Main is @WildlifeRehabStudent| No AI Ever| I'm over 25, but all ages welcome| Feel free to send in asks! Prompts or your own character, either way!| If you'd like to ask any of my characters questions, you can also send in an ask for that!
The story on this blog mostly centers around Spruce, a bongo antelope- based firbolg. They were a druid and adventurer for a long time, and eventually settled down and built an inn. Now, they're (mostly) a quiet innkeeper, providing a home to anyone who needs one, for any length of time.
Stories I love that are not mine are queued under the #Library at Old Spruce Inn tag
If you have questions or ideas, send in an ask or message! I'll check regularly, and I love chatting. If you want to be tagged, let me know, and if you want me to provide tags or trigger warnings for anything, please do not hesitate to comment or message me.
Sneaking onto a pirate ship in the middle of the night had definitely been a questionable decision.
She'd known that when she did it. She didn't know the first thing about ships or pirates or pirates ships. But it was a place to hide, a way to leave, and she needed to escape.
If she got caught, she could cook and clean and take a beating. And at least on a ship she could see the sky. It couldn't be worse.
Not worse than where she'd coming from.
So she snuck onto the Leviathan's Lament, slipped below deck, and prepared to beg.
The smell of brine was overpowering as she curled up in a wooden crate behind a heap of fishing nets. But her captor couldn't get her here. That's all that mattered.
He'd picked her up the day she turned 18 and been turned out by the group home. No family or friends to protect her, no one to even notice she'd disappeared.
She'd been grateful at first, for a roof over her head if nothing else, but that relief had given way to terror almost instantly as he drug her to his basement and locked the door.
Now, nearly a year later, she shivered as the rough wood of the crate dug into her bruises. But she'd made it.
She'd made it.
She hadn't realized she'd fallen asleep until she was woken by the lurch of the ship. When was the last time she'd woken to anything other than grabbing hands or shouting?
Now she just had to wait, and hope she hadn't thrown herself into a worse situation. Out of the frying pan and into the… open ocean, as it were.
The longer she stayed curled in the crate, the more her mind wandered, and the more afraid she became. It could be worse. It could be so much worse. What was she thinking?
She tried to keep her breath even. If she started hyperventilating now she's be found. She just had to hide. Hide until they docked again, which had to happen eventually.
By the next day, her hunger began warring with her fear. She was almost ready to step out, to find the Captain and throw herself at his feet and beg for mercy, when she heard footsteps and froze, every muscle tense.
It sounded like a man, humming to himself as he gathered nets. A voice above deck yelled something and she flinched, whacking a bruise against a crate, and whimpered softly.
"Aye, what's this?"
He pulled the nets back and gave the crate a shove with his foot, sending her tumbling.
"Please, please," she whimpered. "I'll do anything you want sir, anything."
He scoffed. "Yeah, sure. Up ya come." He grabbed her easily around the upper arm and pulled her to her feet. "Ya better be countin' yer lucky stars, the Captain don't wanna be disturbed today."
She was hauled above-deck and… for a moment, she was stunned by the vastness of the ocean around her. It was all she could see.
Which… also meant there was no way to escape.
She took a shuddering breath. It would be fine. It would be fine.
It wasn't as if her life before the last six months had been easy, either.
She was pushed in front of a woman and immediately dropped to her knees, eyes on the feet in front of her.
"Well hello, little mouse." She felt the cool tip of a blade under her chin and allowed her face to be guided up to meet the eyes of the woman before her.
She was tall and broad-shouldered, with dark eyes, short dark hair, and skin well-tanned by the sun.
"Well? Can ya speak, mouse?"
"Ye-yes, ma'am."
"Sir." She flinched at the sudden harshness in her voice, but it was gone as quick as it had come. "Why'd ya sneak aboard?" The woman studied her up and down, then a hint of a smile tugged at her lips and she moved the cutlass away from her chin to gesture at the bruises up and down her arms and circling her neck. "Have to do with these?"
She nodded, biting her lip. "Please, I'll do anything you need, anything you want."
"Mm, yes, ya will. What's your name, little mouse?"
"M-Mouse is… Mouse is good."
Better than anything he'd called her.
The woman chuckled. "Alright little Mouse. I'm Chase, Quartermaster. That there's Striker." The man nodded.
"Welcome aboard the Leviathan's Lament, little Mouse. Striker, take her to quarters and… acquaint her with our rules."
"Yes, sir." He pulled Mouse back to her feet and her heart sank. "Down we go, time ya meet the crew."
"And be glad ye aren't meetin' Captain Petral today," she heard Chase call as she was led away.
—
Striker made every effort not to hurt her without it being too obvious. He kept his grip broad and firm without being tight or punishing.
He had practice, by now.
The poor girl was terrified. That was… probably for the best. It'd make things easier.
She was silent as he hauled her down the stairs to the living quarters. No begging or pleading— like she'd just accepted her fate. It was unnerving.
"Eyes up! We've a stowaway."
Most of the crew had been relaxing below deck— the weather was fair, the sun punishing, and the Captain occupied, so they'd been working on small tasks like repairing clothing and taking stock of the galley, but everyone snapped to attention at Striker's voice.
"What's your name, lass?" The question came from an older woman, mottled in burn scars and missing her left eye. .
"Mouse," she replied softly, and the woman tilted her head.
"Can't hear ya, lass, speak up!".
"Mouse," she repeated, a bit louder this time.
"Aye. I'm Phoenix, the cook. Dominick's not 'round at present, he's the doc."
Mouse nodded. A few more folks introduced themselves, most just watched. Striker didn't pay much attention, his gaze was locked on Phoenix.
Because there was a stowaway.
Which meant tonight, he, Chase, Phoenix, and Dominick were all expected to report to the Captain's Quarters.
It was still wrapped, Linden noticed, as he prised it out from one of the utility room cupboards. Perfect.
As he had progressed into adulthood he had realised there were only so many body wash sets and blankets that one could receive as a gift before you had decidedly too many. The blanket he was now holding was a shiny grey, not too big, and held in place with a pretty ribbon.
“Col?” he called, tucking it under one arm. Was this being cheap? No, it would have only sat there collecting dust otherwise.
Col quickly stumbled into view and came to kneel at Linden’s feet. Linden smiled and crouched until the two of them were about eye-level, causing Col to lean away almost imperceptibly- Linden suspected he wasn’t used to having his owner’s face so close to his.
“I have a gift for you. You’ve been so good lately,” he forced the words out, speaking softly as ever. The guilt at calling him good, like a dog, was washed away by the spark in Col’s eyes as they landed on the blanket. “Yes, it’s a blanket for you. You can sleep with it, or carry it around during the day, or both. It’s yours. Yeah?”
A nod. Linden held it out and Col took it, his hands sinking into it. He clutched it to his chest as he bent to nose the floor in obvious gratitude.
. . .
A gift. A reward! Master clearly wanted Pet to keep being good, and Pet wanted to please. The blanket was perfect, it was so fresh and fluffy, not hard or crispy like the towel he used to sleep under.
That night he curled up to sleep with it. He had taken off the ribbon, as delicately as he could with his hands, but hadn’t unfurled it yet. He couldn’t pin down why, but he was sure that keeping it in a ball and hugging it was better than laying it over him. It made him feel like he was sleeping next to something. Something safe and harmless and his.
🍳 and ✋ for Bailey! They need the comfort! I mean all of your whumpees need comfort but Bailey is my focus right now
With Bloody Outstretched Hands, Part 10
Breakfast in Bed 3
Have some comfort! It's a short one today because the story was trying to fight me.
CW for Bailey's crappy headspace and fear of punishment.
Masterlist
------
Bailey stared at the heroes in shock. Their name. The heroes had called Bailey by their name.
Tears gathered and slipped from their eyes without them having a chance to prevent them.
How long had it been since someone had called them by their own name? They… they didn’t even know. Months? No, it had been… more than a year. More than a year since they had been called by anything other than Poppet. They sobbed at the thought.
“Woah, it’s okay,” Foxfire again.
“How did you- how did you find out?” Bailey said. “When did you?”
“Last night,” Tempest said. “We ran facial recognition software on you, and got a match to your college ID.”
Bailey smiled, expression tremulous as their eyes swam with tears. “Thank you, thank you. I haven’t heard my own name in— too long.”
They were surprised at just how much that realization hurt. It was an old, strange hurt, one they hadn’t even noticed until the heroes had accidentally pressed on the wound.
“It’s okay,” Foxfire repeated. “We’ll call you whatever you prefer, alright? I just figured you might respond better to your name rather than your moniker, since you were… kind of out of it.”
Right, because they’d gone and raised their powers against Foxfire like a reckless idiot and then had a panic attack about the heroes inevitably disciplining them over it.
Bailey nodded, swallowing hard. “I- I understand,” they said. “And I accept whatever punishment you deem fit. I should know better than to attack you, especially when you’ve been so kind.”
Tempest never lost his calm demeanor as he looked them over and asked, “Were you attacking Foxfire?”
Bailey frowned at him. “I… used my powers against them? Yes?”
He shook his head. “That isn’t what I asked,” he said. “Were you using your powers with the intent to harm them?”
Bailey frowned harder. “No?”
It came out more like a question than a statement. Why was he asking? And what did it matter? They’d used their powers on Foxfire; it was as simple as that.
“Then that doesn’t sound like an attack to me,” Foxfire said. “You caught me when I nearly fell on my ass. If you’d done that physically, would you consider that attacking someone?”
“No,” Bailey said easily.
“Then why is it any different when you use your powers?” Tempest asked.
Bailey opened their mouth to speak, realized they didn’t know what to say, and shut it again. Why was it different? It just was. Wasn’t it?
Airmid gestured at herself and the other two heroes. “We are the last people who are going to judge you for having powers, Poppet. Bailey,” she corrected herself. She must have seen them wince at the other name.
“We don’t consider it to be an attack unless you are using your powers to deliberately cause harm,” Tempest added.
“Anything else is either an accident, or, like this was, a really good save. Thanks for that, by the way,” Foxfire said.
“You’re… welcome?” Bailey said
Tempest nodded at that. “We aren’t going to hurt you just because you use your telekinesis. We aren’t going to hurt you at all, not if it can be in any way avoided. Now. How about you have some food, and then let Airmid look you over. Then we can go from there. Does that sound good?”
Bailey looked between the three heroes, who looked back with soft expressions. They all looked so sincere, like they really were the storybook good guys. It was far too good to be true, but… wasn’t that what Bailey had hoped for? Even knowing the slim odds, even knowing what they’d done, they’d still come here hoping to find help.
The food, even cold, was delicious. The only sour note was how Bailey knew this couldn’t last.
------
Couldn't seem to make the "hand carding through their hair" part fit, but hope you liked it anyway @the-raven-of-highever!
contains: young tortured whumpee, gore, slavery, alien whump, caretaker new master, a caretaker inheriting whumpees from a whumper, and mild eugenicist thinking? I. in the form of family angst?
•••
A cell.
The broken thing is in a cell.
The young, bleeding thing taking wheezing breaths in their sleep is an orc.
Their primary right eye is a bloody socket.
Their secondary arms are broken, their blue skin is covered in lash marks, and the collection of horrific tools hangs from the wall.
Captain Ianuarius Astrum curses his grandfather. Curses his own bloodline all the way back to the unmodded people who never even left earth, and curses himself for being so fucking naïve.
He’ll dye his hair black. Tattoo over his stripes. Change his name. Remove every damn trace of his ancestry from his life, because being nobody is better than being related to someone who’d do this.
They don’t wake up. It’s night, their species is nocturnal, but they don’t wake up.
With numb, trembling hands, he takes his new keys and unlocks the shackles. Stays with Gabriel while she treats their wounds. They wake up.
Of course they wake up, making soft sounds and curling up and mumbling something that sounds like “Please.”
If his grandfather wasn’t dead and buried, he’d murder him with his bare hands. The man who taught him old family recipes bought sapients.
The man who showed him how to sail the stars tortured this kid until all they could feel was pain.
The centaur quarters aren’t as bad. Iron chains, but no major injuries.
“Where…?” A dusty pink centaur asks, voice hoarse. He doesn’t want to think about why it’s hoarse.
“Dead,” he says softly. “A countergrav malfunction that killed most of command.”
Sabotage, he thinks, but doesn’t say.
Astral ore refining ships, especially ones like C Class Designation 1187 E635 4872, The Stars Endeavor, don’t need many in command. Just enough to keep the unofficials in line.
“You’re nuller than iron,” a midnight-purple centaur says. Stiffens, when he tips his head.
There are fourty-five keys. Fourty-five keys, three of which are used here. He fumbles with them and curses and hands them to the first centaur to deal with before following the map to a different room. Finding more people. Repeating the same damn process with different keys.
One of the centaurs follows him. Midnight.
“Keys,” they say, at the fourth person in the sixth room, when his hands tremble too badly to use them.
He sits on the floor. Rips off his helmet.
His hair, undyed, is wretchedly purple. The same heritable purple gene his great-something grandmother bought, the wonky one no one bothered to get fixed, that affects all the keratin down to his nails.
Astarum purple. From the Astral Ores Mining Company, which created the surnames Astrum and Aurum and Stara.
The exact same purple as his grandfather, who tattoed himself with blue-pink stripes and got a heritable mod for the gene.
Ianuarius Edgar Astrum—Captain Astrum, his newly-inherited title a bucket of sand under his skin—sets his forehead onto his armoured knees, and lets out heaving, choking sobs.
“Astrum—”
“Edgar.” He stands up. “And I have to keep—”
He doesn’t. The keys are physical. Anyone can use them, but only legal sapients can make purchases. He lets Midnight free the rest and buys mass-produced blankets and supplies for his crew.
He calls Mel. They’re nearby, and can help modify the ship.
The orc flinches when they see him. Edgar breathes. He breathes. Humans are null, and orcs have bad eyesight.
“Easy, easy, breathe.”
“M’sorry, Captain. Sir,” they mumble. “I should’ve listened—”
An awful, painful sound claws its way out of his throat. “It won’t happen again. I don’t care what you do, if anyone hurts you, they answer to me. I’ll deal with them, kid.
I really like the idea of a centaur whumpee being straight up treated like a horse.
Whumpee has to wear a bridle, compete with the bit. They are forced to carry Whumper or haul things, treated like a pack animal and not a person. They are fed food that’s barely adequate for their needs, sometimes being straight up fed hay or grass that they can’t eat. Their arms are restrained because an actual horse doesn’t have arms so why should they? They are punished for talking in a human way, Whumper only lets them make “horse” noises.
This sort of dehumanization is unfortunately common towards captive centaurs in my world. All four of my main centaurs have experienced this sort of treatment
Caretaker glanced up at the ceiling, unwilling to look at the frail body laid out on the hospital bed before them. Other than its two inhabitors and a few, minimal pieces of furniture, the room was empty. Horrifyingly so.
When they brought Whumpee back to the base, mangled and limp in their arms, they knew that obviously medical attention would be needed. And technically that had happened: they’d gone through surgery already and all of their wounds had been sewn up where necessary.
But that was about where the treatment ended.
According to their employer, all that was left was to wait for Whumpee to wake up and then they’d be back to work again. Things were tight right now, the organisation couldn’t afford to have their best weapon out of commission for retraining or recovery. Besides, they were a weapon: they didn’t need anything at all.
There was no IV, no monitor, they hadn’t even been given any painkillers. Just a bed, uncomfortably and stiff as not to waste the better resources on someone less deserving.
Truthfully, it made Caretaker sick. They understood the circumstances, they’d maybe get it if this was some field injury. But Whumpee had been gone for weeks. Their supervisors had presumed them dead and so had Caretaker when they’d first seen them again, slumped over and tied to a chair.
Someone needed to do something to help. Someone had to care. After everything Whumpee had just been through which was shaping up to be nothing short of literal hell, they couldn’t just get back up and go again.
If they didn’t interfere, Whumpee would do that without question. It was all they knew: the only life they’d ever been apart of was one centered around the loss of it.
Caretaker pushes themself up off of their chair, gritting their teeth slightly. They know this organisation well, they’ve been working for them for years. They understand just how their security systems work. The cycles, the blind spots, the rough times that the staff won’t be as attentive.
They stepped closer to Whumpee, no wires or tubes holding them down to this room. In truth, what they needed was freedom. A chance to live and breathe outside of this place. Caretaker could never promise that to them. They weren’t a liar.
But after everything, they deserved at least a more comfortable bed and a few painkillers to take the edge off. Luckily, both were achievable goals: Caretaker’s house wasn’t too far away from this specific base.
As they scooped up the weapon into their arms, shocked slightly at the lightness of someone so formidable, they laughed breathlessly. They’d be reprimanded for this, for sure. Sneaking out a patient in the middle of the night without permission from a senior?
But this place was doing nothing for Whumpee. There’s not a thing that they were receiving here that Caretaker couldn’t provide themself and then some.
Even just for one night, until they woke up for the first time after coming back and inevitably marched straight back to this very base, Whumpee could be comfortable for once.
Or, Rhus tries really hard to put all his eggs in one basket
Contains: starvation mention, but this one's pretty fluffy
"Hey kid, you wanna do some chores with me?"
Rhus looked up, head tilted slightly, at the sound of Spruce's voice, then glanced back down at the bone he'd been gnawing on.
"Nobody's gonna take the bone. You can put it in the fridge. And we'll have breakfast when we get back inside."
He nodded and put his bone away. He wasn't hungry, not anymore, but he was teething.
Bones were better to chew on than wood.
And… last time he left a bone out, Wicker stepped on it and had a fit and he'd been sure he'd get kicked out.
He trotted back to Spruce's side, tail wagging, and pressed his head into their hand, and they scratched behind his ears just the way he liked. He'd do anything, anything, if it meant he got to stay.
Putting a bone away instead of leaving it on the floor was a small ask.
Wicker hadn't even been mad at him. Had apologized for getting loud.
He'd still gotten the bone back later.
He was moving much better now than he had been at first. His shoulder was finally holding in place now, his back was mostly healed. The ache in his knees had subsided, his cough was gone.
Spruce handed him a basket and he carried it proudly.
"Birds first," they instructed.
Rhus nodded and followed along at their side.
He'd seen the chickens before, but from a distance. They roamed the property as they pleased.
"Not for eating," Spruce had told him the first day he felt well enough to be outside.
He'd… kept his distance, afraid of making a mistake. But now they were going right up to them.
"Can you open their door for me?"
Rhus nodded. He could hear, could smell, could taste the birds inside. Chickens and ducks and pheasants, and—
He opened the door and they all ran and flew past him in a flurry of feathers.
His blood was rushing in his ears and his brain was screaming at him to catch one and eat it, what if you don't have another chance stupid boy!
But Spruce was patting him on the shoulder and telling him he did a good job. Spruce would feed him. Spruce always fed him. He would eat again, he wasn't even hungry now.
"Can you go in and grab the eggs? You can put them in the basket."
Right! The basket. His tail started to wag once again as Spruce followed him inside. His mouth was watering— he tried to ignore it. He had a job to do.
He almost did it. He grabbed almost all of the eggs, browns and whites and creams and blues and greens, and put them safely in the basket… but he shoved the last egg into his mouth.
He'd crunched and swallowed it before he realized what he'd done and immediately dropped to his knees.
Spruce sighed and picked him back up.
"You'll kill your knees doing that, kiddo. C'mon."
"But I. I ate. Without permission."
"You shoved one of, what, thirty eggs in your mouth."
"Yes, please correct me."
"You've been starved your whole life and successfully put twenty-nine eggs in the basket."
Spruce knelt in front of him and a tiny whimper escaped him.
"Did you enjoy the egg?"
"It… eggs are better how Katy makes them."
Spruce laughed and Rhus's tail started to wag, still hesitant.
"You're… you're really not mad?"
"Nah, kid. Come here." They opened their arms and Rhus collapsed into the hug, tail wagging wildly.
"You won't kill a bird, right?"
Rhus shook his head. "No, never."
"Good boy."
Spruce scooped him up and he melted into his arms.
He rode on Spruce's shoulders as they went through the rest of the morning chores. Feeding the livestock, milking the goats and cows, checking their greenhouse. Then they returned to the house.
It smelled like food.
Of course it did. Spruce had promised breakfast after chores. Spruce didn't lie.
They set him down and he raced to the kitchen and wiggled up into his chair. It was taller than the others, so he could sit at the table with them.
"Good morning, cubbo." Wicker scratched the back of his neck and his foot thumped against his chair, and then Katy set a mug of hot cocoa in front of him and coffee in front of Wicker.
Wicker was writing something, but Rhus could barely read, and certainly didn't understand Wicker's shorthand, or the way he skipped from journal to journal, so he didn't try.
He watched Spruce sit down on Wicker's other side, watched Wicker lean into them with a purr.
Everyone was so nice here. They were all nice to each other and nice to him and when they'd noticed he had nightmares, they let him sleep with them like a real pack instead of leaving him alone.
Like a real pack where he was wanted, and not just a sacrifice to an absent goddess.
And they fed him. They always made sure he wasn't hungry. He giggled in excitement when Katy set a plate of eggs and pancakes and fruit and bacon in front of him. And then in front of everyone else, because that plate was all for him and everyone got to eat.
And the eggs Katy cooked were so much better than the raw egg he'd eaten that morning.
He dove in immediately, then watched with wide eyes as Wicker meticulous poured syrup over his and Spruce's pancakes and then offered the bottle to him.
He tried to copy Wicker's technique— he was much clumsier.
But it was so good.
He ended up getting seconds, he usually did, because that was an option now, and poured even more syrup over them.
He heard Spruce laugh and wagged his tail because here, laughter was good.
Laughter was good and he would always get to eat and he was safe.
“I don’t know; biting me seems pretty damn defiant.”
“You grabbed its muzzle. What did you expect?” Z’dar sighed, though an undercurrent of anger colored the medic’s words. “How would you like it if I grabbed your face?”
“We fucking saved it from that hellhole. The least it could do is - is be cooperative.” Maniah winced as Z’dar cut the stitches and began to smooth bandages around her arm.
“It doesn’t know who we are, why we took it, or what to expect. We aren’t exactly nonthreatening.” Z’dar’s clawed fingers worked deftly, layering a second bandage.
“…what the hell do you suggest we do? Caldea sedated the little bugger but that barely kept it down long enough to get me out of that containment unit with my arm still attached.” Maniah rose from the medical table, her tendrils curling in pain. “It’s hurt and needs help. What are we supposed to do if it won’t let us help? Just watch it die from its wounds?”
“…no. I want to try something.”
“With a human? Be my guest.”
—
Esra couldn’t keep this up. She had lost too much blood and she was too cold and tired and hungry to keep jumping at every creature that came up to the glass. Most of them just watched her. Like an animal in a cage.
(She knew she was, certainly to these creatures, but that didn’t make the dehumanizing shame of it all any easier to swallow.)
The last thing that came in here left bleeding - at least, she assumed the acidic blue lymph left behind by her bites was its equivalent of blood. She had hoped that would keep the others away. But it hadn’t. Esra raised her head, trembling in spite of the urge to seem strong as she bared her teeth.
The other creatures seemed much more dangerous, hulking and armored and clawed. Part of her almost regretted going after the translucent, cephalopod-like creature that had wrapped her up in its jelly-soft arms. It was outside of her unit now, the arm she had bitten compressed in soft white bandages.
(Her previous captors never bothered to bandage their wounded prizes. Her own body bore the marks of that careless greed.)
But the tentacled creature didn’t reenter her containment unit, apparently watching as a new creature slipped through the clear, chambered airlocks. Esra’s eyes grew wide with terror at the sight.
It was massive, as long as a limousine and standing well over a story high. The monster barely had any clearance between its head and the ceiling of Esra’s containment unit. It seemed quadrupedal, though it’s forelimbs sported articulated, clawed digits. Its crested skull ended in a rounded but razor sharp bill, surely strong enough to tear her limb from limb.
She scrambled backwards, as best she could with her already battered body.
But it didn’t chase. It didn’t corner her like the last creature, didn’t snag her with a barbed tendril and draw her close.
Instead, the massive being…laid down. At least, it reclined, dropping to its belly but keeping its massive skull off the ground.
Esra knew better than to assume it was safe. An animalistic snarl growled in the back of her throat. (She hadn’t spoked in so long. She remembered how, but her voice was shredded from screaming. From begging.) The creature tilted its head, as though listening intently to her desperate, pained howl of defiance.
The beaked mouth of the beast clacked softly, but in the large, empty space of the containment unit it echoed menacingly. (Mockingly.) She had no escape. She doubted she could even injure this thing before it snapped her up and swallowed her whole -
It laid its head down, and rolled.
Esra was so confused and so startled she forgot to fear the massive creature. It’s colorful scaled throat was bared to her, the intricate patterns delicately etched into thin skin. (Now was her chance. The skin was so thin she could see a blood vessel throbbing below. If she could bite deep enough…) But Esra’s limbs didn’t move.
Was this some sort of…submissive display?
The creature was still and silent, save for its slow breaths. Esra swallowed, watching its limbs for any sign of tension. But the monster was relaxed, claws twitching in the air. (Like a cat, dozing on it’s back. Just…less fluffy.) Her instincts, ever fickle, drew her closer to the beast.
She crawled forward, left leg dragging behind her uselessly. This close she could see the creature’s eye, half lidded but still watching her. Gauging her reaction. (Its breaths were warm. And she was so cold - ) Esra dragged herself closer, close enough to lay a hand on the monster’s feathered face.
The feathers beside its eye were unfathomably soft, their delicate structure nearly identical to the feathers of the birds Esra knew. That reptilian jade green eye blinked slowly, a rumbled emanating from the creature’s still bared throat.
A rumble that, Esra realized, was words.
“There you go, little one. You’re alright. You’re safe.”
Tears welled in her eyes; she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. It spoke to her. It acknowledged her. It was an interaction without pain or implied threats and Esra hadn’t been treated this way, with such…humanity, in so long. She collapsed against the monster’s face, sobs weak and breaths shallow. She wanted to believe the creature. She really did, but…
She was so tired.
—
“You actually did it.” Maniah floated around the medic to stare down at the fragile, unconscious human cradled in Z’dar’s gentle hands.
“Quickly, to the infirmary. It doesn’t have much time.”
Contains: Rebecca (Centaur) Flashbacks. Noncon, crop/whipping, punching, piercings, bit/gag, fantasy slavery, on display, bitch as a derogatory term, centaur whump, multiple whumpers
Please let me know if I missed any warnings
——
Things had been going well for Rebecca so far.
She'd been at the Inn for a couple months now— watching, waiting, listening.
She was still fully clothed, had remained fully clothed since she'd arrived. People would come into her room and she'd prepare to be told to strip but she never was.
Everyone treated her like a person.
She didn't know what to do with herself. Her training had been brutal, absolute. Her purpose was to entertain. To accept any treatment, to make her master money.
That had been fact for as long as she could remember. It had just been shows when she was little, pageants, but the plan had always been clear.
And she'd been good at it. She'd never known another life and, sure, she didn't like being hurt, of course, but…
She didn't like feeling useless. Like a waste.
She didn't want to be thrown away.
She knew there were worse fates than what her master had allowed. Far worse, he had been… merciful, really.
When he'd "boarded" her with his friends for retraining… well, she'd learned well how merciful he was.
Still, the markets were brutal. Her master had taken pride in dressing her in as little as possible and made good money renting her out. At first, it was to anyone interested— there were days where she had entertained ten or more clients. As he lined his pockets with her suffering, he raised prices and became more exclusive.
Folks who just wanted to ride a centaur weren't willing to pay the premiums he charged. Her clientele became more specialized as her price was driven up. They weren't supposed to leave lasting marks but… if the money was there…
A group had rented her out for the entire weekend, payed handsomely, and she accepted it with the same stoicism as the rest of her ill-treatments. They were having some party or something, and wanted to claim her as a centerpiece. The thought made her sick with dread, but this was her life. This was her only purpose, and she knew she was lucky that she was able to help make her master money.
They loaded her into a wagon and hauled her off to their home.
She recognized the stock, the cage.
It was the first time in years she'd considered fighting. But she heard the heavy doors lock behind her and knew better.
She was forced into the cage. Her hands were bound above her. A bit was forced into her mouth and fastened around her head and they used it to tie her head still. They shoved a couple wooden bars under her belly and clipped her hobble chains from her ankles to the rings implanted along her inner flanks. Then they smacked her on the ass and told her to 'stand pretty'.
"You'll be appreciatin' those supports later," one man whispered in her ear, and she suppressed a shudder.
Every party guest got a 20 minute turn all on their own, then it was a free-for-all. She stood and shook and bore every indignity and abuse placed on her as they each explored every inch of her. She was pliant as they had their way with her. Didn't complain when they climbed on her back to get handsy with her human half. They'd take her bit out to make her beg for bites of food, sips of water.
The evening of the first day, things went from bad to worse. One woman found the piercings along her inner flank and squealed with joy. She hauled one of her legs up and out to get a good look— then someone else offered to tie her leg up so everyone could see.
Two men grabbed her ankle and she tried, she tried not to react but they yanked her leg up and back and her hip popped and the chain tied to her ankle ripped one of the rings from her flank and she couldn't bite back the pained cry that escaped her.
Her own cries were drowned out by the howls of the woman who had started it all. "Fucking bitch got blood on my face!"
"'m sorry, 'm so sorry," Rebecca whimpered as if it were her fault. The woman punched her hard in the flank, then someone handed her a crop and she struck her flank, her inner thigh, over and over and over.
Rebecca broke down into sobs, teeth clacking against the metal in her mouth. There was nothing she could do to shield any part of herself. The woman came around to her front, grabbed a step stool and took out her bit.
"Hold still," she hissed, then punched her in the face, over and over until her lip split and her nose was bleeding.
She held still.
"Now you've got blood on your face," she spat.
"Yes ma'am," she whimpered. "Thank you, ma'am."
"Did the bitch just thank you? Leave the bit out— I wanna hear that."
Someone grabbed an awl and shoved it through her flank to replace the ring. Someone decided they didn't want their own earrings anymore, so they added two more holes. Someone else decided it needed to be symmetrical and suggested they add piercings under her front legs as well, which was met with cheers of approval.
The man had been right. She did appreciate the bars holding her up. No one noticed when she passed out.
She jolted awake to the smack of the crop to her cheek.
"There's the pretty pony," a man purred, running the end of the crop along her jaw. She just blinked at him through blurry eyes, exhausted and thoroughly dehydrated.
"Don't worry, we'll clean you up real nice before we take you back. What do you say?"
"Th-thank you, sir."
"Good girl." He used the crop to pat her on the cheek before stepping out of her field of view once more to give her backside more attention, and she gritted her teeth and bore that, too.
They did clean her up, the next day. She knew warm water was too much to hope for, but being sprayed with a cold hose while still bound made her heart ache. She was… nothing, to them. To anyone.
She was just… nothing.
She squealed when they cranked up the hose and shoved it between her legs. And they were certainly thorough about cleaning that part of her, it seemed everyone needed to double check to ensure the job was done properly. They were equally as thorough under her tail.
They still weren't as bad as retraining. Or maybe it was just that she knew when it would end.
She slept on the floor of the wagon on the ride home, still soaked, too exhausted to care.
Master was livid. He assumed she had torn out her ring by kicking someone, and her clients agreed to that story.
"Seems they punished you pretty thoroughly," he grumbled as he looked her over. "Not gonna be able to rent you out til your face heals up."
She felt a flicker of relief at his words.
"But just in case. Knees."
Her hope died as her knees hit the ground. His fist collided with her jaw so hard she saw stars.
She remained kneeling as her blood and tears mixed and dripped down her face.
"Stand."
She pushed herself to her feet.
He cut her hands free. "Go pick a switch."
Her blood ran cold. "Master please, I—"
He punched her in the stomach. "Now."
So she did. Because she was nothing. Returned, still bleeding, to hand him the willow branch.
"Twenty lashes on each hind leg. If you so much as lift a hoof I will grab the whip."
"Yes sir. Thank you, Master."
She tried to stand silently, but cried out on the eighth strike, when the switch struck the wound on her flank, and he paused.
"Why the fuck are you crying? You kicked a client! That's another twenty lashes now, both sides."
She knew better than to beg, but, "Master I didn't, I swear I didn't, I never have."
"Then what happened?"
"They, they wanted a closer look at my piercings, so two of the men yanked my leg out of the way and didn't notice the hobble. Then they… decided I deserved more piercings."
She nodded and braced for the lashes she knew she hadn't earned. At least he let her lean against a fence. "Thank you, master." She imagined that he didn't hit her quite as hard as he would have. Merciful.
"Hm."
He paused long enough to take a closer look and agreed that the angle was... Improbable.
"I still have to finish your punishment. Can't have you thinking I'm going soft."
It was the first time he believed her.
He even got her antibiotics and left her hands unbound for a few days so she could deal with her bandages.
"Maybe weekend outings aren't such a good idea." It was the closest he came to an apology. Not that it changed anything. He continued to rent her out to be abused. Continued to profit up until the day she was stolen.
Maybe the folks here didn't know what she was good for. She assumed Spruce did, but maybe not. Or maybe they just hadn't told everyone. Why else would everyone treat her so kindly?
Why wouldn't they tell them? Were they waiting for her to offer herself up?
Maybe it was selfish but… did she have to tell them? What if they looked at her differently?
Would they still care about you, if they knew? What would Aspen say? She wouldn't want to touch someone like you.
Atlas. The orc had tried to buy her first. Maybe… maybe she was supposed to offer herself to him. It was strange that they'd been so patient with her but. That had to be it. The longer she thought about it, the more it seemed like the only answer.
She'd do whatever she needed to do to be allowed to stay.
-Shifting back to their base form when unconscious. Unable to sustain the larger and stronger form.
-Shifting to an animal form because it represses human thoughts and emotions, giving their body time to rest in a way that their human mind didn't allow.
-Keeping a large battle form for months, until eventually the conflict is over and they finally sleep, waking up the next morning in a form they haven't felt safe enough to use in forever.
-caretaker trying to convince them to change out of an animal form so they can treat their injuries, but the shifter is too exhausted to do so.
- Multiple shifts, one after another, over and over until they just - can’t.
- The moment of realisation and recognition in a caretaker or friend’s eyes, as they realise the slavering beast they had just been terrified of is their friend, and throw their arms around it
- Wounds staying when they shift back to human, much more obvious or serious when seen on naked human skin
- A trail of bloody footprints that change from animal to human as the caretaker follows it into somewhere small and dark and hidden
In the beginning, the sound of leaves had terrified Nine.
They were a creature taught to move silently. Unauthorized sound had been punished harshly since they were a cub.
But every breeze made the leaves rustle. Katy enjoyed crunching the leaves, Cricket enjoyed jumping into giant piles of leaves and rolling around in them.
No one here actually seemed concerned about the way the leaves rustled and crunched. Cricket was delighted any time Nine accidentally stepped on a leaf.
So Nine slowly adjusted to yet another oddity on this strange new planet. And they learned another lesson that didn't hurt.
The trees in this forest were not quite ancient. Certainly not old enough for amber to form, for sap to harden into a rock.
But… part of the forest was prehistoric. A quiet, tucked away expanse of ferns and cycads, a world of beetles and strange little reptiles and birds. It had been difficult to establish, had required decades of precise magic and careful management.
Spruce rarely visited it— it didn't much appreciate interference. But it was there. The work and magic and experiments had worked.
Spruce had many things to be proud of, this forest was one of them.
A boy washed up on the shore of a sleepy village. You took him in, fed him, and gave him a home. When soldiers came through town looking for the lost prince, he started shaking, tearily requesting that you harbor him.
The sea gave the village most of what it owned and took back whatever it liked.
That morning, the tide left a boy among the weeds below the old net sheds. He was small enough that, at first, the gulls seemed larger than he was. They hopped near his heels and screamed into the wind, offended by the shape of him, by the fact that he was neither fish nor refuse nor safely dead.
Mara Fen heard the gulls from her kitchen, and knew from their harsh outrage they’d found something that out not be there.
She’d been cutting turnips with one hand braced hard against the table, because the damp always played ill with her knuckles. She wiped the knife on her apron, set it flat beside the turnips, and went out without fetching her shawl.
A dog nosed at a rain barrel and backed away when Mara passed. Down by the shore, the tide had gone out far enough to expose the black ribs of the old pier. It was there, below the sheds, that she saw him.
Mara was not a woman given to cries. She picked her way down the bank with her skirts clutched above the wet grass, cursing the loose shale beneath her boots. The boy was soaked through, but his clothes - though torn and fouled with sand - were not village cloth. The shirt had once been fine.
“Up, then,” she said, though he could not hear her. “If you’ve come this far, don’t make me drag a corpse.”
His eyelids trembled.
She turned him carefully, bracing his shoulder against her knee, and water spilled from his mouth. He coughed once, and it was a hard animal sound. His eyes opened without fixing on her. They were gray, or green, or perhaps only reflecting the sea. But that mattered little. A living child had no need of poetry.
By the time two men came down from the smokehouse, she had his head lifted and one hand pressed between his shoulders. He shook under her palm.
“Fetch blankets,” she told them. “And don’t stand there looking solemn. He’s not dead enough for that.”
They obeyed because people usually did when Mara Fen spoke in that tone, and because no one in Tarrow wanted responsibility for a drowned boy before breakfast. They carried him up between them with his bare feet dragging, and if any of them noticed the signet ring tied on a cord beneath his shirt, none of them said so in the wind.
Mara saw it properly when she stripped the wet clothes off him by the hearth.
Gold did not belong on children who washed up nameless on a village shore. That was a thing for fancy tales, not plain folk on plain days. Even so, it lay against his too-thin breastbone. It was heavy and bright in the firelight, and stamped with a crest she’d only seen once before on a tax seal nailed to the granary door. A rearing stag, crowned.
The boy was barely conscious. His lips had gone blue. Mara held the ring in her wet fingers for the length of one crackle from the hearth, then pushed it back beneath the blanket and tucked the wool tight under his chin.
“Well,” she said to the empty room, “that’s trouble with a face on it.”
Trouble slept (fitfully) for two days.
He swallowed down broth because Mara set the spoon against his mouth and waited with the grim patience of a woman who had outlasted storms, debts, two husbands, and three village priests. (Each one more pinch-faced than the last.)
On the second day came the fever. She tended her chores as he sweated through her spare sheets.
On the fifth day he woke properly, his hand flying to his throat before he knew where he was.
Mara caught his wrist.
“Still there,” she said.
The boy froze. His eyes found her, then the hearth, the drying nets hung from the rafters, the shelf of chipped cups, the small square window looking toward the lane.
“What’s your name?” she tried to make her voice soft, but she was a tough old thing and knew it well. Crackshell Bay didn’t breed softness, after all.
He swallowed. His voice came rough from salt and disuse. “I don’t know.”
That was the first lie he gave her, and not a skillful one. Her own brothers - gods keep them - could lie better than that when they were half his age. But no matter.
Mara nodded and dipped the spoon back into the bowl. “Then I’ll call you Rowan until you improve.”
He looked down at the blanket. His fingers curled into it where the ring lay hidden underneath. “I can’t stay.”
“You can’t stand, neither.”
His mouth tightened. Mara had raised no children of her own, but she had helped birth and bury enough nieces and nephews and cousins to know the look of a boy trying to make himself into an island.
“You can leave when you can walk to the well and back without falling into my cabbages,” she said. “Until then, you’ll eat.”
He did.
Days took shape around him. Sleep. Broth. Bread softened in goat’s milk. The scrape of Mara’s chair across the flagstones. Rainwater in the bucket. Smoke in the rafters. The village bell striking noon with no more ambition than it had shown the day before. Tarrow was a knockabout scrap of nothing on an unimpressive shore, and the boy began to breathe inside its dullness as if dullness meant safe.
Mara gave him old clothes from a chest under the bed. They’d belonged to a nephew who’d taken the kings shilling and never come back. They hung loose from his shoulders at first, though his strength returned faster than flesh. He learned where she kept the kindling. He carried water in two small trips instead of one large one after the first pail pulled him sideways in the yard. He mended a tear in a net with neat, quick fingers that had not learned the work from hunger, and when Mara noticed, he kept his head down until she moved away.
Mara asked no questions because answers had weight. In Tarrow, weight of that sort brought notice from their betters, which never meant well for plain folks. A nameless boy could sit at her table and burn his tongue on stew. A prince, if that was what the sea had thrown at her feet, belonged to men who would break down doors for fun and call it duty.
So the boy became Rowan because Mara called him Rowan. The village accepted it simply, just as it accepted the weather.
He grew less thin. Color came into his face. He learned to keep his sleeves rolled high when he washed dishes, and he stopped flinching every time a cart rattled over the stones outside.
Spring thinned into early summer. Nets dried faster. Children shouted in the lane until their mothers called them in. Rowan began to laugh quietly at small things. Then one evening Mara dropped an onion into the ash bucket, swore at it with such bitter precision that he choked on his bread, and the laugh came out of him clear and startled. He clapped a hand over his mouth. Mara pretended to inspect the onion.
“There,” she said. “Not dead after all.”
He looked down, but the corner of his mouth stayed lifted.
For three more weeks, they went on like that.
Then the soldiers came.
They rode in at midmorning, six of them in dark leather and road-stained cloaks, with the royal stag worked in dull thread on their shoulders. Their horses muddied the lane without apology. Dogs went silent behind fences. At the baker’s, a woman pulled her child back so sharply the little girl dropped the heel of bread she had been chewing.
Mara was at the market stall with a basket over one arm and Rowan beside her. He had insisted he was strong enough to carry the meal sack. He was stronger now, yes. Tall enough to look older from a distance. Still too young in the face when he forgot to guard it.
The first soldier unrolled a notice and nailed it to the post outside the alehouse.
The hammer blows carried across the square.
Rowan stopped breathing before he moved. Mara felt the change beside her, the meal sack slipping lower in his grip, the whole of him drawing inward while the village looked toward the soldiers. His eyes were fixed on the paper.
The soldier’s voice was plainly trained to fill yards and chapels and rooms where no one wanted him. “Boy of twelve years. Dark hair. Gray eyes. May be injured. May be traveling under false name. By order of the Crown, any person concealing him will be treated as a traitor to the realm.”
Rowan’s hand opened.
The sack hit the dirt with a soft, dusty thud.
Mara turned as if only annoyed by spilled meal, but she saw his face. The blood had left it so completely that the freckles across his nose stood out like grit. His lips parted. His right hand went to his throat, then stopped short when he remembered the ring beneath his shirt. He pressed his palm flat against his chest instead, too late to make the movement casual.
The soldier read the notice again.
Rowan began to shake.
It started in his fingers. Then his shoulders. Then his knees, a fine, helpless tremor that made the loose fabric of his borrowed trousers flicker against his legs. He looked smaller than he had on the shore. Terror now did what the sea had not managed: it stripped him of all the careful work he had done to seem ordinary.
Mara stepped in front of him.
Not quickly. Quickness would have been a confession. She bent, set her basket down, and slapped at the spilled meal with the flat of her hand as if the waste offended her more than royal business ever could.
“Pick it up,” she said.
Rowan did not move.
“Rowan.” Her voice stayed low. “Hands.”
He dropped to his knees beside her. Meal clung to his damp palms.
One soldier turned.
Mara heard the shift in the market before she saw him. Conversation thinned. A cart wheel stopped creaking. The butcher’s knife paused in mid-chop. Fear moved through Tarrow with the discipline of long practice. No one ran, no one spoke.
The soldier walked toward them.
His boots stopped beside the spilled meal. Mara could see the mud drying along the seams, the nick in one spur, the leather strap dark where sweat had soaked through. She kept her body between him and the boy as much as bending allowed.
“Old mother,” he said, “stand aside.”
Mara looked up slowly.
She had never liked being called mother by men who had not earned the right to be familiar. She liked it less from a man with a sword and clean gloves. But anger was useless here. She squinted as if a bit addled.
“What?”
“Stand aside.”
“My hearing’s poor when men mumble.”
Behind her, Rowan made a small sound. She shifted her heel back until it touched his knee.
The soldier’s eyes moved past her.
Mara reached for the sack, caught the torn seam, and shook it open between them. Meal dust lifted into the air. The soldier blinked once and drew his chin back.
“Careful,” she snapped. “You’ll track half my supper into the mud before you’ve even bought me a replacement.”
The soldier looked down at her, then at the boy crouched behind her. “You. Face up.”
Rowan’s hands flattened in the dirt.
If he ran, he’d be caught before the well. If he looked up, he might be known. If he stayed frozen, the soldier would drag his face into view and call that proof enough.
Mara slapped the sack against Rowan’s chest.
“Don’t sit there gawping, boy.” she said. “Get it inside before the hens find it.”
His eyes lifted to hers. For one thin instant, everything pressed into the space between them. He wanted her to tell him what happened next. He wanted, with the naked selfishness of a frightened child, for an old woman with flour on her sleeves to be stronger than the Crown.
Mara jerked her chin toward the lane behind the stalls.
Rowan grabbed the sack. He rose too fast and nearly stumbled, but Mara caught his elbow and made the stumble look like clumsiness with a sharp shove.
“Useless boy,” she said, loud enough for the soldier. “Can’t carry meal, can’t keep his feet, eats like I own a mill.”
Rowan ducked his head and went.
The soldier took one step after him.
Mara moved with the bitter economy of age, not blocking him outright, only putting herself where his next step would have to acknowledge her body. She lifted the basket back onto her arm.
“You owe me for what’s spoiled,” she said.
The square held still around them. The notice snapped against the post in a small gust, and the horse nearest the well stamped once, impatient with human ceremony. Down the lane, Rowan’s footsteps faded, uneven at first, then faster where the stalls hid him.
The soldier’s jaw tightened. He was young enough to dislike being made ridiculous and old enough to know that arresting an old woman over a sack of meal would make him even more so. He looked again toward the lane, but Rowan had vanished behind the cooper’s shed.
Mara waited with her basket digging into the crook of her elbow. Waiting was also a tool. The old knew this. So did hunters, debt collectors, and anyone who had survived the king’s men.
At last the soldier pulled a coin from his purse and threw it into the dirt.
Mara looked at it. Then at him.
“That’ll buy the sack,” she said. “Not what was in it.”
His face darkened, but one of the riders called his name from the alehouse, impatient and sharp. He left the second coin with less ceremony, dropping it so it struck a stone and spun before settling near Mara’s boot.
She did not bend for it until he had turned away.
Only then did the village resume its noises, carefully, one at a time: a knife coming down through bone, a bucket handle creaking, a child beginning to cry after holding it in too long. Mara picked up both coins and the empty basket. Her knees complained when she straightened.
She found Rowan in her root cellar, wedged behind the turnip bins with the meal sack clutched to his chest and his forehead pressed against the wall. The air smelled of earth and old apples. Light from the open hatch cut across the packed floor and stopped short of his boots.
He was still shaking.
Mara climbed down slowly, closing the hatch most of the way above her. The cellar dimmed. Outside, the soldiers’ horses shifted in the lane, leather creaking, metal ringing once against stone.
Rowan did not look at her. “They’ll come here.”
His voice was almost gone.
“Likely.”
“They’ll search.”
“Likely.”
He pressed the heel of his hand against his mouth, and when he spoke again, the words broke around it. “You should tell them.”
Mara stood among the bins with dirt under her fingernails and royal coin warm in her pocket. She could not see all of his face, only the edge of his cheek and one wide, wet eye in the cellar gloom. He had been a prince before the sea took him, and perhaps he would be one again if the world insisted hard enough, but just then he was a boy in borrowed trousers who had forgotten how to breathe without permission.
“No,” she said.
He shut his eyes.
Mara reached for the old potato sacking on the shelf and shook the dust from it. “Get behind the apple crates. Pull this over your legs. If a rat runs over you, you let him pass.”
A startled, miserable sound escaped him, almost a laugh and almost a sob.
“There,” Mara said, and pushed the crates aside with her hip. “Still not dead.”
Above them, a fist struck the cottage door. Once. Then again.
Rowan flinched so hard his shoulder hit the wall.
Mara took his chin in her hand before he could fold farther into himself. His skin was cold. His eyes opened and fixed on hers, too bright in the dark.
“Look at me,” she said. “You were given to the sea, and the sea made a poor job of keeping you. I don’t intend to do worse.”
The fist struck the door a third time.
Mara let him go, climbed the steps, and lowered the hatch until the cellar became a seam in the floorboards. Then she wiped both hands on her apron, crossed the room past the hearth where his bowl still sat unwashed, and opened the door to the Crown.
