@paintedshell-hermitcrabâs sideblog for writing and art! (reblogs, rambles, prompts, and my askbox live there) he/they/xe/it + ne/nem/nir it/its pronouns donât get a warning on their own. some of my characters use them, and so do I â˘â˘â˘ I donât bother with prev/next because I like adding in-between things. I create what I feel like creating, and I tend to work on multiple things at once, so you may have to wait before the next post-bloom
if you want me to tag you when I post art & writing, you can comment on the related masterpost (I muted them, but I do check them) and I will tag you when I reblog from my main!
My askbox is in @paintedshell-hermitcrabâs blog! (to reduce clutter)
active ask game
If Blog = Empty (no pfp, no description, no sign of life) I Block.
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Mimzomworld
Mimics are sapient predators that evolved to mimic humans. mimic zombies are nocturnal land mimics (whose pups are venomous & one of the reasons for the nickname), and mimic sirens are creepuscular water mimics (who arenât venomous, but tend to hunt humans a lot more). This setting mostly focuses on the zoms, though
Humanity is one of the five sapient species formally recognised by the Galactic Council, despite a lack of mana, due to their technological skill. All species on the Council have advanced technology or magic, and species with neither get screwed over
Project Werewolf | Setting & Bonus Stories
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Crossovers
Things I will do for fun and fun only. Non-canon crossovers, if I make them, will be on my main, because reasons <3
library!! kxi^anuxa nÄlam!! titles are hard and Iâm going to quit fiddling with it
contains: library visit, minor eldrich horror (size of whale), removing traps, aftermath of the raid on Whisperstepâs home, grief/mourning
Conlang Pronouns: itex/itexirr/itexun, kÄŤ/ksirr/kÄŤxun. Conlang translations under the cut.
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Nat sighs. Sheâs been putting this off too long already.
âFox, weâre going to the library. I need to give these books back,â she says, adding the book about animals they really like to the pile.
âWolf book?â They tip their head. âLibrary zose kxi^anuxa nÄlam, mo?â
When she doesnât answer, they reach for the book and hold it up. âNÄlam,â they repeat, tapping the book. âNot yours?â
She takes a cookbook from the kitchen, and shows them the difference between a library book and her own books. Does not let them peel off the sticker with their blunted claws. âI know you canât read yet, but thereâs fish books at the libraryââ
Chirp-chirp-chirping, they tug her in the direction of the car.
Ding! The bell on the desk is within reach. Ding-ding-diâ!
She scoops them up, holding them out of range of the bell. Making a grumbling sound, they stretch their hands at the bell, think for a minute, then reach with their foot.
The bell is out of range of their foot. She should get them another pair of boots, in case these arenât warm enough for winter.
Ding! He sighs. Fox is a mimic, they can just mimic the bell.
Setting them back down, he pushes the bell away slightly. âWeâre looking for books aboutââ
âFish book.â Looking up at the librarian, they smile, showing all the sharp teeth in their very wide mouth. âFish book please?â
The librarianâCathyânods, and makes the mistake of asking Fox what they want to know about fish. Hearing the word, they tip their head, chattering in their own language.
Nat recognises some of the words, by now, but they fly past too quickly for him to translate. âThey like documentaries, so something with realistic pictures, maybe?â
So they look at some books that are for older kids who want to know everything and not probably-five-year-olds who canât read yet, but thatâs fine. They mostly care about the pictures, and sheâll be reading them out loud anyway.
Dead fish are fine, but one of them has a picture of a whale next to a diver, showing how big they are, and Fox hisses at it. Hides behind her, leaving the book on the floor. âBig fish eats us?â
âNo,â he says, âwhales donât eat us. They eat many many small things, likeâŚ.â Heâs talked to them about bugs. âLike bugs, but very tiny fish-bugs.â
âNo more whales,â they mumble, finding a book about birds. And another one about reptiles. âWhales tomorrow or very later.â
They check the books out, and Fox imitates the barcode scanner while they walk back to the car. And then birds.
So many birds, which apparently means exploring the woods when they get home. And carrying them on his shoulders while he gets rid of all the traps they find. Some traps, heâs aware of, but he didnât always own this house, andâ
SNAP!
His sacrificial stick is bitten by rusty metal teeth. Just to be safe, he taps out the area around that trap. âOkay, weâre putting that in the cart.â
âKrrakata zoxtok,â they mumble. âZose ilutat ksateke.â
âYeah, I donât like it either.â
They howl, and get a response. Itâs close. Unsettlingly close, but he listens when they point him in the direction of the sound.
âMiwa!â
Tonuako^itayanek stands. KÄŤ stands, despite ksirr messed-up leg, using ksirr spear to keep the weight off. Yes, kÄŤ couldâve gone to the ewanuxa at Moon Lakeânot everyone can make the trip between the summer and winter ewanuxa^ese, and thereâs always some people who stay and take care of themâbut kÄŤ didnât.
Tonuako^itakanek counted. Put the fires out, made sure the humans were killed dead, and counted. Four pups hidden in the big pots in the pantry-house, and six in the cupboards. Five frozen under blankets. Two clinging to the apprentice of a blood-covered healer who snapped at kÄŤ, and a couple others.
They had to bury their dead and gather what they could, and kÄŤ had to count again.
Ksirr pup wasnât one of the dead. Lelasenaka^ataxa was, but not their pup. KÄŤ stayed, when the other survivors left, because Lelaxotayanetek was missing, and kÄŤ was not going to abandon itex.
And now, and now, ksirr pup is sitting on a humanâs shoulders. Wearing clothing kÄŤ doesnât recognise.
âMo zose kekone takrraxit?â
âKsa.â
Itex climbs down, running to kÄŤ. Lets kÄŤ look at itex, combing through soft hair Lelaxotayanetek would never brush if it was up to itex.
When itex bumps into ksirr injured leg, kÄŤ hisses. Gets stared at with wide eyes as itex says something kÄŤ doesnât understand.
Squeaks, when ksirr reaction to the humanâs approach is to hold itex tightly and growl.
âWhatâs that?â
Lelaxotayanetek takes advantage of ksirr shock to pry itexun free. âWhatâs wrong,â itex grumbles.
And then says something to⌠Nat. Which ends in kÄŤ being picked up and carried while itex brings ksirr spear instead of the little cart full ofâ
âWeâre hunting them, miwa. So I can chase birds without getting hurt!â
âWhat?â
Nat sets xem down on the couch, carefully. Lets Foxâlets Lelaxotayanetek handle introductions while xe hisses at him and he removes his mangled coat.
Xyr name is Tonuako^itayanek, and xeâs their miwa. And he is apparently their kiwa, which is something xe doesnât take very well.
âWhat does that mean?â he asks. They tip their head. âMo kiwa?â he tries.
Echoes of narrators talking about parents and parenting. Wolves and birds and bears andâ
âOh,â he says. âI donât think your miwa wants to share you with me.â
Rebellious chirping. His hand and xyr hand are pressed together, and xeâs clearly uncomfortable with this but they donât let either of them pull away. âOkay, okay.â Very gently, he squeezes xyr hand, and lets go.
Xeâs injured. Xyr leg is the worst of it, since xeâs clearly been walking and all thatâs done is make itâ Nat doesnât pin xem down when xe struggles.
Right now, xe needs to feel safe. So he takes a step back, gives xem space, and goes to get xem something to eat.
âMiwa,â Lelaxotayanetek says, quietly. âMo mewa? Mo Lelasenaka^ataxa?â
Xe squeezes their hand. âMext xa. Lelasenaka^ataxa zose onauzi.â
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Words in Axanelelati
Weâre trying this format. Letter approximations arenât great (I have to make compromises and itâs based on how I speak) but Iâm going do that plus a squint at the IPA chart to see if I can do that too
Syllables = sy¡lla¡bles || Emphasis/stress is going to be represented with ' for primary stress and Ë for secondary stress (on the stressed syllable)
Glottal stop Ę (<- that thing) is pronounced like the bit in âuh-ohâ where it skips. I canât really approximate it another way.
KÄŤ/ksirr/kÄŤxun (key/k-seer/key-HOON) /kiË/ /ksir/ /kiË¡'xun/ = hunter pronouns, use the same format as it/its/itself (kÄŤ/ksirr/kÄŤ-self)
Itex/itexirr/itexun (E-teh/e-teh-HEAR/e-teh-HOON) /'i¡tex/ /Ëi¡te¡'xir/ /Ëi¡te¡'xun/ = pronouns for a child born in winter, same format as it/its/itself (itex/itexirr/itex-self)
Library zose ki^anuxa nÄlam, mo? (LIE-bree zo-SAY keyĘAH-new-ha naah-LAM, mo?) /'laɪ¡bÉši/ /Ëzo¡'se/ /'kiĘa¡nu¡Ëxa/ /ËnaË¡'lam/ /mo/ = Library is house of stories, right?
Kxi^anuxa = kxi (piece) + ewanuxa (den, village, home) = a piece of the home/den, a building. (Fun fact: in-universe, the translations are like this because Lelaxotayanetek is a kid who really likes wolves, and theyâre the one who ends up co-writing the first Axanelelati to English dictionary. As an adult, they still feel like their original words fit best)
NÄlam = story, stories. Stories in either spoken or written format
Krrakata zoxtok (krrah-kah-TAH zoh-tok) /'kra¡ka¡Ëta/ /'zox¡Ëtok/= crunching metal, metal teeth. A beartrap.
Zose ilutat ksateke (zo-SAY E-loo-taht k-sah-teh-KAY) /Ëzo¡'se/ /'i¡lu¡Ëtat/ /ksa¡'tek¡Ëe/ = is bloody and cripples you/makes you unable to walk. The word âksatekeâ = ksa (no) + teke (walk).
Mo zose kekone takrraxit? (mo zo-SAY keh-kohn-AY tahk-RRA-heet) /mo/ /Ëzo¡'se/ /'ke¡kon¡Ëe/ /Ëtak¡'ra¡xit/ = are there any traps? (lit. will the path strike/attack?)
Mo mewa? Mo Lelasenaka^ataxa (mo MEH-wah? mo LEH-lah-SEH-nah-KAHĘAT-a-XA) /mo/ /'me¡wa/ /mo/ /'le¡la¡Ëse¡na¡'kaĘat¡a¡Ëxa/ = Whereâs my dam-parent? Whereâs Clearvoice?
Mext xa. Lelasenaka^ataxa zose onauzi. (meht ha. LEH-lah-SEH-nah-KAHĘAT-a-XA zo-SAY oh-NOW-zee) /mext/ /xa/ /'le¡la¡Ëse¡na¡'kaĘat¡a¡Ëxa/ /Ëzo¡'se/ /o¡'nau¡zi/ = Past breathing. Clearvoice is dead. (lit. Clearvoice is a memory stone)
A drawing with three little doodles. The main drawing is of Break, a fluffy blue space orc, curled up vaguely like a cat. Vir eyes are open because they are spider-like and do not have eyelids. Ve has little paw pads. Edgar is taking a nap, draped over vir side with his head down.
Doodles: 1. In the top left corner, a doodle of them standing next to eachother. Break is wearing a mask, and Edgar is short. Thereâs an arrow pointing at him that says âshort dadâ 2. In the top right corner, thereâs a doodle of Breakâs face, which is based on a pig/boar and a spider. Ve has an oxygen tube, since orcs need more oxygen than the standard air mix. 3. In the bottom right corner, thereâs a loosely coloured set of hands, comparing Breakâs big four-fingered paw to Edgarâs human hand. Vir hand isnât much longer, but itâs round, and it feels twice as big.
The coloured dots on the side were me trying to decide how ve sees. Red, blue, and ultraviolet is what the dots mean, but orc vision could just be unfocused. Itâs the first idea I had, and I do like that one.
Either way, I love Prince-Commander Break. Writing vir has been a lot of thinking, but ve is cute. And I love vir. And I need to decide if the stripes can actually be stripes or if Iâm just going to make them dots again.
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Masterpost
P.S. When he first found Break, ve was closer to his height
Cactus Drawings! (Current Design + Original Doodles)
click to see better
Image: Cactus, an albino centaur, looking at space through the shipâs massive sunroof, its eyes sparkling with wonder. Thereâs a reflection of space on the metal floor, and itâs wearing a green hoodie with a bee embroidered on it.
Character: Cactusâ hair is messy and its ears are big but itâll grow into them a bit. Its eyes are gold, because thatâs the colour of centaur blood. Thatâs also why its nose and ears are peachy
I had to redraw Cactus because I forgot I described its eyes as pale. They were blue, but then I wanted it to be albino, soâŚ. Also I finally figured out what I wanted to do with centaur tails!
Iâm really happy with how it turned out. I decided its favourite colour is green because the first thing it owned was green.
My first design is under the cut
Image: Cactus, nervously holding its hand out for Dr. Gabriel to look at. Itâs tense, and isnât looking at her. Its hands, ossicones, and eyes are stained black with mana burn, and itâs wrapped in a dark green cloth. Around that loose drawing are three lineless ones: Cactus laying on the ground, staring at a bug; Cactus trying to stop running; and Cactus reaching up to swipe a cookie jar.
Characters: Cactus is a pale alien centaur with dull pink hair, grey spots on its back, and white freckles. Its eyes are a purple-grey colour. Gabriel is a black woman with green skin who I need to come up with a proper design for. Thereâs a pod on her shoulder, under her sleeve.
I do like the old Cactus design, and might end up reusing it. But! I think I need a character that isnât a nightmare to draw with the spots. And the new design is lore-accurate.
contains: young (alien centaur) whumpee, references to starvation/dehydration, exhaustion, needles (just two), isolation, misgendering Captain Edgar (she/her, just in narration), and all the soft I could fit.
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Edgar doesnât take the icepack Rowan offers him. Nines left with Hawthorn, but the centling needs breakfastâneeds all the meals it can getâso he gets to cook while it nibbles on a protein ration. A blood cake, which is usually meant for carnivores, but his centaurs prefer them.
Being misclassified as herbivores for decades will do that.
Still, the thing is a squishy puck that tastes like blood, and is more âweird marshmallowy thingâ than âcakeâ.
The shuttleâs little kitchen has a basic supply of non-ration food, so heâs making pancakes. Blue pancakes. Itâs an interesting chemical reaction that scared the fuck out of him the first time he used non-Terran ingredients.
Big blue pancakes. Centaurs are big, and while they do eat less than expected, the centling is a starved teenager.
A starved teenager who stares blankly when Edgar sets a plate down in front of it.
âCactus,â Rowan says gently, âthatâs for you. Do you want them plain, or do you want jam?â Only one jam option, so it isnât overwhelmed.
He focuses on his own food so Cactus doesnât feel as much pressure. When he looks back up, the jam jar is functionally empty. The jar is empty, and it has its face stuck in it, trying to lick the last bits of jam out.
Rowan gets it another flavour of jam. And plops another pancake on its plate. One of his.
Of course he does.
Cactus sits on the bed. Lies on the bed.
The bed that isnât a heap of straw in a stall.
It isnât allowed to lie down. Not for long. Not outside of designated rest times, orâit scrambles to its feetâ âHeadmistress Arith, Iââ
Its legs shake. A hand touches its side, steadying it, and it tries not to lean on it too much.
Not that it matters.
Not that it matters, when its legs stop working and the sharp sting of a mistake bites into its skin.
âCactus,â Rowan says, âbreathe with me.â
A hand rests on its shoulder. It shudders. Tries to remember it can breathe.
It hides its face in Rowanâs back, tucking its arms to its chest. Hiding its hands. Itâs not allowed to hide its hands, but they hurt.
âThatâs Tidock,â Rowan says. âSheâs a Doctor, and she just wants to see how youâre doing, seedling.â
âItâs just Gabriel,â she says gently. âBut if titles help, you can call me Doctor.â
âA vet?â it asks.
âYes,â she says. âI donât just treat my own species, so Iâm like a vet. I studied xenomedicine.â
Cactus pokes its head up.
She doesnât look anything like the Headmistress. Her skin is dark green, like the nice top Rowan helped it wear, wrapped and pinned in place. It keeps tugging at it, pulling it loose.
Nothing she wears is red, and her uniform is mostly white and grey.
âCan I see your hands, kid?â
Trembling, they hold them out. Press their eyes shut.
Burn cream, for mana burn, is expensive. But unsterilized plants can be pirated, and nulls, like Edgar, can be kept away from magically sensitive plants.
âItâs pink, sir.â
He sighs, leaning on the wall with an icepack over his eye. âYes, I can see that. Itâs a pastel pink.â
âBrilliantly iridescent sunset pink, sir.â
To her, itâs only a little shiny. The kid squeaks when she puts it on their burns, peeking an eye open. âNo switch?â
âNo switch,â she says gently. âBut thereâs one little needle.â She holds it up for them to see: it looks like the one that checks her blood sugar.
âDoes it hurt?â
She takes her own, pricks her finger, and reads her own blood sugar. Itâs high.
Itâs always high.
Her skin produces sugar. And oxygen, which means she can handle higher levels of carbon dioxide than standard. It would be useful, if her body could process more sugar than it does. Without needing a pod for insulin, inhibitors to block sugar production, and modded organs to handle excess sugar.
She has to choose between covering all the skin she can and taking vitamin D supplements, or taking insulin and an inhibitor.
Chlorophyll mods need much more regulation.
âIt doesnât hurt much, and itâs quick. I do it every day.â
They nod, sticking their hand out. Twitch when their blood is drawn.
âGood job,â she says, handing them a sugar cube.
Explaining the readings is easy enough, and they stay calm for the rest of the tests. It helps, of course, that Rowan is there to reassure them. To let them bury their face in his shoulder while she removes and replaces their tracking chip.
The old one will be destroyed, but if they donât have one at all, they wonât be returned to the ship.
Even Nines had its chip gouged out of its shoulder before it came to them. They didnât want her back, and she burned a lot of mana to stop that wound from visibly scarring.
The mark left on Cactus is a tiny thing, barely a cut.
âDo you want to see your room?â
Itâs big.
Thatâs first thing Cactus manages to think. The room is big, full of other centaurs, and when Rowan puts it down, it lays on the pillow-covered floor. Itâs supposed to be on âbedrestâ.
A tall, grey centaur drapes a soft, warm blanket over it. It hides its hands in it, picking at its nails. âThereâs a lot of people here,â it mumbles.
âIf you want a quieter room, we can get you one.â
Leaning on the tall centaur, it shakes its head. It just needs to get used to this. At the Academy, itâ Being alone all night hurts, and it just needs to get used to people.
âWhereâsâŚ.â It doesnât remember much from that night, and the shouting this morningâŚ.
âHawthornâs leg is still hurt,â Rowan says. âTheyâll be here, but they still need some time, okay?â
He turns, hand on the door, and it squeaksâ âWhere? Youâreâ Youâre leaving? Why?â
âI need to check in with the Captainââ sighing, he walks back, taking a little device out of his pocket. âOkay. I can just do it over comm. Fir, can IâŚ?â
The grey centaur nods, eyes glowing with mana.
He comms the Captain, and a ghost of her appears above the little device. âSorry I canât be there, sir.â
âItâs fine. As long as youâre okay, Rowan. How are you, kid?â
âIâm supposed to report to Dr. Tidock to make sure Iâm eating well, maâam.â
She nods. âNines works in the kitchens, and Firâs still in the habit of making sure everyoneâs cared for before she is. Youâll be alright.â
âMore than alright, sugar,â Fir says, passing Cactus a bottle with a straw. Itâs a sweet drink. âCaptainâs got enough competence that even jaded bitches like me were decking people for comparing him to his grandfather by his second month.
âHe hated thatâI got stuck working sanitation for weeksâbut that was it.â
The Captain sighs. âIâll let you rest, now. Rowan, Fir, set a good example for the kid.â
They play a game with cards. Lavenderâa very very short centaurâsits next to Cactus and shows it how the game works. And the names of all the cards.
It falls asleep in the middle of the game. Startles awake when something touches its arm, scrambling to its feet. Rowan puts a hand on its shoulder, guides it to sit back down, and covers it with a heavy blanket.
âEasy, Cactus. Youâre okay.â
It breathes slowly, evenly, but Rowan picks up a brush and starts brushing its hair. Even breaths turn to stuttery, hiccupy things, and it canât hide them.
It canât hide them, and its hands just stopped hurting and itâit isnât fairâ
It ran away. It ran away and itâs not at the Acaâitâs not at the Academâitâs not there anymore, it hasnât been sinceâ Butâ
But it shows its hands to Fir. It shows its hands to Fir and she just holds them. Holds them gently. Holds them gently and doesnât do anything to them.
And Cactus sobs.
Gets another drink, when it tries drinking the wasted water. It holds the glass bottle. Just holds the glass bottle to its chest.
You know what? Making a masterpost for stories about Edgar & the ship. Also renaming it the Iron Compass, because âThe Redemptionâ is too on the nose. (Still think theyâd call it that anyway)
Drawings will be. On the setting masterpost. Because this is just for stories.
This is Perry. Perry loves xyr personal space. This is Thorn. Thorn also loves Perryâs personal space.
Click to see better
Perry, a stripy, dragon-centaur thing, curled up around Thorn, a centaur, whose chin is on top of xyr head. Xyr wing is raised so you can see Thorn properly
Character descriptions: Perry is a zenagriff, based on a zebra-centaur and a feathered dragon. Xe has talons, a feathered crest, and a very long tail. Thorn is a pink alien centaur with ossicones, whitish spot splotches, and a couple darker, burgundy spots. Theyâre missing half their right foreleg.
This one is a sketch remade in our shiny new 2026, so I put my thinking drawings and zenagriff thoughts under the cut. (This is the most accurate one right now)
Behold, the thinking drawings:
Left Image: a drawing of Perry with xyr hands close to xyr chest, ears up, and wings folded. Xyr talons are based on one of those birds with the four toes, so xe has two opposable thumbs on each and and foot. Twelve thumbs. Thereâs a loose sketch of xem napping, and one of xyr snarling face. And a colour-coded sketch of xem next to Thorn, crouching to their level
Right Image: a drawing of Perry facing the camera, sitting with xyr head titled. Was playing with the underside of xyr wings being blue. Thereâs a blue sketch of xem stretching, a coloured sketch of xem perched but leaning forward, and the little doodle of Thorn napping on xem with xyr wing folded over them. Because itâs cute
Zenagriffs are a carnivorous species based on centaurs, zebras, and birds. When I was thinking them up, I wanted striped centaurs but didnât want to let the baseline species have stripes. Also I saw a cool chicken with black-and-white feathers with the little v-shapes and decided to run with that.
So I made a new species, decided theyâre used as enforcers on centaur ships, and decided the two species are compatible. Because Iâm getting striped centaurs. And if it takes Thorn flirting with an easily flustered bird? Then I guess they have a love interest now. One I struggle to draw.
Punk racehorse who decided if theyâre dead they might as well just do what they want vs Old-fashioned bird who gets flustered whenever someone comments on xyr wings
I just wanted to write how they met. also vent my feelings about being woken up by a smoke alarm this morning. this one might be a bit rough. Iâm still tired but. want.
contains: interrupted sleep (+ sci-fi time system), pirates, cyanide pill (technically), sci-fi fae, miscommunication, caretaker new master (technically), unwanted touch (brief), and references to/implications of slavery being common & legally enforced
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Captain Astrum XVII hates pirates. Hates them. The damn boarding party is lead by an atlantean in black armour and a Pandoran orck in grey.
Boarding his ship is more than suicidal.
But they werenât dumb enough to board the Redemption, no. They boarded the Lucifer, a B-class ship running an errand.
They boarded the Lucifer at twenty-three standard hours, waking him with screeching red sirens. He went to bed at three. Humans need more than FOUR HOURS OF SLEEP.
âGood morning!â The pirate says, cheerfully. The lights flicker on to full brightness. Thereâs something wrong with their armour. âNow, are you going to hand us your commanding officer and your cargo, or are we doing this the hard way?â
Every member of his crew reacts by refusing to surrender their captain.
Refusing to surrender him.
Perigrine lunges for them, metal talons prying at their armour. âFuck you,â xe snarls, swatting a Pandoran orck with an armoured wing. âSome random fucking pirate latches onto our ship and youââ
Thereâs something wrong with the atlantean.
âIâm only here for your commanding officers,â they say. âThe rest of you are free to make your own choices.â
Ianuarius sets his shoulders. Right.
Fine.
Fine.
Gritting his teeth, accidentally cracking open the too-sweet poison capsule, he sighs. Hits his chestplate with a sharp clang. His crew stands down. Perigrine still lashes xyr tail at the pirates. âIâm King-Captain Astrum.â
The pirate Captain stiffens, and one of their arms reacts first. Itâs always the same one.
Their armour is wrong. Thereâs no chest seam or port. Atlanteans get overlapping chestpieces, to put food and water through, and if they donât, they have a feeding tube, but there isnât a port for it. The only way for them to eat would be to remove the chestplate.
No atlantean would wear armour like that.
âYouâre not an atlantean,â he realizes. âYou arenât a legal sapient, and you boarded my ship to kill me.â They donât answer. âAm I wrong?â
Someone in the boarding crew curses loudly.
The Redemption warps into comm range, and the Pandoran orck curses louder.
âLet my crew go.â The Captainâs voice is hard, growling. âIâll stay behind. But let them go, or Iâll detonate the bombs we planted on your ship.â
âMomââ
âIâll go with âem,â Hawthorn says. âMight as well give them a better bargaining chip.â
âFine.â Ianuarius waits forâthe orckâtheir kid to deactivate Hawthornâs chip. âYou stay, they leave, we struggle to disarm the bombs for a couple hours in case youâre lying.â
He waits with the other captain until their ship disappears into the void.
They donât speak, staring blankly into space.
Without their armour, theyâre a faerie in very good condition. Better than heâs ever seen. Their exoskeleton is pearlescent white, and the unarmoured skin is a deep, shiny red. The âarmâ that always reacted first was their trunk, wrapped around in such a way as to stick out the right way.
Their antennae arenât cropped, their main arms were hidden inside the armour, their smaller mid-arms are intact, and their wings are perfectly healthy. Useless, compared to a maleâs, but theyâre several times larger than one.
He touches their left wing, lightly, and it twitches. âSorry,â he says. âYouâre healthy: maybe a little underweight, but that could be a supply issue.â
King-Captain Astrum removes his helmet, peels off his gloves, and examines them. Muttering quietly while their upper armour just sits there.
Yes, their trunk is longer than it should be. It was magically extended to suit their disguise. They donât want to hear about how weird it is to still have their smaller set of arms.
His fingertips brush over their wing. Wings arenât intimate, for fae, but touching them without setting proper terms isâŚ. Theyâre still delicate. Still sensitive.
Itâs rude.
âSorry.â He unlocks their restraints. âYouâre healthy: maybe a little underweight, but that could be a supply issue.â
Their wings buzz. Getting rid of that lingering feeling.
âYouâre freeborn,â he says, âarenât you?â
They nod. âYessir.â Itâs a habit they broke so many out of.
They forgot to put a clause in there, where the King-Captain would never go after their people. They forgot.
Their name is gone, though. They made a deal with Theo, that if they got captured, their name would stay with her. For safekeeping.
They liked that name, whatever it was.
âAtlanteans have different armour,â he says, letting them put it back on. âIt fits you well enough, but itâs not the best metal, and Iâd rather you have something you can properly move in than something that hides your species. But weâll try both.â
âWhat?â
âRight. Iâm going to be honest with you, Captain. I need a pirate to do what I canât, and Iâd rather ally with someone willing to sacrifice themself to save their crew than someone looking to make a quick buck.â
They take a transport with him. C-class ships are far larger than their B-class one, and even they have public transit. The Judgement is large enough to be self-sufficient if adequately supplied, but any sort of blight is enough to compromise that.
Thereâs a reason theyâre classed as semi-independent.
âSo you want me to do your dirtywork,â they say. Being a Kingâs pet pirate might work in the short term, but itâd be so easy for him to betray them.
âI want you to hunt down slavers, and I want to suggest ones you might be able to kill. I want to get you better armour, better weapons, and transfer you members of my crew who donât want to stay with me.â
âDo what you canât,â they say, thinking it over.
King-Captain Astrum runs a hand through his hair. âYes. I have to be polite to slavers at the markets. You have to hunt them on their ships.â
âBut I canât go to the markets, and you canât kill them without risking your crew.â
The forge is a massive industrial operation, through the window, but they end up in a simple room.
âI canât make a binding deal, with you, so I wonât ask you to bind yourself to that agreement through someone else. But⌠think about it.â
Ianuarius measures the faerie Captain, inspects the armour, and ask where they got the metal from.
âA scrapped ship. MyâŚ. My daughterâs armour is better quality. Iâ Sheâs more hot tempered, and I wanted to protect her.â He drops a metal ingot into their hands. âThatâsâŚ.â
âAstral gold,â he says. An alloy of gold and thaumir, but only Astrums and Aurums can make thaumir alloys properly. Itâs part of how he makes enough money to run the ship.
High quality thaumir alloys are expensive, and his family has a monopoly.
The mining operations were scaled down, but the simple, consistent form of income is good for them. Well, that, and some of the crew wanted to return to mining when given better conditions.
He sketches out two options. One adapted to suit the Captainâs species, the other based on atlanteans.
They workshop itâthe mismatched limbs are difficult to balance, and theyâre insistent on the disguise. It needs to be able to fool Ianuarius, so theyâll look convincing enough even if they canât pull up an illusion.
Theyâre good in a forge. Of course they are. They worked poor-quality materials into decent armour.
Of course, since their arrangement is highly illegal, theyâre working with thaumir-sodium, and coating the inside in astral gold. Cheaper. More believable, and will stop their magic cutting out if they touch a null in a fight.
âKing-Captainââ
âEdgar.â Not his business name. âIâd like you to promise to use my middle name or something else. Connecting our agreement to me, isâŚ.â
They nibble on their antennae with their trunk, and it takes a while for him to get that theyâre grooming their face. It takes him a bit longer to understand that itâs a nervous behaviour.
âPicea,â they breathe. âThatâsâŚ. Fuck, I need to comm my daughter and tell her Iâm okay.â
âAlright. If you have a forge at home, you can continue working on it. Iâll get you some more metal.â
He can hear their daughterâs furious shouting on the comm while he works on filling a crate. Captain-elect Prometheus, apparently. They sigh. âShe melted her comm again. Could youâŚ?â
Astral iron deflects magic, like water off a beetleâs waxy shell. He adds it in.
a bit Edgar-focused, for a Shale episode, but Iâve been digging up lore while writing in this setting. and I wanted to link the two time periods better. also I decided heâs fine with either name for reasons you will find out when I finish writing that one
contains: young living weapon, nonhuman (canine) whumpee, found family, and references to slavery being both legal and encouraged in this setting
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The floor of the new training room is a different metal, with a trail of mats the Captain hops awkwardly across to get to the back of the room. To his armour. âRowan, are you serious?â
The centaur, the very tall centaur who looks like the stars outside Shaleâs windâoutside Captain Edgarâs window, shrugs. âGold conducts mana, and you told me I was going to give Shale a magic lesson while you painted, Yan.â
The Captain sits down, organizes his armour, and puts the colourful metal buckets in order. Keeps them on the big mat. âSure, and you were so distracted by me willingly asking about magic that you forgot how I stack my armour.â
Magic lesson. The Weapon broke a trainer, and its new one is a centaur bigger than any itâs ever dealt with. All the centaurs on this ship are big.
âHeavies are bigger than standards,â it says. âMore expensive, too, so weâre only really found on agricultural planets and astral mining ships. And Iâll be fine, seedling.â
âLookââ he touches the floor with his bare hand, and it feels nothing. No thoughts, no magic, just the nothing of being in an empty room. The blank, empty sense of the Captain spreading to it. âIf something happens, youâll be okay.â
âIââ it doesnât lick its muzzle. Nods. Keeps its shoulders straight. âThe Weapon will defer to your judgement, Captain. Sir.â
âI get what you mean, Captain Astrum, that is definitely uncanny, sir.â It thacks its hoof on the floor. âFuck, now youâve got me doing it.â
It looks at the Captain. Steps up to him when he gestures for it to.
A hand lands on top of its head, and the calm silence settles in. âKid, take a breath. Whatâs he feeling?â
Pulling away, stepping back onto the floor, it says, âAnger, frustration.â
âAnd whoâs that pointed at?â Rowan asks. âFind the line between you and me, Shale. Tell me five things you can see.â
The Captain is wearing loose, white pants stained with blue and yellow and red and black. It can see purple stripes all the way down his arms and on his chest, not just the ones on his face.
Five things. Five things. Captain Edgar is one thing, but heâs important.
âKid,â he says. âFive things is to get you remembering who you are, not a summarized report.â
Oh.
It looks at Rowanâs thoughts while he explains what itâs actually meant to do.
The tangled mess of thorns isnât a wall, or a snare. Itâs a tangle, closing in on the things underneath. Whatâs hiding?
The vines weave tighterâ
Silence.
Silence.
The Captain takes his hand off the floor.
âYep,â Rowan says stiffly, âthatâs some concentrated mana. Now, can I show you how to ask for information, or do you want to try something else?â
âAsk?â
He taps at its shields, curious and open. Wanting to know if itâs watching what heâs doing.
All it is is reaching out, offering a thought, carefully watching the edges of someoneâs⌠someoneness and wandering under the cover of the first trees. The first few landmarks of anotherâs mind.
But some are water, and some are metal, and some are echoed sound. How does it know how far to wander?
âWho is Captain Astrum? Why did Rowan talk to Edgar the way The Weapon does?â
âCaptain Astrum the Sixteenth,â Rowan says quietly, âwas the man who owned this ship before him. Captain Astrum the Seventeenth is Ianuarius.â
Yan, he calls Edgar.
Names can be collected. Why does Captain Edgar have so many names?
He doesnât have to manually scrape off the paint, but stripping red and black and gold off the purplish grey metal is more satisfying. Like the weeks he spent recycling almost all his grandfatherâs sets of armour. Stripping swirling, starry patterns away.
Ianuarius sighs. Dips his brush into the right shade of blue.
They serve a better purpose now. The pain they bring is temporary: a gateway to freedom instead of a preview of whatâs to come.
And he took a break.
His pirate phase was spraypainted armour and the freedom to kill slavers. Painted like a snake and pretending to be someone else for a change. The next time he sees Picea, heâs buying them aâ
Oh. They have a bank account. Fae are legally sapient, now. Thereâs six? Eight? He keeps forgetting the number. Itâs been five most his life.
They still donât trust the law, but to be fair, theyâre a freeborn pirate whose prey is slaver ships, and he doesnât trust the law much either.
âCaptain!â Shale squints at a cup, and it launches into the ceiling. Chattering its teeth at the thing, it tries again, and again, and again, until Rowan tells it to take a breath.
âMagicâs tricky, kid,â Ianuarius says. âThrowing itâs better than what I can do.â
âBut Iâmââ it looks down at the floor, staring through its paws. âBut The Weapon is better than this, sir. Itâs supposed to be competent, andââ its voice cracksâ âfailure is not competence.â
âNot knowing your own strength isnât failure,â Rowan says gently. âThatâs normal enough, and maybe the way I do things isnât the way that works for you. Thatâs okay, seedling. We can figure it out. Do you want to try gardening? I heard you like the gardens.â
âOr we can paint,â he says, when it stares blankly. âYou can paint with me.â Itâs not like heâs doing much more than waiting for paint to dry, doodling blue flowers on the wall.
It paints in blue. The same blue, trying to copy him.
Rowan sits down next to Shale, and picks green. Not the pre-mixed green, but a carefully chosen shade that reminds him of the gardens. âWhatâs your favourite colour, Shale?â
It tips its head. âWhy would a weapon need a favourite colour?â
âSame reason an asteroid miner does,â he sighs. âTo remember the world has good things in it, too. To get to the next day.
âThe first time I saw green,â he says softly, âreal, living green, I was with the Captain.â
Ianuarius closes his eyes.
âI was almost sixty, then, around his age, when he was sick ofââ trying to fix the centaur ration issue but the website was still broken and he just wanted to give up and cry but they needed himâ âjust dealing with the most frustrating thing,â he says softly. Itâs such an understatement.
âSo I marched right up to him and gave him a solution he didnât want to hear.â
Shale takes in a sharp breath, claws scraping on the floor. He doesnât open his eyes to look at it. He doesnât want to see it scared of him.
He canât see it scared of him.
âIt was the only optionââ it was a thing theyâd been doing in secret for decadesâ âand he hated it. So he went to the gardens, and brought me with him.â
âAnd I agreed with you,â he whispers. âI lied down in the grass, staring up at a rowan tree, and I told you you were right.â
âHe listened,â Rowan says. âI thought heâd kill me for it, but he listened. Lying in the green, kid, and there was so much green.â
âPurple,â it says.
âHm?â
âCaptain Edgar has purple stripes,â it says, tapping its nose to his cheek. The paint on his armour is dry enough to cover in white flowers, now.
âI like his purple. Because itâs his,â it says. Hesitates. âDo you like purple, sir?â
He shakes his head, mouth dry. His hands are steady while he paints, though, and thatâs what matters.
âThe blanket you gave me is purple, and the bracelet beads, andââ it keeps talking.
Purple is a genemod burned into his bloodline. Purple is a history he only learned about because his grandfather died, forcing him to end his studies and meet horrors he was only vaguely aware of.
It is the hair he dyes black and the stripes that still make the old crew flinch, if theyâre tired. The main colour in Captain Astrum XVIâs armour, and the old enforcer uniforms.
But itâs good, to the kid. Purple is safety and comfort.
contains: pulling of one (1) tooth, Sharpteethâs first snowfall, flashbacks, me losing the battle against conlanging all the things, and a story about wolves
Conlang pronouns: ial/iakir/ia^exun (maps onto it/its/itself, healer pronouns) (yes I did change the symbol from [â] to [^] because there is no way Iâm managing to put [Ę] everywhere without getting frustrated)
Chirping, ey touch eir scratched-up neck, squinting eir eyes shut and bumping eir face into iakir hip. The gloves are soft. They wonât let em hurt emself.
Ey sit down, and let ial floss most of eir teeth. The humans brush eir teeth, when they can, but eir teeth still bleed when flossed.
Teeth clamp shut over iakir hands. Whining, ey lick iakir wounds. Let ial look. âItâs broken, pup. I need to take it out, so a new one will grow in its place.â
âFix?â
Ial opens iakir medicine bag, and checks iakir measurement four times. Five times: pups are fragile. âIt will fix it, but you need to drink this first, and let me touch it.â
After drinking the medicine, ey clamp eir mouth shut. Flinch when ial moves iakir hands.
âSweetheart,â ial says, combing fingers through eir hair. âIf we leave that tooth, it will keep hurting, and Iâll still have to take it out. It will be okay.
âPress it, and tell me if it hurts.â
âFix!â
âSoon.â Calmly, ial lets em whine and tremble and press eir hands on eir neck. The tooth comes out. Ial rinses eir mouth with cold water, to stop the bleeding, and tells em itâs over.
Ey keep trembling until theyâre in bed, when ial shows em the sound of a wolf howling. Deathstalker is, apparently, not allowed to stop making sounds until eyâve heard every animal in the world.
Every animal in the world is a wolf, two insects, and fourteen and a half birds.
Chirping softly, ial closes iakir eyes and falls asleep too.
Snow. Holding open winter mittens until ey shove eir little hands in, and helping em wriggle into eir coat, ial fusses over em. Tugs eir hood up and does the buttons on eir coat. Lets em button eir boots.
Sun-masks have a slit for the eyes, to protect them from the winter sun. Of course, ey take it off eir third step out the door.
Ey stare at the sky.
Stare.
âThatâs snow,â ial says gently. âItâs snowing weather. Do you remember weather, sweetheart?â
âInside. Cold. Bad speak. Bad pup.â Whining, ey reach hands for Deathstalker until ial picks up eir trembling body. Squeezing em, ial murmurs comforting things and tries to remember what helps ial with iakir ilutaziwene.
Counting breaths. Naming their surroundings for em, because ey still donât speak much. Sharpteeth finds comfort in pressure.
Ial hasnât had a bad episode in seasons, and guiding iakir pup through one is a heavier burden than dealing with iakir own. Eyâre small.
Eyâre so small.
Crushing ial with little hands, ey beg the flashback to stop. Beg Deathstalker to fix it.
âI canât.
âI canât,â ial chokes. Breathes through the memory of choking water.
Breathes, careful not to drop em.
Ilutaziwene has made iakir caretaker-call linger well past iakir seventeenth winter, and itâs that broken soundâthat keening, desperate thingâthat gets em to understand. âThereâs nothing I can do about your memories.
âIâll get you a mind-healer, and teach you my path through them, but I canât stop it from happening.â
âSnow.â
âDo you want to go back inside?â
Ey tuck eir face into iakir shoulder. âLetâs get you some warm food, then. And some blankets, and I can tell you the story of the Wolf now that you wonât keep me up for it.â
Senkrrakaraya claims another blanket. A fluffy blanket. Growls, sitting on Teketsaluxone^eâs lap. With a cup. The cup has something sweet and warm and red in it.
âWhat do you know about wolves, sweetheart?â
It echoes the long, pretty sound from last night. Ial squeezes it gently.
âYes. Their voices are distance, and ours are memory.
âAuwu^ekawo taught us their call, and we taught them our traps.â
Sipping iakir warm drinkâthe one Senkrrakaraya isnât allowed to have even though itâs the same and it wants itâial says, âAt the beginning of the path: when souls did not have clear shapes, when echoes were silent, and the seasons were all mixed up into oneâŚ.â
Iakir voice is warm, and rumbly, and ial fidgets with iakir shirt until Senkrrakaraya tap-tap-taps at ial.
âOkay, okay. At the beginning of the path, the first of us met auwu^ekrrakawo, and auwu^ekrrakawo met us. They watched us set our traps, and asked what they were. What they were for.â It tips its head. No voice, but it wants to know.
ââI have your endurance,â au^axanu said. âI have your teeth, and your claws, but I do not have your speed.ââ
Teketsaluxone^e leans in, and presses iakir forehead to the top of its head. âAuwu^ekawo can run very, very fast, and walk very long,â ial whispers.
Auwu^ekrrakawo did not understand. âThe deer do not have our packs, and we do not have the foxâs nimble form. I have your eyes, but I do not have your voices.â
âThis is a trap,â Au^axanu said. âI know where prey goes, so I let my traps wait and catch while I hunt other things.
âThis one catches hopping-prey leaving the tunnels. I also have a fish-trap in the river, if you want to check it with me. Sometimes, it catches bears.â
âDo you hunt bears?â Bears are krrakawo, not lewo, so Auwu^ekrrakawo didnât think so.
âNo,â Au^axanu said. âNot if they stay away from my traps, and not if they have pups to care for. But they take my fish, and spoil my traps, if Iâm not quick enough.â
There was no bear. But there was a bird, tangled up with a fish in its beak, so Auwu^ekrrakawo ate it. âIf I give you my voice, can I use your traps again?â
âYes,â said Au^axanu. âI will share my traps with you, if you share your voice with me.â
Auwu^ekrrakawo had seen KÄŤrÄŤlewo^etsu, had seen them mock Au^axanu by flying just out of reach, and have all their voices taken. Some KÄŤrÄŤlewo^etsu still sing, but they can never speak.
âShare?â
âI want to learn your far-voice, and share it with you.â
So Auwu^ekrrakawo became Auwu^ekawo and Tsakinauwu^ek. Souls were still young, then, and while Tsakinauwu^ek wanted to stay with us, Auwu^ekawo didnât.
Teketsaluxone^e tries to tell Senkrrakaraya ial isnât the best storyteller, but it sticks its hand over iakir mouth.
âAuwu,â it says. âMo auwu?â
Teketsaluxone^e tips iakir head back, and makes a strong auwu sound. Quietly, but itâs still strong when itâs quiet. âIf youâre alone,â ial says. âIf youâre alone, and you need someone to find you, you make that sound very, very loudly.â
Ial shows it two more: one to say itâs safe and one that says someone is coming to help.
Holding iakir hand, flipping it over so it can see red-black-red-black-red, it growls. Its hands are yellow where iakir are red, and it wants red. Red is Teketsaluxone^e, red is the sweet-drink, and the buttons, andâred is warm and bad things are cold.
But it doesnât know how to say red.
Axanelelati Words:
ial (ial) / iakir (ia.kir) / ia^exun (ia.^e.xun): healer pronouns. Using this set because I want to and also using ne/nem/nir/nirself means ânemâ can either be the conlang word or the pronoun and I donât want to worry about that (okay, fine, I just want to use my conlang pronouns because some of them carry more meaning that my substitutes canât capture)
Teketsaluxone^e (te.kets.a.lu.xon.e^e): Deathstalker, âOne who stalks Death: who will not lose sight of its pathâ [tekaksir (catch/stalk) + letsaluxonune (Death) + kekone (path)]
Left image: Edgar, in white armour painted with blue flowers and trimmed in gold, mimicking porcelain/china. He stands nervously, holding a shockstaff like heâs scared to use it. His hair is dyed black, but his natural purple is visible, along with a couple greys.
Right image: Edgar, older and more disheveled, holding the same shockstaff with the confidence of a man whoâs tired enough to fight the sun. His armour is deep blue with white flowers, still painted to mimic porcelain. His hair, almost half grey, is dyed like a sunset.
This was mostly an excuse to draw his public armour and think about his training arc. The second version is around the time he adopts Shale.
Edgarâs greying from stress and a âfaultyâ gene. Itâs cosmetic, and I went a little bit overboard because I like the way it looks. He still doesnât age at a normal paceâphysically in his late twenties when heâs chronologically fortyâbut that perfectly natural gene mutation isnât what his family bought.
Pottery nerd whoâs never touched ceramics, and only seen porcelain in pictures. Art nerd who mostly sews and paints, because one is a practical skill and the other brings life to cold metal. (The gardens do have useable clay, but no one sells kilns to spacers. Heâs tried.)
A drawing of Aspen, who belongs to @oldspruceinn, as an alien centaur from my Mageliens setting. She looks down at the original version of herself, as if itâs her reflection. This was left unfinished for a while because I wanted to show off all the patterns I did. But. Clothes. So. Sheâs wearing a crop top. Mageliens!Aspen is pink instead of red, and neither of them has a mouth.
Flipped image & more words under the cut
(click to see better)
Because my centaurs are completely covered in fur, I had to get a bit creative with matching the pattern. She was also drawn before I decided how long centaur tails would be. I also forgot that Aspen has brands. And I only remembered that just now. So. Uh.
My centaurs can get absurdly tallâWillow, 375cmâso they would not be the same size at all.
(click to see better)
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Old Spruce Inn Masterpost <- go here for more Aspen
Primary drawing: Rowan, a dark, alien centaur spotted with white, standing behind Edgar, a human whoâs about as tall as his walking leg. My centaurs look blended, so the human half is still furry. Rowanâs white hair flows down from a high ponytail, and his horns are somewhat long. His legs and arms have white fur at the ends, and his stern face is framed with a a few white patterns. His hooves are two-toed, with little spike-toe-things at the back.
Above that, thereâs a scribbly doodle of Edgar taking care of his injuries after a mission. His blood is gold. Centaur blood is now gold.
So!! Rowan. And an Edgar redesign thatâll affect the future, mostly because heâs in his twenties here and will be more grey by the time he gets Shale. Whichâll be when heâs chronologically in his late thirties/early forties, I think (biologically still twenty-something because of gene mods). He should be shorter compared to Rowan, here, but I already adjusted his height once when making this.
Rowan is a heavy centaur, since theyâre used for things like astral mining and agricultural work. This means heâs about 337cm tall (excluding the ossicones, which are his horn-looking things).
I am doing math about these guys. I have been forced to do math about this. If you want to know how tall he is in a way you can understand, measure your ceiling to see if he could fit under it. âItâs a fun excercise,â I say, knowing full well I am now painfully aware of everything taller than me that is vagely near the heights of my centaurs.
This was made pre-chart. So these are those silhouettes.
Centaur Heights + Bonus Art of Nines, Thorn, and Penlin
(click to see more clearly)
A scale reference of my centaur characters compared to Edgar, all in silhouette, with heights measured from the top of the head. From right to left, shortest to tallest, it is: Edgar, Penicillin, Thorn, Rowan, and Nines. Edgar, in purple, is a 184cm tall human. Penicillin is a short centaur whoâs in light pink, is 210cm. Thorn is in magenta pink, major body comparable to a horse, at 275cm. Rowan is in white, at 337cm, and Nines is in purple-black, at 375cm. End of description.
Captain Edgar is about 184cm tall. I donât normally do properly numbered heights, so everyone thank @oldspruceinn who told me how tall they were imagining him. Thanks to them, I have numbers. Which you will get to look at, but I will not put as numbers in my stories, since Iâm not the best at thinking about heights.
EDIT: corrected the chart
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Nines (Willow), it/its (it/she)
(click to see more clearly)
Nines, a large alien centaur with dark purplish grey fur speckled with black. It looks down nervously, hair in front of its face, lifting a foreleg like itâs worried about stepping on something. Its hair fades from lavender to the same pink as its hooves, and its arms and legs are dipped in lavender. It wears a turquoise dress, and its left eye is an empty gold socket. End of description.
Nines uses illusions to make its tail look normal when itâs on the ship, and prefers long skirts and loose clothing. Tight clothes that isnât its standing brace (so it can sleep upright without its minor body slouching) remind it of the harness it wore to haul lumber before Edgar found it abandoned due to injury.
In the kitchens, Willow has a practical uniform. She doesnât have many proper clothes, since itâs hard to find things that fit her, they have to be custom-made, and she doesnât mind wearing horse blankets and simple tops (just fabric pinned in place)
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Hawthorn, they/them/their
(click to see more clearly)
Thorn, an alien centaur with a gold prosthetic leg, a dramatic puff at the end of their tail, and a punk haircut: shaved at the side and highly fluffy. Theyâre wearing a spiky jacket, and look a bit smug. Their base colour is magenta, with light pink and burgundy speckles and patches. End of description.
Countergrav magic & non-horse anatomy mean Thorn can wear a prosthetic instead of needing a cloned leg. It isnât medically reccommended, since cloning limbs is standard practice, but it was an option they had. I will have to figure out how itâs attached and how it comes off. Centaur blood is gold (and magically glittery), so their limb looks somewhat hardcore.
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Penicillin (Penlin), xe/xem/xyr
(click to see more clearly)
Penicillin, a dark magenta centaur with a pattern of pale rings that look like mold. Xe wears a medical uniform: a dark blue dress under a white apron with a virus symbol over xyr chest. Thereâs a panel over xyr major back with the virus symbol at xyr flank. End of description.
Penlin! Xyr uniform symbols mean xyr priority is disease, but xe isnât hyperspecialized. Medical uniforms contrast their blood colour, so itâs a deep blue, and centaurs wear skirts regardless of gender. Xyr uniform is vaguely based on older medic uniforms, I think. I might make a post showing off xyr moldy pattern, since I drew it in full under the uniform.
centaur blood is a glittery gold, but Edgar canât see the magical glittery part. also, centaurs with nothing to lose are scary to fight
Warning: darker than my usual. If youâre sensitive to anything in the fine print below, I have other stories which donât have strong descriptions of mangled limbs
contains: broken bone, amputation, strong description of mangled leg, starvation & dehydration, slavery (discussion of buying), designation numbers, misgendering (he/him & it/its), caretaker new master, a character believing theyâre already dead and acting accordingly
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Edgar stares. With his nicer armourâhis public armour, painted to mimic old porcelainâhe looks intimidating, and expensive. Like his family.
Like a slaver.
Standing at his side, Rowan shifts subtly, and Willow copies the motion. They know how to behave, but that doesnât mean they canât communicate with him.
Not that they need to.
Not for this.
âYou promised a centaur in good condition,â he growls, voice roughened by his helmet modulator. âThat thing wouldnât even be able toââ
âIâm already selling Rose at a discount, and he is in good health for a retired racehorse,â Octaviana says.
Strictly speaking, she isnât wrong. Racing centaurs arenât cheap, and even one with a broken leg can be expensive depending on its popularity.
âRight,â he sighs. Sets a hand on his hip. âIt is. It just looks worse than the photo.â
Octaviana Pearlver. Astrums are old money, like Pearlvers, but inherently being in positions of command means they can sell handmade art even when technically employed. Horizons, even he used to sell artistic clothing repairs for high prices: the informationâs hard to find, and no one bothers to learn the skill.
But pearldivers got their wealth extracting rare gems from organics. Getting their hands wet. This much of a discount means the thingâs more trouble than itâs worth.
Just low enough to legally avoid being called a scam, but still high enough to be annoying.
âCan it read and writeânumbers, at least?â
It can.
Of course it can. Racing centaurs often have elaborate signatures, and have to know at least some numbers to do their jobs.
Grumbling, he makes the purchase. It isnât drugged, for the pain itâs in, and the iron shackles stop it from using magic to keep the weight off its leg. Its mangled leg.
âNines, carry.â Willow can lift more weight than Rowan, and they canât remove the iron in public.
The walk back to the shuttle is long. Almost silent, until theyâre inside and Rowan gives it a strong painkiller. Until he steps out (to give them space) to do the pre-flight checks. To make sure nothingâs been pried off or tampered with.
In the shade of his shuttle, he finds a child.
A skeletal centling, abandoned in the desert.
Leaning against the therma-shield metal, it pants heavily, trying to keep cool.
Blood stains its bone white coat, but the injuries look like theyâve been healed for a while, and its fingers and ossicones are burnt black. Probably mana burnout. Itâs a young thing, so it wouldnât take much.
He takes a cloth from his pocket, and unclips the water bottle from his beltâ
âIâŚ. âMsorry, maâam,â it rasps. âWonât⌠again. âMsorry.â
Setting the newly-damp cloth on its back, he sighs. âI know, kid. I know.â
Rowan stares at the dying centling Ianuarius brings in. It drinks a liquid ration, and doesnât resist his magicânot that it could, if it wanted to.
Mumbling hoarse apologies, it lets him comb its tangled hair, and tips its head up when he turns on the shower. âYeah,â he says gently. âYouâre okay, seedling.â
He touches its hand, and its eyes turn a hollow black that has him reaching for the bracelet with the iron clasp. âNo,â he says, snapping it shut around its ankle. âThat stays on for at least two weeks: until I know you wonât burn yourself.
âI wonât touch your hands, seedling.â
And he doesnât.
Wrapping it up in a towel, he gets it a cup of water and a little bottle of juice so it stops trying to drink the water from its hair. âYouâre not a cactus, seedling, you donât need to drink water off yourself.â
âCactus?â
âThose prickly things outside? Those are cacti. They collect all the water they can, and keep it inside them in case they need it.â
It stares, pale eyes round as moons. âAre they food?â
âCentaurs can eat cacti, and safely drink the water inside.â Humans are poison resistant in a completely different direction, and canât just eat cactiânot without checking the species and preparing it well.
He scoops it up, carrying it to their room. Lies down next to it.
âCan I have a name?â
The floor-bedding is actually soft, now, not just rubber meant to cushion a fall. He uses a mini-mattress for his minor body, because he prefers to sleep on his stomach. Lets the centling rest its head on his major back. âOf course you can, Cactus.â
Willowâs in a standing brace, tonight. She doesnât need to be, but it helps reassure the others, and she doesnât want to burn mana to support her minor body. Itâs handmade, since the Captain studied multiple Archaic Arts before getting stuck with them.
Which is how he learned about woodworking. And trees, and gardening, and all that mess of things.
Gave Willow its name, even if it rarely uses it.
Itâs too anxious to sleep lying down half the time, especially off-ship, so itâs not like she doesnât like it.
Hopefully, Tracker will be back soon. With her rescue, and the imps; League and something.
âGAHâSHITâ YOU DEFECTIVE SONOFAFUCKââ
Six-two-five jolts awake. Captain Astrum being furious is always a bad omen, what did he see, does he knowâ
Willow is panicking too.
Willow was brought in by Ianuarius Astrum, not Regulus Astrum.
No one was ever punished for the sabotage.
If he told Ianuarius who was in on it, nothing would happen.
âAre you alive,â Rowan asks, âor should I crack open that champagne bottle youâve been saving?â
Captain Ianuarius laughs. Curses again, and thereâs a loud clatter before he opens the door.
âEvery rose has its murderous fucking thorns,â he grumbles. His helmet is on the other side of the room, lying next to the slates it knocked off the desk. His nose is bleeding, heâs got a black eye, and heâs using his chestplate as an improvised shield.
âYour fault for not locking the door.â
Three-sevâthey hate the name Roseâjabs at the Captain with the shockstaffâ
âSix-two-five, for the love ofââ he grits his teeth, visibly considering hitting Three-sevâs injured leg with his backup shockstaffâ âRowanââ
He grabs the shockstaff. âHAWTHORN! Breathe.
âBreathe, take a breath, and look at me.â
They let go, rearing up. Itâs too late to change courseâhe, barely yanked out of the way in time, flinches at the way their leg bends, and the skin breaks, leaving it horribly mangled at the forearm. Shudders at their splintered scream.
âIâm already dead,â they say. Their eyes flicker, but their mana has atrophied to the point where all they manage to do is push the little knife off the table.
ââŚThe seam ripper,â Captain Ianuarius whispers. âWhy didnât I notice my seam ripper?â
Med. Petri barely has to examine Hawthornâs legâdoesnât even comment on the patch jobâbefore she knows the result. Still, she gets them an m-ray. Projects the results.
Medical technology is highly advanced, but magic lets results be seen instantly.
âIt needs amputating,â she says. âEither we take a genetic sample and clone you a new legâwhich will be a perfect match, but wonât look the sameâor we get you a permanent prosthetic.â
She explains what would happen if they tried to mend it.
The Captainâs hands are stained in blood. Petriâs hands are stained past the elbows, when sheâs unlucky. Neither of them hesitate.
Itâs her first centaur amputation.
Itâs her first centaur amputation, but sheâs worked on drakes before.
Rowan is very tall (~337 cm head height) and I accidentally made his relationship with Edgar queercoded/homoerotic? So⌠have fun! Iâll draw him soon
contains: slavery & dehumanization, use of designation numbers, rescuer undercover as a slaver, dissociation (brief), nonhuman (alien) whumpees, young whumpee (background for now), adult whumpee, physical violence (blunt + electrical weapon), mostly whump aftermath/aftercare
â˘â˘â˘
âForward,â he snaps. âYou have legs, donât you?â
TWACK! HZZT-THACK!
RA-11625 (Six-two-five) stumbles, and the Captain hits it with the shockstaff again.
Itâs second nature, now.
Shockstaffs fucking hurt. The thing is a spear-length electric mace, sturdy as all the other tools he inherited, and he used it without hesitation. Six-two-fiveâs back and shoulder are bleeding, and he knows thereâs bruises under that fur.
Captain Ianuarius knows itâs a good thing. Nothing goes unrecorded, and he canât afford to look soft. No one would take his money if he went soft.
But the way the new thing flinches at the sound of his voice breaks his heart.
He turns the shockstaffâs power off, to save battery. Doesnât hesitate to jab the little troll when it slows down to look at something.
Not hard. Heâs memorized his excuse for that one, and itâs already injured.
Of course it is. Heâs memorized his excuse for buying defectives, too.
He does not drop the sharp, commanding posture back at the shuttle. Taking an even breath, he removes his helmet, and finds a bottle of painkillers to put where Six-two-five will see it.
He sits in the pilotâs seat, and fiddles with increasingly stupid visual settings on his dataslate.
He counts all the little screws in the floor.
He breathes.
He breathes.
On the Redemption, sitting in a chair in medbay, the Captain still doesnât drop the mask.
Six-two-five lets the little troll bury its face in his shoulder, murmuring reassurances while the doctor checks his work and puts its broken tail in a proper splint. Doesnât make a sound even though his face warps with pain.
The troll lays down, curling up around itself, and Six-two-five drapes a blanket over it. Takes a pained breathâ
âGet that fixed, RA-11625,â he snaps.
Sighing, Edgar scrubs a hand over his face. âIâm sorry, Rowan. That was too far, today.â
âI know what Iâm doing, and Iâve worked through worse.â He sighs. âA lot worse.â
He stands, and very, very carefully touches his shoulder. Gritting his teeth, he makes a half-muffled, pained soundâ âFine. I think you broke it. But it looked real, and thatâs what matters.â
He puts a numbing spray on it, so he can touch it without hurting him. It is broken, though, so he has to call Penlin over it.
Xe scrunches xyr nose, tapping at the floor with a hoof. âYouâre too rough with him. It isnât permanentââ unlike with him doesnât even have to be saidâ âbut itâs still better to avoid these injuries. He still needs to be functional.â
ââMplenty functional,â he grumbles.
Still, he waits for xem to mend his bones and close the cuts before doing something as close to running as he can manage without xem scolding him for it
They go to the Captainâs quarters. In the beginning, they didnât: Rowan went to his room and tried not to have more nightmares than usual, and IanuariusâŚ.
Well, Midnight caught Captain Ianuarius skipping meals, and found Rowan hyperventilating in a broom closet.
Penicillin kidnapped a hollow-looking Ianuarius to medbay before chewing them both out in a lecture neither of them ever wants to hear again, partially because xeâs scary, and partially because xe made them come up with codes to end the mission. Which they had, so xe made them talk about feelings.
For hours.
And then xe gave Rowan a book on human reproduction a week later. The thing started a damn betting pool over the nature of their relationship.
âDoes anything hurt too much?â he asks.
Rowan lies on the bed, on his stomach, claiming his favourite pillow. âItâs fucking exhausting,â he mumbles. âAnâ Iâm taking your heated blanket. If youâd get it for me.â
âIsnât it better to ice bruises on the first day?â It still gets draped over his back, his whole back, so he doesnât say anything.
Warmth does make bruises look worse, heâs sure, but space is cold and it helps with mana flow. Ianuarius doesnât know that. Heâs null, which is something the older ex-dentsâformerly indentured, according to Midnight and only Midnightâdonât forget as often as the rest of the crew.
Mostly because Captain AstrumâRegulus Astrumâliked to break healing spells by hand. Liked how easy it was.
Under him, heâd be worried about ignoring him.
But he isnât.
So heâs not.
He does twist so his upper body is sideways, though, so he can mess with Ianuariusâ hair. Itâs soft. Itâs something to do with his hands that reminds him heâs safe.
Helps him calm down.
âYouâre going grey,â he mumbles.
âNo, Iâm modded to prevent that.â
He shrugs. âWell, maybe itâs been dyed black so long you donât know what it looks like. I think it suits you, Ianus.â
Grumbling something under his breath, he shifts. âDonât do that. I canât go grey, and Iâm⌠fine with looking like him. I am.â
âSure,â Rowan says.
He waits.
WaitsâŚ.
Ianuarius curls up, tucking his hands to his chest to avoid touching the mess of pain that is his back. Chokes out a tiny, little soundâ âIâm sorry. I forgot touching you wouldââ
âIt wasnât intentional. You noticed, and gave me pain relief. He wouldâve made it worse. Putting on that act doesnât make you him.â Yes, heâs in pain and the Captain is responsible for it. But he volunteered for this.
For this, and half the practice sessions they had to do before even attempting their first mission.
âDid you mean to hit me that hard?â
âNo,â he mumbles. âI just forgot the whip.â
Compared to the first practice sessionâwhere he threw up on the floorâthatâs an improvement. Shockstaffs were his preferred method, and not for the electric shocks.
He sighs. âYou did well. Maybe less broken bones next time, though.â
âWere you lying? About the grey hair?â
âWas Iâ Why would I lie about that? Youâre brushing my fur in the morning, for that.â
Willow is an alien centaur with dark fur and long, lavender hair. Her long ears are pointed down, and its hair is long, hiding its face and matching its nervous posture. Its legs are tipped with lavender, and so is one of its hands. It has short horns.
Thereâs also two doodles of Willowâs faceâfrom two anglesâbecause I really like its big ears and cute face. And a height comparison, which Iâm not entirely sure about but it shows Captain Edgar at about the same height as her withers (is that the right word? Iâm not a horse, so Iâm not sure)
She still doesnât like being a person outside of the kitchens. Unlike Rowan or Midnight, it doesnât like going on liberation missions, and rarely volunteers for them.
