelage.
With a renewed spirit, Ryan stepped back into the battle, his movements now embodying controlled power and a fluidity to his step. He recalled his time fighting beside the backdrop of the "Sarama" a traditional Thai music played when in combat. The times of learning to move, fight with the music, to flow, to be fluid, to be concise. Ryan finally put it all together in the heat of battle. He had merged his inherent ferocity with the disciplined technique that Robin relentlessly drilled into him, and the mindfull practises of the years he spent under Burklerk Pinsinchai in the jungles of Chiang Mai. His style was now fully displayed, raw and visceral yet refined by countless hours of practice in mind, body and spirit.
The final rounds bell clang to a start in a clinic of skill and sheer willpower. Ryan, driven by a blend of desperation and unwavering determination, unleashed a barrage of calculated and explosive strikes. Each punch and maneuver was a nod to the efficient, no-nonsense Ukrainian style that Robin had imparted to him. Ryan moved rhythmically across the mat, steps measured and precise, executing short, angular movements and deft outside counterpunches. He had returned to his element – the dance of combat, where he felt most alive, a symphony of movement where every step and punch was a testament to his life's journey and experiences as a human being first, and as a fighter second.
In this wake-up call, Ryan reinvigorated and reminded himself of his love for the sport, the exhilarating blend of art and athleticism. He was not just fighting to win; he was celebrating boxing, combat, honouring the path he had walked with Robin, and reclaiming what it meant to be a true fighter through Burklurk Pinsinchai's Teachings.
The round pressed on, and Ryan executed his maneuvers with a surgeon's precision. First;
-- The counterpuncher; a display in timing and accuracy, delivered with the full force of training and innate skill. --
ONE!…TWO!…THREE!…FOUR!…FIVE!…SIX!...SEVEN!..EIGHT!
Ryan's opponent stands, admirable, but futile, driven by sheer will but hampered by sluggish movements, the man rose to his feet, it was clear the fight was reaching its zenith.
The opponent, gathering his remaining strength for a final stand, launched a jab, a last-ditch effort relying more on brute force than finesse. But this was a fatal mistake in Ryan's world – playing right into what Ryan was best at. Counters.
Ryan read the move with the clarity of a seasoned fighter. As the jab came, he effortlessly slipped to the right, evading the punch with a short angular step that spoke of his ring intelligence. Instantly, he countered with the same sharp cross from his right hand, followed by a devastating hook that cut through the air with lethal intent in his left. Grasping at straws, reeling from the counter, Ryans opponent threw a desperate, looping last stand punch, Ryan dipped down and left, rolling the punch with an elegance that made it seem almost effortless. He was Hunting for the Kill Shot. Seizing the moment, Ryan unleashed a ferocious left uppercut, the force of the blow lifting his opponent's chin skyward. He followed up with a right overhand, but just before impact, he halted the punch. There was no need for it; his opponent was already collapsing, the "Lights were on, but no one was Home". The fight was effectively over, Ryan's last combination is the final note, a crescendo that echoed through the ring.
As his opponent hit the canvas, the crowd erupted. Ryan stood in the center of the ring, his chest heaving, every fibre of his being alight with the thrill of victory. This wasn't just a win; it was a performance, a display of skill, heart, and the indomitable spirit of a fighter who had walked through fire and flames to the otherside and emerge victorious.
The final bell Rings with not a single chair in the arena warm; a thunderous clap erupts from the crowd. It was more than just applause; it was an acknowledgment of a battle fiercely fought by both men. In that moment ringside, in a triumphant victory, Ryan and Robin shared a look that spoke volumes, a connection far beyond the usual bounds of mentor and protégé. Their bond, tempered in the crucible of hardship and struggle, was now sealed in the glory of this defining triumph.
Standing amidst the cheers and the adrenaline-fueled euphoria, Ryan found himself momentarily lost in the tide of memories. It was a poignant reminder of the journey that had brought him here, a path marked by triumphs and losses. Robin's teachings transcended the confines of boxing; they were life lessons imprinted deep onto him. Ryan began to slowly step out of the ring; the weight of these reflections settled upon him. The victory was sweet, but it carried the weight of all sacrificed to achieve it. Robin's presence was felt strongly, a guiding force that continued to shape his path, illuminating the way forward even in the most challenging times.
submitted by nulll_ to HFY [link] [comments]
OPTIONAL READS: For the Retro Computer or Programming Enthusiast OR if you are open to other formats of story telling. I tried to combine my love for programming as an UNDERSTANDABLE way to tell a story through a Visual Experience in the Command Line Interface;
A Stand-Alone VISUAL ASCII 'Programming Terminal' Story Prologue. Follow through(Screen Shots of my Command Line Interface) the UNE-EYE Observational Satellite Terminal as Kable extracts Classified Data about his Beloved Military Unit, THE HUMMINGBIRDS, a flying exoskeleton unit. This includes the origin story of a Technology Tree in Book 1.
####
INDEX
- DEADCOAST - THE HUMMINGBIRDS PROLOGUE -> HERE <-
- DEADCOAST - COMPLETE ILLUSTRATED INTRO -> HERE <-
- HEAT & GRIZZLY REDS - CHAPTER 1 ILLUSTRATED -> HERE <-
The story unfolds with the chilling invasion of Vancouver, marking a turning point as DAGGR makes its ambitions clear, culminating in the assassination of the Canadian Prime Minister. This act of aggression leaves the country reeling, exposing vulnerabilities and igniting a global reaction.
The UNE-EYE satellite is central to the international response, a significant narrative element representing the world's most advanced orbital tracking system. Once decommissioned in favour of privacy, the Dutch reactivated the satellite as a strategic move to monitor DAGGR's movements and coordinate a unified international effort against the aggressors. This revival of UNE-EYE symbolizes a crucial turning point, highlighting the global stakes and the interconnectedness of nations in the face of a common enemy.
As Canada grapples with its plight, the DAMU (Deserted American Military Units) rise in solidarity, breaching borders to fight alongside their Canadian counterparts. This act of defiance is mirrored by international forces, including the Netherlands and Ukraine, each bringing their unique strengths to the coalition, underscored by the strategic oversight provided by the UNE-EYE satellite.
Amidst the geopolitical chaos, a man who had all but given up, a boxer on the ropes, emerges from Vancouver's Gastown. Known as HEAT, this leader of the Grizzly Reds becomes a symbol of resistance and hope. HEAT's story, and that of the Grizzly Reds, is one of resilience, rallying not only Canadians but also global citizens to stand against DAGGR's tyranny.
" Deadcoast Book 1: Heat and the Grizzly Reds" is a compelling narrative of survival, alliance, and resistance. It deftly weaves together elements of advanced technology, international politics, and the indomitable human spirit. The inclusion of the UNE-EYE satellite serves as a testament to the complexities of modern warfare and the critical role of global surveillance and coordination in maintaining security and freedom. But something else stirs amongst it. The UNE still shrouds its use, albeit assuring it is for record-keeping purposes- there is no way to be sure. Join HEAT and the Grizzly Reds as they navigate the challenges of Time, War, Science and liberating their fellow man in Vancouver. THE GRIZZLIES NEED YOU, in this action-packed, emotional saga, speaks to the resilience and camaraderie inherent in the human condition.
ILLUSTRATED VERSION -> HERE <-
The early morning sun cast a serene glow over Vancouver, its golden rays gently coaxing the city from its slumber. The harbour lay still, bathed in a tranquil blend of crimson and amber, defiantly calm as if aware of the day's latent potential for tumult. The awakening streets, pulsating with the vibrant beat of daily enterprise, transformed into bustling arteries of life.
Amidst this urban renaissance, Ryan stood by his apartment window, one eye still tinged a fading shade of deep lavender from last night's ordeals. He absorbed the duality of the world outside – a peaceful façade masking an undercurrent of chaos, much like his own existence. The apartment, a silent guardian of his life's chapters, was awash with tangible memories; some stood proudly like trophies, and others lingered like indelible scars.
"Eugh, need to sort out this money mess," Ryan muttered, his voice a gravelly mix of resolve and weariness. He gingerly touched the bruise beneath his eye, a stark reminder of the previous night's fight. He wasn't just a boxer but a living, breathing paradox. His undefeated record of 12-0 was more than a tally of victories; it was a map of a life spent dancing in and out of shadows. At 17, he was a beacon of hope for Canadian Olympic Futures. Now, at 33, he was a spotlight in his subconscious, illuminating the relentless passage of time and a road riddled with 'what ifs.' Eleven of those wins were echoes from a past steeped in the sweat and blood of the ring before life's currents swept him into the city's gritty underbelly. There, he became an enforcer, not out of choice but a necessity, bound by ties, not of blood but of unbreakable bonds forged in adversity. Stepping back into the ring at 33, Ryan wasn't chasing glory; he was hunting redemption, a chance to rewrite a narrative that had veered off course.
Today's boxing was far from what he once knew; it had transformed into a digital spectacle, a charade he refused to partake in. The sport now paraded fighters adorned with loud chains and face tattoos, pretending to live a life of crime they don't. Vile symbols of fame he doesn't wish for. Ryan had always skirted the fringes of the spotlight, respecting the sport but despising what it had become - a glorified masquerade that he believed led the youth astray. He stared out at the awakening city, contemplating his place in this ever-changing world, just as the first notes of a familiar yet unwelcome voice crackled from the vintage radio on his shelf.
"Ah, jimmy2piece," he scoffed, the name leaving a bitter taste. The vintage radio crackled on, announcing the dazzling exploits of the heavyweight boxing champion, an embodiment of everything Ryan detested about the sport's current state. Ryan's hand lingered over the old radio, a relic amidst the bountiful thrift and trinket that abundantly filled his apartment. The announcer's voice, overly flamboyant in its praise of 'jimmy2piece,' clashed with the morning's tranquillity, grating against Ryan's every nerve. With a flick brimming with contempt, he silenced the intrusive chatter. The ensuing silence was a stark reminder of his path's divergence from the once-noble art of boxing to a life mired in moral ambiguity.
"Enough of this nonsense," he muttered, the disdain in his voice mirroring the snarl on his lips as he spun the dial back to silence.
*Click*
Ryan was a man of contemplation; opening his balcony door, he let the morning breeze mingle with the memories that haunted him daily. These reflections were a tormenting ritual, no matter the joys and love surrounding him. His only respite was constant movement – hobbies, work, art – anything to fend off the sharp claws of the past that threatened to shred the remnants of his self-respect. He had lost ten years to choices and actions that replayed in his mind relentlessly every single day.
"This 'jimmy2shoes' or whatever...pal throws pillows, a poser pretending he's about that gang life; I can see it in his eyes, he's not a killer," he grumbled, gazing out at the awakening city. This day promised a respite from his underground fights – at least for a while. His recent backstreet brawls, a far cry from the glory of the boxing ring, were what paid the bills now. "At least I've bought myself three more months..."
Leaning on the railing of his miniature balcony, Ryan cradled a cup of steaming coffee, his gaze drifting over the streets below. At this moment, the chaos of his life seemed distant, replaced by a transient calm. Despite his bruised, rough presentation, a certain peace enveloped him, a rare stillness that belied the storm of his existence. His thoughts meandered through the serene hum of the city and the gentle brush of the ocean breeze. The skyscape, with clouds dancing to the ocean's rhythm, offered a brief escape from his turbulent past.
Memories of Robin, his mentor and friend, floated into his consciousness. Robin's untimely death in Dubai was a wound that never healed. The sacrifices he had made to keep Robin safe, only to be absent on the fateful trip that claimed his friend's life, weighed heavily on him. "Why did it have to be you, Robin?" he whispered to the horizon, the question, a haunting torment upon his daily routines.
Ryan was a thinker; as he slid over his ashtray from the stool, he sparked up A morning 'dart' (cigarette), as he called them. His past began to creep into his head, as it did every morning. With each inhalation of addiction-soothing nicotine, his blazing thoughts followed as his brain began to become fully active from his sleep. It was a raven on his shoulder tormenting him, pecking at him ever haunting his consciousness. No matter the love he may have found or the happiness, friends, or family surrounding him. The time to reflect was always grim and consistently unbearable. If he stood still, the Ravel's claws sunk more profoundly; the only reprieve was constant distractions. It's why he kept so busy, creative, and active. Ryan constantly kept moving with hobbies, work, or art. Pushing off the switchblade thoughts ready to cut into his subconscious and bleed out whatever self-respect he had left that day. He threw away ten years of his life, and he relives them every. Single. Day.
"Damn man, what's the point of it all?" Ryan's voice was barely a whisper, lost in the morning breeze. His gaze lingered on the horizon, eyes clouded with confusion and pain. "Robin's gone, and here I am, a ship adrift; up shits creek without a paddle. What good can I do? What purpose do I serve? My skillset? My knowledge? Ive wasted my life, nothing is applicable." The questions hung in the air, unanswered. Ryan's life had indeed been a storm of violence and turmoil, from the gritty days working alongside Robin, watching his back to his hard-fought victories in the boxing ring. He had dreamt of leaving the world of fights behind, yet fate seemed to have woven a different path for him, one that he couldn't escape...
The distant sound of boat horns broke his train of thought. These weren't the usual rhythmic calls that echoed along Vancouver's shores; they carried a sense of urgency, growing louder and more frantic by the second. Ryan leaned forward, squinting into the morning light. The sight that greeted him was anything but ordinary. Dark, ominous and foreboding shapes were cutting through the waters toward the Seawall – military-grade ships that seemed like phantoms against the sun's bright backdrop.
"What the...?" Ryan murmured, a wry smile touching his lips as he recalled a line from a 1930s radio show. "Ah yes, the 'Anti-Frackers' upping their game, bravo!" He often found solace in humour, a shield against the world's harsh realities. Ryan was an unbreakable anvil to the world, always struck to sharpen others' steel. But what about his iron resolve? He bore the burdens so others didn't have to, a silent guardian shouldering the world's weight in stoic silence. Yet beneath that armour of stoicism beat the heart of a man grappling with his vulnerabilities, a man with a core as soft as it was intense.
Just like that- The world as we knew it, changed forever.
The morning's peace shattered abruptly as sirens wailed into life, slicing through the air with a sense of impending doom. The tranquil dawn was now a backdrop to a nightmare unfolding in real time. Ryan's eyes, mirroring the turbulent hues of a stormy sea, narrowed in primal alertness. These were not friendly vessels coming to grace the city's harbour; they were harbingers of chaos, their arrival a silent scream in the gardens of Vancouver's tranquility. As the city around him carried on, blissfully unaware of the looming threat, Ryan's mind shifted into high gear, honed by years of confrontation, conflict and reading other peoples intentions. He understood the unspoken language of death, the subtle shift in the air that preluded catastrophe. The serene calm that had greeted the day now seemed like the deceptive stillness before a devastating storm.
PFFFFT~~
Ryan's coffee ejected out his mouth, a clean mist dispersed, dancing in the ocean winds.
His eyes widened in shock. "That... No, that's not right. That honeycomb structure on the bow – that's rumoured military tech, not something you'd find on a civilian vessel. That's definitely not one of our decommissioned ships; Canada has always had a modest military budget- It's not the U.S. either; they've moved on to those massive city carriers," he muttered, recalling the recent unveiling of the U.S.'s latest naval behemoth designed to be a self-sustaining war ecosystem.
"These are destroyers...carriers...and what in the world are those landing crafts?" His voice trailed off as a wave of realization washed over him. A heavy breath escaped his lips, his heartbeat thundering in unison with a growing sense of dread. This kind of military might, sleek and menacing, was straight out of the pages of a dystopian novel. Ryan's pulse quickened, adrenaline coursing through his veins, mingling with an unsettling fear. Vancouver, with its serene beauty and peaceful reputation, was the last place one would expect a military invasion. Yet, as he stood there, the city around him persevered in blissful ignorance. Laughter and the sounds of daily life echoed up to his balcony, starkly juxtaposed against the darkening horizon of his thoughts.
Something sinister was unfolding, and he felt an urgent need to act. "Ah, damn it!" he exclaimed, frustration boiling over as he hurled his mug to the ground, where it shattered into razer sharp ceramic shards—a glimpse of futures past.
The walls of Ryan's apartment, once a gallery of memories from a life half-lived, now felt like they were closing in on him. The space that had been his refuge, adorned with mementos of a tumultuous past, suddenly felt like a prison. He felt trapped, not by physical barriers, but by the weight of the unfolding crisis. Who could he call? Who would believe him about an impending military assault? Was there even time?
Each option seemed as hopeless as the next, leaving him feeling powerless. His fists, which had once brought him victory in the ring, now seemed futile in the face of this immense and unknown threat.
BOOM
A thunderous crash tore through the city's fabric, piercing the veil of laughter and routine. Giggles changed to Shrieks, the buzzing of cars in the city turned screeching of panicked tires. It was a boom resonating with such force that it seemed to shake the very resolve of the most robust steel, a sound that demands attention and captivates a person, a sound of death; it rattles you to the bone. This explosion marked a pivotal moment that would forever alter the course of Vancouver's history and, indeed, the world's.
The resounding echo of the first explosion heralded a declaration of war on all that was ordinary. In Ryan, the shockwave ignited a transformation. Despair morphed into an unyielding determination, a fire kindled deep within. His skin prickled, each hair standing on end as if his nerves were braille, spelling out the moment's urgency.
"Are they firing at us?" Ryan's voice was a mix of disbelief and rising panic. The thought seemed almost too surreal to entertain. He hesitated momentarily, grappling with the reality of the situation. The explosion's roar, so fierce it shook the foundations of his apartment, jolted him back to the present. Racing back to his balcony, what he saw confirmed his darkest fears.
The ships in the harbour were no longer silent, ominous spectators; they had unleashed their fury, sending plumes of smoke and debris skyward. Vancouver's skyline, once a proud testament to peace and progress, now served as a harrowing backdrop to an unfolding apocalypse. Below, the streets descended into chaos. People scattered in a frantic attempt to escape, their screams piercing the air, a chorus of dawning terror.
Ryan's heart pounded against his chest, each beat a call to action. He was no hero, never the 'good guy' in his story, but he did value life above all. Standing there, witnessing his city being torn apart, he knew he couldn't remain a passive observer. Indecision and shock gave way to resolve.
"MOTHA FU-" he cursed, his words lost in the burst of an explosion, spotted at the last second.
The world around him had erupted into a maelstrom of fire and fury.
An air burst shell detonated with ferocious intensity a mere 50 meters from Ryan's sanctuary. The explosion ripped through the building, an unforgiving hatred that jolted reality itself. The blast wave, a monstrous force of destruction, assaulted his apartment, shattering the windows with an ease that mocked Vancouver's fragility. Glass shards, transformed into lethal projectiles, hurtled through the air with a hunter's precision, each piece seeking its target. Instinctively, Ryan lunged for cover, his only protection a vintage oak promotional board, a relic of a bygone era. This wooden guardian, decorated with the iconic image of Stan Lee, stood as a stoic defender, a symbol of comic heroism now repurposed to shield flesh and blood from the brutal onslaught.
A low hum erupts from the depths of his being as the fireball swirled around him. "Breathe... I can't... don't fall asleep... don't...sleep..." he whispered, fighting the encroaching darkness. His cobalt eyes, glazing over open, fighting to the last light, flickered between consciousness and oblivion. The distant, muffled voices of mentors past echoed in his mind, a fading chorus in the theatre of his memories. Ryan looked to his left, cast one last lingering look at the Vancouver sky, a canvas of blue that seemed so distant now. As his vision began to narrow, a tunnel drawing him away from the light, Ryan felt the grip of darkness pulling him under heavy, yet weightless. Once so vivid and alive, the world around him was fading into shadows.
Amid shrapnel-induced unconsciousness, Ryan's mind catapulted him back to a pivotal moment from his youth – the Ontario Canadian Olympic Trials.
The stadium's noise swirled around him, but it was an entirely different world within the ring. There, it was just Ryan and his opponent, every move a testament to the sacrifices he and Robin(Ryan's longtime mentor both inside, and outside the ring) had made together.
Ryan's style in the ring was unique, a blend of calculated ferocity in speed and agility. He adopted the elusive, angular movements that Robin had honed while serving alongside the hardened Ukrainians on the frontlines of Kyiv. This style was compelling and unpredictable, frustrating his opponents with swift and efficient strikes. Ryan's ability to slip away from counters, almost serpentine in its execution, left them grasping at straws.
Point fighting for the Olympics was a system that worked well with Ryan's style but not necessarily with his mindset. Ryan was a fighter at heart, and sometimes, when pushed, the disciplined techniques would give way to a rawer form of combat. Robin, who always believed in Ryan's potential, saw this as his greatest fault and biggest asset to "push past." In his gruff but encouraging voice, Robin would often spew "The stink in that mind, You've got a head on you that'd make an onion cry," highlighting Ryan's occasionally impulsive nature, and inability to control his emotions when it mattered. This characteristic made Ryan fearless in the ring but also sloppy, open, and vulnerable. It often led him into trouble outside of the solace in prizefighting.
In these trials, Ryan's physical attributes – his slender frame, broad shoulders, wide back and a peculiarly long wingspan that gave him an imposing presence in his weight class – it made him stand out. His frame synchronized with his style, creating a truly unique spectacle of genetic gifts, hard work, and skill.
These memories blended nostalgia and pain as they flickered through Ryan's mind. They were reminders of a path once trodden, a journey shaped by the influence of a mentor and the determination of a fighter's spirit.
As the Olympic Trials set to begin, Robin looked to Ryan to instill confidence for his upcoming bouts, but Ryan was in his element. It was fight day, the fun day, the day to show off all of the hard work. Ryan had confidence, and his style in the ring displayed it in full. He moved with an angular rhythm that was both art and battle – slipping, landing a quick stiff counter cross, then gracefully stepping out of reach inches from returning fire. He made it look fun and easy, as if playing with his prey before fangs clench throat, delivering the killing bite. Looking closer, you can only see fire and determination in his bright eyes. He found purpose in the beautiful science of boxing. His strategy was that of a technical boxer, The Counterpuncher; 1. To bait his opponent into committing, then counter, fight long, fight smart. 2. Beat em' up, Frustrate em', then start slinging the heat in the uppercuts and lead hooks.
The bell rang and the fight was officially underway. Ryan controlled the ring with his long frame. Each exchange was rapid yet controlled, a dance of precise strikes and evasive maneuvers. The world's complexities faded in these moments, leaving only Ryan and the pure essence of the sport he loved. He felt invincible, a force of nature within the confines of the ring. To Ryan, the fight was more than a competition; it was a performance, an exhilarating escape from the mundane. It was true Purpose.
The intensity of the round reached a frustrating outburst by his opponent, who grabbed Ryan by the back of his head– 'SPLIT' called by the referee, his hand placed between them. A judge calls for a correction, catching the referee's attention only for a split second. In this second, Ryan's Opponent saw an opportunity. Lifting his head to move away, Ryan locks eyes with his Opponent, sporting a grin and delivering a sly headbutt as a parting gift. It's against the rules, but part of the game's harsh reality if gone unnoticed. Expelling energy and detesting it was a waste of fuel. It was a jolting reminder of "at all times"(protect yourself), a stark contrast to the discipline and respect Ryan upheld, starting his boxing journey in Thailand under "Muay Thai" rules, ideology of the worrior spirit and discipline. There was a sense of Honor in Lumpinee Stadium.
The outcome of these unsavoury tactics here is an advantage for the opponent. Ryan's inner pools erupt, his mind swirled with raging white waters, crashing and colliding against each other, two oceans with opposite currents meeting in his consciousness. His once technical thoughts, muscle memory mixed with fight iq burst with flames, erupting and incinerating all strategy in his path. His eyes widened, open like he'd found his primal genetic ancestry hidden deep within. The slaughter and the war of history. The bloodshed of 1000 lifetimes. He felt it all. Manic in thought. Ryan wanted to take his glove off and rip his cheeks open from the inside out--
BREAK - Ryan snaps back into it, erupting in stoic, silent, primal rage.
░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░░ ░ ░░░ ░░░ ░░ ░ ▒ ▒▒▒▒ ▒ ▒▒▒▒ ▒ ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ ▓ ▓▓ ▓▓▓▓ ▓ ▓▓▓ ▓ ▓▓▓ █ ███ ██ █ ████ █ ███████ █ ████ █ ████ ██ ██ █ █████████████████████████████████████The fight escalated, Ryan's disciplined technique unravelled under the seething tide of his rage. The finesse and agility that once defined his footwork gave way to a heavier, more aggressive stance. His feet, usually light and swift under his commanding frame, now felt anchored to the floor, each step driven more by fury than finesse. This transformation in style played perilously into his opponent's advantage. Ryan, usually a master of stick-and-move tactics, found himself engaging in close-quarter brawls, trading his advantage for a risky gamble. His in-and-out maneuvers, once a blur of grace, turned into brutish, in-the-pocket exchanges. This was a terrain where his more muscular and compact opponent had the upper hand. A raw, primal contest of power replaced the tactical dance that Ryan excelled at. Ryan's precise strikes became wild swings, his movements predictable to his seasoned adversary. Seizing the moment, the opponent unleashed a devastating barrage of inside hooks with their compact frame. A vicious right hook, lands clean in the exchange, thrown with the grace of a milkbag, the power hooks brute force, cut through Ryan's defences. The blow landed with a bone-jarring impact, sending a shockwave through Ryan's frame. His world spun as he stumbled, his once dominant presence in the ring now faltering under the weight of his unchecked emotions.
The ground rushed up to meet him as he crashed onto the canvas, the taste of iron and the sting of defeat mingling in his mouth. The crowd's roar faded into a distant echo, a stark reminder of how quickly the tides of battle could turn. Robin's voice sliced through the ringing from the corner, resonating with a force that commanded attention.
"Get your shit together, JUMPIN JESUS RYAN! HEART OF GOLD AND HEAD OF STONE – GET UP, YOU LITTLE COWARD! YOU'RE LETTING IT WIN, AGAIN! STOP THIS ONION HEAD NONSENSE AND DANCE, BOX THIS FELLA – YOU'RE BETTER THAN THIS, ACT LIKE IT, BELIEVE IN IT!"
His words were more than just a call to action; they were a lifeline thrown into the stormy seas of Ryan's mind. Each syllable was drenched in the raw, unfiltered wisdom that only a life spent in the cauldron of combat could forge. Robin's tone was a volatile cocktail of fury and concern, the urgency palpable in his voice. His palms crashed against the ring mat; each hit thunderous punctuation to his fiery sermon.
"You've got the talent, kid, but it's as good as ash if you keep burning it to the ground. I'M HERE FOR YOU, IM RIGHT HERE. SNAP OUT OF IT AND BOX THIS PLASTIC PATTY! MOVE GOD DAMNIT, GET UP!"
On the canvas, Ryan lay dazed, the echo of Robin's voice ringing in his ears. It was more than a mere pep talk; it was a wake-up call that struck a chord deep within him. Amidst the haze of the crowd murmurs and the pulsating pain that coursed through his body, clarity began to emerge. Lying there, Ryan grasped the essence of Robin's message –
"coward? letting it win? Playing my ego are ya Robin...hes right though. Im throwing this shit away."
This moment, sprawled on the canvas under the glaring lights and the crowd's gaze, became a crucible of transformation. The raw emotion and the hard-hitting truth in Robin's words ignited a spark in Ryan. It was time to rise, shake off the shadows of rage, and embrace a fighter's true spirit like he had learned in Thailand – not just with fists but with heart and mind in unison.
Staggered yet stirred by the dual impact of the physical hit and Robin's piercing words, A padded fist crushed into the rings canvas, followed by a kneee and the eruption of the crowd. Ryan was back, and he began to pull himself up from the canvas. His resolve, momentarily dimmed, now reignited with a fierce, clear, calculated intensity. Memories of the gruelling hours spent in the gym flooded back to him – the relentless sparring sessions, the time spent in Thailand, the sweat and toil, and the invaluable lessons etched into his being under Robin's stern tutelage.
With a renewed spirit, Ryan stepped back into the battle, his movements now embodying controlled power and a fluidity to his step. He recalled his time fighting beside the backdrop of the "Sarama" a traditional Thai music played when in combat. The times of learning to move, fight with the music, to flow, to be fluid, to be concise. Ryan finally put it all together in the heat of battle. He had merged his inherent ferocity with the disciplined technique that Robin relentlessly drilled into him, and the mindfull practises of the years he spent under Burklerk Pinsinchai in the jungles of Chiang Mai. His style was now fully displayed, raw and visceral yet refined by countless hours of practice in mind, body and spirit.
The final rounds bell clang to a start in a clinic of skill and sheer willpower. Ryan, driven by a blend of desperation and unwavering determination, unleashed a barrage of calculated and explosive strikes. Each punch and maneuver was a nod to the efficient, no-nonsense Ukrainian style that Robin had imparted to him. Ryan moved rhythmically across the mat, steps measured and precise, executing short, angular movements and deft outside counterpunches. He had returned to his element – the dance of combat, where he felt most alive, a symphony of movement where every step and punch was a testament to his life's journey and experiences as a human being first, and as a fighter second.
In this wake-up call, Ryan reinvigorated and reminded himself of his love for the sport, the exhilarating blend of art and athleticism. He was not just fighting to win; he was celebrating boxing, combat, honouring the path he had walked with Robin, and reclaiming what it meant to be a true fighter through Burklurk Pinsinchai's Teachings.
The round pressed on, and Ryan executed his maneuvers with a surgeon's precision. First;
-- The counterpuncher; a display in timing and accuracy, delivered with the full force of training and innate skill. --
- He deftly slipped his opponent's cross, a move as fluid as it was swift.
- He angled off, creating a space wide enough for his next move.
- With an almost predatory precision, Ryan unleashed a powerful right cross, targeting his opponent's cheek from the angle he had just created. But Ryan wasn't done yet.
- He slipped out again, evading any potential counter from his disoriented opponent. The rhythm, he danced in and out with his precise timing, perfected down to inches and angles.
- In a final, decisive movement of the exchange, Ryan slipped in. He timed his step with a long cross that came off-beat, catching his opponent utterly off-guard. The punch landed with a satisfying impact, culminating in a perfectly executed combination. As he watched his opponent stagger, Ryan couldn't help but think, 'cya sleepy boi,' a silent acknowledgment of his dominance in this singular exchange.
ONE!…TWO!…THREE!…FOUR!…FIVE!…SIX!...SEVEN!..EIGHT!
Ryan's opponent stands, admirable, but futile, driven by sheer will but hampered by sluggish movements, the man rose to his feet, it was clear the fight was reaching its zenith.
The opponent, gathering his remaining strength for a final stand, launched a jab, a last-ditch effort relying more on brute force than finesse. But this was a fatal mistake in Ryan's world – playing right into what Ryan was best at. Counters.
Ryan read the move with the clarity of a seasoned fighter. As the jab came, he effortlessly slipped to the right, evading the punch with a short angular step that spoke of his ring intelligence. Instantly, he countered with the same sharp cross from his right hand, followed by a devastating hook that cut through the air with lethal intent in his left. Grasping at straws, reeling from the counter, Ryans opponent threw a desperate, looping last stand punch, Ryan dipped down and left, rolling the punch with an elegance that made it seem almost effortless. He was Hunting for the Kill Shot. Seizing the moment, Ryan unleashed a ferocious left uppercut, the force of the blow lifting his opponent's chin skyward. He followed up with a right overhand, but just before impact, he halted the punch. There was no need for it; his opponent was already collapsing, the "Lights were on, but no one was Home". The fight was effectively over, Ryan's last combination is the final note, a crescendo that echoed through the ring.
As his opponent hit the canvas, the crowd erupted. Ryan stood in the center of the ring, his chest heaving, every fibre of his being alight with the thrill of victory. This wasn't just a win; it was a performance, a display of skill, heart, and the indomitable spirit of a fighter who had walked through fire and flames to the otherside and emerge victorious.
The final bell Rings with not a single chair in the arena warm; a thunderous clap erupts from the crowd. It was more than just applause; it was an acknowledgment of a battle fiercely fought by both men. In that moment ringside, in a triumphant victory, Ryan and Robin shared a look that spoke volumes, a connection far beyond the usual bounds of mentor and protégé. Their bond, tempered in the crucible of hardship and struggle, was now sealed in the glory of this defining triumph.
Standing amidst the cheers and the adrenaline-fueled euphoria, Ryan found himself momentarily lost in the tide of memories. It was a poignant reminder of the journey that had brought him here, a path marked by triumphs and losses. Robin's teachings transcended the confines of boxing; they were life lessons imprinted deep onto him. Ryan began to slowly step out of the ring; the weight of these reflections settled upon him. The victory was sweet, but it carried the weight of all sacrificed to achieve it. Robin's presence was felt strongly, a guiding force that continued to shape his path, illuminating the way forward even in the most challenging times.
2024.05.11 09:44 JACJ_DK Wnt outside as me for the first time in daylight
Hey MtF! This is my first post here, and I just wanted to share a lovely story with y'all in the hope of inspiring and maybe even helping others to take the step to be who they are. About 3 years ago, I started to identify myself as genderfluid. A few months ago, I got accepted to start at the "Center for Gender Identity," which is the first step for transitions in Denmark or if you need help with your gender identity. I am still not sure what I want, but the more I think about it, the more I would probably want to start HRT and probably also get the surgery. Does that make me trans? Oh well, who cares.
In all my time as genderfluid, I have hidden my girl mode from the public and only gone outside in my assigned gender clothing. I am still in the closet towards friends, colleagues, and family. I have worn a bralette and stockings in public before but never worn an outer layer, at least not in daylight. Once or twice, I have been outside in girl mode in the very late evening for a short walk just to feel the breeze under the skirt and against my legs, but never dared to actually go out knowing other people will see me.
A few months back, I stumbled upon a queer group that made events for queers, and I soon joined them. Yesterday was my third time there, and it was a picnic event in public.
For the past few days, I have really felt like being in my girl mode, and as it's starting to be summer here in Denmark and the weather forecast was cloudy with little to no wind and 17°C, I just wanted to put on my skirt and go out. I had to work from home yesterday, so I had the time to try out different accessories and combinations. The only thing I was sure about was the skirt, bra, and a polo shirt (I unfortunately don't have many female tops just yet).
When I was off work, I wouldn't have time to get changed, so it was a tactical decision to start my day dressed as my female self because I then had to stick with it. I also put on some waterproof mascara to enhance my eyes, which worked very well if you ask me. After I felt comfortable with the outfit, I started to get more nervous... Was I really about to do this?
As the time approached the end of the workday, I knew that if I wanted to chicken out, I had to get changed very soon, otherwise I had to stick with it. To build confidence, I wrote to a few people who do know my genderfluid identity and shared a picture of my chosen outfit with them in hope to get the needed confidence, and it seems to work. Because I clocked out from work at 15:30 and at 15:45, I was on my bike for a 15-minute ride through the city center wearing only my outfit and a windbreaker. The first 10 seconds while I unlocked my bike, which was parked just outside my front door, were the hardest. But after that, everything felt incredibly good and natural.
To my surprise, when I finally was outside, I didn't think much of what other people might think or if they even looked at me weirdly. I had a very successful first run being myself outside, and it will definitely not be the last time I go outside being me.
I would like to share a picture of my outfit but can't seem to find the selfie thread so you have to do with my story for now :) My own take on the passable scale: 3/10.
submitted by JACJ_DK to MtF [link] [comments]
In all my time as genderfluid, I have hidden my girl mode from the public and only gone outside in my assigned gender clothing. I am still in the closet towards friends, colleagues, and family. I have worn a bralette and stockings in public before but never worn an outer layer, at least not in daylight. Once or twice, I have been outside in girl mode in the very late evening for a short walk just to feel the breeze under the skirt and against my legs, but never dared to actually go out knowing other people will see me.
A few months back, I stumbled upon a queer group that made events for queers, and I soon joined them. Yesterday was my third time there, and it was a picnic event in public.
For the past few days, I have really felt like being in my girl mode, and as it's starting to be summer here in Denmark and the weather forecast was cloudy with little to no wind and 17°C, I just wanted to put on my skirt and go out. I had to work from home yesterday, so I had the time to try out different accessories and combinations. The only thing I was sure about was the skirt, bra, and a polo shirt (I unfortunately don't have many female tops just yet).
When I was off work, I wouldn't have time to get changed, so it was a tactical decision to start my day dressed as my female self because I then had to stick with it. I also put on some waterproof mascara to enhance my eyes, which worked very well if you ask me. After I felt comfortable with the outfit, I started to get more nervous... Was I really about to do this?
As the time approached the end of the workday, I knew that if I wanted to chicken out, I had to get changed very soon, otherwise I had to stick with it. To build confidence, I wrote to a few people who do know my genderfluid identity and shared a picture of my chosen outfit with them in hope to get the needed confidence, and it seems to work. Because I clocked out from work at 15:30 and at 15:45, I was on my bike for a 15-minute ride through the city center wearing only my outfit and a windbreaker. The first 10 seconds while I unlocked my bike, which was parked just outside my front door, were the hardest. But after that, everything felt incredibly good and natural.
To my surprise, when I finally was outside, I didn't think much of what other people might think or if they even looked at me weirdly. I had a very successful first run being myself outside, and it will definitely not be the last time I go outside being me.
I would like to share a picture of my outfit but can't seem to find the selfie thread so you have to do with my story for now :) My own take on the passable scale: 3/10.
2024.05.11 09:33 JACJ_DK I fucking did it
 | Hey genderfluid! This is my first post here, and I just wanted to share a lovely story with y'all in the hope of inspiring and maybe even helping others to take the step to be who they are. submitted by JACJ_DK to genderfluid [link] [comments] In all my time as genderfluid, I have hidden my girl mode from the public and only gone outside in my assigned gender clothing. I am still in the closet towards friends, colleagues, and family. I have worn a bralette and stockings in public before but never worn an outer layer, at least not in daylight. Once or twice, I have been outside in girl mode in the very late evening for a short walk just to feel the breeze under the skirt and against my legs, but never dared to actually go out knowing other people will see me. A few months back, I stumbled upon a queer group that made events for queers, and I soon joined them. Yesterday was my third time there, and it was a picnic event in public. For the past few days, I have really felt like being in my girl mode, and as it's starting to be summer here in Denmark and the weather forecast was cloudy with little to no wind and 17°C, I just wanted to put on my skirt and go out. I had to work from home yesterday, so I had the time to try out different accessories and combinations. The only thing I was sure about was the skirt, bra, and a polo shirt (I unfortunately don't have many female tops just yet). When I was off work, I wouldn't have time to get changed, so it was a tactical decision to start my day dressed as my female self because I then had to stick with it. I also put on some waterproof mascara to enhance my eyes, which worked very well if you ask me. After I felt comfortable with the outfit, I started to get more nervous... Was I really about to do this? As the time approched end of the workday I knew that if I wanted to chicken out, I had to get changed very soon, otherwise I had to stick with it. To build confidence I wrote to a few people who do know my genderfluid identity and shared a picture of my choosen outfit with them in hope to get the needen confidence, and it seems to work. Because I clocked out from work at 15:30 and at 15:45, I was on my bike for a 15-minute ride through the city center wearing only my outfit and a windbreaker. The first 10 seconds while I unlocked my bike, which was parked just outside my front door, were the hardest. But after that, everything felt incredibly good and natural. To my surprise, when I finally was outside, I didn't think much of what other people might think or if they even looked at me weirdly. I had a very successful first run being myself outside, and it will definitely not be the last time I go outside being me. Here is a picture of me in the park. My own take on the passable scale: 3/10. https://preview.redd.it/wg3npcs21rzc1.jpg?width=1600&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=0ba2cb7f166bfe8404de5df7ada0fc469dc4cd39 |
2024.05.11 07:23 EchoBookOfficial Rate my Prologue - Echo
Hello all. I am writing a book, my first book, and I was hoping for some feedback. I have had this idea for a book in my head for years now, with the world building and character development contained all in my head, so I decided to finally write down some of my thoughts. I apologize if it is too long. Any feedback would be great. Thank you all.
Name of the book : Echo
Genre : Fantasy
Prologue
Part 1
As the first whispers of dawn began to soften the night, we moved like shadows along the path skirting Kyktras’s towering stone walls. The city behind us lay asleep, its inhabitants unaware of the stealthy figures slipping through the darkness at its edges. My mentor, a ghost in the muted light, moved with silent precision that spoke of years navigating the delicate balance of power and secrecy in a land ruled by a king and jealously guarded by noble families. "Stay sharp," she whispered, her voice a hushed echo in the cool air. "Tonight, we address a breach of trust that threatens the very foundation of our community. Remember, this mission is not just about executing a deed—it’s about sending a message."
My mentor was not usually this aggressive, but in the event of treason, she held no mercy. Our mission’s target was a fellow assassin, a brother-in-arms who had sold out the desperate for a meal. His betrayal had enraged us all, revealing the location of a secret smuggling tunnel used by those desperate to escape the city's harsh realities. Such an act of treachery underscored the brutal reality of life in the Slums, where even the promise of food could turn the loyal treacherous.
We approached his makeshift hideout, a dilapidated shack camouflaged by the shadows of the outer ring’s edge. She paused, blending into the darkness as she assessed the surroundings. Turning to me with stern eyes that reflected the moon’s faint glow, she said, "Each betrayal cuts deeper into the trust that binds us. Tonight, you learn the true cost of survival and the heavy burden of our choices."
She signaled for me to cover the front as she circled to the rear. The plan was straightforward yet fraught with peril. As she vanished into the night with a bloom of blackened purple smoke, I pressed against the rough wooden wall of the shack. The night’s ambient sounds—a contrast to my racing heart—filled the air, the occasional rustle of wildlife, and the distant sound of the night watch’s movement along the city walls.
This mission was more than a mere assassination; it was a grim lesson in the stark realities of our world. In Kyktras, where even the trusted could betray for a morsel of food, the lines between friend and foe were often blurred by desperation, and every secret revealed could mean death.
As I pressed against the rough wooden wall of the shack, waiting for the signal, a sudden crash shattered the silence. The side door burst open, and the traitorous assassin bolted into the open, desperation fueling his sprint. He knew his fate if caught—perhaps the open fields offered a sliver of hope for escape.
She appeared at the doorway, a momentary silhouette against the dim interior light. "Quinn! After him!" Her command sliced through the night, sharp and urgent.
Adrenaline surged as I took off, my boots pounding the soft earth. The fields around Kyktras were vast, the darkness a maze of shadows and whispers. Ahead, the fleeing figure was a ghost, barely discernible against the night's canvas.
Despite the distance, I knew this was my moment. I slid to a stop, pulling the bow from my back. The world seemed to hold its breath as I notched an arrow, the faintest light of dawn casting long, uncertain shadows. Eighty meters, I estimated, adjusting for the wind, the weight of the night air pressing against my skin.
The bowstring sang a tight, whispering hum as I released the arrow. It cut through the darkness, a silent herald of judgment. The fleeing assassin's figure stumbled, then crumpled quietly onto the field—a stark, motionless silhouette against the dewy grass.
Breathing heavily, I walked up to where he lay. The arrow had found its mark with a grim precision, a testament to the countless hours of training under her watchful guidance. She joined me, her presence solemn. "You did well," she said, her voice low. "But remember, each life taken is a heavy burden. Carry it with honor and awareness of its cost."
We quickly ensured the scene bore no signs of our involvement, erasing tracks and retrieving the arrow. As we made our way back through the fields towards the hidden pathways of Kyktras, she spoke again, her words cutting through the fading darkness. "This world of shadows we navigate is unforgiving and harsh. Today, you've learned another aspect of what it demands from us—not just stealth and skill, but readiness to act decisively when the moment calls."
The first light of dawn crested the distant walls as we approached the city, the events of the night a new weight in my conscience, a reminder of the stark realities of our existence and the roles we were destined to play. As the first light of dawn painted the sky in pale hues, we made our way back to the clandestine heart of Kyktras. The guild headquarters, hidden in plain sight within the maze of the Slums, was an unassuming structure to the untrained eye, yet it held the pulse of covert operations under its roof.
The guild leader, Maris Vhal, awaited our report in her office, a room shrouded more in secrets than in tapestries. Her presence commanded both respect and an undercurrent of fear. With steel-gray hair braided tightly back and eyes that missed nothing, Maris was as formidable as she was enigmatic.
"We completed the task," my mentor began, her voice steady despite the weight of exhaustion. "The traitor won't be a concern any longer."
Maris nodded, her expression unreadable. "Good. Your efficiency remains our guild's best asset, though I must remind you both of the dangers of such breaches. We cannot afford loose ends, not with the Hunters ever vigilant."
As she spoke, I noticed a fleeting shadow cross my mentor’s face—an echo of a deeper, unspoken tension. We bowed gracefully and left without saying another word, the message to my mentor as clear as the sky. The weight of the night’s events hung between us, an unspoken dialogue of shared secrets and burdens. Unable to hold back my concerns any longer, I broke the silence.
"Why don’t you just leave Kyktras?" I asked once clear of Maris’s ears, "You’ve always talked about seeing what lies beyond the walls."
The question seemed to strike a nerve. She stiffened, her hands pausing mid-motion as she turned to face me, her expression clouded with a rare flicker of anger. "Quinn, we do not discuss that—not now, not ever. Is that clear?" Her tone was sharp, a stark contrast to the warmth I was accustomed to.
I stepped back, taken aback by the intensity of her response. “I... I’m sorry, I was just...” I stumbled to get the words out, as if the response removed my ability to think.
A tense silence hung in the air, heavy with words unsaid. After a moment, her features softened, and she sighed, a weary, maternal sound that seemed to carry the weight of countless unspoken fears.
"I’m sorry, Quinn," she murmured, her hand reaching out to gently touch my arm. "It’s just… there are things at play here, dangers you don’t fully understand. Maris knows about my use of Umbra, and she’s threatened to expose me to the Hunters if I try to leave. It’s not as simple as just walking away."
Her confession, spoken softly amidst the clatter of metal and leather, drew a stark picture of the invisible chains that bound her to this place, to duties marred by threats and blackmail. I nodded, understanding the delicacy of her position, the precarious balance she maintained not just for her own safety but potentially for others as well.
"We’ll figure this out," I assured her, my voice low. "You’re not alone in this."
The shadows cast by the early light seeming to whisper of the delicate threads of loyalty and power that held our fates. Each step was a reminder of the trust she placed in me, a trust I vowed to honor above all else.
Dawn barely penetrated the thick smog that shrouded the Slums, casting a pallid light over the decrepit landscape. We threaded our way through the narrow, mire-filled alleys where the city’s forgotten resided. Here, the buildings were makeshift shelters cobbled together from scavenged wood and rusted metal, each one leaning on its neighbor for support, a mirror of the community’s own tenuous bonds.
The streets teemed with the weary and the worn. Vendors hawked sparse goods from ramshackle stalls, their voices brittle with fatigue. Children with gaunt faces and eyes too old for their years scrounged through piles of refuse, searching for anything salvageable. Laundry hung limply between the cramped houses, the fabric stained and threadbare.
Stray dogs skirted around the edges of human activity, their forms skeletal, their movements slow with hunger. The stench of rot and burning garbage permeated the air, a constant reminder of the relentless struggle for survival in this forsaken part of Kyktras.
As we moved through the Slums, I could feel the weight of the scene pressing down on us. Beside me, my mentor's steps were measured, her face set in a mask of stoic endurance. Yet, as we passed a young mother consoling a crying child, her facade briefly faltered. A look of profound sadness crossed her features—a silent testament to the heartache of witnessing such despair and feeling powerless to alleviate it.
She didn’t speak, nor did she need to. The grim set of her jaw and the slight tremble of her hands as she adjusted her cloak spoke volumes. Her gaze lingered on the squalid surroundings, the sight of such relentless hardship etching deeper lines of resolve and sorrow into her already weathered face.
We continued on, the ambient sounds of the Slums—a mixture of distant shouts, the clatter of makeshift carts, and the occasional cry of despair—fading into the background as we approached our modest dwelling. Inside, the simple quiet of our home provided a stark contrast to the chaos outside, a sanctuary amidst the storm.
There, in the safety of our shared space, the tension in her shoulders eased slightly, but the shadow of what we had walked through lingered, a reminder of the battles yet fought and the lives we strived to protect, even when our efforts felt like mere drops in an ocean of need.
The rest of the day passed in a haze of routine chores and maintenance of our gear, the normalcy a thin veneer over the unspoken tension that lingered from our morning walk through the Slums. As evening approached, we decided to step out for fresh supplies, a necessary risk to prepare for the uncertain days ahead.
We moved through the dimming streets, the fading light casting long shadows that twisted like specters across the cobblestones. The marketplace was less crowded at this hour, the vendors packing up their stalls, their faces weary from the day's labor. The air was cooler now, the stench of the Slums less oppressive but never fully absent.
As we turned into a narrow alley between dilapidated buildings, the sudden hiss of an arrow slicing through the air shattered the evening calm. My mentor pushed me aside just as the arrow embedded itself in the wall where my head had been seconds earlier. Spinning around, I caught a glimpse of a figure perched on a rooftop—another assassin, bow in hand, lining up another shot.
Without hesitation, my mentor conjured dark tendrils of Umbra, creating a shield that deflected the next arrow. "Go, Quinn! Stop them!" she commanded, her voice strained under the effort of maintaining the barrier.
I took off at a sprint just as another arrow sliced through the air next to me. Not a very good shot I thought to myself. I dodged through the maze of alleys as the assassin fled across the rooftops, the chase a blur of adrenaline and fear, but my focus narrowed to the fleeting shadow ahead. As I gained ground, the assassin paused, perhaps thinking they could take another shot. They underestimated my resolve.
Leaping across a gap between buildings, I tackled them to the ground. He released the arrow, cutting the side of my face as it soured into the sky. I rolled over in retreat, the pain of my face as evident as the blood dripping down my cheek. The assassin climbed on top of me and placed his bow on my throat. The sky began to fade, his glowing eyes mocking my final moments.
As if summoned by my distress, I hear the calls of my name, and the faintest figure resembling my mentor came into view, and a fury of smokey purple tendrils engulfing my would-be attacker and throwing him to the side. I gasp for air as I turn to my mentor, limping over with a hand on her stomach, a single arrow pultruding through.
Still filled with adrenaline, and now anger, grab the attackers bow and pounce onto him, pushing with all my might onto his throat as he did to me. Slowly, the glow faded from his eyes, and his look changed from determination to confusion in his last fleeting moments. Soon, he was nothing more than a corpse residing on a rooftop. The memory of my mentors appearance came rushing back to me. I turned around and saw her laying on her side, hand still clenching where the arrow had embedded itself into her stomach. Her breathe coarse and desperate, trying to cling to any life she had in her.
“No no no.... please no...” I whispered as I ran to her aid, “Please don’t... please...” She placed her bloodied hand on my cheek and smiled. A tear forming in her eyes. “I’m so.... proud of you....” her voice barely a whisper, “Leave this place.... for me...” were the final words her lungs could muster.
“Don’t do this! Please! I still need you!”
submitted by EchoBookOfficial to writers [link] [comments]
Name of the book : Echo
Genre : Fantasy
Prologue
Part 1
As the first whispers of dawn began to soften the night, we moved like shadows along the path skirting Kyktras’s towering stone walls. The city behind us lay asleep, its inhabitants unaware of the stealthy figures slipping through the darkness at its edges. My mentor, a ghost in the muted light, moved with silent precision that spoke of years navigating the delicate balance of power and secrecy in a land ruled by a king and jealously guarded by noble families. "Stay sharp," she whispered, her voice a hushed echo in the cool air. "Tonight, we address a breach of trust that threatens the very foundation of our community. Remember, this mission is not just about executing a deed—it’s about sending a message."
My mentor was not usually this aggressive, but in the event of treason, she held no mercy. Our mission’s target was a fellow assassin, a brother-in-arms who had sold out the desperate for a meal. His betrayal had enraged us all, revealing the location of a secret smuggling tunnel used by those desperate to escape the city's harsh realities. Such an act of treachery underscored the brutal reality of life in the Slums, where even the promise of food could turn the loyal treacherous.
We approached his makeshift hideout, a dilapidated shack camouflaged by the shadows of the outer ring’s edge. She paused, blending into the darkness as she assessed the surroundings. Turning to me with stern eyes that reflected the moon’s faint glow, she said, "Each betrayal cuts deeper into the trust that binds us. Tonight, you learn the true cost of survival and the heavy burden of our choices."
She signaled for me to cover the front as she circled to the rear. The plan was straightforward yet fraught with peril. As she vanished into the night with a bloom of blackened purple smoke, I pressed against the rough wooden wall of the shack. The night’s ambient sounds—a contrast to my racing heart—filled the air, the occasional rustle of wildlife, and the distant sound of the night watch’s movement along the city walls.
This mission was more than a mere assassination; it was a grim lesson in the stark realities of our world. In Kyktras, where even the trusted could betray for a morsel of food, the lines between friend and foe were often blurred by desperation, and every secret revealed could mean death.
As I pressed against the rough wooden wall of the shack, waiting for the signal, a sudden crash shattered the silence. The side door burst open, and the traitorous assassin bolted into the open, desperation fueling his sprint. He knew his fate if caught—perhaps the open fields offered a sliver of hope for escape.
She appeared at the doorway, a momentary silhouette against the dim interior light. "Quinn! After him!" Her command sliced through the night, sharp and urgent.
Adrenaline surged as I took off, my boots pounding the soft earth. The fields around Kyktras were vast, the darkness a maze of shadows and whispers. Ahead, the fleeing figure was a ghost, barely discernible against the night's canvas.
Despite the distance, I knew this was my moment. I slid to a stop, pulling the bow from my back. The world seemed to hold its breath as I notched an arrow, the faintest light of dawn casting long, uncertain shadows. Eighty meters, I estimated, adjusting for the wind, the weight of the night air pressing against my skin.
The bowstring sang a tight, whispering hum as I released the arrow. It cut through the darkness, a silent herald of judgment. The fleeing assassin's figure stumbled, then crumpled quietly onto the field—a stark, motionless silhouette against the dewy grass.
Breathing heavily, I walked up to where he lay. The arrow had found its mark with a grim precision, a testament to the countless hours of training under her watchful guidance. She joined me, her presence solemn. "You did well," she said, her voice low. "But remember, each life taken is a heavy burden. Carry it with honor and awareness of its cost."
We quickly ensured the scene bore no signs of our involvement, erasing tracks and retrieving the arrow. As we made our way back through the fields towards the hidden pathways of Kyktras, she spoke again, her words cutting through the fading darkness. "This world of shadows we navigate is unforgiving and harsh. Today, you've learned another aspect of what it demands from us—not just stealth and skill, but readiness to act decisively when the moment calls."
The first light of dawn crested the distant walls as we approached the city, the events of the night a new weight in my conscience, a reminder of the stark realities of our existence and the roles we were destined to play. As the first light of dawn painted the sky in pale hues, we made our way back to the clandestine heart of Kyktras. The guild headquarters, hidden in plain sight within the maze of the Slums, was an unassuming structure to the untrained eye, yet it held the pulse of covert operations under its roof.
The guild leader, Maris Vhal, awaited our report in her office, a room shrouded more in secrets than in tapestries. Her presence commanded both respect and an undercurrent of fear. With steel-gray hair braided tightly back and eyes that missed nothing, Maris was as formidable as she was enigmatic.
"We completed the task," my mentor began, her voice steady despite the weight of exhaustion. "The traitor won't be a concern any longer."
Maris nodded, her expression unreadable. "Good. Your efficiency remains our guild's best asset, though I must remind you both of the dangers of such breaches. We cannot afford loose ends, not with the Hunters ever vigilant."
As she spoke, I noticed a fleeting shadow cross my mentor’s face—an echo of a deeper, unspoken tension. We bowed gracefully and left without saying another word, the message to my mentor as clear as the sky. The weight of the night’s events hung between us, an unspoken dialogue of shared secrets and burdens. Unable to hold back my concerns any longer, I broke the silence.
"Why don’t you just leave Kyktras?" I asked once clear of Maris’s ears, "You’ve always talked about seeing what lies beyond the walls."
The question seemed to strike a nerve. She stiffened, her hands pausing mid-motion as she turned to face me, her expression clouded with a rare flicker of anger. "Quinn, we do not discuss that—not now, not ever. Is that clear?" Her tone was sharp, a stark contrast to the warmth I was accustomed to.
I stepped back, taken aback by the intensity of her response. “I... I’m sorry, I was just...” I stumbled to get the words out, as if the response removed my ability to think.
A tense silence hung in the air, heavy with words unsaid. After a moment, her features softened, and she sighed, a weary, maternal sound that seemed to carry the weight of countless unspoken fears.
"I’m sorry, Quinn," she murmured, her hand reaching out to gently touch my arm. "It’s just… there are things at play here, dangers you don’t fully understand. Maris knows about my use of Umbra, and she’s threatened to expose me to the Hunters if I try to leave. It’s not as simple as just walking away."
Her confession, spoken softly amidst the clatter of metal and leather, drew a stark picture of the invisible chains that bound her to this place, to duties marred by threats and blackmail. I nodded, understanding the delicacy of her position, the precarious balance she maintained not just for her own safety but potentially for others as well.
"We’ll figure this out," I assured her, my voice low. "You’re not alone in this."
The shadows cast by the early light seeming to whisper of the delicate threads of loyalty and power that held our fates. Each step was a reminder of the trust she placed in me, a trust I vowed to honor above all else.
Dawn barely penetrated the thick smog that shrouded the Slums, casting a pallid light over the decrepit landscape. We threaded our way through the narrow, mire-filled alleys where the city’s forgotten resided. Here, the buildings were makeshift shelters cobbled together from scavenged wood and rusted metal, each one leaning on its neighbor for support, a mirror of the community’s own tenuous bonds.
The streets teemed with the weary and the worn. Vendors hawked sparse goods from ramshackle stalls, their voices brittle with fatigue. Children with gaunt faces and eyes too old for their years scrounged through piles of refuse, searching for anything salvageable. Laundry hung limply between the cramped houses, the fabric stained and threadbare.
Stray dogs skirted around the edges of human activity, their forms skeletal, their movements slow with hunger. The stench of rot and burning garbage permeated the air, a constant reminder of the relentless struggle for survival in this forsaken part of Kyktras.
As we moved through the Slums, I could feel the weight of the scene pressing down on us. Beside me, my mentor's steps were measured, her face set in a mask of stoic endurance. Yet, as we passed a young mother consoling a crying child, her facade briefly faltered. A look of profound sadness crossed her features—a silent testament to the heartache of witnessing such despair and feeling powerless to alleviate it.
She didn’t speak, nor did she need to. The grim set of her jaw and the slight tremble of her hands as she adjusted her cloak spoke volumes. Her gaze lingered on the squalid surroundings, the sight of such relentless hardship etching deeper lines of resolve and sorrow into her already weathered face.
We continued on, the ambient sounds of the Slums—a mixture of distant shouts, the clatter of makeshift carts, and the occasional cry of despair—fading into the background as we approached our modest dwelling. Inside, the simple quiet of our home provided a stark contrast to the chaos outside, a sanctuary amidst the storm.
There, in the safety of our shared space, the tension in her shoulders eased slightly, but the shadow of what we had walked through lingered, a reminder of the battles yet fought and the lives we strived to protect, even when our efforts felt like mere drops in an ocean of need.
The rest of the day passed in a haze of routine chores and maintenance of our gear, the normalcy a thin veneer over the unspoken tension that lingered from our morning walk through the Slums. As evening approached, we decided to step out for fresh supplies, a necessary risk to prepare for the uncertain days ahead.
We moved through the dimming streets, the fading light casting long shadows that twisted like specters across the cobblestones. The marketplace was less crowded at this hour, the vendors packing up their stalls, their faces weary from the day's labor. The air was cooler now, the stench of the Slums less oppressive but never fully absent.
As we turned into a narrow alley between dilapidated buildings, the sudden hiss of an arrow slicing through the air shattered the evening calm. My mentor pushed me aside just as the arrow embedded itself in the wall where my head had been seconds earlier. Spinning around, I caught a glimpse of a figure perched on a rooftop—another assassin, bow in hand, lining up another shot.
Without hesitation, my mentor conjured dark tendrils of Umbra, creating a shield that deflected the next arrow. "Go, Quinn! Stop them!" she commanded, her voice strained under the effort of maintaining the barrier.
I took off at a sprint just as another arrow sliced through the air next to me. Not a very good shot I thought to myself. I dodged through the maze of alleys as the assassin fled across the rooftops, the chase a blur of adrenaline and fear, but my focus narrowed to the fleeting shadow ahead. As I gained ground, the assassin paused, perhaps thinking they could take another shot. They underestimated my resolve.
Leaping across a gap between buildings, I tackled them to the ground. He released the arrow, cutting the side of my face as it soured into the sky. I rolled over in retreat, the pain of my face as evident as the blood dripping down my cheek. The assassin climbed on top of me and placed his bow on my throat. The sky began to fade, his glowing eyes mocking my final moments.
As if summoned by my distress, I hear the calls of my name, and the faintest figure resembling my mentor came into view, and a fury of smokey purple tendrils engulfing my would-be attacker and throwing him to the side. I gasp for air as I turn to my mentor, limping over with a hand on her stomach, a single arrow pultruding through.
Still filled with adrenaline, and now anger, grab the attackers bow and pounce onto him, pushing with all my might onto his throat as he did to me. Slowly, the glow faded from his eyes, and his look changed from determination to confusion in his last fleeting moments. Soon, he was nothing more than a corpse residing on a rooftop. The memory of my mentors appearance came rushing back to me. I turned around and saw her laying on her side, hand still clenching where the arrow had embedded itself into her stomach. Her breathe coarse and desperate, trying to cling to any life she had in her.
“No no no.... please no...” I whispered as I ran to her aid, “Please don’t... please...” She placed her bloodied hand on my cheek and smiled. A tear forming in her eyes. “I’m so.... proud of you....” her voice barely a whisper, “Leave this place.... for me...” were the final words her lungs could muster.
“Don’t do this! Please! I still need you!”
2024.05.11 04:37 critical_courtney [Hot Off The Press] — Chapter Six
![[Hot Off The Press] — Chapter Six](https://b.thumbs.redditmedia.com/inEC5vdxIlxXnduyO-DedKlMn43YrFK8uZ8nyBj_Yeo.jpg "[Hot Off The Press] — Chapter Six") | https://preview.redd.it/34y98l11mpzc1.jpg?width=1410&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=5d12592f7af99dbfc4b46fa31b0260b7485649bc submitted by critical_courtney to redditserials [link] [comments] My Discord Buy me a cup of coffee (if you want) Previous Chapter Chapter Six: (Dawn) My house was quiet save for the occasional bleating of Billie outside. And he was only vocal for a little bit in the morning. The warm smell of coffee filled the kitchen as I fried up an egg sandwich courtesy of the Fates. A soft clicking noise kicked on as the spout of my coffee maker whirred to life and granted me the caffeine I’d need to start my day. “Thanks be to Kaldi,” I mumbled, pulling out a white mug with a black witch hat and boots painted on the side. Underneath the logo were the words, “Nice shoes. Wanna have hex?” I grinned as I filled the mug with coffee and watched the steam float up to gently kiss my nose. I didn’t add any cream or sugar. They were mainly in my cabinet for guests. Guests like Frankie Dee, who definitely shouldn’t be on my mind right now. Because we were professional business partners. Not romantic partners who fell in love after a decidedly amusing one-night stand. No need to remember how soft her lips were or how she squirmed under my touch. Because there was no way that was happening again. Yup, I thought, sipping my coffee, picturing things I definitely shouldn’t be. No way. I made quick work of my breakfast while scrolling through my social media feeds and replying to a few comments I’d gotten about yesterday’s podcast episode. A few minutes later, I left my phone on my nightstand, donned a simple pair of ripped jeans and a purple tank top, and went into the backyard. The air was still a bit nippy for a tank top, but I’d be fine once I got used to it. Billie ran up to me as soon as I stepped onto the lawn. Picking the goat up, I kissed his head gently three times and giggled. “Okay, my adorable little Billie. I need you to watch the Fates while I say hi to Mother. Can you do that?” “Baa!” my furry little friend bleated. “Thatta boy.” I set him down and stepped over the ranch fence and chicken wire into the patch of woods behind my home. Maple and elm trees greeted me with open branches as my bare feet traced over the soil. Taking a deep breath of the cool morning wind, I made my way about 100 feet from my property line to a faerie ring of mushrooms. Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out a few pieces of candy, unwrapped them, and placed them in the circle. “Gotta keep the fae happy,” I said, grinning. “I certainly don’t want them coming for a visit.” A little further into the woods, I found my usual morning meditation spot between two tree stumps. I’d dug out a little hollow in the earth next to a bayberry bush. Sitting cross-legged, I lowered myself into the little hollow and took a deep breath, closing my eyes. Clearing my mind usually took a few minutes as I typically pictured all the things I had waiting for me ahead in the day to come. But this morning most of my thoughts focussed on a certain newspaper editor. Squinting, I tried to chase them away. The most I managed was to push those thoughts out to the fringe of my subconscious. They were like a herd of ornery goats, and I didn’t have a border collie to properly lead them where they needed to go. “That’ll have to do,” I mumbled, taking another deep breath, holding it for 10 seconds, and letting it go slowly, feeling my mind sink into the welcome embrace of Mother Gaia as I did every morning. The feel of soil between my toes, the sound of a blue jay calling out above me, the taste of morning fog that rolled from Casco Bay and had yet to yield its grip on this cool morning to an eventual sunny day. In all of these things, there was magic, and I tapped into it, surrendered myself to this beautiful gift of life. With my body held in place by the roots of this small patch of forest, I opened my spirit to Mother Gaia for a new day of life. “Mother Gaia, I thank you for the many gifts you provide each day. I greet you by name this day as I do every morning with notes of gratitude on my lips. I sing the song of your beauty with each breath of air released from my lungs. You feed me. You clothe me. You put the very earth under my feet. I receive these blessings and bow my head to the grand start of another new day. May I honor you with it,” I prayed aloud to the goddess. The wind picked up, and I sat there breathing, not in silence, but in the morning sounds of this tiny patch of forest on the west side of Portland. Someone in the next neighborhood over was walking an excited dog barking at something. In the distance, I heard Billie sound off again. Behind me, a fox darted over one of the stumps and between some tall grass. My mind drifted to rest as I felt waves of energy from the Earth moving through the ground beneath me and up through the trees. With a slower breath, I folded into the parcel of nature that held me and remained at peace for a while. An hour later, I was showered and sitting in my recording studio down in the basement. Black absorbers hung on each wall around me. The brown and white carpet muffled my footsteps as I walked over to my laptop and turned everything on. While my Adobe Audition booted up and started syncing my files, I walked over to a table behind me and lit some sandalwood incense, softly blowing on the embers to coax wafting smoke to life. It didn’t take long before the smell of incense filled my basement studio. From one of my basement hopper windows, I saw all of the Fates rush by, chasing something. A snake maybe? Giggling, I took a seat at the computer desk and swung the microphone and its protector around toward me. I cleared my throat and blew my nose. “Testing 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, testing. Testing,” I said, adjusting the levels of my recording. I pulled a worn notebook with Wednesday Addams on the cover toward me and flipped to the notes I’d made for this episode. I need to get a new one with Jenna Ortega on the cover, I thought, seeing I only had three or four pags left in this notebook. Yawning and shaking my head from side to side, I hit the record button and spoke the opening lines of my podcast. “You’re listening to Dawn’s Divinations, your #1 witchy podcast for everything from astrology to tarot. On today’s episode, I’ll be discussing tips for grounding yourself against chaotic energy, what’s up with Jupiter lately, and I have a recorded interview with Maria Gonzalez about her newest book on shadow work and what we all get wrong when trying to tackle it.” Pausing for a moment, I took a breath away from my microphone and a quick sip of water. “But before we get into all that, I want to take a minute to thank the sponsor for today’s episode, Bombo Socks. When I’m hiking in Acadia National Park and trying to connect with nature, it’s so much easier to get my head right when I’m wearing socks that keep my feet dry and cool no matter the weather. Bombo Socks have a variety of materials all ethically sourced and made by hand for any of your comfort needs, whether you’re hiking down a trail or recording a witchy podcast episode.” I spent the rest of the morning recording, editing, and proofing the latest episode before submitting it to my distributor that would push it across to various platforms where my listeners were subscribed to me. When I’d finished adding a few bonus recordings for my Patreon subscribers, I got up and stretched. “Oh goddess, I’m tired,” I said. Right about that time, my stomach let me know that the egg sandwich I’d eaten a few hours ago was depleted. And it hungered for more. “Easy, tum tum. You’re growling louder than I did reading the things Gretchen said to Imogen in the restaurant.” As I tried to figure out what I could make for lunch with rice, flour, and breadcrumbs, I reminded myself to go grocery shopping tonight. Just like I’d reminded myself last night before playing two hours of “Little Kitty, Big City.” My phone buzzed, and I found a text from Keyla waiting for me as I unlocked the screen. “Client canceled meeting. Lunch?” she wrote. As I grinned and confirmed our lunch date, I practically ran into my room to throw on a purple v-neck shirt, a black broom skirt, and a long flowing jacket I left unbuttoned. Keyla worked at a little accounting office in Knightville, so I made the 15-minute drive along the Fore River and over the Casco Bay Bridge. I always liked Knightville. It was quiet and had such pretty views of Portland’s harbor from Thomas Knight Park. You could walk up a little ramp to a platform halfway between the Casco Bay Bridge and the water, and the harbor would hide no secrets from you on a sunny day. Cruise ships that docked in town, sailboats, and cargo vessels having their shipping containers unloaded via crane, you could see it all. And a little further in the distance, you could spot some of the taller buildings in downtown Portland like the M&T Bank Building and the Time and Temperature Building flashing words like “Call Joe.” Half of Knightville seemed like a little residential cluster just across the water from Maine’s biggest city, and half of it seemed like a little downtown section for SoPo. Sitting right smack dab in the middle of the little neighborhood was a Mexican restaurant called Taco Duo. I walked inside to the smell of salsa and cooked beef, instantly reminding me how hungry I was. Working while hungry. Who did that remind me of? A certain newspaper editor I definitely wasn’t still thinking about now that my podcast was finished and uploaded. Sitting at an orange table surrounded by blue and yellow chairs, I spotted perhaps the only real friend I’d made since moving to Maine. She was munching on chips and salsa frowning at her phone when I walked over. “Hey girl!” she said, standing up and throwing her arms around me. I smiled and returned Keyla’s crushing hug. “Well, that’s a much happier look than the one you had five seconds ago. Did another coworker ask why you spelled your name ‘weird’ again?” I asked as we both sat down. Neither of us needed a menu. We’d both eaten here enough to have the damn thing memorized in English and Spanish. Keyla rolled her eyes. “Not quite. Thankfully, I have nothing new to report from the accounting firm of Snow and Cream. But I did make my boss squirm last week by asking what the office’s plans for celebrating Juneteenth this year were. That man set a land speed record for sweat. His shirt was soaked in about 20 seconds,” she said, giggling. I snickered. Sitting across from me was a tall, gorgeous Black woman wearing a nice blouse and slacks. She looked every part the role of an accountant. But seeing as Maine was literally the whitest state in the U.S., Keyla didn’t exactly look like a carbon copy of her coworkers, most of whom were middle-aged white men who drove nice trucks or SUVs to the office and all looked like they would repeatedly hire a new guy by the name of Ben Wyatt, only to have him quit minutes later. If Keyla didn’t draw the occasional glance for her skin color, she might be stared at for her shaved head. It was the typical bullshit people of color dealt with existing in a society we’d constructed primarily for people who looked like me. We both met on the Merrill Theatre fundraising committee, a group of five people who help plan how best to take money from people to keep a beautiful and underfunded fine arts location from being shuttered and bulldozed for luxury condos or some bullshit. “No, I was scowling because I haven’t been able to find any resources for dating, uh, trans men,” Keyla said, putting her phone in her purse. I flashed her a wicked grin. “Oh? Got yourself a new boyfriend, Keyla? And why haven’t I seen any pictures or even heard this man’s name? You’ve been holding out on me!” My best friend in the entire world rolled her eyes for a second time, and we got up to order our food. Before long, she had a chorizo burrito, and I had a plate of mole enchiladas with beans and rice. Between mouthfuls of delicious food, I poked at Keyla’s dating life again. “So. . . his name?” She looked up and finished a bite before answering. “His name is Lalo. We go to the same gym. He’s been helping me with weightlifting and eventually asked for my number.” My smile only grew. “Yeah. . . and?” She sneered. “Bitch, shut up. I ain’t like that. . . not yet, anyway.” “There it is!” I almost whooped. She jabbed a finger in my face. “You shut that mouth, or I’ll turn you over to the Church and tell them you’re secretly a witch. They’ll give you the rack or something.” “Keyla, I already have a perfectly functional rack.” She raised an eyebrow but couldn’t keep from snickering. “And tell me. . . has anybody made good use of it lately? I mean — it’s been two months since Jessica dumped you, right? How do you know your tits are still perfectly functional?” I stared down at the table and found myself at a loss for words. I was thinking about Frankie Dee again and the feeling of her breasts pressed against mine. The way they — fuck! The goal was to keep things professional. And I couldn’t do that if I kept wishing she’d get under me again (and stay awake this time). “Oh my god, you’re picturing someone right now, aren’t you? Who is she? Tell me her name.” “Oh no no, my friend. You first. Tell me about Lalo,” I said, taking another bite of my enchilada. Keyla scratched her cheek and then looked at her plate, not eating. “He’s really cute, got a body that looks like it was chiseled by a Renaissance sculptor.” I cocked my head to the side as a husband and wife got up from the table beside us to leave and head home. “Then what’s the issue? It sounds like you’re attracted to him.” “I am! He’s great. And he makes me laugh. The other day we were passing a truck that had a license plate with the letters F-O-O-F-O-O on it. He said, ‘Huh. Must belong to a bunny.”” I just stared at my bestie and started to reevaluate my friend options. It only took me three years to make a real friend up here in Maine. I bet I could shorten the next friend search to two years. “That’s not funny, Keyla. That’s just sad.” She smiled. “Okay, so his jokes aren’t funny. But Lalo THINKS he’s funny. And I find that shit hilarious. I just. . . I’ve never dated a trans man before, and I want to make sure I don’t accidentally say something insensitive, ya know? I fully accept he’s a man. He’s a man’s man. And bonus, Lalo was raised without any macho bullshit or toxic masculinity.” I just ate quietly while I listened. “I like him plenty. And him trusting me with that secret before we even went on an official date took guts. I just want to make sure I’m being respectful and returning that courtesy,” she said. Reaching across the table, I took her hand. She looked up, and I smiled. “I think you’re going to be perfectly fine, Keyla. Just treat him like any other guy you’ve dated. Minus Robert, because that poor dude is probably still in therapy after what you did to him.” She scowled. “That fucker knows what he did and absolutely had it coming.” I threw up my hands in surrender. One of the cashiers stared at us and shook his head before walking back into the kitchen. My eyes wandered around to the painted yellow walls of the restaurant, walls lined with double lights, painted flowers, and framed art. Keyla’s burrito had officially broken into pieces, so she’d transitioned to finishing the insides with a spoon. I watched as she scooped up pork and potatoes. “So, tell me about this girl,” Keyla said, narrowing her eyes. I sighed. “What’s to tell? She’s managing editor of the Portland Lighthouse-Journal, the same paper I just signed a contract with to become their astrology editor,” I said. “Frankie told me she wants to keep things professional.” Keyla drooped a little, almost like she was feeling sorry for me. Hell, with how badly I wanted to do things to Frankie Dee and have her do them to me, I felt sorry for me. “Of course, this was after I took Frankie home semi-drunk from a book club meeting, and we fooled around,” I mumbled, taking a drink of my tea. My bestie’s eyes widened, and she pointed a finger in my face. “I think you should have started your story there, Dawn. Jesus. I believe your new coworker would call that ‘burying the lede.’ You took your future coworker home from a bar, and she asked to keep things professional afterward?” A little boy with a skateboard came in and picked up his to-go order, only to be scolded by an employee for trying to skate between tables on the way out. “There’s nuance! Context! Geez. Neither of us knew who we were. It was her first time at the book club meeting, and we’d only previously communicated over email,” I said, finishing my enchiladas. “So. . . you didn’t know. Damn, Dawn. You sure do like your complicated romances,” Keyla said, rubbing the back of her neck. “So what are you doing to do?” I shrugged. “What can I do?” I said, with my elbows on the table. “There are times when she looks at me where I can practically hear her begging me to hold her. It’s like. . . she’s being crushed by this boulder, and I’m the first person to walk by in days. And the way she takes me seriously and asks serious questions about my craft, it just. . .,” I trailed off. My heart quivered hearing her ask me questions about Artemis and The Morrigan again. I wanted her to see more of me. Gods! I wanted her to know every inch of me, body and soul. Midnight and magic. Looking up at Keyla, I sighed. “She sees me, Keyla. And I know she doesn’t want to keep things professional. I think she’s secretly hoping I’ll push at the door until she’s left with no choice but to open it and press our lips together. But until she says that. . . I can’t know for sure.” The accountant across from me raised an eyebrow and shook her head. “Damn, bitch. You are down bad.” My phone vibrated. Looking at the screen, my heart started racing for an entirely different reason. And for a moment, all I could hear was a man shouting from the pulpit and smell the odor of old carpet. I could taste the wafers and grape juice. Somewhere in the back of my head, Mom’s voice said, “I was wrong. Run.” “So what are you going to do?” Keyla asked. I just shook my head staring at the name “Ex-Father (Shitbag)” on my phone’s screen. My heart thumped even harder in my chest as I declined the call and fought to keep from screaming, “Leave me alone!” Amid all the panic, I felt Keyla’s hand on my arm. “Dawn? Are you okay?” I put my phone back in my purse and wiped my forehead. “Yeah! Yeah. . . sorry. Just kind of zoned out there for a moment. What were we talking about again?” The restaurant’s phone rang behind me as a customer called in an order. “I asked what you were going to do about this Frankie girl, and you got really pale really fast. And it takes a lot to make you look pale,” she said. Shrugging, all I could do was say, “I don’t know what I’m going to do.” What was I going to do? |
2024.05.10 23:40 Future_Ad_3485 Paranormal Inc. Part Thirteen: Jakal of Despair!
Staring up at the skyscraper standing tall in a sea of eerie fog, lost souls wandered aimlessly back and forth into the revolving door. Wut and Croak shifted uncomfortably behind me, both of them shaking their heads. Massaging my forehead, this had to be the definition of despair.
“Nothing screams loss of hope like a never ending job.” I commented with a huff, both of them raising their weapons at the souls pausing for a minute. “Let’s take down this Jakal person.” Resuming their activity, a pair of violet eyes glittered on the top floor. Joining the souls pouring in, a cold stale lobby greeted me. Taking in the empty ivory desk, the souls poured into offices. Wondering where to go, the answer must lay in a code somewhere. Wut nudged my shoulders, his robes brushing against the top of my feet. Pointing to the flickering light in the elevator, a quiet fear had me stepping back. Elevators scared me, Wut flicking the back of my head.
“There aren’t any stairs.” He pointed out in a huff, Croak shooting daggers from her eyes. “Let’s go.” Dragging the two of us onto the elevator, a rusty door clicked shut. His expression softened at my obvious fear, an apologetic smile lingering on his lips. Nothing needed to be said, the elevator groaning up to the top floor. The door clicked open, a maze of cubicles had our brows cocking at the same with a scoffs of disappointment. Why couldn’t anything simply be one and done? Then again, getting lost in a maze of cubicles did sound depressing as shit. Moving around in front of us, the path changed.
“Have fun suffering in dark despair as I torture you with an endless test.” An icy female voice laughed maniacally, my muscles stiffening. “Only then you can fight me. See you never!” Stepping into the first cubicle, the smell of stale ketchup was on point. Covering up my nose with the hem of my onyx lace skirt, another musty breeze had my scarlet blouse fluttering with my leather jacket. Wut and Croak began to argue next to me, a couple of shadow snakes slithering down my arms. Kicking my dagger out of its case, my eager palm caught it. Keeping them by side, their glowing eyes were seeking out danger. Crashing through twists and turns, a couple of hisses had me skidding to stop. Glancing up, a tall slender goddess with violet eyes appeared over me. Her slicked back silver hair glistened in the flickering office lights, a silver flute hovered by her lips. Horror rounded my eyes, my blade expanding. Smashing my blade into her flute, the darn thing clattering to the cheap carpet. Noting the crack by feet, the maze was set to reset again. Kicking it into the crack, the cubicles shifted around once more. The metal groaned, a rotten scent twirled from the end of the flute. Seeking a way out from the bomb that was going to harm us, a weak point presented itself. Kicking her back into the air, a space big enough for us opened up. Motioning for them to follow, musty air lashed at our cheeks as we crashed through several floors. Hitting a desk, office supplies rolled onto the floor. Dust rained down with pieces of ceiling hitting my face, Wut and Croak crashing onto me. Pushing them off, time wasn’t in our deck of cards. Sitting up with a gruff groan, every muscle screamed in protest. Hopping off the desk, a cafeteria caught my eyes. Leaping over the cubicles, flute music had chills running up my spine. Venomous gas seeped through the cracks, the clear glass walls of the cafeteria would protect us. Jumping over the last one, our boots pounded towards the glass doors. Ripping them open, we skidded into the large sterile room. Locking the doors behind us, that damn fog claimed the rest of the floor. Stacking several tables against the doors, something had to give. Ignoring their protests, something had to cancel out the fog. Croak’s usual nightmares wouldn’t do, my palm pressing against the glass. Flitting between the many objects, a gust of fresh air was what we needed. Several shadow snakes slithered down my arms, their hissing guiding me to a loose tile. Plucking the tile from the floor, a golden flute glinted in the flickering lights. Tucking my blade into my belt, a rush of energy blew my loose strands about the moment I brought it to my lips. Blowing the one song I knew, purified wind flooded from the end. Spinning it in between my fingers, this was our ticket out. Croak bounced onto my back, her chin resting on my head. Feeling her soft gray suit against my skin had me feeling better, her blade grazing my cheek.
“Cool flute, love.” She sang gleefully, plucking it from my fingers. “How you managed across one of three golden flutes bemuses me. Shall I play it for you? The flute happens to be my favorite instrument.” Caving in with a long breath, she flipped off of my back. Landing with a spin, excitement buzzed in her eyes. Bringing the flute to her lips, complex notes flowed magically. My breath hitched at its beauty, the purified wind blasting the glass. Covering myself with my arms, another gust of wind had the shards shooting into the distance. A shrill fuck had us shrinking back, the venom dissolving upon contact with the purified air. Continuing to play, our enemy’s notes were harsh compared to Croak’s gentle notes. Playing louder, Wut and myself sought a way to get closer to this goddess. Assuming that water was her power, the moment they unleashed that side would mean the twins were here. Closing my eyes, two more energies were approaching. Opening my eyes to a concerned Wut, my lips pressed into a thin line. The twins were on their way and we were outnumbered, regret dimming my eyes.
“Scout out the twins’ locations and come back to me. I have a problem to deal with before they get here.” I whispered into his ear, his head nodding once. Sinking into his smoke, my boots pounded towards our target. Dodging a splash of water, my body smashed into the floor. Snatching her ankle, a disconcerting alarm rounded her eyes at me throwing her through several floors. Catching her flute, a strong squeeze had it crumbling to pieces. Whistling for Croak to follow, her hand grabbed mine the moment I jumped into the hole. Using the rebar to slow our descent, the goddesses body twitched on top of a desk, her broken bones beginning to heal. Angling my elbow for her spine, Croak did the same. Striking her spine at full strength, the vertebrates shattered to dust. Unable to move, a ribbon of violet blood poured from her lips. Flipping to our feet, we raised our blades over our heads. Swinging our blades towards her heart, a shrill shriek rattled the building the moment we pierced her heart. Twisting our blades in deeper, her body seized until it decayed to a cloud of dust. Plucking the heart off of the tips of our blades, the organ shriveled into a black ball of tissue. Tucking it into an evidence bag, clues rested in this organ. Croak raised her hand for a high five, my palm smacked hers with a matching crazed grin. One problem was solved, two more were coming our way. The building groaned underneath our boots, Wut swooping in to whisk us out of the crumbling structure. Running on smoke discs, his boots hit the ashy gray dirt. Hiding us behind the thickest tree, the twins came into view in their usual outfits of a pink dress and a white suit. Tapping their blades against their legs, lightning bounced off of their bodies. Wishing that Morte was here, a loud boom had concrete and dust raining down over us. Poking my head around the trunk, a pile of rubble hid their bodies. Something felt off, the twins appearing over our heads. Sparks fluttered in the air with the violent clash of our blades, lightning whipping over our heads. Kicking Salacia in the stomach, her body shot into the sky. Spinning my blade over my head, a swift swing sent her twin in the opposite direction. Wut staggered over to us, a gaping wound stealing my breath away. Turning towards Croak, no words needed to be said. Tossing him over her shoulder, she was gone in a second. Calculating when they would come back down, hollow footsteps echoed behind me. A female version of Wut approached me in black robes, ivory waves floating in the hot air in her neon smoke around her worn boots. Playing with a neon whip, her neon green eyes glowed with adventure. An annoyed sigh poured from my lips, today seeming to be run by Murphy's law.
“I sensed my beloved Wut. Where is he?” She mused with a sly grin, her eyes falling on the twins flying back towards us. “Give him up or die.” Cursing under my breath, time was not on my side. Cracking her whip in my direction, the rubble groaned in protest with my jump back. Gritting my teeth, a low growl rumbled in my throat.
“He works for me by choice. If he wanted to leave your creepy ass because of acts of pure insanity, that isn’t on me. All of that falls on you, sweetheart.” I pointed simply, a snarl twitching on her inky lips. “Not that I have time but let’s handle this.” Charging at her, twirls avoiding her whip with ease. Focusing a bit better, her whip cut my cheek. Narrowing my eyes in direction, her whip deflected my blade. The twins appeared behind her, their blades glinting in the air. Tackling my new enemy to the rubble, two blades sunk into my back. Neon tears slid down her cheeks, the corner of her lips quivering. Blood pooled in my throat, the bastards ripping their blades out of my back. Watching my blood paint their features, small electrical burns dotted my back. Feverish apologies flowed from her lips, my tears splashing onto her face while my blood began to stain her robe.
“Why?” She choked out through a waterfall of tears and sniffles, her trembling hands wiping the corner of my lips. “I was going to kill you.” Shrugging my shoulders, my patience was wearing thin. Struggling to my feet, my knees met the twins’ stomachs. Painting my face with their blood, the burst organs had me chuckling to myself. Kicking their blades away from them, my fingers curled around their throat. Pinning them to the closest trees, every breath felt like hard labor.
“Like hell you are getting away this time.” I threatened starkly between wheezes, their fingers clawing at hands. Another energy swallowed the space in a cloudy darkness, two claws piercing their hearts. Their heads bobbed a couple of times before dropping for the final time, panic twisting my features. Cursing under my breath, they needed help. Ripping them off the claws, a faint pulse had me sighing with relief. Tossing one of them to my new friend, the other one was tossed over my shoulder. Using my sword to find the exit, she took the other one. Whisking them away, an eerie silence came over the dimension. The hair on the back of my neck stood up, a lump forming in my throat at wicked feminine laughter behind me.
“Fine, you can have my puppets but I am going to take over the damn world.” She bragged with a fit of maniacal giggles, the rubble crunching as I spun to face my new nemesis. Inky straight hair floated down to her ankles, her golden dragon eyes watching me tremble in my spot. Golden horns twisted into the sky, golden scales lining her cheeks. Clicking her black claws together, fresh tears cascaded from my eyes. Unable to move, something about her powers had me frozen in my spot. Her fur robes swayed with every circle around me, her inky lips curling into a sneer. Words bounced around my mind, the color draining from my face at a spell keeping my mouth shut.
“I am giving you one chance to join my team. Be the new number one of Stormana’s league of forgotten gods.” She chuckled with a twisted grin, a fire rising in her throat. Gripping my blade desperately, the crunching stopped with her in front of me. Shaking my head, a defiant grin curled on my pale face. Feeling my heart rate pick up, any nerves I had left fled at golden flames undoing my bun. Wincing through the agony of burns on my cheek, her claw traced my body. Bringing her hand back, Croak appeared over her. Shaking my head, Croak refused to listen. Spinning her blade over her head, one of her claws cut off her head. Rolling to my feet, her limp body hit the toe of my boot. The raw agony of losing my friend broke the silence curse, tortured wails exploding from my lips. Unable to fight the depression, no rage could come to my assistance.
“That will keep happening until you join my side.” She warned venomously, pure hatred burning in her eyes as golden flames whisked her away. Sinking to my knees, Croak was already decaying to ash, violent sobs wracking my body. Scooping up her head, my muscles ached as I crawled over to her body. Hugging all of her close to my body, her hand clutched mine. Her eyes fluttered open, her tears streaming down her cheeks.
“Give my heart to Cal and tell him that I love him.” She wheezed with a broken smile, her hand gripping mine tighter as my tears splashed onto her face. “Don’t cry for me. I did it on my own accord, love. I love you, love.” Her hand hit my lap, the rest of her decaying into a pile of ash. A gust of wind blew her into the air, her heart glowed in my palm. Curling into a ball, claws extended from my fingertips. Clutching her heart close to my chest, the dimension glitched out to a busy park in the middle of the day. Shrinking my sword back down to a dagger, my trembling hand shoved it into its case. A crowd gathered around me, none of it mattering. The twins shoved everyone aside, both of them getting everyone to get on with their day. Bowing down to me, their foreheads were pressed to the lush grass.
“We vow to serve you with all the life we have left.” They vowed together, the previous mark shifting to inky snakes around their arms as they sat on their haunches. Saying nothing else, Wut’s face fell at the sight of Croak’s heart. Scooping me up, he tossed me over his shoulder. Too numb to protest, his words faded in and out on the way back to the hearse. Sitting me down in the back, his sharp eyes scanned me over for any more wounds than the obvious ones. Mixing potions while trying to get me to talk, the freak with a whip bowed at my feet. Vowing her allegiance to me, this had Wut written all over it. Hovering her face inches from mine, the burns on my cheek refused to heal into a smooth scar. Crying for a minute, her fingers caught a couple of tears. Rubbing them on my cheek, the angry scars faded to a smooth cheek. Mumbling a dejected thank you, Wut shoving a vial down my throat had it ending swiftly. Ignoring everyone checking me over, the sole thing I could focus on was the heart in my quivering palm. Getting up without a word, I climbed into the driver’s seat. The other’s jumped into the back, my appearance being the most normal one. Fishing around the glove box, an evidence bag fell onto the seat. Sliding her heart into the bag, I placed it onto my lap. Shoving the key in, the silence was deafening. Missing her endless chatter, discreet weeps shook my body the whole ride back. Pulling up to the front, Cal waited with a big smile with my girls and son. Hopping out, I placed my finger on my lips to quiet the others. Motioning for him to come with me, dread bubbled in my gut at what I had to do. The poor guy had lost one wife and now he was losing another love in his life. Walking with him in the garden, his face fell at my obvious tears. Presenting him with Croak’s heart, any composure he had died in seconds. Raising his fist for my face, it stopped inches from my face. Shit, I deserved every ounce of rage heading my way.
“You can hit me. I don’t mind.” I spoke with a dejected smile, bowing my head in shame. “Please hate me for the rest of your l-” Burying me into a bear hug, his tears soaked the top of my head. Hating myself for my failure, his hands cupped my tear drenched face. Smiling kindly in my direction, the sorrow wore on his face.
“If I knew Croak, she chose to try to save you. Thank you for her heart.” He sighed sorrowfully, his hand curling around her heart. “Do you want to see what she wanted me to do with it?” Taking a step back, his black dress shirt fluttered in a gust of cool wind. Holding it in his palms, the organ hardened to a ruby heart. Wonder softened the blow of my sorrow, his hand tucking it into the pocket of his dark jeans. Hugging me one last time, his footfalls echoed hollowly away from me. Morte called for me, the stress becoming too much. Sprinting out of the garden, the brick wall grazed the heel of my boots. Crunching into the woods, branches scratched my cheeks. Running until I couldn’t, a cave had me smiling brokenly to myself. Sliding down the slick gray wall, my hands rested on my knees. Alone, I needed to be alone.
“Hey.” A meek voice called out, Wut’s friend sitting down across from me. “I am Eris, Wut’s girl. Do you want to talk?” Staring dumbly at her glowing eyes, that was a rare question for me to be asked. Croak always asked me what was on my mind, another wave of tears rattling my body. Scooting over to me, her arms pulled me into an awkward embrace. Burying my head into her shoulder, her embrace becoming like the bear hugs Croak used to smother me in. Sobbing harder into her chest, my fingers grasping desperately at her robes. Letting me cry until the moon claimed the sky, her hands cupped my cheeks. Wiping away my tears with her thumbs, her crooked grin was her natural smile. Attempting to smile back, her palm slid to cover my mouth.
“You don’t need to smile when you can’t.” She assured me sweetly, lowering her hand to her lap. “Let the grief course through you. Then you can get revenge for her loss.” Laughing honestly to myself, Eris was amazing in the best way. Popping to her feet, my muscles refused to move. Placing me on her back, the warmth of her flames had exhaustion slapping me in the face. Draping my arms around her neck, the hood of her robe felt soft against my wet cheeks. Carrying me back, Morte thanked her for getting me. Choosing not to berate me, his arms placed me onto his back. Carrying me into the living room, her heart glistened in the center of a worn coffee table. A metal bowl with Celtic markings containing pieces of blessed parchment papers fluttered in the bottom, a piece of paper waiting for me. Smiling to myself, the funeral was rather touching. Sitting me down on the couch, my fingers curled around a raven feather quill. Dipping the tip into the inkwell, the tip couldn’t stop moving. Moving the favorite memories onto the back, tears of joy mixed the sad ones as I folded the paper. Placing my paper on the top, Hel and the others huddled close to me as Cal placed her heart in the center. Pouring his blood over the paper, ruby stained the sea of parchment and ink. Pressing his palms together, his words were dripping with tears.
“Dear Lord, grant her soul an entrance into Heaven. Help her reach the stars she dreamed of touching.” He wept brokenly, struggling to continue to speak. “Do this one for me. If you can’t let her in, give her a generous second chance. Amen.” Golden flames devoured everything, the crystal melting into a sea of sparkling ash. A warm breeze akin to Croak’s love had the ash fluttering out the open window. A pensive smile hung in the air, an alarm in the kitchen caused one of the brothers to rush out of the room. Not one word was spared, the energy in the room brightening at Miles and the girls hugging me from all sides. Kissing them feverishly, Morte plopped down next to me. Clapping his hands, all eyes fell on him.
“How about we tell funny stories with Croak?” He suggested with a gentle smile, the others raising their glasses of wine in honor of Croak. “I think we need to celebrate all that she was.” The twins hovered awkwardly in the doorway, the couch groaning as I leapt over the back. Approaching them with a comforting smile, neither one could look me in the eyes.
“I forgive you. Whatever was driving you guys before doesn’t matter.” I promised them while taking their hands, their tense expressions softening. “Look, the past is water under the bridge. Work bold and true by my side, and you can have true joy in your life. I am pointing out that your marks prevent you from killing anyone in our group. Trust will be found eventually. Please be patient with me.” Flinching as I reached out to embrace them, the years of abuse were apparent. Noticing the soft terror haunting their expressions, the floor announced that I was giving them space.
“If you need to talk about your shitty childhood, I am all ears. Don’t open up if you don’t want to.” I continued with my genuine smile, both twins brightening up a bit. “Your mother was a bitch and if you didn’t kill her I was going to eventually. Thank you for the help.” Ruffling their hair the way Mr. Bone used to do to me, something lit the fire of hope back up into me. If I could bring what was left of the Bone family back together, that damn dragon lady didn’t stand a damn chance. Guiding them to the table, the girls showed off their bunnies. Miles looked glum, my hand waved him over. Walking him up to my bedroom, I presented him with a silver wrapped box. Remember that Croak wrapped it with me, silent tears stained my cheeks. Wrapping paper flew everywhere, his face illuminating at the boy rabbit in blue overalls laying in the bottom of the box. Wiping away my tears before he noticed, his arms draped around my neck. Remembering what Croak spoke once, she always told me to cherish what I had. Kissing the top of his head, his tiny feet bounced down the stairs. The girls joined him in playing, Morte appearing at the bottom of the stairs. Climbing each step with a more broken expression, the wrapping paper crunched underneath him as he plopped down next to me. Pulling me onto his lap, his strong hands buried my face into his shoulder. Another wave of grief had me sobbing harder into his shoulder, the word sleep ringing in my ear. Sinking into a rough slumber, Morte’s humming was the last thing I heard.
submitted by Future_Ad_3485 to TheDarkGathering [link] [comments]
“Nothing screams loss of hope like a never ending job.” I commented with a huff, both of them raising their weapons at the souls pausing for a minute. “Let’s take down this Jakal person.” Resuming their activity, a pair of violet eyes glittered on the top floor. Joining the souls pouring in, a cold stale lobby greeted me. Taking in the empty ivory desk, the souls poured into offices. Wondering where to go, the answer must lay in a code somewhere. Wut nudged my shoulders, his robes brushing against the top of my feet. Pointing to the flickering light in the elevator, a quiet fear had me stepping back. Elevators scared me, Wut flicking the back of my head.
“There aren’t any stairs.” He pointed out in a huff, Croak shooting daggers from her eyes. “Let’s go.” Dragging the two of us onto the elevator, a rusty door clicked shut. His expression softened at my obvious fear, an apologetic smile lingering on his lips. Nothing needed to be said, the elevator groaning up to the top floor. The door clicked open, a maze of cubicles had our brows cocking at the same with a scoffs of disappointment. Why couldn’t anything simply be one and done? Then again, getting lost in a maze of cubicles did sound depressing as shit. Moving around in front of us, the path changed.
“Have fun suffering in dark despair as I torture you with an endless test.” An icy female voice laughed maniacally, my muscles stiffening. “Only then you can fight me. See you never!” Stepping into the first cubicle, the smell of stale ketchup was on point. Covering up my nose with the hem of my onyx lace skirt, another musty breeze had my scarlet blouse fluttering with my leather jacket. Wut and Croak began to argue next to me, a couple of shadow snakes slithering down my arms. Kicking my dagger out of its case, my eager palm caught it. Keeping them by side, their glowing eyes were seeking out danger. Crashing through twists and turns, a couple of hisses had me skidding to stop. Glancing up, a tall slender goddess with violet eyes appeared over me. Her slicked back silver hair glistened in the flickering office lights, a silver flute hovered by her lips. Horror rounded my eyes, my blade expanding. Smashing my blade into her flute, the darn thing clattering to the cheap carpet. Noting the crack by feet, the maze was set to reset again. Kicking it into the crack, the cubicles shifted around once more. The metal groaned, a rotten scent twirled from the end of the flute. Seeking a way out from the bomb that was going to harm us, a weak point presented itself. Kicking her back into the air, a space big enough for us opened up. Motioning for them to follow, musty air lashed at our cheeks as we crashed through several floors. Hitting a desk, office supplies rolled onto the floor. Dust rained down with pieces of ceiling hitting my face, Wut and Croak crashing onto me. Pushing them off, time wasn’t in our deck of cards. Sitting up with a gruff groan, every muscle screamed in protest. Hopping off the desk, a cafeteria caught my eyes. Leaping over the cubicles, flute music had chills running up my spine. Venomous gas seeped through the cracks, the clear glass walls of the cafeteria would protect us. Jumping over the last one, our boots pounded towards the glass doors. Ripping them open, we skidded into the large sterile room. Locking the doors behind us, that damn fog claimed the rest of the floor. Stacking several tables against the doors, something had to give. Ignoring their protests, something had to cancel out the fog. Croak’s usual nightmares wouldn’t do, my palm pressing against the glass. Flitting between the many objects, a gust of fresh air was what we needed. Several shadow snakes slithered down my arms, their hissing guiding me to a loose tile. Plucking the tile from the floor, a golden flute glinted in the flickering lights. Tucking my blade into my belt, a rush of energy blew my loose strands about the moment I brought it to my lips. Blowing the one song I knew, purified wind flooded from the end. Spinning it in between my fingers, this was our ticket out. Croak bounced onto my back, her chin resting on my head. Feeling her soft gray suit against my skin had me feeling better, her blade grazing my cheek.
“Cool flute, love.” She sang gleefully, plucking it from my fingers. “How you managed across one of three golden flutes bemuses me. Shall I play it for you? The flute happens to be my favorite instrument.” Caving in with a long breath, she flipped off of my back. Landing with a spin, excitement buzzed in her eyes. Bringing the flute to her lips, complex notes flowed magically. My breath hitched at its beauty, the purified wind blasting the glass. Covering myself with my arms, another gust of wind had the shards shooting into the distance. A shrill fuck had us shrinking back, the venom dissolving upon contact with the purified air. Continuing to play, our enemy’s notes were harsh compared to Croak’s gentle notes. Playing louder, Wut and myself sought a way to get closer to this goddess. Assuming that water was her power, the moment they unleashed that side would mean the twins were here. Closing my eyes, two more energies were approaching. Opening my eyes to a concerned Wut, my lips pressed into a thin line. The twins were on their way and we were outnumbered, regret dimming my eyes.
“Scout out the twins’ locations and come back to me. I have a problem to deal with before they get here.” I whispered into his ear, his head nodding once. Sinking into his smoke, my boots pounded towards our target. Dodging a splash of water, my body smashed into the floor. Snatching her ankle, a disconcerting alarm rounded her eyes at me throwing her through several floors. Catching her flute, a strong squeeze had it crumbling to pieces. Whistling for Croak to follow, her hand grabbed mine the moment I jumped into the hole. Using the rebar to slow our descent, the goddesses body twitched on top of a desk, her broken bones beginning to heal. Angling my elbow for her spine, Croak did the same. Striking her spine at full strength, the vertebrates shattered to dust. Unable to move, a ribbon of violet blood poured from her lips. Flipping to our feet, we raised our blades over our heads. Swinging our blades towards her heart, a shrill shriek rattled the building the moment we pierced her heart. Twisting our blades in deeper, her body seized until it decayed to a cloud of dust. Plucking the heart off of the tips of our blades, the organ shriveled into a black ball of tissue. Tucking it into an evidence bag, clues rested in this organ. Croak raised her hand for a high five, my palm smacked hers with a matching crazed grin. One problem was solved, two more were coming our way. The building groaned underneath our boots, Wut swooping in to whisk us out of the crumbling structure. Running on smoke discs, his boots hit the ashy gray dirt. Hiding us behind the thickest tree, the twins came into view in their usual outfits of a pink dress and a white suit. Tapping their blades against their legs, lightning bounced off of their bodies. Wishing that Morte was here, a loud boom had concrete and dust raining down over us. Poking my head around the trunk, a pile of rubble hid their bodies. Something felt off, the twins appearing over our heads. Sparks fluttered in the air with the violent clash of our blades, lightning whipping over our heads. Kicking Salacia in the stomach, her body shot into the sky. Spinning my blade over my head, a swift swing sent her twin in the opposite direction. Wut staggered over to us, a gaping wound stealing my breath away. Turning towards Croak, no words needed to be said. Tossing him over her shoulder, she was gone in a second. Calculating when they would come back down, hollow footsteps echoed behind me. A female version of Wut approached me in black robes, ivory waves floating in the hot air in her neon smoke around her worn boots. Playing with a neon whip, her neon green eyes glowed with adventure. An annoyed sigh poured from my lips, today seeming to be run by Murphy's law.
“I sensed my beloved Wut. Where is he?” She mused with a sly grin, her eyes falling on the twins flying back towards us. “Give him up or die.” Cursing under my breath, time was not on my side. Cracking her whip in my direction, the rubble groaned in protest with my jump back. Gritting my teeth, a low growl rumbled in my throat.
“He works for me by choice. If he wanted to leave your creepy ass because of acts of pure insanity, that isn’t on me. All of that falls on you, sweetheart.” I pointed simply, a snarl twitching on her inky lips. “Not that I have time but let’s handle this.” Charging at her, twirls avoiding her whip with ease. Focusing a bit better, her whip cut my cheek. Narrowing my eyes in direction, her whip deflected my blade. The twins appeared behind her, their blades glinting in the air. Tackling my new enemy to the rubble, two blades sunk into my back. Neon tears slid down her cheeks, the corner of her lips quivering. Blood pooled in my throat, the bastards ripping their blades out of my back. Watching my blood paint their features, small electrical burns dotted my back. Feverish apologies flowed from her lips, my tears splashing onto her face while my blood began to stain her robe.
“Why?” She choked out through a waterfall of tears and sniffles, her trembling hands wiping the corner of my lips. “I was going to kill you.” Shrugging my shoulders, my patience was wearing thin. Struggling to my feet, my knees met the twins’ stomachs. Painting my face with their blood, the burst organs had me chuckling to myself. Kicking their blades away from them, my fingers curled around their throat. Pinning them to the closest trees, every breath felt like hard labor.
“Like hell you are getting away this time.” I threatened starkly between wheezes, their fingers clawing at hands. Another energy swallowed the space in a cloudy darkness, two claws piercing their hearts. Their heads bobbed a couple of times before dropping for the final time, panic twisting my features. Cursing under my breath, they needed help. Ripping them off the claws, a faint pulse had me sighing with relief. Tossing one of them to my new friend, the other one was tossed over my shoulder. Using my sword to find the exit, she took the other one. Whisking them away, an eerie silence came over the dimension. The hair on the back of my neck stood up, a lump forming in my throat at wicked feminine laughter behind me.
“Fine, you can have my puppets but I am going to take over the damn world.” She bragged with a fit of maniacal giggles, the rubble crunching as I spun to face my new nemesis. Inky straight hair floated down to her ankles, her golden dragon eyes watching me tremble in my spot. Golden horns twisted into the sky, golden scales lining her cheeks. Clicking her black claws together, fresh tears cascaded from my eyes. Unable to move, something about her powers had me frozen in my spot. Her fur robes swayed with every circle around me, her inky lips curling into a sneer. Words bounced around my mind, the color draining from my face at a spell keeping my mouth shut.
“I am giving you one chance to join my team. Be the new number one of Stormana’s league of forgotten gods.” She chuckled with a twisted grin, a fire rising in her throat. Gripping my blade desperately, the crunching stopped with her in front of me. Shaking my head, a defiant grin curled on my pale face. Feeling my heart rate pick up, any nerves I had left fled at golden flames undoing my bun. Wincing through the agony of burns on my cheek, her claw traced my body. Bringing her hand back, Croak appeared over her. Shaking my head, Croak refused to listen. Spinning her blade over her head, one of her claws cut off her head. Rolling to my feet, her limp body hit the toe of my boot. The raw agony of losing my friend broke the silence curse, tortured wails exploding from my lips. Unable to fight the depression, no rage could come to my assistance.
“That will keep happening until you join my side.” She warned venomously, pure hatred burning in her eyes as golden flames whisked her away. Sinking to my knees, Croak was already decaying to ash, violent sobs wracking my body. Scooping up her head, my muscles ached as I crawled over to her body. Hugging all of her close to my body, her hand clutched mine. Her eyes fluttered open, her tears streaming down her cheeks.
“Give my heart to Cal and tell him that I love him.” She wheezed with a broken smile, her hand gripping mine tighter as my tears splashed onto her face. “Don’t cry for me. I did it on my own accord, love. I love you, love.” Her hand hit my lap, the rest of her decaying into a pile of ash. A gust of wind blew her into the air, her heart glowed in my palm. Curling into a ball, claws extended from my fingertips. Clutching her heart close to my chest, the dimension glitched out to a busy park in the middle of the day. Shrinking my sword back down to a dagger, my trembling hand shoved it into its case. A crowd gathered around me, none of it mattering. The twins shoved everyone aside, both of them getting everyone to get on with their day. Bowing down to me, their foreheads were pressed to the lush grass.
“We vow to serve you with all the life we have left.” They vowed together, the previous mark shifting to inky snakes around their arms as they sat on their haunches. Saying nothing else, Wut’s face fell at the sight of Croak’s heart. Scooping me up, he tossed me over his shoulder. Too numb to protest, his words faded in and out on the way back to the hearse. Sitting me down in the back, his sharp eyes scanned me over for any more wounds than the obvious ones. Mixing potions while trying to get me to talk, the freak with a whip bowed at my feet. Vowing her allegiance to me, this had Wut written all over it. Hovering her face inches from mine, the burns on my cheek refused to heal into a smooth scar. Crying for a minute, her fingers caught a couple of tears. Rubbing them on my cheek, the angry scars faded to a smooth cheek. Mumbling a dejected thank you, Wut shoving a vial down my throat had it ending swiftly. Ignoring everyone checking me over, the sole thing I could focus on was the heart in my quivering palm. Getting up without a word, I climbed into the driver’s seat. The other’s jumped into the back, my appearance being the most normal one. Fishing around the glove box, an evidence bag fell onto the seat. Sliding her heart into the bag, I placed it onto my lap. Shoving the key in, the silence was deafening. Missing her endless chatter, discreet weeps shook my body the whole ride back. Pulling up to the front, Cal waited with a big smile with my girls and son. Hopping out, I placed my finger on my lips to quiet the others. Motioning for him to come with me, dread bubbled in my gut at what I had to do. The poor guy had lost one wife and now he was losing another love in his life. Walking with him in the garden, his face fell at my obvious tears. Presenting him with Croak’s heart, any composure he had died in seconds. Raising his fist for my face, it stopped inches from my face. Shit, I deserved every ounce of rage heading my way.
“You can hit me. I don’t mind.” I spoke with a dejected smile, bowing my head in shame. “Please hate me for the rest of your l-” Burying me into a bear hug, his tears soaked the top of my head. Hating myself for my failure, his hands cupped my tear drenched face. Smiling kindly in my direction, the sorrow wore on his face.
“If I knew Croak, she chose to try to save you. Thank you for her heart.” He sighed sorrowfully, his hand curling around her heart. “Do you want to see what she wanted me to do with it?” Taking a step back, his black dress shirt fluttered in a gust of cool wind. Holding it in his palms, the organ hardened to a ruby heart. Wonder softened the blow of my sorrow, his hand tucking it into the pocket of his dark jeans. Hugging me one last time, his footfalls echoed hollowly away from me. Morte called for me, the stress becoming too much. Sprinting out of the garden, the brick wall grazed the heel of my boots. Crunching into the woods, branches scratched my cheeks. Running until I couldn’t, a cave had me smiling brokenly to myself. Sliding down the slick gray wall, my hands rested on my knees. Alone, I needed to be alone.
“Hey.” A meek voice called out, Wut’s friend sitting down across from me. “I am Eris, Wut’s girl. Do you want to talk?” Staring dumbly at her glowing eyes, that was a rare question for me to be asked. Croak always asked me what was on my mind, another wave of tears rattling my body. Scooting over to me, her arms pulled me into an awkward embrace. Burying my head into her shoulder, her embrace becoming like the bear hugs Croak used to smother me in. Sobbing harder into her chest, my fingers grasping desperately at her robes. Letting me cry until the moon claimed the sky, her hands cupped my cheeks. Wiping away my tears with her thumbs, her crooked grin was her natural smile. Attempting to smile back, her palm slid to cover my mouth.
“You don’t need to smile when you can’t.” She assured me sweetly, lowering her hand to her lap. “Let the grief course through you. Then you can get revenge for her loss.” Laughing honestly to myself, Eris was amazing in the best way. Popping to her feet, my muscles refused to move. Placing me on her back, the warmth of her flames had exhaustion slapping me in the face. Draping my arms around her neck, the hood of her robe felt soft against my wet cheeks. Carrying me back, Morte thanked her for getting me. Choosing not to berate me, his arms placed me onto his back. Carrying me into the living room, her heart glistened in the center of a worn coffee table. A metal bowl with Celtic markings containing pieces of blessed parchment papers fluttered in the bottom, a piece of paper waiting for me. Smiling to myself, the funeral was rather touching. Sitting me down on the couch, my fingers curled around a raven feather quill. Dipping the tip into the inkwell, the tip couldn’t stop moving. Moving the favorite memories onto the back, tears of joy mixed the sad ones as I folded the paper. Placing my paper on the top, Hel and the others huddled close to me as Cal placed her heart in the center. Pouring his blood over the paper, ruby stained the sea of parchment and ink. Pressing his palms together, his words were dripping with tears.
“Dear Lord, grant her soul an entrance into Heaven. Help her reach the stars she dreamed of touching.” He wept brokenly, struggling to continue to speak. “Do this one for me. If you can’t let her in, give her a generous second chance. Amen.” Golden flames devoured everything, the crystal melting into a sea of sparkling ash. A warm breeze akin to Croak’s love had the ash fluttering out the open window. A pensive smile hung in the air, an alarm in the kitchen caused one of the brothers to rush out of the room. Not one word was spared, the energy in the room brightening at Miles and the girls hugging me from all sides. Kissing them feverishly, Morte plopped down next to me. Clapping his hands, all eyes fell on him.
“How about we tell funny stories with Croak?” He suggested with a gentle smile, the others raising their glasses of wine in honor of Croak. “I think we need to celebrate all that she was.” The twins hovered awkwardly in the doorway, the couch groaning as I leapt over the back. Approaching them with a comforting smile, neither one could look me in the eyes.
“I forgive you. Whatever was driving you guys before doesn’t matter.” I promised them while taking their hands, their tense expressions softening. “Look, the past is water under the bridge. Work bold and true by my side, and you can have true joy in your life. I am pointing out that your marks prevent you from killing anyone in our group. Trust will be found eventually. Please be patient with me.” Flinching as I reached out to embrace them, the years of abuse were apparent. Noticing the soft terror haunting their expressions, the floor announced that I was giving them space.
“If you need to talk about your shitty childhood, I am all ears. Don’t open up if you don’t want to.” I continued with my genuine smile, both twins brightening up a bit. “Your mother was a bitch and if you didn’t kill her I was going to eventually. Thank you for the help.” Ruffling their hair the way Mr. Bone used to do to me, something lit the fire of hope back up into me. If I could bring what was left of the Bone family back together, that damn dragon lady didn’t stand a damn chance. Guiding them to the table, the girls showed off their bunnies. Miles looked glum, my hand waved him over. Walking him up to my bedroom, I presented him with a silver wrapped box. Remember that Croak wrapped it with me, silent tears stained my cheeks. Wrapping paper flew everywhere, his face illuminating at the boy rabbit in blue overalls laying in the bottom of the box. Wiping away my tears before he noticed, his arms draped around my neck. Remembering what Croak spoke once, she always told me to cherish what I had. Kissing the top of his head, his tiny feet bounced down the stairs. The girls joined him in playing, Morte appearing at the bottom of the stairs. Climbing each step with a more broken expression, the wrapping paper crunched underneath him as he plopped down next to me. Pulling me onto his lap, his strong hands buried my face into his shoulder. Another wave of grief had me sobbing harder into his shoulder, the word sleep ringing in my ear. Sinking into a rough slumber, Morte’s humming was the last thing I heard.
2024.05.10 20:04 Vukobasa An observer in the Near East: MONTENEGRO (1907)
 | ΜΟΝΤΕΝEGRO submitted by Vukobasa to Crnogorstvo [link] [comments] CHAPTER I THE CITY IN THE SKY Why I went to the Balkans―The road to Montenegro―Cettinje and its petroleum tins―About the blood-feud―England and Montenegro―Warned not to attempt to go to Albania―My guide a marked man-The story of Tef―A woman's fickleness, and its sequel. CHAPTER II AN AUDIENCE OF PRINCE NICHOLAS The Palace at Cettinje―A cigarette with the Prince―The policy of Montenegro―A confidential chat―His Royal Highness's admiration for England―His views upon Macedonia―He urges me not to attempt to go to Albania. but I persuade him to help me―His Highness's kindness―Souvenirs. ** CHAPTER I THE CITY IN THE SKY Why I went to the Balkans— The road to Montenegro — Cettinje and its petroleum tins — About the blood-feud — England and Montenegro — Warned not to attempt to go to Albania — My guide a marked man — The story of Tef — A woman's fickleness, and its sequel. I ENTERED the Balkans by the back door. The luxuries of the Orient Express had no attraction for me. I wanted to see the Balkans as they really are, those great, wild, mountainous countries, so full of race hatreds, of political bickerings, of fierce blood-feuds, of feverish propa- gandas those nations with their interesting monarchs and their many mysteries. The "Orient" runs direct from Paris to the Balkan capitals, it is true, but if one goes to study a people the capital is not the only place in which to discover the truth. One must go into the country, move among the peasantry, hear their grievances and investigate their wrongs. Therefore I decided to enter the East by Montenegro, and also visit the wild and little-known regions of Northern Albania. The comfortable voyage by the Austrian-Lloyd mail steamer Graf Wurmbrand from Trieste down the Adriatic, touching at Pola, the Austrian naval station, Lussinpiccolo, Zara- famed for its maraschino-Sebenico, Spalato, and Gravosa to Cattaro, has been already described by many writers. Suffice it to say that it is perhaps one of the most picturesque of pleasure-trips in the world, for every moment one has a fresh panorama of mountain and blue sea, of green, fertile islands with subtropical vegetation, and tiny white villages nestling at the sea's edge, as the steamer threads her way through the narrow and often difficult channels. At times the wild scenery, especially in the Bocche di Cattaro, reminds the traveller of the Norwegian fiords, and at others the coast is an almost exact reproduction of the French Riviera. The object of my journey was, however, not in order to write a mere description of men and places. There have been other travellers in the Balkans who have related their story, therefore my mission was to make careful inquiry into the present unsettled state of affairs, try and discover the grievances of both sides, and endeavour to obtain from the rulers and statesmen of the various nations their aspirations for the future. This I succeeded in doing, for the various monarchs of the Balkans graciously gave me audience; and from their Ministers, from the middle classes, and from the peasants, I was enabled at last to form some conclusion as to the real situation-political, economical, social, and financial. The writer who attempts to place the various Balkan questions impartially and clearly before the public will at once find himself utterly confused, and wallowing wildly in a morass of misstatement and misrepresentation. The Balkans are torn by race hatreds, party strife, and the intrigues of the Powers. The Turk hates the Bulgar, the Serb hates the Austrian, the Roumanian hates the Greek, the Albanian hates the Montenegrin, the Bosnian hates the Turk, while the Macedonian hates everybody all round. What is told to one authoritatively one hour, is flatly contradicted the next; therefore it is not in the least surprising that in the European Press there have been so many misstatements about the various Balkan questions, the real truth being so very difficult to obtain. I have, however, endeavoured to obtain it, and at risk of being injudicious, to place before the reader the facts as they are, without any political bias, or any seeking to gloss over the many glaring defects of administration of which I have myself been witness. To describe the beauties of the Bocche di Cattaro, that series of winding channels where the high grey mountains rise sheer from the water, would be only to traverse old ground. Suffice it to say that I landed at Cattaro on a bright, sunny noon, and found upon the quay a tall, lean mountaineer who had been sent to meet me. To the traveller fresh from the West the Montenegrin costume of both women and men is very attractive, but a few days in the Balkans soon accustoms the eye to a perfect phantasmagoria of colour and of costume. Pero was my driver's name, and I noticed that around his waist was a revolver belt, but minus the weapon. I inquired where it was, and with a grin he informed me that Cattaro, being in Dalmatia, the Austrians would not allow Montenegrins to bring arms into their country; so they were compelled to leave them on the other side of the frontier, ten kilometres distant. My bags packed upon the three-horse travelling carriage and secured with many strings, and Pero equipped with a plentiful stock of cigarettes, he mounted upon the box, whipped up his long-tailed ponies, and we started on our eight-hour ascent of that great wall of mountain that hides Montenegro from the sea. As we ascended through the little village of Skaljari we entered upon a magnificent road, said to be one of the greatest engineering feats of modern times, and steadily ascended, until at the striped black-and-yellow Austrian boundary post we crossed the frontier, and were in the "Land of the Black Mountain"-Montenegro. Across the road, at an acute angle, a row of paving-stones marks the frontier, and soon after- wards we found ourselves in the wildest and most desolate mountain region. At a lonely roadside hut Pero obtained his big, serviceable-looking revolver, and I, of course, wore mine in my belt; for in Montenegro or Albania arms make the man. A man unarmed is looked upon as an effeminate coward. Indeed, by order of Prince Nicholas every Monte- negrin must wear the national dress, both men and women, and every man must carry his revolver when out of doors. Four hours from Cattaro we were in a lonely mountain fastness, a wild, desolate, treeless region of huge limestone rocks of peculiar volcanic formation, which gave them the appearance of a boiling sea. The views over the Adriatic as we turned back were so superb that, despite photographing being strictly forbidden on account of the fortresses in the vicinity, I could not resist the temptation to take one or two surreptitiously. On, through a bleak, uninhabited country, we at last reached the guard-house of Kerstac, and then half an hour later found ourselves upon a plateau where, in the centre, stood the small clean village of Nyegush, the ancestral home of the reigning family, and the scene of most of the Montenegrin wars of independence. Here we halted for half an hour at the post-house, and before we left, the big, lumbering post-diligence, with its armed guard, came up behind us. Before we moved off again it had grown dark, the moon shone, and for four hours longer we alternately climbed and descended through that wild region of silence and desolation, until at last we saw, deep below, the lights of Cettinje, the little capital, and an hour later brought us to the unpre- tending "Grand" Hotel. Hardly had I entered my room when there came a loud knock at my door, and a tall, scarlet-coated Montenegrin warrior, armed to the teeth, entered and saluted. For a moment I looked up at him aghast, but the mystery was solved when, next second, he handed me with great ceremony a telegram from a dear friend in England wishing me God- speed. I had taken him to be, at least, one of the Prince's bodyguard, and he was only a plain telegraph messenger! This was but one of many surprises in store for me in Montenegro. Next morning I went out to look round the clean little capital, when, on passing the Prince's palace, I saw a number of soldiers drawn up, and as I went by, the band suddenly struck up the British National Anthem! I raised my hat, halted, and stood puzzled. Surely they were not honouring me! Another moment, however, and I recognised the reason. In a carriage, accompanied by the Grand Marechal of the Court, there drove up my friend Mr. Charles des Graz, the newly-appointed British Chargé d'Affaires to Montenegro, who was about to present his creden- tials to His Royal Highness the Prince. Montenegro is perhaps the most interesting country in all the Balkans. Cettinje, a small, clean town of broad streets and one-storeyed, whitewashed houses, is a little city in the sky, lying as it does in a cup-shaped depression at the summit of a high, bare mountain. Its long, straight, main street reminds one very much of a small country town in England, if it were not that everyone is, by law, compelled to wear the national dress, and every man has in his belt his big, long- barrelled revolver, without which he must never go out of doors. The men, sturdy mountaineers, are of fine physique- handsome fellows, all of them. Their dress consists of dark blue baggy trousers, white woollen gaiters, raw-hide shoes, a scarlet jacket heavily braided with gold, and a small round cap, with black silk around the edge and the crown of the same colour as the jacket, bearing the Prince's initials in Servian letters, "H.I." The women, who are particularly good-looking, wear dark skirts, beautifully hand-embroidered blouses, and a kind of long coat, with open sleeves of soft, dove-grey cloth. Forbidden to wear European hats, they are compelled to adopt an exactly similar cap to the men, except that the crown is embroidered instead of bearing the royal initials. Nowhere have I seen such glorification of the male as in Montenegro. To the men, born fighters as they are, work is undignified; therefore the women toil while the opposite sex look on. I saw women employed in building operations and performing work which, in other countries, is left to day- labourers. Cettinje is quaint in the extreme. The only houses of foreigners are the various Legations, and the only foreigners are diplomats with their wives and families. The first thing that strikes the stranger is the number of petroleum tins. Opposite the hotel I saw a great ring of empty tins, numbering some hundreds, ranged around a fountain. A few women were squatting gossiping, and an armed policeman lounged against the water-source. On inquiry, I found that there was a water famine, and the tins had been placed there at dawn to await the moment when the authorities thought fit to allow the people to get their daily supply. The women had gone away to work, and would return later. The Monte- negrins a short time ago constructed a reservoir, but there was a crack in it, so the water ran away. Hence the famine. The petroleum tin is never out of sight for a single moment in Cettinje. At any hour, and in any street, you see women and children carrying them. They are used for everything, from milk-pails to flower-pots. In Cettinje one comes for the first time up against the dark-faced, scowling Albanian in his tightly fitting trousers of white wool striped with black, his dirty white fez, and the swagger of superiority in his gait. He is well armed, and for a good reason. The Montenegrin hates the Albanian, because of the constant border feuds over at Podgoritza, where blood is constantly spilt, and where I have seen a Montenegrin in the market squatting over a basket of apples with a loaded rifle. That morning I was chatting to a man in Montenegrin dress, of whom I had bought some excellent cigarettes, manufactured by the Montenegro Tobacco Monopoly-an Italian syndicate, by the way and happened to mention that I was on my way to Albania. "Ah, gospodin!" he exclaimed, holding up both his hands, and glancing at the revolver in my belt. "Take my advice. Don't go into Albania or Macedonia. You are not safe there from one moment to the other. For half a word they'll shoot you dead as easily as they drink a glass of wine. No man's life is worth a moment's purchase there. I'm Albanian myself from Kroja-and I know." This was scarcely reassuring. I looked about me on every hand as I strolled through Cettinje. All was so quiet, so orderly, so very peaceful there, even though the big, burly mountaineers in the gold-laced jackets eyed me with askance as I passed. Not without some trepidation I took a number of photographs, for I had heard that, like the Turk, the Monte- negrin was averse to having his counterfeit presentment put upon paper. Nevertheless, the first feeling of insecurity having passed, I very soon found myself quite at home in Cettinje, and in the midst of very good and kind friends. A good many foreigners come up from Cattaro to pry about Cettinje for a day or two, buy picture-postcards and antique arms, sneer at the honest Montenegrin, and return into Dalmatia. Towards such, the Montenegrin is not par- ticularly polite. But those who go to Cettinje to seriously and thoroughly study the people and their future will find a great deal of genuine and charming hospitality. My first day in Cettinje was lonely. Afterwards, until I left, I was always with friends and officials, who took the greatest trouble to answer my questions and explain matters. Montenegro is entirely unlike any other country in the world. Its air of antiquity is particularly pleasing, while on every hand the beneficent rule of Prince Nicholas is apparent. Every man in Montenegro swears by his Prince, whom he almost worships. They call him their "father," and if His Royal Highness raised the standard of war to- morrow, every man would rise and fight to the death. The Prince is accessible to all his people-more so to them, indeed, than to the diplomats. Sometimes, early in the morning, he will sit in an arm-chair on the steps leading to the entrance of his palace, and there hear the complaints or petitions of his people. In this patriarchal way he often ministers justice. Last year he granted Montenegro a Constitution, and there is now a Skupshtina similar to that of Servia; but the people have not yet quite understood that in future they must go to the Ministers, and not to their Prince. They will see him, and nobody else. In no country is loyalty and patriotism so strong as in Montenegro. The army is well trained, and the whole country being one huge natural fortress, a foreign enemy would experience enormous difficulty in gaining entrance. In Cettinje, even a constant traveller like myself meets with continual surprises. One day, while walking at the rear of the Bigliardo, or old palace-so called because when built the first billiard table was introduced-I heard the sound of clanking chains behind me. At first I took no notice, but as it continued with regular rhythm I glanced behind, when, to my amaze- ment, I saw a convict in leg-fetters with difficulty taking his afternoon stroll beneath the trees! There were several others on the grass plot before the prison, idling in the shadow or gossiping with their friends, who had come to keep them company! Inquiriesshowed that most of these prisoners were murderers, not for robbery but for vendetta. In Montenegro the blood- feud is constant, and life is held very cheap. It invariably commences by jealousy, and is of everyday occurrence. Two lovers quarrel, and one is shot. Then the blood-feud commences, and unlike in Italy or other Southern countries, the vendetta is not only upon the murderer, but upon his next-of-kin. Therefore, if the assassin escapes into Servia, Bosnia, or Turkey, as he so often does, the brother of the dead man takes up the feud and kills the assassin's brother without parley when next he meets him. I myself saw a man shot dead one night in Ryeka, at the head of the Lake of Scutari, and the murderer walked coolly away undeterred. It was the blood-feud, and no one took much notice. "S'bogom!" (God be with you!) It is the expression you hear on every hand in the Balkans. In the streets the peasants touch their round caps in salute and exclaim, "S'bogom!" When you leave for a journey and when you return, when you rise and when you go to rest; even if you go for a short walk-it is the same. Life is so uncertain in those wild regions that the protection of the Almighty is invoked upon you always, and your revolver is ever ready in your belt. In Cettinje I had a faithful guide and servant, a black-eyed, somewhat sinister-looking Albanian, named Palok. He travelled with me through Montenegro and Albania, and was most faithful and devoted. Besides Albanian and Serb he spoke a little Italian, and possessed a keen sense of humour. One day, while we were travelling through the wild, bare mountain, a perfect wilderness of huge boulders without a single tree or even blade of grass, we halted for our midday meal, and while eating he told me of a great friend of his who had recently been killed at Spuz for vendetta, and he added, fondling the butt of his revolver, "I too, gospodin, shall die before long." I looked at him in surprise. His usually humorous face had changed. It was dark and thoughtful, and his black eyes were fixed upon me. "Is there a blood-feud upon you, then?" I asked, in surprise. "Yes," he replied briefly; and though I endeavoured to persuade him to tell the story, it was not until the following day that with some reluctance he explained. "A year ago my brother Tef, away in Scutari, fell in love with a beautiful girl. He had a rival-a young Albanian, a coppersmith in the bazaar. They quarrelled, but the girl-ah! she was very beautiful-preferred Tef. Where- upon the rival one night took his rifle and laid in wait for my brother in the main street of Scutari. Early in the evening he left the house of the girl's father, and as he passed the fellow shot poor Tef dead." And he paused as his brow knit deeply, and his teeth were set tightly. "Well?" I asked. "Well, gospodin. What would you have done had your own brother died a dog's death? I took a rifle, and within a week the murderer was in his grave. I shot him through the heart and then I left Scutari." "And you are safe here, in Montenegro ?" "Safe! Oh dear, no," he answered. "One day-it may be to-day-the fellow's brother will kill me. He must kill me. It is Fate-why worry about it? It does one no good." And the marked man, the man doomed to die at a moment when he least expects it, rolled a cigarette and lit it with perfect resignment. "And are you not afraid to go with me back to Scutari?" I asked, amazed at his fearlessness. "Afraid, gospodin!" he exclaimed, looking at me in reproach as his hand instinctively wandered to his weapon. "Afraid! No Albanian is afraid of the blood-feud. I have killed the murderer, and his brother must kill me. It is our law." And the doomed man smiled gravely. "And the girl?" I asked. "Ah! They are all the same," he answered, with a quick shrug of the shoulders. "A month ago she married a tobacco- seller a man old enough to be her father. Poor Tef! If he could but know!" "And the blood-feud still continues?" "Of course-until I am dead." Then Palok smoked on in silence, entirely resigned to the fate that awaits him. He knows that one day, as he walks along the road, the sharp crack of a hidden rifle will sound, and he will fall to earth, another victim of a woman's fickleness. S'bogom! God be with you! CHAPTER II AN AUDIENCE OF PRINCE NICHOLAS The Palace at Cettinje-A cigarette with the Prince-The policy of Monte- negro-A confidential chat-His Royal Highness's admiration for England-His views upon Macedonia-He urges me not to attempt to go to Albania, but I persuade him to help me-His Highness's kindness -Souvenirs. HIS Royal Highness the Prince will be pleased to grant you private audience at four o'clock this after- noon, gospodin." The tall, burly aide-de-camp in the little round cap, high boots, pale blue overcoat, and pistols in his belt, saluted, and we shook hands. It was then three o'clock, and I was just about to go out to visit Madame Constantinovitch, the mother of Princess Mirko. So I had to return at once to my room and dress for the audience. The kings and princes of the Balkans have a habit of summoning one at a moment's notice, and paying visits at unearthly hours. Here, in Cettinje, in the heart of these wild, desolate fast- nesses, one seems so far removed from European influence, yet how great a part has this rocky, impregnable country, with its fierce soldier-inhabitants, played in the politics of Eastern Europe, and how great a part it is still destined to play in the near future! The fact that everybody is armed gives the stranger an uncanny feeling. The man who brings one's coffee wears a perfect arsenal of weapons in his sash, and one quickly acquires the habit of carrying a revolver one's self. Indeed, if you are wise, you will carry a good serviceable weapon from the moment you enter the Balkans to the moment you quit them. But if you approach the Albanian frontier, you will be at once warned not to fire without just cause. A few shots is sufficient to alarm the whole neighbourhood for many miles, and on hearing the alarm every man seizes his rifle and flies to the rendezvous, fully equipped and eager for the fight with those Albanian border tribes, of whom I afterwards had the good fortune to be the guest. I had already had a long chat with Prince Danilo, the Crown Prince of Montenegro, whom I found a very smart and highly educated man, fully alive to the political difficulties of the neighbouring states and the necessity of Montenegro preserving her independence. He held very strong views upon the terrible state of affairs in Macedonia, and gave me many interesting details about his own country. Having met him, and also his younger brother, Prince Mirko, I was particularly anxious to make the acquaintance of their father, Prince Nicholas, the ruler of the sturdy, warlike dwellers of the "Land of the Black Mountain "-the principal and most striking figure in this remarkable country, where peace and war walk ever hand-in-hand. Since 1860, when his uncle, Prince Danilo, was assassinated, he has ruled justly, if somewhat sternly, and has succeeded in raising his nation from a state of semi-civilisation to the high place it now occupies in the Eastern world. In 1888 he gave the country a Civil and Criminal Code, and last year he granted a Constitution. Indeed, he has done all in his power to induce his warriors to follow the arts of peace without forgetting those of war. At the hour appointed, the royal aide-de-camp called in a carriage and drove me to the Palace, a long, dark brown building of somewhat plain exterior, as befits the home of a fighting race, where I was received in the great hall by half a dozen bowing servants in scarlet and gold. Here I was met by the chamberlain, who conducted me up the grand staircase and into the great audience-chamber, with its many fine paintings and highly polished floor. Then, after a moment, the Prince-a brilliant figure-entered, shook me by the hand, and welcomed me to Montenegro. These formalities ended, His Royal Highness said in Italian, "Come, let us go into yonder room. We shall be able to talk there more comfortably." And he led me into a smaller chamber, where he gave me a seat at the table where he sat. The afternoon was gloomy, and dusk was creeping on, therefore upon the table a great antique silver candelabra had been set, and by its light I was enabled to obtain a good view of the ruler of Crnagora, the "Land of the Black Mountain." Of magnificent physique, tall, muscular, with hair slightly grey, he bore his sixty-five years lightly. Attired in the splendid national costume of scarlet, blue, and gold, with high boots, he wore a single decoration at his throat, the Cross of Danilo, of which Order he is Master. Upon his hand- some, well-cut features the candles shed a soft light, causing the gold upon his dress to glitter, and I noticed, as I asked him questions, how his dark, keen eyes shot quick, inquiring glances of alertness. After the first few minutes of regal formality His Highness's manner entirely changed. Putting ceremony aside, he pro- duced his cigarette case of crocodile skin, with the royal crown and cipher in gold in the corner-offered me a Montenegrin cigarette, took one himself, lit mine with his own hand, and then we fell to chatting. In the delightful hour and a half we smoked together I asked the prince-poet many questions, and learnt many things. He explained several difficult points in Balkan politics, which to me, an Englishman, had always been puzzling. We spoke in Italian of Macedonia and of a certain well-known foreign diplomat in London who was our mutual friend, the Prince giving me a very kind message to deliver to him. Presently I referred to the splendid result of his rule, and related to him a little incident which had occurred to me in Nyegush a few days before, as showing how deeply he was beloved by his nation. A smile crossed his fine open countenance as he replied simply, "I have done my best for my people-my very best; and I shall do so as long as God gives me life. I am happy to believe that my people appreciate my efforts." "And now, Monseigneur," I asked, "will you tell me what is the present position of Montenegro?" "The present position is peace," was his prompt answer. "I have granted a Constitution, and the first meeting of the new Skupshtina has been held successfully. Though the Albanian question is always with us, I am thankful to say we are on the most excellent terms with Turkey, while towards Russia we are pursuing our traditional policy. For the Emperor Francis Josef of Austria I have nothing but the most profound admiration, and I owe very much to him." "And towards England, Monseigneur ?" "England has been, as you know, Montenegro's very best friend," replied the Prince. "I, personally, have the greatest respect and admiration for your great country. We Montenegrins always remember that it was Mr. Gladstone who gave us the strip of seaboard on the Adriatic with Dulcigno. He was our greatest friend, and his memory is respected by admirer by every man in Montenegro. Of Tennyson, too, I am a great I am very fond of his poems." "You are a poet yourself, Monseigneur," I remarked, remembering that more than one poetical drama from his pen had been successfully produced on the stage. His Royal Highness smiled, and puffed slowly at his cigarette. "I have written one or two little things, it is true; but nothing of late." "I wonder if I dare ask your Royal Highness to write a few lines for me as a souvenir of my visit?" I asked, not without some trepidation. "Ah!-well-I won't promise," he laughed. "All depends whether I'm in the mood for it." "But you will try, won't you? And the Prince nodded assent. Then we spoke of Servia and of recent events there; but he was not inclined to discuss the question, and naturally so, when it is remembered that his daughter was the late wife of King Peter. Returning to the burning question of Macedonia, I saw that he was well informed of all that was transpiring around lakes Presba and Ochrida and down in Serres. "It is a monstrous state of affairs," he declared. "Something must be done at once, for as soon as spring comes again the massacres will increase." "But there are outrages, tortures, and massacres every day," I remarked. "Ah yes," he sighed, "I know. Most terrible details have reached me lately. But you are going to Macedonia yourself, and you will see with your own eyes." "And what, in your opinion, would be the best settlement of the question?" I inquired. "There is but one way, namely, for the Powers to call a conference and place Macedonia under a governor - general, who must be a European prince. The reforms would then be carried out, and the Greek bands expelled from the country. How long will Europe tolerate the present frightful state of affairs?" "The fact is, Monseigneur, that we, in England, are very ignorant of the true state of things, or even of the facts of the Macedonian question," I said. "Ah, there you are quite correct. If your English public knew what was really happening-how an innocent Christian population is being slaughtered and exterminated because of international rivalry-they would cry shame upon those responsible for this wholesale murder and outrage. But" -he smiled-" I almost forget myself. My position as a ruler forbids me to talk politics, you know!" And we laughed together. "So you are going to Servia, Bulgaria, Roumania, and to Constantinople-eh?" he remarked a little later, when we had lit fresh cigarettes. "In Bulgaria, and also in Roumania, you will see many things that will interest you. The Bul- garians are very strongly armed, and so are the Roumanians." "Her Majesty the Queen of Roumania has also promised me audience," I said. "When you see her, will you please present to Her Majesty my most cordial respects. She is so very charming." "I want, Monseigneur, to visit Northern Albania, leaving Montenegro by Ryeka and Scutari. Would that be the best route, do you think?" "What!" he exclaimed, in surprise. "Do you actually contemplate visiting the tribes up in the Accursed Mountains?" "Certainly. Why not?" "Well, my advice is, don't think of going there. If you do, you will never return. You'll be shot at sight, like a dog. You have no idea what those uncivilised tribes are like. The whole country is utterly lawless." "So I understand. But I've also heard that the Albanian possesses a deep sense of honour. And I thought that I might possibly obtain permission from one or other of the chiefs." The Prince was silent for a moment. Then, looking at me across the table, said- "Do not go. It is far too great a risk." His advice was the same that my, friends in London had given me; the same that I had received there, in the market-place of Cettinje. But I was determined, and pressed His Royal Highness to assist me, at last receiving his promise of help. By his kind permission, the Albanian named Palok acted as my guide, and what eventually happened to me in that wild region will be seen in the following pages. "Well," exclaimed the Prince at last, "if you go up there, it must be at your own risk. I've warned you of the danger. No one has been up there for many years. It has been at- tempted, of course, but travellers have either been held to ransom, and the Turks have been compelled to pay for their release, or else they have simply been shot by the first Albanian meeting them. The country beyond Scutari is the most unsafe in the whole Balkan Peninsula." I replied that I intended to make the attempt. "Well, then, I wish you buon viaggio," he laughed. "May every good luck attend you, and as we say in Montenegro - S'bogom! (God be with you!) When you return for I suppose you will pass this way down to the sea-come and see me, and tell me all about the Skreli and Kastrati country -for of course I am highly interested. They are always at war with our people on the frontier." "I will let your Royal Highness know the moment I am back in Cettinje," I promised. Then rising, he gripped my hand warmly, saying- "Then I will help you if I can. Be careful of yourself, for I shall be anxious about you. Again, S'bogom!" And the Prince accompanied me to the head of the grand staircase, where I made my obeisance, turned and descended through the rows of armed and bowing servants ranged in the hall, charmed by His Royal Highness's graciousness towards me and by the pleasant chat I had enjoyed. When, after my journey through Northern Albania, I one afternoon re-entered that audience-chamber, and he came forward with outstretched hand to greet me, he exclaimed- "Well, well! I am so glad to see you back safe and sound. You look a little thinner in the face a little travel-worn- eh? Life in the Albanian mountains is not like your life in London or Paris, is it? But never mind as long as you are safe," he laughed, placing his hand kindly upon my shoulder. "Come along to this room. It is more cosy," and he led me to the smaller apartment, his own private cabinet. For nearly two hours I sat relating to him what occurred on my journey, and describing the wild country which had, until then, been practically a sealed book. Even though Cettinje is so near, hardly anything was known of the Skreli, the Hoti, the Klementi, or the Kastrati tribes, save that they were brigandish bands who constantly raided the Montenegrin frontier. The Prince listened to me with great attention, and put many questions to me as we smoked together. Then rising, he took from a drawer in his great writing- table a small scarlet box, and as he opened it he bestowed upon me a compliment undeserved, for he said - "There are few men who would have risked what you have done. Therefore I wish to invest you with our Order of Danilo, as a mark of my appreciation and esteem." And he displayed to me the beautiful dark blue and white enamelled cross of the Order, the same that he was wearing at his throat, surmounted by the royal crown and suspended upon the white ribbon edged with cerise. After he had invested me with the Order, saying many kind things to me, which I really don't think I deserved, he added- "The chef du chancellerie will send you the diploma in due course, and I trust, when you petition your own gracious Sovereign King Edward, that His Majesty will allow you to wear this insignia." I thanked His Royal Highness, gripped his hand, and a few minutes later passed through the line of bowing servants out of the Palace. And that same evening I received from His Royal Highness the signed photograph which appears in these pages. Before I left Cettinje I received the following expressive lines, written especially for me by a Montenegrin poet who is a great personage, but whose name he would not permit me to give. They are in Servian as follows, and I have placed their English translation below :- S' veledušnog Albiona Pružiše se dvije ruke Crnoj Gori da pomogu U junačke njene muke S' vrućom rječu na ustima Gladston diže Crnogorce A Tenison za najprve U svijet ih broi borce Na glas svoih Velikana Britanski se narod trže Da pomože da zaštiti Crnu Goru iz najbrže Posla svoje bojne ladje Sto na tečnost gospostvuju Veledušno da zaštite Domovinu milu Moju O fala ti po sto puta Blagorodni lyudi Soju Dok je svjeta dok je greda Nad Ulcinjem koje stoju Hraniće ti blagodarnost Ova šaka sokolova Koima si u pomoci Stiga putem od valova. The literal translation in English is as follows:- From the great-souled Albion, Two arms were stretched To help Montenegro In her heroic sufferings. With fiery word on his lips Gladstone lifts up Montenegrins, Whilst Tennyson declared them The very first fighters in the world. On the call of their great men, British people rose up In quickest manner, to help And to protect Montenegro. They despatched their war-ships, Which rule over the seas, Generously to protect My Fatherland so dear to me. Oh! thanks to thee, hundredfold thanks, Noble race of men. As long as the world lasts, As long as the mountains above Dulcigno stand, Will remain grateful to thee, This handful of falcons, To whose help thou didst come By the road of the waves. - An Observer in the Near East - William Le Queux. Publisher, E. Nash, 1907. \** https://preview.redd.it/jg36zlvu1nzc1.jpg?width=465&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=eacb8abc6368963f81177eefecbd44642c09cd97 https://preview.redd.it/7lh8gmvu1nzc1.jpg?width=465&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=225f2bc1649240bfe5c57e72dfdaf93f28938bb7 https://preview.redd.it/2lvn8hwu1nzc1.jpg?width=465&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=6677bcd6e7d76a5f229b5ea7e61c9f0a5596ea47 https://preview.redd.it/pgqltmvu1nzc1.jpg?width=465&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=e4acf257abe5f0223c62635ecd9ac2a4f5e9614e https://preview.redd.it/xktn0ovu1nzc1.jpg?width=465&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=14d6087bbc6b3028c40e6e978674d470e23fab35 https://preview.redd.it/4zps2mvu1nzc1.jpg?width=465&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=51e5049c7cbbc1fc455754e40e04c9b2c9a124e0 https://preview.redd.it/9qr2xrwu1nzc1.jpg?width=465&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=48f98198cad524a0157100b60325e72d6b2f1770 https://preview.redd.it/ywzpenvu1nzc1.jpg?width=465&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=7118b6072a634d6ccce1b96eaab6bebbf987e194 https://preview.redd.it/9h2y0mvu1nzc1.jpg?width=465&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=966897fbdcca422eee9ff410852bcd8cbe89d1ae https://preview.redd.it/07po9ovu1nzc1.jpg?width=465&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=f8a078de6ef8ffc1808160270e46329f3a097d21 https://preview.redd.it/n89tenvu1nzc1.jpg?width=465&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=ea8a9fee167bb25b07ec3137bd235d600cb9dbe4 https://preview.redd.it/vv7knswu1nzc1.jpg?width=465&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=aa295c8644a75b5f5a5050bf0795875f9925c3b5 https://preview.redd.it/q1jxpnvu1nzc1.jpg?width=465&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=8d7431b419b1f5c1a33dba099465285fc5ed5297 https://preview.redd.it/w44qbfwu1nzc1.jpg?width=465&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=e18314ac2a333efe0b2d9301f7fba3c6d40b12f4 https://preview.redd.it/mclcb6tg2nzc1.jpg?width=465&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=90e4b7fedc3b3d63ee33c7c2cbd1b990a60203f3 https://preview.redd.it/qf6829tg2nzc1.jpg?width=465&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=97e01c85545926178ccddbaee3ef4d96f2052201 https://preview.redd.it/5rqaz5tg2nzc1.jpg?width=465&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=b90176f3da386c7875f33301b02806cbfd8ec2c1 https://preview.redd.it/702o47tg2nzc1.jpg?width=465&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=7f3fe6bbf9e492105e72f1a551d902ec74218d03 https://preview.redd.it/bloxg8ug2nzc1.jpg?width=465&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=0b3d48034feb0a9f8f192e91df103a0308991c8b https://preview.redd.it/a2jhb8tg2nzc1.jpg?width=465&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=bb9a7fbfbce7700a06aa50574a786668dd321727 https://preview.redd.it/jgiqu6tg2nzc1.jpg?width=465&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=ec2b5af58c8e25428d0c39550ed54d71e6c9188c https://preview.redd.it/ud3kc5tg2nzc1.jpg?width=465&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=73dd2e0d96ef1cae5d9d934234db8f886b543e83 https://preview.redd.it/59uib9tg2nzc1.jpg?width=465&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=9b319597ac2f654c036eddec48c29e9ad539bebb https://preview.redd.it/8ahdu6tg2nzc1.jpg?width=465&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=1ccad4eec7cb2a6ec943633f09df5e4c6368e21a https://preview.redd.it/iat3u8ug2nzc1.jpg?width=465&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=dd80620268744a4d40a5d90aa291c5c56a5f64a9 https://preview.redd.it/ix1wp7tg2nzc1.jpg?width=465&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=0167cb5340b66f879442cdee00459649a31d8400 https://preview.redd.it/6p3tr6tg2nzc1.jpg?width=465&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=ff95f8f74a7a65050a8abd518f321a186425ff92 https://preview.redd.it/iqvfy6tg2nzc1.jpg?width=465&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=b0216c5b990fc3f44ac5b266cd3838b2830b295b https://preview.redd.it/d94is8tg2nzc1.jpg?width=465&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=74c14118e9431762a63800f3f25ed864ea637e52 |
2024.05.10 17:01 thatotherchicka April 2021 - Question #27
“27. What is the CLASSIFICATION of a women’s hip-length jacket with an outer shell constructed from a laminated 100% polyester woven fabric bonded to a thermoplastic polyurethane film that is visible from the backside of the fabric? The garment is insulated with a 650 fill goose down containing an 80/20 down/feather ratio, has a full front opening secured with a zipper, a multi-adjustable hood, long sleeves with inner-protective cuffs, an adjustable powder skirt, zippered pockets below the waist and on the sleeves, a zippered vent under each arm, odor control technology, and a hem threaded with an elastic cord fitted with locks for tightening around the body.
A. 6202.93.0700
B. 6202.93.0911
C. 6210.40.5520
D. 6210.50.5520
E. 6210.50.8050”
Go to chapter 62 and jump to additional US note 3(a):
(a) When used in a subheading of this chapter or immediate superior text thereto, the term 'recreational performance outerwear' means trousers (including, but not limited to, ski or snowboard pants, and ski or snowboard pants intended for sale as parts of ski-suits), coveralls, bib and brace overalls, jackets (including, but not limited to, full zip jackets, ski jackets and ski jackets intended for sale as parts of ski-suits), windbreakers and similar articles (including padded, sleeveless jackets), the foregoing of fabrics of cotton, wool, hemp, bamboo, silk or manmade fibers, or a combination of such fibers; that are either water resistant within the meaning of additional U.S. note 2 to this chapter or treated with plastics, or both; with critically sealed seams, and with 5 or more of the following features (as further provided herein):
(i) insulated for cold weather protection;
(ii) pockets, at least one of which has a zippered, hook and loop, or other type of closure;
(iii) elastic, draw cord or other means of tightening around the waist or leg hems, including hidden leg sleeves with a means of tightening at the ankle for trousers and tightening around the waist or bottom hem for jackets;
(iv) venting, not including grommet(s);
(v) articulated elbows or knees;
(vi) reinforcement in one of the following areas: the elbows, shoulders, seat, knees, ankles or cuffs;
(vii) weatherproof closure at the waist or front;
(viii) multi-adjustable hood or adjustable collar;
(ix) adjustable powder skirt, inner protective skirt or adjustable inner protective cuff at sleeve hem;
(x) construction at the arm gusset that utilizes fabric, design or patterning to allow radial arm movement; or
(xi) odor control technology
The term 'recreational performance outerwear' does not include occupational outerwear.
Highlight this note. It has been tested on multiple times. Now, let’s look at our two potential headings:
6202 - Women's or girls' overcoats, carcoats, capes, cloaks, anoraks (including ski jackets), windbreakers and similar articles (including padded, sleeveless jackets), other than those of heading 6204:
6210 - Garments, made up of fabrics of heading 5602, 5603, 5903, 5906 or 5907:
This is a jacket so it sounds like it would go under 6202. However, take a look at chapter note 6:
Garments which are, prima facie, classifiable both in heading 6210 and in other headings of this chapter, excluding heading 6209, are to be classified in heading 6210.
So, we need to determine if our cargo can be classified under 6210. Let’s look at 6210 more closely and check the different headings they mention:
5602 - Felt, whether or not impregnated, coated, covered or laminated:
5603 - Nonwovens, whether or not impregnated, coated, covered or laminated:
5903 - Textile fabrics impregnated, coated, covered or laminated with plastics, other than those of heading 5902:
5906 - Rubberized textile fabrics, other than those of heading 5902:
5907 - Textile fabrics otherwise impregnated, coated or covered; painted canvas being theatrical scenery, studio back-cloths or the like:
Our article is a laminated 100% polyester woven fabric bonded to a thermoplastic polyurethane film that is visible from the backside of the fabric. That sounds to me like 5903. Let’s check the chapter notes to be sure. Chapter 59 note 3 states:
For the purposes of heading 5903, “textile fabrics laminated with plastics” means products made by the assembly of one or more layers of fabrics with one or more sheets or film of plastics which are combined by any process that bonds the layers together, whether or not the sheets or film of plastics are visible to the naked eye in the cross-section.
That definitely sounds like our product. If it is made from a fabric of 5903 then it would be classified under 6210. Let’s look at our options that remain for that heading:
6210.40 - Other men's or boys' garments:
6210.50 - Other women's or girls' garments:
We know this is a women’s jacket so it must go under 6210.50. Our final options are:
6210.50.5520 – Other: of man-made fibers: Other: Anoraks (including ski-jackets), wind breakers and similar articles
6210.50.8050 – Other: Other: Other: Anoraks (including ski-jackets), wind-breakers and similar articles
Polyester is a man-made fabric so it would go under 6210.50.5520. The answer is D.
submitted by thatotherchicka to CBLE [link] [comments]
A. 6202.93.0700
B. 6202.93.0911
C. 6210.40.5520
D. 6210.50.5520
E. 6210.50.8050”
Go to chapter 62 and jump to additional US note 3(a):
(a) When used in a subheading of this chapter or immediate superior text thereto, the term 'recreational performance outerwear' means trousers (including, but not limited to, ski or snowboard pants, and ski or snowboard pants intended for sale as parts of ski-suits), coveralls, bib and brace overalls, jackets (including, but not limited to, full zip jackets, ski jackets and ski jackets intended for sale as parts of ski-suits), windbreakers and similar articles (including padded, sleeveless jackets), the foregoing of fabrics of cotton, wool, hemp, bamboo, silk or manmade fibers, or a combination of such fibers; that are either water resistant within the meaning of additional U.S. note 2 to this chapter or treated with plastics, or both; with critically sealed seams, and with 5 or more of the following features (as further provided herein):
(i) insulated for cold weather protection;
(ii) pockets, at least one of which has a zippered, hook and loop, or other type of closure;
(iii) elastic, draw cord or other means of tightening around the waist or leg hems, including hidden leg sleeves with a means of tightening at the ankle for trousers and tightening around the waist or bottom hem for jackets;
(iv) venting, not including grommet(s);
(v) articulated elbows or knees;
(vi) reinforcement in one of the following areas: the elbows, shoulders, seat, knees, ankles or cuffs;
(vii) weatherproof closure at the waist or front;
(viii) multi-adjustable hood or adjustable collar;
(ix) adjustable powder skirt, inner protective skirt or adjustable inner protective cuff at sleeve hem;
(x) construction at the arm gusset that utilizes fabric, design or patterning to allow radial arm movement; or
(xi) odor control technology
The term 'recreational performance outerwear' does not include occupational outerwear.
Highlight this note. It has been tested on multiple times. Now, let’s look at our two potential headings:
6202 - Women's or girls' overcoats, carcoats, capes, cloaks, anoraks (including ski jackets), windbreakers and similar articles (including padded, sleeveless jackets), other than those of heading 6204:
6210 - Garments, made up of fabrics of heading 5602, 5603, 5903, 5906 or 5907:
This is a jacket so it sounds like it would go under 6202. However, take a look at chapter note 6:
Garments which are, prima facie, classifiable both in heading 6210 and in other headings of this chapter, excluding heading 6209, are to be classified in heading 6210.
So, we need to determine if our cargo can be classified under 6210. Let’s look at 6210 more closely and check the different headings they mention:
5602 - Felt, whether or not impregnated, coated, covered or laminated:
5603 - Nonwovens, whether or not impregnated, coated, covered or laminated:
5903 - Textile fabrics impregnated, coated, covered or laminated with plastics, other than those of heading 5902:
5906 - Rubberized textile fabrics, other than those of heading 5902:
5907 - Textile fabrics otherwise impregnated, coated or covered; painted canvas being theatrical scenery, studio back-cloths or the like:
Our article is a laminated 100% polyester woven fabric bonded to a thermoplastic polyurethane film that is visible from the backside of the fabric. That sounds to me like 5903. Let’s check the chapter notes to be sure. Chapter 59 note 3 states:
For the purposes of heading 5903, “textile fabrics laminated with plastics” means products made by the assembly of one or more layers of fabrics with one or more sheets or film of plastics which are combined by any process that bonds the layers together, whether or not the sheets or film of plastics are visible to the naked eye in the cross-section.
That definitely sounds like our product. If it is made from a fabric of 5903 then it would be classified under 6210. Let’s look at our options that remain for that heading:
6210.40 - Other men's or boys' garments:
6210.50 - Other women's or girls' garments:
We know this is a women’s jacket so it must go under 6210.50. Our final options are:
6210.50.5520 – Other: of man-made fibers: Other: Anoraks (including ski-jackets), wind breakers and similar articles
6210.50.8050 – Other: Other: Other: Anoraks (including ski-jackets), wind-breakers and similar articles
Polyester is a man-made fabric so it would go under 6210.50.5520. The answer is D.
2024.05.09 21:22 Efficient-Concert383 First clear!! (me and my 50 buddies!)
 | submitted by Efficient-Concert383 to PathOfAchra [link] [comments] |
2024.05.09 19:06 nuebohemio Barbie vs Lucifer Morningstar Comic based on Starlight Dance Barbie doll
 | submitted by nuebohemio to DeathBattleMatchups [link] [comments] |