The Dancer of Sea and Storm

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ ⁅ ‹ ✦ › ⁆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ . . . she who knows the storm tires of the calm . . . ‹ character blog for ghoa mankhad of the balmung server › ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ ⁅ ‹ ✦ › ⁆ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

[ssmemeresource]

Headcanon Questions

| a series of questions for headcanons. some are complex, some are simple. Remember to specify for multimuses. |

How does your muse deal with stress? Are they good at coping or bad?

What is your muse's idealised version of themself? Would they consider that version to be a reachable goal with work?

How many pillows does your muse like to have? Is their preference different to how many they actually have? Why do they have this preference?

(If muse is an adult) How would child!your muse feel about their older self? Are there aspects of their life or personality that their childhood self would dislike or admire?

(If muse is a child) How does your muse want their adult self to be? Do they have specific preferences with regards to events, milestones, or their future personality or are they 'whatever will be, will be' about it?

Does your muse have any behaviours that they feel conflict with their personality? Have they thought about their behaviour vs. their personality?

If your muse can drink milk-products of any description, do they prefer chocolate, strawberry, or banana flavouring? Is there a different flavour they prefer over those three? Has their preference changed during their life?

How does your muse think they're perceived by others? Positively? Negatively? Neutrally? Are they worried about others' opinions of them and their actions or personality or do they not care?

What temptations does your muse have? Is there something in particular that can entice them? This can be in relationships, materialistic things, foods, or general.

What is your muse's favourite music genre?

How does your muse show their love towards others? What differences are there, if any, between family and found family with regards to treatment of those that fall into either category? What about platonic relationships and romantic relationships?

Is your muse comfortable with killing insects? Do they feel bad about doing so? Apathetic about it? Does this contrast with their feelings about the lives of other classifications, such as mammals?

Does your muse enjoy long walks? Is it relaxing or stressful to go outside for those long walks? Is it just a part of life?

What is your muse's favourite holiday? Is it because of a specific part of the holiday, such as decorations, food, or an activity, or is it because of the holiday as a whole?

How does your muse show their hatred towards others? Do they withhold certain attitudes, words, or behaviours from people they don't hate? Is there a significant difference between how they treat those they find mildly annoying, those they dislike, and those they hate?

Your muse finds an 8 week old kitten outside without the kitten's mother. What do they do? Would they be tempted to keep the kitten, or would they rather give it to a vet or animal shelter so that a home can be found?

Does your muse watch the news? Do they actively look for news channels or programmes? Do they turn it off if a news programme starts or change the channel? Is it good background noise for them?

How does your muse feel about glitter?

Do any memories cause your muse that 'lying in bed' kind of late night guilt, regret, or anxiety? Has it gotten better or worse over time? Do these feelings follow them into the next day, or does getting sleep help?

Is it easy for your muse to put words to their emotions? Is it easy for them to act on those emotions? If it's easy or hard in both cases, which do they prefer?

How does your muse feel about endings? This can be related to media, conversations, events, days, or years.

[ladysantos]

quick sketch

[sea-and-storm]

EXILE -- Reed Stoneshore

“You deserve to feel safe,” his sister sighed as she tossed the small purse of gil in Reed’s direction. “And happy.”

His hand shot out to catch it, but the sudden movement caused a flare of pain in his barely-healed gut that contorted his face into a grimace. Seeing the reaction, Lyra's expression turned apologetic.

She seemed so sincere that Reed might have actually believed it.. but he’d known ever since they were young that his elder sister was nothing if not the spitting image of the father he so deeply resented. That she was still trying to convince him - of all people - of how much she cared for him while simultaneously exiling him from their shared home was proof enough of that.

“Piss off,” he hissed as he shoved the purse into his pack along with the meager few belongings he owned. That she had been the one to have to retrieve them for him while he was abed, all because he was being nursed back to health by her as well, made his temper flare hotter than the forges at Naldiq and Vymelli’s.

“I mean it, Reed,” she insisted, though impatience was beginning to worm its way in through the cracks of her act. Lyra never could stand it that Reed could so plainly see through her chocobo-shite when the rest of the bloody world seemed to fall for it hook, line, and sinker.

“Do you now?” he challenged, starting forward down the pier towards the awaiting ship and physically pushing past her as he did - and bit back another grimace as his weakened body protested at the shove. “No, what you’re meanin’ is that Mother, our sisters, and you deserve to feel safe an’ happy – and you think that I’m goin’ to ruin it for all of you ‘less you ship me off to the bloody New World.”

He bit back an annoyed groan at the sharp, clipped sound of the heel of her boots against the dock as she followed hot on his heels - clearly incensed by his provocation. Though she might’ve been a far sight better at suppressing her temper than he, his Dutiful Sister still had her tells for those that knew where to look.

For a mercy, at least, she at least had the kindness - faked or not - to refrain from wrenching him around to face her as she grabbed his arm and forced him to a stop.

“Gods damn it all, Reed!” she hissed, her voice low to keep from attracting attention from the porters and deckhands coming and going along the busy pier. The ship she’d booked passage for him on would be disembarking for Tuliyollal soon, and fortunately for her, all were too busy with their final preparations to stop and listen to the heated bickering of two siblings. 

“Everything I’ve ever done for you, I’ve done because I love you - despite your best efforts to dissuade me from it - because I want you to be part of this family again! But I don’t know how to bloody help you anymore because you won’t let me!” Her fists curled at her sides to stop the trembling in her fingers. “So if I’ve got to make you get a fresh start halfway around the damned world so that you can get your head straight and get over hating Father for–”

There it was.

He would’ve laughed at the predictability of it - of her inability to keep their father out of any argument the two of them ever had - if he wasn’t already seething.

“I’ll get on your fuckin’ ship–” Reed cut her off with a snarl, roughly shoving her back and away from him. Though between having yet to see his strength fully return and Lyra’s fancy new training from the Dutiful Sisters of the Edelweiss, she didn’t so much as sway before steadying herself. “--and I’ll go to the New World if it’ll get you to quit your bloody sham of givin' a damn about me.” 

His voice dropped to a low growl, quiet enough to pass only between the two of them. “But you’d best believe that if I find that sorry sack of chocobo-shite that threw in with the Garleans and left his ‘precious family’ to rot, I’ll relish every gods-be-damned moment of openin’ his throat myself!”

Lyra’s face twisted in barely contained fury, freckled cheeks bright red from the effort it took to bite back the truth she so stubbornly held tight to her chest from escaping. What Reed wouldn’t give to hear her - just once - admit that she hated him.

Yet as always, it seemed he would be denied the satisfaction.

“You are the most incorrigible bastard ever born, you know that?” she hissed, stepping back and throwing her hands up in frustrated surrender. That, at least, caused a flicker of smug satisfaction within him. “Go on, then! Go and ruin your life all over again, if that’s what you really want! Gods know you’re sure as shite good at that!”

Reed had nothing more to say. Nothing that would’ve made any difference, anyroad. Wordlessly, he turned, stalking off towards the merchant ship that would be carrying him to this ‘new life’.

This time, his sister didn’t pursue him. Only a soft, colorful curse escaped her before he could hear her turning, the fast staccato of her steps growing fainter as she stormed away.

But the irony of the moment didn’t escape him as he made his way to the ship at dock’s end. It had only taken about twenty years, but finally, the two eldest Stoneshore siblings had agreed on something.

Without a doubt, Lyra was right.. Reed knew he’d likely find a way to ruin this fresh start, too.

[rpmemes-galore]

for those who’ve been hurt … sentence starters 

tw: victim-blaming / dismissing hurt.  change pronouns / wording as needed

“You deserved better.”

“You’ve lost a lot, haven’t you?”

“I mean, you hurt them a lot, too.”

“I won’t hurt you the way they did.”

“You deserve to feel safe. And happy.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being wary.”

“You never shouldn’t been treated that way.”

“They aren’t here. they can’t hurt you, again.”

“How long are you going to let this affect you?”

“I know you don’t trust me, yet, and that’s okay.”

“I’m sorry. I want to earn your trust back. Please.”

“No, I’m not upset with you, why would you — oh.”

“You’ve been through a lot. It’s okay. We’ll take it slow.”

“Why can’t you just get over it? It happened so long ago.”

“You haven’t said a word since it happened. Are you okay?”

“You’re still healing. It’s only natural you don’t trust anyone, yet.”

“Why didn’t you ever tell someone what you were going through?”

“What happened to you was unfair… it’s okay to be angry about it.”

“Do you think you’ll ever be able to forgive them for what they did?”

“You’re a better person than they ever were, and this just proves it.”

“If you ever want to talk about it, you know I’ll always be here to listen.”

“You’re safe here. I know it’ll take you a while to believe it, but you are.”

“Just because they hurt you doesn’t mean everyone else is out to get you, too.”

“I know you’ve been hurt in the past, and I promise, I’ll never let that happen, again.”

“Cry. Scream. Break something if you need to. Just… you need to process this somehow.”

[sea-and-storm]

NIGHTMARE || Reed Stoneshore

Not like this..

The job wasn’t supposed to go like this.

It felt as if the world had suddenly collapsed in on itself around him, narrowing Reed’s vision down to the growing pool of red spreading across the marble floor. He couldn’t breathe. 

He couldn’t fucking breathe.

“Des–” His voice was thin, barely above a hoarse whisper. “What.. did you do?”

His eyes rose from the pool of blood to the young man that stood over the gasping merchant from whence it flowed. Reed could've sworn that he could hear the droplets dripping from the other’s blade, each impact louder than the hammering beat of his own heart in his ears.

The other didn’t answer him.

“Y-you killed him,” the half-elezen stammered. “No one was supposed to get hurt..” He could feel the bile clawing its way up the back of his throat. “Fuck!” he hissed, “What do we–”

Before he could finish, he was wheeling away from the sight and doubling over to empty the contents of his stomach. Over and over, his stomach seized until there was nothing left but a stinging in his eyes and a burning in his throat.

Still, no answer.

Reed reached out to steady himself on the nearest piece of furniture as the gagging stopped. A cold sweat beaded at his brow, both his lips and his fingers trembling.

“We just.. We just gotta’ turn ourselves in.” His voice threatened to break with his rising hysteria. “The Yellowjackets know this shit isn’t like us. They'll know that.. that it must’ve been a mistake.” Was he trying to convince Des, or himself? “Shit!” Reed suddenly pushed off the table that had supported his weight, sending it crashing to the floor. “We’re fuckin’ thieves, not murderers! They gotta’ know that we didn't mean–”

“Reed.”

It wasn’t the firmness in Des’ voice that snapped him from his panic, but the gentleness with which his hand came to rest on his shoulder. That softness was an odd, unfamiliar thing coming from a man whose touch Reed had only ever known to be harsh and demanding. Brutal, even.

He should’ve known that something was wrong right then.

Reed turned towards Des with the guidance of that gentle hand.

And before he could even register what had happened, a sharp and searing pain exploded in his gut with such an unexpected intensity that his knees immediately buckled. Des’ right arm hooked around his waist, holding him upright against his chest to keep him from falling. His left hand, however, only pushed the blade of the knife deeper into his stomach.

“Sorry mate,” the red-headed Hyur whispered, his voice sounding as if it were uttered malms away despite the hotness of his breath against Reed’s pointed ear. “I did always tell ye’ we’d never have no happy endin’..”

–

Reed woke with a start, jolting upright in bed with a sharp, hissing gasp. Nary a heartbeat missed, he was fighting himself free of the twisted, sweat-soaked covers ensnaring him.

He threw his bare legs over the side of the bed and rose, awkwardly lurching towards the far side of the room. A tall mirror stood there, at just such a location and angle that the moonlight filtering in through the window allowed for him to see his reflection.

As he stood there staring, his trembling fingertips fell to the scar just ilms above the dip of his hipbone. A quiet, ragged sigh of relief escaped him as calloused fingertips met rough, long-healed flesh.

No blood, he reassured himself. A nightmare. Just another nightmare.

Reed’s eyes closed as he tried to wrestle his breathing back under control and to quieten the thundering of his heartbeat. So intently focused was he that the sound of another’s approach from behind went unnoticed until a hand rested on his shoulder and made to gently pull him away from the mirror.

“What’s wro–”

The words were interrupted as Reed, fast as a coiled adder, wheeled on the source of the touch. Grabbing their forearm, he yanked them forward and off-balance as he shifted his own weight, spinning the would-be assailant around until he slammed their back roughly against the cold mirror. His arm rose, forearm pressed with bruising force against their throat.

But it wasn’t the figure of his recurring nightmares that stared up at him, but the face of a confused and terrified Shetona woman whose name he hadn’t bothered to remember. Her hands scrambled for purchase against his chest, trying to push the much stronger half-elezen away. Her lips moved to say something, but the forearm pressed to her neck silenced them to soft wheezes.

“Shit!”

Just as suddenly as he had wheeled on her, he was stepping back and away. She caught herself leaning back against the mirror, coughing and gasping for breath as the curses flowed like water from under Reed’s breath.

“Don’t–” he began in a vicious snarl, gritted his teeth, and then continued in a slightly less feral tone. “Don’t fuckin’ sneak up behind me.”

“I.. didn’t,” the Shetona gasped, hand lifting to rub at her throat as she coughed and gagged. Undoubtedly, the force of it would leave a bruise. Perhaps another might have felt remorseful about inflicting such undeserving injury. Right now, all Reed could feel was white-hot anger and the remnants of barely-contained panic.

He took a few unsteady steps backwards, collapsing into a slumped sitting position when the back of his legs met with the bed's edge. His heart was still raving.

“You woke up like a man possessed,” the woman explained once she had caught her breath. Despite the way he had caused her harm, even if unintentionally, Reed could still hear the barest edge of concern in her words. “What could’ve possibly frightened you so badly that–”

“I think it’s well past time you leave.”

She fell silent in an instant, undoubtedly hearing the unspoken threat in his terse answer.

The nameless woman made to collect her clothes from where they lay strewn across the floor. Reed squeezed his eyes shut, and though he didn’t watch her dress, he warily tracked her movements across the room by sound.

Her footsteps moved towards the door, but before the squeak of the hinges came, she spoke again.

“..Are you sure you’re alright?”

Pity.

That was pity in her voice.

Reed’s fists tightened until his nails bit painfully into his palms, breaking skin. He ground his teeth together.

“Gilpurse is on the table by the door,” he snapped. “Get what you’re owed and get the fuck out.”

At first came stunned silence, then, “I’m not a whore.” The sickening, gods-be-damned pity had been replaced by disgust. Good.

He took careful aim with his last words, to deal the definitive killing blow to whatever lingering scrap of sympathy the Shetona might’ve still harbored for him. Just to be sure. 

“Hnn.. Could’ve fooled me.”

The words struck true and the door slammed so hard that the window rattled. With a groan, Reed collapsed backwards once more onto the sweat-soaked sheets.

Alone.

[shaelstormchild]

Inspiration

The guards were now twice in number as when Brick and Shael had scouted the place. She wasn’t sure if either of them had been made or if it was Roen’s late visit that triggered the sudden need for increase in security, but no matter the reason, getting to Nabi had now become a much more difficult task.

Shael looked at the map that Luri had drawn for Ghoa, committing it to memory. If all went according to plan, Ghoa should be able to draw the guards to the east side, if she met Estrid on the balcony as they did before. The library, on the other hand, was on the opposite of the manse, near the theater. That would be where the Doctor would emerge from, along with Nabi if they were lucky. 

If they weren’t lucky, she would have to go in and retrieve the Xaela herself.

“A concealed door in the middle of one of the bookshelves.” The handmaiden hadn’t observed the mechanism herself, only that it opened a way down into a labyrinth of tunnels that eventually led to an underground laboratory. Probably under the theater somewhere, maybe even linked with the sewers. It would be convenient to do away with any waste material or bodies. Had they had enough time, exploration of the sewage tunnels may have revealed another way in or out.

But they had little time. Shael wasn’t about to let Nabi remain in that lab for another sun.

“About those new arrivals,” Brick’s words returned to her as she rubbed her brows. “Two of them will be familiar to you. The duskwight and the roegadyn from that lighthouse. Zurvine and Blauwaht, I believe.”

Shael wasn’t sure if this was a blessing or not. Saving Saltborn’s crew from the corrupted undead beneath the lighthouse had been a boon initially, with Fuller repaying the favor by giving her the address to the Doctor’s. But now that the other two were here to strengthen the security, could she trust them? 

Of course not. The idea was dismissed as soon as it came. She trusted no one outside of her own crew. To mistakenly let her guard down around those she had just met, whether they were grateful or not, could be deadly. And she knew better than that. 

She didn’t even know if she could believe this map either, since she knew nothing about this handmaiden. Listening in, she seemed demure and helpful enough, but why was she going through such lengths to help strangers, against the interests of the master of the house?

But it wasn’t like Shael had any choice. This map was the best lead they got to getting to Nabi, so she had to trust that it was legit. Ghoa was confident, at least, in Luri’s motivation for helping. It would have to do.

So then what was the plan? Shael had gone over various scenarios in her head, and none looked promising. The success hinged on so many different What Ifs, and one failure in the chain would endanger too many people that mattered to her.

Shael slid down against the wall, her gaze lowering to the Xaela in the room below her as Ghoa was starting to measure out the ingredients to put together the potion. The Mankhad didn’t have to say it out loud, but Shael spied it on the woman’s face; taking this potion was not without a huge risk. Ghoa was making herself the center of attention, heightening her powers to intimidate a ruthless man into a hostage exchange. It was possible that things could go very wrong for her.

Shael leaned her head back, a light thunk resounding against the wooden wall. Ghoa as a distraction on the inside. Brick with her turret to draw more guards on the outside. And she only had herself to try and get to Nabi. The odds were not in their favor.

“I'll leave it to you, then. Best to leave the making of a plan out of an impossible scenario to the woman who managed to explode a heavily guarded dais tucked under a mountain, no?" Was that false bravado or some kind of pep talk to try and bolster her confidence? Or was the Mankhad actually hopeful that this would all work out like the fighting pits? Sure, they had gone into a mountain full of hostiles, just the three of them, to save two within that were just as likely to get killed before getting out.

The odds weren’t so great then either. But they did all come out, didn’t they? Everyone was in on the crazy plan.

Everyone.

Shael continued to stare at the Mankhad, but her eyes widened behind her shades. The fighting pits, the Junghid, and the ruins... They had all come through, working together. Even the most impossible missions with the Resistance, when the team was synched together, they were able to pull off the impossible.

The odds were against her here, because Shael wasn’t playing all the pieces on the map. She wasn’t trusting everyone to do what they needed to. It was time that changed. For everyone’s sake.

Her hand rose to her ear, activating the pearl. 

“Saltborn. We need to talk. About Nabi.” Her jaw clenched. “Now.”

[sentryandco]

Prompt 26: Break a Leg

Estrid had always loved the theater.

Even as a child, working as a cupbearer for a noble household, she loved the suns when the performers came to entertain the important guests. And the most glamorous of them all were those that hailed from Thavnair, with their sheer flowing fabrics and layers of golden jewelry that glimmered with each dancer’s spins and twirls. The production always captured the attention of the entire audience, drawing cheers and much applause. Accompanied by swift-flowing, sweet-tasting wine, the elated mood eased the negotiations that soon followed between the host and the guests.

Estrid, too, was tempted to allow her imagination to take flight; the music and the visual spectacle oft invited her to a wondrous place far and away. Given her role as a mere servant in a wealthy household (not to mention the destitute home that awaited her after nightfall), such journeys, even if ephemeral and only in her mind, were always a welcomed respite. 

But that would draw scorn and disapproval from the other retainers in the household. She pretended not to hear their whispers as they pitied her for wearing the same dress, and she couldn’t afford a new pair of shoes when her only pair became worn and scuffed. Even if she had washed and polished them meticulously every sun, they knew it was the same uniform. She never failed in her duties, was never late, nor did she ever complain about even the most menial tasks. Her master never noticed her because she was never in the wrong. But she was never in the right for the rest of the staff.

So Estrid could not afford any daydreams, no matter how her young heart secretly yearned for them. Instead, she was there to learn and to rise. She took many lessons to heart, on how her master would ease the minds of competitors first, using that as an opportunity to observe them as they were lulled or distracted. She watched how the wealthy and the powerful carried themselves beside each other, one had to know when a show of deference was more advantageous than insisting one’s authority. And no guests paid her any mind when they quietly complained if their welcome wasn’t flamboyant enough, or scoffed if they felt that they were being overly wooed.

All these things Estrid quietly put to memory, then recited back to her master after the guests had retired. He would use them later to his advantage, and she took a certain pride when she played a part in his triumph over a contract. But as a servant, she was never fit to deserve any credit or reward for it. 

Estrid brought home what was leftover from the noble’s feasts, and if her parents had managed to sell their wares on the lower streets of Limsa Lominsa, then they were assured that they could stay in their small one room for another month.

With the stark difference between the two worlds etched themselves forever in her mind, Estrid swore, at the tender age of thirteen, that she would lift her own out of the rat infested neighborhood.

She had her own act to follow, and playing the part of a quiet servant, soon turned into a retainer for one of her master’s competitors. Then she turned that role into a clerk for another noble, by aiding him in buying out her current master. She rose quickly through the ranks using what she had learned, to become the main bookkeeper for one of the most influential merchants in Thavnair.

But even after buying a comfortable home in Summerford for her family, Estrid still wasn’t satisfied. There were still those around her that looked upon her as someone beneath them. It was as if they could still see the veil of poverty lingering around her like a dirty dust storm. So she continued her climb. She still couldn't daydream. It wasn’t until she finally rose to the position of the chief accountant for one of the most powerful underground organizations in Thavnair, that none dared to doubt whether she could afford the mansion in Mist. Or the coin it took to arrange for her younger brother to study in Sharlayan. 

Estrid believed she had achieved her dream, when she commissioned a theater to be built on the estate grounds. It was there she would finally allow herself to escape, without any eyes to judge her—there where she could imagine herself to any lands beyond. She wanted to bring Thavnair, the place where she attained most of her wealth, and where none knew of her origins, to her own home in Mist. 

Only Estrid never got the chance. Just before the building was finished, she was called away to a distant island, to overlook a mine that was very profitable but marked as volatile. The organization sent her as part of an entourage to assess the situation, and to report back to her employer with appraisal of gains versus possible losses.

And on the third night, Estrid was awakened by a roar so deep that she could hear naught else, and the air turned so hot that it burned and choked her lungs.

She managed to escape that island on the only ship docked, while most did not. She retired from her life of chasing luxury and rank, returning home to La Noscea, where her family awaited. She sequestered herself to her expansive home, barely noticing the magnificent private theater that had been completed in her absence. 

But her daydreams no longer called to her. Since that fateful day, her dreams began to take a much darker turn…

[afreesworn]

28: Vainglory

Gashuul’dyn. It was said the ancient horn was carved from the bones of a titan now lost to history. 

The warriors on the field oft spoke of its deep timbre when it bellowed over the plains, its hail resonating through the earth beneath their feet. Not only did it command the winds to spur them into battle, but the will of the land as well. 

So how was it that the very thing that began the day of blood also called for its end? 

Tugan Kharlu stared at the long aged instrument with disdain. It was kept in a shrine built within the mountain overlooking the coastlands, and guarded by the previous victors of the annual war.

The shamans spoke of the revered relic with such awe. Stories were passed down through the generations that the artifact was left by the gods, to echo the sadness between the ever parted day and night. It was granted to the children of Azim and Nhaama, as a way to ease the passing of souls onto the next life, to call the spirits forth from the fallen bodies so that they did not lose their way.

These stories were all foolish and romantic depictions in the Kharlu’s eye.

Tugan cared not for the lore that was tied to gods, or honor, or love. As long as it fed the unending cycle of battle, allowed him to ride into the plains upon his stallion and cut down his enemies with abandon, he cared not what stories the old woman spun by the fire. The day of blood was a day of glory; bloodlust and violence were not only needed but celebrated, the only day when acts of brutality ruled supreme.

But he hated the fact that such a mournful wail would end such a mighty spectacle, muting the grandeur of his victories. Even when the Kharlu had lost more than the Junghid, the blood of those that had fallen at his feet made his body burn with exhilaration.

The song of Gashuul’dyn did not recognize his triumph. It only called forth the tears of bereaved wives and the whimpering of children. It diminished the display of superiority through strength, and lamented the beastiatlity that was at the heart of all men. Tugan believed that such a contest deserved a roar to shake the heavens. He deserved something far more than Gashuul’dyn to welcome him home.

Tugan walked out of the shrine, vowing to himself that one day, he would claim the seat of Khan and shatter the cursed horn to pieces. And in its place, he would erect a bonfire so tall that only those who survived the day of blood would be able to see their might truly celebrated.

[anchor-management]

Growing Concern -------------------------- [TW] Body horror? Probs. --------------------------

It was impossible to forget the feeling within those tunnels. Dark, dim, humid, and often so cramped you could smell the breath of the person working beside you. The stench of sweat permeating the stale, thick air, accented only by the aroma of ozone and earth. With every strike of the pick, he knew one wrong move could be his last. He’d seen it so many times before–whether it was the wrong part of rock, or the wrong part of crystal–either leading to one getting crushed and battered, or a good and much needed piece of one’s self torn asunder by the corrupted energies being abruptly unleashed. 

Anchor drew back the pickaxe in his hands, readying it for another swing. He could see his mark, the divot he’d already created to guide his aim. As the sweat dripped down between his shoulder blades, he brought the tool back down towards the stone surrounding one of those dimly lit crystals, the eerie amber glow enveloping his form in a swathe of radiating warmth. 

ping.

The familiar ringing sound of metal on solid rock pierced his ears as the tool met earth, and suddenly the hyur’s pick was embedded, not within the cavern wall he remembered so vividly on that island, but within a figure. Except, in place of flesh and blood was earth and crystal.

The creature’s ghastly face lifted slowly and stared back at him. No eyes; just that dimly glowing amber. The place where a mouth might be split open in a hissing wheeze, gradually revealing the molten insides of its cavernous maw. It got closer. The heat grew more intense. Anchor tried to get away, but he was held in place. There were many more of them. Once men, lost to the effects of the corrupted aether flooding the depths beneath the lighthouse he had been sent to; their features all distorted and deformed around the crystal protruding throughout their bodies. 

Closer. The very air started to swirl and waver between them, the intense heat making his eyes squint as the moisture was pulled from them. Closer. He could feel own skin peeling away, the reddish glow overtaking his senses, consuming him. His lips split as he opened his mouth to breathe; to scream. 

Anchor gasped in a ragged breath, and his eyes reopened not to cavern walls, but to tile, his senses returning to familiar pain throughout his lungs, limbs, and the feeling of water pelting overhead. 

The hyur reached numbly for the faucet, quieting the hiss of water pouring through the pipes until silence overcame the small shower. He sat there for a moment longer, letting the current reality clear the recent nightmare wrought by memories old and new. 

Roen and he had returned to the tavern. Things appeared to have slowed down enough. Or rather, he finally allowed himself to slow down, now that the situation apparently was under control. So, he finally made time to wash away the suns of sweat, dirt, and sick. 

A shame to say it didn’t make him feel much better. 

It wasn’t because of the aggravating ache permeating from his core and throughout, but rather it was this whole situation which left a restless, uncomfortable feeling in his gut. 

Anchor pulled himself upright, grabbing for a towel as he stepped out of the shower, water dripping off in his wake as his bare feet dragged over slick tile. His thoughts were still busy with this whole mess as he dried his hair. The ruined opportunity to meet with Doctor Nylor for one, which led to him being rendered unconscious for several suns due to overexposure of saturated, corrupted aether within the lighthouse. 

But mostly, it was the absence of any word from Nabi. Ghoa too, though recently Stormchild was able to make contact. But, why hadn’t either of them left word before then? Especially Nabi. 

No matter how much reassurance he got, nothing felt right about this. How could it, knowing they were in the estate of some doctor likely poisoning his patients with the very corrupted aether he claims to cure? He never much liked the idea of Nabi studying such aether as his in the first place, much less with some lunatic! 

He tossed down the towel onto the sink in a short burst of frustration, leaning his hands against the basin of it with a heavy sigh as it just as quickly left him. His gaze lingered, crestfallen at his own ineptitude to do aught but wait until he was updated. Curse this body. His eyes narrowed over to the left arm steadying over the sink, onto the hideous charred-like growth scarred along his forearm, then slowly lifted to the unfortunate reflection that greeted him in the mirror mounted just above. 

Anchor never really was one to look at himself fully. Suffice to say, he didn’t much like what he saw; the lack of restful sleep over the sennight, the aether sickness, and the usual aches and pains all took its toll. His calloused fingers ran over his more pronounced cheekbone, following it over the bruise-like circle under his eye. 

His eye… 

As he leaned in closer, Anchor could see within the unnatural crimson; something so small, it almost looked like a trick of the light. Small veins glimmered within, that sickening amber color he knew so well. And the longer he stared at it, the more pronounced it seemed, almost like it was glowing brighter, and brighter. Or was it that, in fact, it was growing? His chest felt tight suddenly, and his lips parted to take in a tentative breath. Despite the building panic, he couldn’t seem to look away, just watching as that eerie glow seemed to fill his iris, flooding crimson within amber. It melted into his sclera, then peeled back his eyelashes and eyelid, breaking into the flesh surrounding it. 

He watched in horror as charred earth split around a fissure of corrupted aether, spreading through his features like burning paper. He tried to gasp, but he could not breathe. All he could do was watch his reflection as his hardening lips peeled open into a gaping, glowing maw, the memory of those corrupted figures mirroring onto his image as dark ichor poured from the corners of his mouth.

Anchor’s back met the opposing wall in a heavy thud as he pressed a hand to his features, ready to claw at the formations overtaking him, but all that was felt there was skin. His skin, just as it had been before. Short, halting breaths puffed between his palm and fingers, and he slowly lowered them to look back to the mirror. 

There was no growth or alteration on his face, nor further around his eyes.

Not yet. 

Anchor stood there, breathing raggedly, regaining his equanimity, then let his features sink back into his hand. 

[soaveintermezzo]

[maureen2musings]

…

@watchluke

[quotemadness]

“I became good at pretending. I became so good that after a while the lines blurred between my truth and fiction. And sometimes, when I did a really good job of pretending, I even fooled myself.”

— Ruta Sepetys

[sentryandco]

Prompt 19: Turn a Blind Eye

“Any new word?”

Salaifa did not look up as she poured a dollop of milk into her tea. Her movements, as ever, were gentle and precise, never hurried. Ahrahd watched for a moment longer before answering, his gaze following the stirring of her spoon three times, never more, never less, before she set it down and took up her cup. 

“Nay. But she is within the grounds.” He waited until the raen took her sip, before he reached for his own. “And there have been no further inquiries from the emissaries.”

A patient smile touched her lips, the tea cup held just beneath. “We promised no further shipments would reach the man, and they will not find any.” Her pale blue eyes glanced up at Ahrahd. “And what of these dancers?”

“Nothing of import, as yet.” Ahrahd allowed a pause, knowing full well that their inclusion in the letter was not to be dismissed. The correspondence was always composed with deliberate care, every phrase purposeful. “There was a suspicion that an arrangement was made through a servant, but the true interests of the performers have yet to be known.”

The tea cup was set back down onto the plate, Salaifa folding her hands upon her lap. She looked out to the gardens, the thin mist from the central fountain glistening faintly in the midday sun. The raen had a distant look about her, and Ahrahd knew the ambassador was pondering the next step.

“Might I suggest preparing a contingency plan,” he began, his tone grim. “If these Thavnairians have any connections to the Ocular–”

“Then that is precisely what we are hoping for.” The dainty pose never wavered, although Salaifa canted her head in his direction, her blue gaze brightening with delight. “I am certain the opportunity will not go wasted.”

The straightening of his posture was the only thing that betrayed his doubt—not of the ambassador, but in the capability of the agent upon whose shoulders the burden was placed. Ever since the day they found the unconscious body washed up on the shores of the Dalal estate, Salaifa had invested much of her time in training her newest protégé. Not that there had been any failures to warrant Ahrahd’s apprehensions, but it was his job to always prepare for things to go wrong and plan for an exit strategy.

“And if they are not agents of the Ocular?” He placed his tea on the table. 

The delicate smile returned. “Then they are of no consequence, as long as our goals are met.” She dropped a single cube of sugar, stirring the tea three times again. She lifted the drink back to her lips, but paused to look at him.  “Diya knows her priorities. She will do whatever is necessary. She has done so before, and she will do so again.”

[afreesworn]

20: Anon

“You’re ridiculous.” He had called her that so many times. Ridiculous. But the last time she heard it, it was a soft murmur full of affection. “I’ll be back soon.”

Despite her best efforts to keep Anchor from her thoughts, his voice returned to her unbidden, especially during the lonelier moments when Nabi was left to her solitude. When her eyes grew tired from squinting at the parchment in the dimly lit space, her lids grew heavy, and amongst the shadows within her peripheral vision, she could imagine him sitting there. Small flickering motes of light blinked in the distance, much like the ones she’d watch dance in Kugane’s twilight. 

She could feel the ghostly whisper of the small metal bell brush against her hair, and the gentle press of the butterfly pin just above her horn. Just as he’d placed it there.

These moments, birthed by a desperate wish and weakness of her resolve, made her tremble. How many suns? It hadn’t been many, Nabi reminded herself. But it felt so much longer, as if time was stretched beyond its limits in this confined space. Seconds ticked by slower in the dark, away from the warm touch of sunlight, away from the scents she loved, of grass and flowers and sun-warmed earth. There were no songs to be heard here.

Anchor’s absence was palpable most of all, and every moment she wasn’t focused on something intently, her mind wandered to that empty place in her heart. Where was he? Was he alright? Was he worried? Was he ill? Would she see him again?

It was in these moments that anxiety gave way to regret. What if she never saw him again? She had been so consumed in pursuing a cure, did she miss signs of danger that landed her in her current predicament? Was she too reckless in coming here?

Their last words to each other played over and over in her mind. 

“Yara’æ,” he called her. A small promise of hope in the dark. The name felt like a secret treasure she could keep, all for her.

“I love it.” Her heart swelled when he gifted it to her. As it had, so many times before in all the little things he did for her. 

In all those times, did she ever say those words to him? Did he know how she felt? His life had been absent of petals. So many years devoid of color. Has she done enough? How was it that she had never said those words to him?

In the darkest moments when everything seemed uncertain, these were her greatest regrets. That he may never know how happy she had been, because of him. The profound joy that he had brought into her life. The love that had rooted itself so deeply into her heart, that it ached. The fact that she never told him, and were she never to see him again, that he would never know… that pained her most of all.

Nabi pressed her hands over her eyes, to stop the flow of tears before they began. Had she learned nothing from Anchor? Ghoa? Shael? She knew of the hardships they all endured, and even witnessed them play out before her eyes in that place below the ruins. They were so much stronger than her. She needed to at least try and follow their example.

She could not have regrets here. She has to see them again.

Nabi sniffed behind her hands, pressing firmly one last time to dismiss the sadness from her face. She didn’t want Mister North to see her despair upon his return. He too was trying his very best to comfort her in every way he could, staying with her in a place like this. She reminded herself to thank him upon his return. Then once more, upon their escape.

And then, most importantly, when she left this place, Nabi needed to let those she loved know just how much they meant to her.

[afreesworn]

23: Pitch

“I should have known better than to add all the peppers,” Chanai said ruefully, one hand going to her swollen belly as she leaned back against her elbow. “Although Nabi seemed to have enjoyed them. I think she is dancing in the womb.”

“I warned you,” Chagur chided with a soft smile, lightly pressing his lips over her navel. “Our child will relish all sorts of flavors.” He reclined next to her on the pelt he had laid down for both of them. They couldn’t bring too much with them for these secreted unions away from both of their respective tribes, but Chagur was determined to make the mother of his child as comfortable as possible. Especially since she was only a few moons away from bringing a new babe into the world.

Chanai shook her head, her raven locks falling in small wisps around her golden eyes. Chagur could see her struggling to hold back her amusement. “I will never get any sleep tonight. I think our daughter is hosting the next Naadam in there.” Then a knowing smile came over her, and she canted her head, giving her lover a coy smile. “Unless you think you can woo her to sleep?”

There was nothing Chagur would deny this woman, especially when she looked at him so. But this particular request had him promptly pushing off the rug, rolling over to his pack, where he grabbed a wrapped oblong instrument. He sat up and uncovered it carefully, the fabric falling away to reveal an elegant wooden carving of a horse’s head first, then the rest of Morin Khuur. He had packed it with such care, knowing that it would be needed in exact moments like these.

He could immediately see Chanai’s expression softening. She always loved the sounds of Morin Khuur. She pulled up a rolled blanket to serve as a pillow to lay upon, as Chagur sat cross legged in front of her, situating the string instrument. He twisted the end to tighten the bow hair, before testing out the strings themselves with a few gentle plucks.

Then resting the wooden neck against his shoulder, Chagur’s gaze bowed, as he put the bow to the string. His left hand moved knowingly over the pair of woven hairs, summoning each note, from low deep timbre to a gentle lighter pitch. It was a song that came to him in a dream, where he imagined singing to his child, under the warm golden sun and the bluest ocean skies. And since he felt helpless as a Junghid in being unable to provide for Chanai as their child living amongst the Kharlu, he wanted to gift their daughter the only way he knew how.

The Morin Khuur sang soulfully in his hands, the male and female strings together composed a harmony that filled the space around them. It reminded him of the rolling winds over the tall golden grass of the plainlands, and the chanting of shamans that greeted the arrival of dusk. The mood of the song shifted from night to day, then light to dark, carrying the distant neigh of the wild horses, the high echoing calls of the yol, and the chorus of crickets that filled a quiet night.

It was all the sounds that filled his suns, and since he couldn’t be with Chanai and Nabi as he wanted, he wanted to leave his child with his own vision of the world. So that his daughter would know, when she eventually heard all these sounds of life, that his thoughts and love for her were ever present in them.

When the last note faded into the night and Chagur raised his head, Chanai gazed upon him with such a look of affection that stole his breath. But she drew his attention back to her belly as she rubbed it lightly, an amazed look on her face.

“Nabi has gone to sleep,” she whispered, as if anything louder might disturb the peace within her womb. “She takes to your songs like a lullaby, resting so peacefully.” Chanai sighed, her voice full of awe. “And each time, it fills me with such a sense of tranquility.” After a pause, she added in a quieter whisper, “And hope.”

She shook her head, incredulous and yet amused. “Is this what all women experience when carrying a child? This sense of enlightenment?”

Chagur set the Morin Khuur aside, and slid upon the rug to come lay next to Chanai once more. He placed a light kiss upon her lips and nuzzled their scaled noses together. 

“I do not know of any others, but you and Nabi make me want for more. A new world. A better world. For us. A new life.”

Chanai regarded him quietly, and Chagur could see her expression starting to dim. He recognized the shadows of doubts and worry that were never far in her thoughts. They haunted her like a ghost. But before he could lose her to her darker thoughts of the future, he pulled her face closer to him, embracing her in another deeper kiss. 

For as long as he was able, Chagur swore to himself a silent oath, that he would protect the two people he loved most in this world. To Azim he swore to protect them from any darkness that would fall, and to Nhaama any harm that would threaten.

On his soul, he swore.

[scarlettjane22]

handsome Colombian Trote y Galope colt  FRANCISCO DEL JARDIN

Cheri Prill

[thoughtkick]

“I assure you, I’m not put together at all. Nor am I broken. I am recovering - finding the beautiful in the ugly and stitching it into my life.”

— Rachel Wolchin