#plecsantnights

[lcngdays-archive]

Write cuthbert and Alain coward

ya?? ya?? how COME bassard?

[lcngdays-archive]

They sit opposite the fire, one the best scout Roland had ever known, the other one of the best friends Roland had ever known. Jamie knew Alain and Cuthbert were closer to Roland. He had come into ‘slinging late, his face had been marred, his speech impaired... There had been many things to poke fun at and plenty was poked fun at. His eyes were too dark, his nose was weird, and his skin, his skin, his skin...

Jamie looks at his blood red hands in the firelight, thinking. Not often was it he and Alain were alone. Alain was closer to the top than Jamie would ever be, every natural born gunslinger was, but Alain and Cuthbert were special. Thomas and Alain had a special connection, and Jamie was on the outside. Always an outsider, but he was useful and he was loyal. He had no doubt the other four respected him as a scout and as a field medic, and even as a gunslinger, but. But he wasn’t a true gunslinger. He held no bloodline to Eld and everyone knew it. 

He dares a glance over to Alain, then down again. His head was a messy, foggy swamp that was difficult to travel, without him trying in the slightest. He couldn’t help that, and if Alain would explain it, he’d again feel that aching loneliness the person who just doesn’t quite fit into their group of friends always feels. 

He breathes a soundless sigh, then speaks, voice rusty and strangled. 

“W-would. Would y-yuh-you die. Fff. F-Fuh-for Roland?”

[lcngdays-archive]

shelter protect them. ( alain n roz )

nonverbal starters

How many men had they brought down that night? Many more than two should ever be able to alone, aye, so you kennit. But Marksmen are not normal men, some may even say they ain’t human, more human adjacent than anything else. This one here’s an interestin’ story, ya see. ‘Cause it’s not supposed to work out this way. Which might confuse the average reader, cause, hey, aren’t the good guys meant t’win? ‘Course they are. But that’s meant to fail here, meant to fail here with friendly fire. Alain was the one meant to get the bullet in the heart, but his wasn’t going to be the only heart t’break. That’s both how it isn’t meant to go in any normal story, but how it’s meant to go in this story. 

‘Cept someone decided it wasn’t. 

It goes like this; 

Rozland counted three dozen. Mayhap a few more, mayhap a few less. In the fog and haze, it was nearly impossible to see. 

“Check. Make sure they’re dead,” Rozland says, though he’s holstered his guns, the metaphorical fight is over signal. He knows they’re all dead. Just as he’d know if there had been any to escape. There hadn’t been. He wasn’t psychic like Alain, no, but he had this... Sense. About him. This sense of Fate and how things would play out, sometimes. 

“So say, dear dinh,” Cuthbert calls, whistling as he idly kicks over one of the dead, satisfied at the hole in his face. Holes in all their faces, throats, hearts. They were Marksmen, and Rozland the best, not one shot went that t’wasn’t fatal. “Why so many near our encampment? But a mile out! I know Randolph isn’t Jamie, but you might think he’d be able to scout something like this, wouldn’t you?”

The tactician that Cuthbert was, underneath the jokes, underneath the playfulness. The calculating, sharp man who would have you at gunpoint before you even realized he was packing iron. He was there with Rozland now. Eyes cool, voice near cold. They’d had plenty a traitor in their midst, as after Rozland’s Father had passed, there’d been groups going out, and going out hunting in every sense of the word. Though t’wasn’t deer on the menu, nay, so it wasn’t. The young dinh had said simply they needed to wear out Farson’s men before Farson stormed Gilead, because storm Gilead he would. They’d prepared the cities ancient defenses, and then they’d gone out. Exhausting the forces while they could still return home to their city for food and rest and recovery. And Farson’s men? They had nowhere to go but the ground. 

Before Rozland can offer up the word, traitor, before he can even begin to think it, the sound of a horse bearing down on them brought them both to it’s sound, guns raised in time with one another. 

But that sense Rozland had. That sense of Fate strikes, and strikes hard. 

Alain knows he will die tonight. Things had been different that what he’d first saw, Gilead had not fallen, (not yet...), and they were still very much fighting the good fight. But he had seen it. Nightly in his dreams since he was young, he’d seen it. Things may be a bit different, but this was the same. Randolph traitor. Wrong information. He, riding on horseback through the smoke and the fog and the haze. To Cuthbert and Rozland. One bullet through the heart, the other through his lung. Friendly Fire would end his days on this world. 

He can just make the two figures out now, guns raised, no doubt hammers thumbed back. Cuthbert and Rozland had always been so fast. He knows it will come. He knows it will-

“No, Cuthbert!” Roz grabs him suddenly, shouting at him, yanking him back and to the ground, both of them collapsing against one another while Bert’s gun fires harmlessly into the dirt and blood beneath them, touching nothing but air and earth in it’s short lived journey. 

“Rozland, are you mad?” Cuthbert all but screeches at him, scrambling, elbowing Rozland hard in the nose, not worrying about the blood and the crunch because the threat coming to them was surely worse than a broken nose, the threat may have a gun, a bat, a knife, who knew and Rozland had just decided to lose every last single marble he had and down he and his own self! Cuthbert hoped he’d gone mad, because the only other possibility was traitor and--

“You didn’t shoot me.” Alain’s dull voice as he sits above them on horseback, looking down to his two dearest friends, who he loves in every way he can. They didn’t shoot him. Gilead stood. And the faintest twinge of what else had he gotten wrong, wormed its way through Alain’s mind. But he says nothing more, only staring down at Rozland, who is pressing his bandanna to his nose, face unreadable, and Cuthbert, whose jaw has dropped open, unsure if he should be apologizing to Rozland or shouting at Alain for not announcing himself when it was nigh impossible to see out here! 

Instead, he presses a hand to the side of his face. And laughs. 

“Well, no, no we didn’t, mighty sorry for that, so we are! Oh, worry yourself not, we’ll make sure to not neglect to next time! Please, please, no more Alain, you’ve all but triggered me to tears!”

[lcngdays-archive]

nolan vc: Maybe saying you might kidnap people is a bad move but you do you I guess.

⛰️ My Light, I’d not kidnap him! But someone may, ‘tisn’t a safe world yonder, creatures of beast and of man lurk, and I only do worry. 

[xdesecratorx]

🌕 (w/.... Vinnie)

Send 🌕 for a starter where our muses meet under moonlight: x

—

Nights like these turn nightmares tame. The moon is at its fullest, fixed in the centre of the sky so perfectly that its light radiates down in soft halos towards the black horizon. Stars can only gleam at the edges. A cool wind blows through the grass, and the silver waves ripple around Rexuin’s legs as he moves noiselessly without aim. Memories are thick in the back of his throat, and a dog bays distantly. A beautiful night, and a lonely one.

Although perhaps not quite so lonely as he thought. He stops short, although the wind still flutters his tailcoat around his knees, and his hair tosses gently as his gaze sweeps the plain. Moonlight glints off of glasses, a figure moving forward—carrying something? It’s difficult to tell at this range. Rexuin starts closer, but only to observe. As of the moment, anyway.

[lcngdays-archive]

"I wanted to tell you in person." (Atticus to roz)

some meme somewhere

Rozland stares on to Atticus with love in his eyes and more in his heart. He reaches out, not a man of second thought, not in this instance, cupping the man’s cheeks in his own, large hands. 

He sighs, softly, head tilted to the side, smile on his face. A soft, tired thing, but a thing he wears easily. 

“Speak, then,” he murmurs, voice low and sweet, “I will hear anything you have to say, My Heart, anything and more.” 

[lcngdays-archive]

God be like “oh man i do love you so much and i want to be there to help you” and will absolutely wait for a response because he cares

⛰️ Yes... That is true. 

[lcngdays-archive]

GOD WILL BE LIKE “CAN I FALL IN LOVE WITH THESE MORTALS” AND THEN WON’T WAIT FOR A RESPONSE

⛰️ :(