This lovely fic has been sitting in my drafts collecting dust for far too long. It’s a sweet little bath story featuring @forgedarcana‘s Malon!
This 🍵 is infused with “Calico” by Haux
Mal’s pronouns for this fic: she/they/he
~ 1.1k words
***
It wasn’t easy, but Kip finally had Mal right where she wanted them.
In the bath.
The gardener had grown tired of watching her friend traverse the Vesuvian streets covered in a fine layer of dust and sweat. True, this grime was natural and in a sense, even healthy, but it was still grime. Kipling was also fed up with her familiar combing Mal’s curly mop for ticks, and yes, even finding some to snack on.
So after an hour and a half of begging, dragging, and straight up lying, Kipling managed to wrangle Mal into her flat and within the confines of the washroom.
The quaint bath parlor did not look like it belonged to the average Vesuvian. Yes, it had the deep ovular basin and a crude sink barely a foot away, but nearly every surface was eclipsed in dark, leafy plants that typically thrived in humid conditions. Miles of tangled vines spilled over the side of the basin and the sink, dropping their budding flowers in the water and onto the floor.
Kipling was pleased to find that her little indoor jungle put Mal somewhat at ease. She decided to take advantage of this and told Mal that she’d be right back. Kipling quickly got the water going before she locked her friend in the room while she left to search for a spare robe. She didn’t put it above Mal to try to escape if they could.
When Kipling returned, she didn’t expect to find Mal already naked and easing themself into the steaming water.
Kip blinked. “Oh. I brought you a robe so you wouldn’t have to,” she swallowed, “take off all your clothes.”
If Mal didn’t want Kipling to see them like this, they gave no indication of such. Rather, they seemed much too preoccupied in the collection of soaps and miniature jars filled with Kipling’s homemade oils.
Kipling rested the spare robe on the sink for later and pulled up a stool to the side of the water basin. Careful to keep her gaze from dropping below Mal’s neckline, she pointed to the crescent-shaped soap and asked them to hand it to her.
“Now what?” Mal asked as they began picking up the different soaps and sniffing them eagerly. Kipling set her jaw and snuck her hands onto Mal’s freckled shoulders. “Now I’m going to wash your hair.”
Mal paused and snorted. “I don’t think so –”
Kipling shoved them down as hard as she could until they were completely submerged in the water. Mal didn’t go under without leaving a mess. Their limbs went a little wild, causing some of Kipling’s plants and jars to capsize. But it was all worth it. Kipling let Mal resurface and lathered in the shea butter shampoo while they were still disoriented. She cringed as ticks and other detritus tumbled out of Mal’s mop and into the water.
“Hey!” They snarled. “Not so rough, Kip!” They flashed their canines, but Kipling ignored them and continued to work in the soap.
“Stop being such a baby. It wouldn’t burn so much if you washed more often.”
Mal gripped the edge of the tub. “I do wash!”
Kipling only stopped long enough to shoot them a pointed look. Their snarl waned a little as they averted their gaze. “Just not, uh, with soap.”
Kip suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. “And do you ever take the time to detangle this crow’s nest?” She went back to scrubbing without waiting for an answer.
Mal gripped the edge tighter and snarled again. “Do I look like I own a comb?”
Kipling huffed, “Please. You can do it with your fingers, Mal.”
The tension slid from their shoulders. “Oh. You can?”
Kipling nodded. “Of course. I can show you after this.”
“I… I didn’t know that.”
At the sudden softening of Mal’s voice, Kipling paused and really studied them this time. Her eyes followed the creamy trail of foam past Mal’s collarbone down to their chest, which was fairly flat and featureless if not for the beginning of a jagged, slightly disfiguring scar that trailed down their sternum and disappeared past the water line.
Kipling had seen parts of the scar before, but never this close and completely uncovered. Naturally, she had questions, but she knew this wasn’t the time to ask. And, her eyes lingered on the twisted flesh, she would not dare touch.
Kip dragged her gaze back up until it caught with Mal’s. Whatever somber feelings were there before were gone now.
“Checking me out?” Mal flashed their canines again as they relaxed against the concave wall of the basin, their arms cast lazily about the rim.
Kipling’s nails dug into the bar of soap. “No! I was just looking at...” damn it, she let her gaze slip yet again.
Mal chuckled. “At what? My chest?”
“You know what?” Kip dropped the soap in the water hard enough that it splashed. “It’s time to rinse out your hair.” Mal’s green eyes went wide as Kipling grabbed hold of their shoulders and dunked them without warning.
Later, on the floor of the reading room, Kipling showed Mal how to detangle and moisturize their hair. Then she kept going while Mal cuddled with Taro. When the lemur had fallen asleep in their lap, they said without looking directly at Kip, “I used to be a gladiator.”
Finally done, Kipling withdrew her hands. “You...?”
Though Mal was back in their clothes, parts of their scar were still visible. Mal kept their eyes on the slumbering lemur.
“A long time ago the Coliseum was my home.”
Kipling suspected that they would keep going if she asked them to, but there was this old pain behind their eyes that she didn’t want to draw out. So she reached over and stroked a patch of Taro’s fur very close to where Mal’s hand was resting.
“If you ever need somewhere to go, even if it’s just for a night, you’re always welcome here.” Kip met Mal’s gaze and smiled. “Just as long as you take a bath before you leave.”
She meant it as a tease, but Mal grinned back and said, “Only if you come in with me next time.”
Kipling pulled her hand back, chuckling nervously. When Mal’s smoldering expression didn’t go away, Kip fell silent and resorted to the nervous habit of knotting her ghost lock around her finger. She should have found something to say by now, but when Mal kept looking at her like that... Kipling couldn’t tell whether this was all fun and games or if it could be something more.
This tale takes place pre-plague. Malon is a regular fighter in the coliseum and is known for her quick, yet lethal combat style. This is a record of the events that brought her before her patron Arcana, The Chariot.
When it came to her battles in the ring, Malon Almasi liked to roll with the punches. She did so this moment, quite literally. To the untrained eye, her lithe body somersaulted backwards and disastrously across the belly of the sandpit.
Despite her compromising position, Malon was not disoriented, but merely creating distance between herself and her opponent – Gray Wolf, was it? Yes. Gray Wolf was one pissed little puppy.
Mal came to a stop, snickered, and brushed her knuckles against a bloody lip. Yeah, little was an understatement. Gray Wolf was a brute. A woolly, powerful brute. Pissed as sin. Fast. With axes.
Mal assumed a comfortable crouch as Gray Wolf advanced on her, their arms crossed with the axes flared. Wolf’s axes were roughly the same length as Mal’s own weapons – a sickle and khopesh. They were very good for slicing, cutting, and making blood appear where there was none before.
Yes, Gray Wolf was fast, but...
Mal was known in the coliseum as The Jackal. And jackals were always faster.
She flipped the handles of her weapons in her palm so that the blades faced down. Then she plunged them in the sand and swung her hips forward.
Ouch.
Mal glanced at her shoulder and clicked her tongue. A long, red gash that leaked. When had that happened?
Gray Wolf wasn’t slowing down, so Mal shrugged it off and carried on. Despite her wounded shoulder, she thrust her legs up and forward, using the handles of her blades to launch herself feet first at the opponent. Gray Wolf had their axes and Mal had, well, nothing at the moment. Still, she thought it was a good idea to catch them off guard.
And it worked! Gray Wolf growled as they stumbled back when Mal’s feet connected with their gut. Their arms flailed. Mal took advantage of their disorientation and snatched one of their axes. Then she pushed even harder with her legs and launched herself a second time – this time towards the sky.
Armed and gaining air by the second, Mal was steady riding this new wave of adrenaline. That strange feeling of weightlessness told her to keep going, that she had this one in the bag. She didn’t have to back out just yet. There was no need to establish more distance and collect her thoughts.
The sky and the cheering crowds of the coliseum – they all told Malon to keep going. She needed to end this.
Mal gripped the handle of the axe that did not belong to her before smiling wild and letting gravity drag her back down. She made her descent acrobatic, but just as berserk and unhinged as her expression. She could tell by the captured gasps of the audience that she looked impressive. But Mal cared more about the look of shock that Gray Wolf would no doubt be wearing when she –
“Urk!”
Gray Wolf had caught Mal. By the throat.
Let go of me! Let go!
The gladiator’s fingers were fastened too tight around Mal’s windpipe for her to do anything besides gurgle in protest. Though Gray Wolf didn’t taunt her, she could feel the triumph rolling off of them in waves. Especially when they promptly broke her wrist.
Mal loosed a wretched cry as the axe tumbled out of her grasp.
“Oh no, little jackal, don’t weep. You got too greedy and now it’s time to learn your lesson. So pay attention.”
Mal panicked and thrashed about. This didn’t stop Gray Wolf from burying the sharpened head of the axe in her abdomen. They softened their grip just enough to give Mal room to scream as they dragged the small spearhead down, gutting her torso like she was nothing more than wild game.
Between her broken wrist, the throbbing in her shoulder, and now the growing hole in her stomach, Mal barely noticed when Gray Wolf shoved her to the ground. The cheers and boos from the crowd registered as a thick fog.
“Berserker, that was a good fight. I’ll admit.”
Mal moaned and tried to blink. She wanted to focus on Gray Wolf’s voice, but there were forces pulling her away from this world and from the warmth of the sun overhead.
“But didn’t you read the stories?”
Mal tried to hold on. Really she did.
“The ones where the strong wolf,” the gladiator’s calloused fingers brushed up against her temple, “slays the irritating jackal?”
Mal opened her mouth to speak, but it was just a broken fountain that bubbled and choked dark crimson. The rest of her body convulsed until it decided that the host had enough of dying.
That feeling of weightlessness from before came over Mal again. It was different this time. This wasn’t an escape from gravity, but something else entirely. Something that Malon had no words to describe. No thoughts to even contemplate it.
How strange.
And then she saw with what could not be her eyes because she was dead, right? She was dead and what stretched before her was too slippery, too dark and wondrous to exist anywhere else but outside of life itself.
Mal imagined that she had kept her wounds and that this starry sea before her had rolled up and bathed her in its depths. Both a sea and a sky, she realized. She tumbled and drifted in the stars until...she discovered that there was also metal in the afterlife.
How else could she wander up to a fence like this? With spokes that extended into infinity? As impossible and imposing as this fence – this gate – appeared, the entrance was left open.
And beyond that, Mal heard a steady purr.
Cleansed by the stars, she stood up and drifted towards the gate to receive her gift.
This fic came about when I discovered @forgedarcana and their apprentice Malon Almasi! It didn’t take long for me and my own apprentice to fall in love with this sweet gremlin. Take a look at how they first meet!
~ 2200 words
A Stranger Aura
In which a humble gardener meets a feral wanderer… .
Despite how unpopular it would make her among the other merchants, the innkeeper was determined to smoke out her communal fireplace by the end of the afternoon. She was convinced that it was the only way to purge her establishment of the family of bats that had taken residence there.
Kipling Bronne absorbed this information along with other gossip highlights as she arrived for weekly upkeep. She had eleven storefronts to cover. Her potted arrangements were looking a little more overgrown than usual. Some even had leaves that were glistening with sap. Not poisonous or uncommon, but also not particularly appealing to the city dwellers as they went about their errands.
Kipling took in the sorry state of her plants and groaned internally as her mind generated a lengthy to do list. She really had her work cut out for her.
The block was busy that day. And so was Kipling if anyone took the time to notice. Yet it kept none of the gossipy merchants from interrupting her often and baptizing her ears in the latest scoops whether she invited them or not.
“Kip, have you been by Little Brother’s yet?”
Little Brother. The innkeeper, who happened to be large-boned, robust and a widow, but nicknames were sticky, stubborn things. For the fourth time that morning, Kipling heard about Little Brother’s pest control problem and her radical solution.
“I mean, don’t you think that’s inhumane, Kip?”
Kipling briefly turned away from her work to offer a look of consideration. “I think Little Brother’s customers are tired of hatchlings wandering from the nest and falling in their soup.” She also thought the other businesses thrived off the innkeeper’s unhappy tenants, but she plastered a smile over that little sentiment.
As the day dragged on, the interruptions did not slow down. Kipling could only rely on her familiar’s steady chittering and encouraging ear nibbles to keep her focused as much as possible.
However, as the gardener worked her way further down the street, she noticed that her pygmy lemur grew more and more antsy. Taro was already a lively companion. Add a dash of neurosis on a day like this and it really sent Kipling’s nerves spiraling.
“Taro,” She finally huffed, “what is the matter with you?”
Taro whimpered and bounced around Kipling’s ankles. Usually she could tolerate the lemur’s sporadic bouts of mania, but it was very hot and she wasn’t in the mood. Work was tedious, and the damn shop owners kept bothering her, and —
“Kipling! Might I have a word?”
The inquiry snapped Taro out of her neurotic rain dance. She scrambled so fast onto Kipling’s shoulder that it made the gardener sway on her feet.
The newcomer steadied her and asked if she was all right. Clearly they were not going to leave, so Kipling affected yet another friendly smile and said, “Can I help you?”
The shopkeeper wrung their hands and threw a glance at the intersection off to the right. Kipling followed their nervous gaze, but saw nothing amiss in the throng of passerby.
“Don’t you see that?”
Kipling narrowed her eyes. “See what?”
The shopkeeper steered her gaze with their finger. “That. Coming back this way right now.”
Taro chittered again with sudden urgency.
Kipling saw what the shopkeeper was talking about. A Vesuvian to be sure, but walking with a strange gait, like a cross between a raptor and a toddler. With a walk like that combined with those bright, shifty eyes, it had the potential to put people on edge.
“I don’t know what manner of vagrant she is, but she’s been prowling the intersection for the past three days.” The merchant threw their hands in the air. “I can’t figure out what she wants! She won’t buy anything. Whenever someone tries to talk to her, she barks. Once she even hissed at me!”
Kipling fought to stifle a laugh. Yes, the lurker was odd, but otherwise she seemed harmless.
“I’m not sure why you’re telling me this.”
The shopkeeper fixed her with a desperate gaze. “I was wondering, would you mind maybe just seeing if you can get through to her? Make her go away? Or encourage her to buy something at least. Anything would be better than haunting the crossway like this.”
Kipling tried to think of a polite way to decline when Taro suddenly bolted from her shoulder.
“Taro, no!” She hastily threw her work tools in her satchel and took off after the purple lemur. It was too hot and crowded to be chasing anything, let alone something so small and fast. And what do you know? Her familiar was headed straight for the wild eyed vagrant.
Taro was already coiled around the wanderer’s shoulders by the time Kipling caught up. Thankfully they were off in a spot outside of the foot traffic. It was shadier there. The road tapered off into a more natural setting. Further in were clusters of trees and beyond that a sparsely wooded glen.
As Kipling approached, she was able to get a better read on Taro’s new friend. The closer she got, the more she was confronted by a rather unique aura. Gauzy and yellow – a feral essence. Almost exclusively so. Rare for a Vesuvian. Most tended to be elementals or some manner of seer.
The limbs of the stranger’s magic stretched far, but flailed from a lack of practice. Kipling wondered if the carrier even knew what she was capable of. The stranger was now letting Taro groom her and . . . grooming the lemur in return.
Taro was not the kind to jump on people she didn’t know, so Kipling wasn’t really sure how to go about this. Not only did she have to ask for her familiar back, but she also had to find a way to tell the stranger to run along – that she was scaring the poor shopkeepers.
The stranger and Taro carried on, only vaguely aware of Kipling’s presence. That was okay, she still hadn’t worked out the details of what she wanted to say. Plus she was still studying the vagrant and weighing her appearance against the presence of her wild aura. She was tall enough that Kipling had to look up, which happened often because from her point of view everyone was tall, no matter what was considered standard.
Kipling registered skin that was baked by sunlight and colonized by an army of freckles. Lastly, the stranger had a youthful mop of dark hair and a scar on her lip that gave the illusion of an errant fang. Kipling wouldn’t have been surprised if the shopkeepers had dismissed it as such.
Despite Kipling’s proximity, those bright eyes kept flitting about, fixating on pretty much anything and everything.
“Uh,” Kipling was about as close as she dared to approach. “Hi. Sorry about that.” She gestured to Taro. “She doesn’t usually jump on people’s heads.”
The stranger regarded her briefly, so fast she almost missed it. “It’s okay. Taro is really good at finding ticks.”
Taro chirped appreciatively.
Kipling blinked. “How . . . ? How did you know her name was Taro?”
The wandering gaze settled. “She told me.” She said it like it was the only natural answer.
Given her sunny aura, Kipling wasn’t surprised. She narrowed her eyes at her familiar, but relaxed her shoulders a little. “What else did she tell you?”
The stranger giggled. “That you’re called Kipling.” Then she shot out a long arm. “I’m called Malon. Or Mal if you want.” The way she pronounced her own name came out like a yawned mewl. It made her wonder if that’s why the shopkeepers mistook her for something primal.
Kipling smiled. “Hi, Mal. You can just call me Kip.” As she shook Mal’s hand she wasn’t sure what she wanted to do more – hug this feral being or simply give her a bath.
Taro whined in protest as Kipling pried her from Mal’s curly mop. “So, I have to ask. What exactly are you doing out here?” Not happy with the way that came out, she added, “I mean, is there a reason why you keep going back and forth along this street?”
Mal’s gaze was back to wandering, and this time she was sniffing the air. “Do you know what panic dreaming is?”
Bewildered, Kipling said that she had never heard of it.
Mal gave a curious grunt. “Hm. I’ve been wondering why it’s so loud over here.” And when it seemed that her answer was not going to evolve beyond that, Kipling tried a different approach.
“Are you,” she paused, trying to choose her words wisely, “looking for food?”
Mal grinned and reached for Taro. “I can find my own food. See?” She extracted a tick with ease and popped it into her mouth.
For a moment Kipling was struck with disbelief, but it didn’t last long before she burst into laughter.
“That is . . . impressive.” And she meant it.
Maybe it was the heat or the boredom of the day’s tasks, but Kipling found Mal’s atypical behavior strangely liberating.
Even though she had Taro back, she wasn’t ready to leave. And she noted that Mal had chosen to stay where she was though there was nothing holding her back from prowling the storefronts again.
Kipling paused in her thoughts. The stores.
She sobered and said, “Mal? Could you come with me? I think I might know how to help you.”
When Mal cocked an eyebrow at her, Kipling reached for her hand and added, “With eh . . . the noises you’ve been hearing. Panic dreaming, right?”
At that Mal relaxed and wordlessly allowed Kipling to guide her through the intersection. The shopkeeper that had asked for Kipling’s help watched on with eyes that begged her to quit leading Mal further and further into the plaza. But she ignored all of the judgemental stares until she reached the door of the innkeeper.
“Little Brother,” she called once they were inside, “I think I found the answer to your pest problem.”
Kipling’s instincts were right. Mal’s feral aura was strong enough that it gave her the ability to not only communicate with, but also draw animals to her. She was like a beacon for the colony of bats in Little Brother’s chimney. The whole market was completely awestruck as dozens of bats teetered across the cobblestones on all fours, marching blindly in Mal’s wake towards the woods. Kipling and Taro followed close behind, careful to watch out for any strays that might wander off in the wrong direction.
Once they reached the shade of the trees, the bats opened their eyes and properly flocked to a small, but conspicuous cave. When Mal and Kipling caught up with them, Mal strolled into the cave and peered around.
“Didn’t know this was here until they showed me. Cool.” She made herself comfortable in the mouth of the cavern, almost as if it belonged to her. Kipling also noticed how Mal’s aura seemed more relaxed than before, tamer even. Her gaze still traveled, but in reflection as opposed to fruitless searching.
Kipling held Taro against her chest and scratched behind her ears. “Aren’t you coming back? I’m sure the shopkeepers won’t mind having you around now.”
Mal shrugged and shook her head. “Nah. I like it here.” She exhaled. “It’s quiet.”
Kipling didn’t feel right about leaving her new friend here alone in a cave of bats and who knows what else.
“Do you have any plans for dinner?”
Swinging her bare feet and bobbing her head to some imaginary drum, Mal pointed to the ceiling of sleeping bats and declared, “I’ll just have whatever they’re having.”
Kipling glanced up and grimaced. Crickets and cave worms? I don’t think so.
But she realized that she wouldn’t get anywhere with the mother hen approach. So she tried another.
Kipling gathered Taro close and whispered, “Guess what we’re having, girl? That’s right! Glazed salmon. Your favorite.”
The mere mention of the dish activated Taro’s excitement. Kipling knew that Mal wouldn’t be able to ignore the lemur’s projection of all of those sensory delights.
For once Mal stopped wiggling her toes and looking around. She went absolutely still and fixated Kipling with a gaze so direct and an energy so concentrated that it practically tickled.
“You’re really going to feed me?”
Kipling granted herself silent applause as she nodded and held out her hand. Instead of taking it, Mal popped to her feet and rushed forward.
Kipling squeaked as Mal fastened a pair of wiry arms around her and hoisted her off the ground.
“The bats,” she said, “told me to thank you.”
Kipling suddenly became aware of Mal’s scent of lingering campfires. It stirred some sad ache on the inside when she sensed the solitude underneath. She surrendered to the embrace, leaning her head against Mal’s and breathing in more old firewood.
“You did all the work. I just showed you the way.”
It was getting late and Kipling wanted to go home. She attempted to disentangle herself so they could leave this creepy cave, but the beast whisperer had other plans. Kipling made another ungraceful sound as Mal spun around and hoisted her onto her back. Taro made herself comfortable on Mal’s head and chirped authoritatively.
Mal said as she marched forward, “Kip, you should get some rest. Taro can show me how to get there.”
It hadn’t occurred to Kipling that the shifty-eyed vagrant had picked up on her fatigue. She was tempted to say that she wasn’t tired, but she had a feeling that Mal would know better than to fall for that.
Combination of #6 and #26 (A Kiss of Relief + Tending an Injury)
This request came from @forgedarcana. The apprentice Malon belongs to them!
***
Mal and Kip are hiking in the woods when Kip sprains her ankle after sliding down a cliffside. Thankfully, Kip is okay when Mal finds her.
“Ow. Ow. Ow.” Kipling closed her eyes and flinched as Malon hovered over her injury.
Mal looked up at her and sighed. “Kip, I haven’t even touched you yet. You have to relax.”
Kip tried, but she did not like pain. She peeked open her eyes to see that Mal was still studying her bruised ankle. Kip didn’t think it looked all that bad, so then why was Mal…?
“Mal? Are you shaking?”
Kip leaned forward as much as she could without disturbing her ankle and took Malon’s face in her hands. Mal’s freckles glistened under a wet sheen.
Kip hummed softly as she attempted to dry her partner’s face.
“When you took that fall,” Mal’s words came out strangled, “I thought you were...”
More tears replaced the ones that got away. Kip used her palms to level Mal’s face. She matched her wet, mossy green gaze with her steady brown one. After taking a moment to admire Mal’s colony of freckles, Kip whispered, “Listen to me. I’m not going anywhere.”
Mal drew her fingers up along the gardener’s arms until they rested on the backs of her hands. She turned her face into one of Kip’s palms and breathed in deeply, sealing in the scent of saltwater and tea tree oil.
“I know,” Mal sighed. “It was just scary. I was scared, Kip.”
Shifting a little to get more comfortable, Kipling asked, “Is there anything I can do to help?”
Mal glanced up from Kip’s palm, catching her off guard with that verdant gaze.
“Yes.”
Kip tipped up her eyebrows in question as Mal drew closer. “Stay absolutely still.”
It sounded like something Mal would say before tending to Kip’s injury, but that’s not what was happening. Mal uncrossed her legs and pulled Kip between them while she bathed her lips in fresh tears and slippery, slow kisses.
When Kip turned her body to sink against Mal’s, her ankle throbbed in protest. Kip ignored it, letting her hand wander to the back of Mal’s head where short curls claimed her fingers like roots to the soil.
Every now and then Kip would tighten her grip, as if to remind Mal that she was here to stay.
