#rinnywrites

[ghostwise]

It's here! You can read my short story All That's Green in the Desert in the latest issue of Black Fox Literary Magazine! Please check it out here~ 💚

[ghostwise]

“Chief,” Woljif whispers, holding his wound. “It’s not… s’not stoppin’.”

“I know,” Nereo murmurs. “Don’t worry.”

“Does this happen a lot?”

“Not really. Just sometimes it gets bad,” Nereo says softly. A twinge in his wrist alerts him to the fact that he’s gripping the edge of his seat with enough force to leave marks on the wood. He’s afraid of what he’d do with his hands otherwise.

“Woljif,” Nereo tries again after a moment. “Answer the question. What are you doing here?”

Woljif glances at him warily. He lets out a low sigh, weighing his answer.

“Well, chief,” he says at last. “I’m stealin’.”

“What are you stealing?”

“Food.”

“I see. Are our stores not sufficient to sate your appetite?”

“It ain’t for me.” Woljif’s voice grows quieter. His fingers are covered in his blood, but they remain firm against the wound on Nereo’s chest as he confesses. “It’s… it’s for Nurah. I’m sneakin’ her extra rations. Have been for a while now.”

Nurah. Traitor, heartbreaker.

He takes a moment to steady himself, before asking, “Why?”

“I know she’s done wrong. But she was my friend. And yours, chief.”

“Nurah has shown us exactly what friendship is worth to her,” Nereo says carefully.

“Maybe,” Woljif replies. “But that’s got little to do with what friendship means to me.”

Nereo would’ve once been surprised to hear that. But it’s clear now, more than ever, that they’ve both changed.

[ghostwise]

“I would just hate it if something bad happened to you.” Woljif lets out a huff. His gaze is still lowered, as if he’s afraid to look at him. “But… just the fact that you’re here is proof that it already has. You, getting caught up in all this. You up for this, chief? What if they make you fight demons your whole life? Just ‘cause you were in the wrong place at the wrong time…” He pauses, like he wants to say more but is unsure how Nereo will react. “What if something happens to you? What if they want something to happen to you?”

“Woljif… nothing bad is going to happen to me that hasn’t already.”

Woljif finally looks up at him, eyes wide. “You don’t know that.”

“I do.” He takes his hand, desperate to make the words sound real rather than some platitude, and Woljif nearly flinches. But after a tenuous moment, Woljif squeezes back, tentative.

“I’ve survived this long, and I have no intention of fighting demons my whole life,” Nereo says carefully. “I promise, we will live to see the end of this campaign. Besides, to me it seems I was in the right place, at the right time. I met you, after all.”

“Aw,” Woljif shakes his head. “No one’s ever… that’s…”

[ghostwise]

42) savior :]

“Sosiel,” Nereo says gently, after the third time the cleric stops in the middle of Alushinyrra's busy streets. “We have to keep moving. I know…”

“She’ll die,” Sosiel says, through gritted teeth. “By day’s end, if we don’t-”

“I know. Sosiel. We cannot stop for all of them.”

“We cannot. Yet, we must.”

Nereo sighs. He is right, of course.

Nobody had prepared them for how many children there were in the Abyss. Little, vicious, and miserable, and down here, more than half were doomed from the start. Set to die, because that was how the cruel machinery of the Abyss kept churning; demons could very well spawn from a million evils, but mortal lives served as food for the larvae. Set to die, from dagger or overdose, at a slaver’s hands, from illness, from parasites. Set to die, just because.

Sosiel cannot look away. He cannot accept it, and that is what is slowing them down.

It’s dangerous.

The crowd around them makes no effort to avoid their party. Nereo stands in front of Sosiel and the child, shielding them from the sea of bodies. Sosiel casts a healing spell so radiant and true, for a moment Nereo can feel the sun at his back.

He casts a mindful glance at the broad avenue they find themselves upon. Demons jostle against him, then someone spits. He knows well enough to respond with a swift blow, which sends a dretch skittering across the cobbled path, screeching furiously in retreat.

“Let’s move out of the way,” Arueshalae urges. “We’ll get trampled.”

“Bring the child,” Nereo says.

“Thank you,” Sosiel whispers, scooping the tiefling child up in his arms.

[ghostwise]

20 for Nereo/Woljif 💕

20. alone, finally

The Abyss is crowded and cruel. It menaces, smells of sulphur and burnt meat, has eyes everywhere, which means they’re not safe, not even after Voetiel lies dead and Ygefeles is truly vanquished.

Woljif shivers in Nereo’s embrace, and he feels exhilarated, but he does not feel safe. This moment of tenderness would single them out in a heartbeat. It’s a giant bullseye saying, ‘hit here, hit hard’. The denizens of Alushinyrra do not embrace. They do not confide or trust in one another, and they certainly do not love or cry. It is why the brothels are so packed with souls hungry for a touch, for any connection, even if it bleeds. It’s why he’s been avoidant since they arrived.

It’s terrifying.

He steps back with a ragged laugh once he can no longer take it, and quickly suggests they clean out the mansion. And perhaps because he can see how hastily he dries his eyes, Nereo agrees without prying. But not even the gold and finery they take makes a dent in what he’s feeling.

That’s when Woljif knows he’s in trouble. Something will need to be done about the knot in his throat and the butterflies in his stomach, but not now and not here.

He focuses on stuffing ruby goblets and bejeweled skulls into his pack. He notes that his shadow no longer talks. He looks at it warily, and tries, for a moment, to command it as he once did, but it doesn’t budge. So much for his favorite party trick. His shadow is just a charcoal-grey shade, an outline of him. He steps up to the wall and touches his fingers to it. Just him. He’s alone, finally. Something within him relaxes.

His shadow vanishes when Nereo steps in front of the lantern, and snuffs out the light.

“Woljif,” Nereo says gently. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

“Read my mind, chief,” Woljif mutters, and finds that he is truly glad to return to the Nexus.

microstory prompts

[ghostwise]

wip whenever tag from @lavampira

thank u friend <3 i'll tag @thedragonagelesbian @thetangledsheet @creaking-skull @glamfellens and whoever would like to share! here's some act 1 woljif because of course.

The tavern has been consecrated. Every floorboard, wooden beam, and nail in the wall, every window pane, and even the bars on Woljif’s makeshift jail cell, have been made holy by cleric magic, to protect from demons, devils, and other vile things. Why, even the mold in the cellar is more favored by Iomedae than his sorry soul. Or so he’s been told. No one’s ever put a blessing on him. It’s a fair concern of his, having been locked up in the basement for days now, the Defender’s Heart only prisoner. He finds it hard to believe he’s more deserving of this than some of the brutes upstairs. Soldiers who were hardly upstanding citizens during peacetime, who drank and brawled, now enjoy more freedom than he, and with far more blood on their hands. But it’s about what he’s come to expect from these types. What does trouble him is that when the resistance falls, and they will fall, he will be defenseless against the demonic onslaught. Shackled like this, he’d be easy pickings. And certainly, no one would think to come searching for him down here in the basement. So he’s fucked. To say the very least.

[ghostwise]

"Huh," Woljif says, watching him, when he ought to be watching the city.

It's late, and they are very up high, on the makeshift ramparts around the Defender's Heart. Nereo feels Woljif's gaze on him, and, after a moment, without turning to him, carefully cups his chin and guides his countenance outwards, towards the night.

"Woljif, we're supposed to be keeping watch," he reminds him. "And we only got three eyes between the two of us, I'll remind you."

"Oh please," Woljif snorts, his head swiveling right back. "They assigned us this post 'cause it's the least likely to get attacked. Irabeth just wants to keep us out of the way since the mess with the traps, and you know it." He gives him a toothy grin. "Two tieflings? They don't trust us nearly enough to give us any actually important duties."

"What a relief that must be to you," Nereo sighs, holding a spyglass up to his good eye. But it's too dark to see anything through it, moonless as it is, and then Woljif nabs the spyglass from him.

"You bet! Never get people thinkin' they can come to you for shit, chief. That's a tip from me to you." He chuckles and next points the spyglass at Nereo's face. "So, what did happen to your eye, anyway? If you don't mind my askin'."

"I don't mind," Nereo says. "I'll show you."

He begins to unwind the bandages looped around his head. He answers this question often enough to know a visual is helpful, and he sighs when he finally feels the cold air on his scar.

In place of his left eye, he only has a sensitive mass of tissue, somewhat circular, with ragged edges. There are spidery surgical scars layered around it from a chirurgeon's reconstructive efforts. The eyelid mostly remains, in a rudimentary form. The eye socket is empty. This, along with the sawed off tip of his curving left horn, should answer the question.

Woljif takes this all in. He drops the spyglass--it shatters somewhere below, where someone shouts out a curse and a warning for them to be more careful--but Woljif doesn't react. In fact, for a rare moment, he seems truly speechless.

"Oh," he says at last. "I see." Then, with a wiggle of his fingers, he gestures at his horn. "May I?"

Nereo blinks. He still blinks with both eyes, though on his left side it looks more like an odd spasm. He wordlessly acquiesces to Woljif's request, tilting his head down towards the other tiefling.

"I just, it's- I'm better at understandin' with my hands," Woljif explains sheepishly, as if he didn't actually expect Nereo to agree.

Permission granted, Woljif slides an index finger over his horn, following the sharp curve of the structure. He feels the twisting swoop inward, and slides his fingertip over its blunt end. Then he follows its trajectory, stopping at the old scar.

"When did it happen?" he asks.

"When I was a child."

"Were you in some kinda accident?"

"No," Nereo says. "It just grew that way."

"Grew that way?" Woljif asks sharply.

Nereo jerks his head back, scowling.

"It grew wrong," he explains. "Probably nearly killed me, or lobotomized me, but someone took pity and stopped it in time. Lucky me."

Woljif looks like he very much wants to say more, but in an uncharacteristic turn, he doesn't. His lips press into a thin line, and the look he gives Nereo is almost critical. If Nereo received that look from, say, Irabeth, he might worry.

Actually, since it's from Woljif, maybe he ought to really worry.

"What's wrong?" he asks at last.

"Takes a long time for a horn to grow that way," Woljif says quietly. "I'm thinkin' someone oughtta have stepped in sooner."

Nereo shakes his head and snorts. "You think?"

"Yeah." Woljif just nods, but the critical look finally softens. "Well, I sure am sorry, chief. That's all I'm gettin' at. Honestly."

That is certainly not something Nereo gets to hear often. Woljif's unexpected sincerity is disarming, so Nereo stops his bristling, and replies, as casually as he can, "It's fine, Woljif. Thank you."

"No problem. So uh, can I feel it?"

"What?"

Nereo wonders whether he heard him correctly, but Woljif is already crowding him. Peering closely into his face, he regards the scar with interest.

"Can I feel your scar?" he asks again. "Like I said, I'm a tactile learner! Promise I'll be very gentle."

Heat rises to Nereo's face. Has he not been scrutinized enough for tonight?

And yet, he finds himself sputtering, "Sure. Why the hell not?"

Woljif is gentle. He holds the pads of his fingertips to Nereo's left eyebrow, and presses as softly as a thief can. When he is satisfied by the bone there, he slides that touch to Nereo's scar, feels the lack of eyelashes, glances at his other eye, compares. Then he carefully broaches the ragged opening of his eyelid.

"Is this okay? Tell me if you want me to stop. I know I wouldn't like someone just pokin' me in the eye, honestly," he says, as if he knows he's pushing it. But Nereo is transfixed.

"S'okay," he sighs. Searing heat is on his face, his neck, his ears, and right where Woljif's fingertips meet his skin, a sensation that is shocking against the cold night, and grows when Woljif's palm presses fully against his cheek, cradling him, feeling him.

Woljif slides a thumb into his empty eye, tugging up at the eyelid. He might be surprised to find how dry it is in there. He might be shocked at the fact that it's clean. Nereo does have to clean it, regularly. But if Woljif is at all surprised by these things, he doesn't show it. He is treating his scar with earnest curiosity and care.

There is the beginning of it. Nereo holds as still as possible. His mind is hazy and clear at the same time, as he lets Woljif feel one of his earliest and most personal injuries.

Finally, his friend sits back. He stares at Nereo, his own eyes wide and admiring.

"Wow," he says simply.

"Wow?" Nereo echoes faintly. Then he wrinkles his nose. "That was... interesting. Aren't you weirded out at all?"

"Nah. But you know what I'm thinkin'?"

As Nereo begins winding the bandages around his head to cover the scar once more, he thinks about Woljif's fingers in his skull, and his face so close to his own. Then he lets out a hard laugh, one that bubbles into many, and echoes over the dark and ruined city, surprising him in its lightness.

"Shit, I dunno," he manages at last. "That it'd make a good hiding place?"

"Holy shit, yeah!"

Woljif falls against his shoulder, clinging to his arm, joining in his laughter. Suddenly the night feels warm.

"Heehehe, brilliant, Nereo! Just brilliant! Get outta my head, will ya?"

[ghostwise]

He wakes up to a dimly lit room without windows, and for a moment he doesn’t remember a thing.

Not the smoke and the screaming, not the blood and the gore, nor the moments of victory and betrayal layered so thickly over the other that the entire tangled mess would take days to sort out… for a moment, he doesn’t even remember his name.

But the moment passes. And with that, the rest comes rushing back with such force that it makes him flinch.

Drezen! And a multitude of voices shouting his name as he fell, ‘neath the banner shining…

The commander grits his teeth and takes an inventory of his body. Everything hurts, but he steadies his breath and tries to focus on what the sensations are telling him.

His throat is raw. His tail is pinned beneath him, numb from the weight of his aching body. He tries to shift his hips and ease off of his overtaxed muscles, but the slightest movement is difficult. There’s a pressure in his heel that makes him suspect his right hoof is damaged, and his head hurts… he feels strangely heavy and off-balance.

And the wound…

With a gasp, he fumbles with his tunic, tugging it open to feel his chest.

The wound on his chest is absent. After spilling so much blood upon the Sword of Valor, it has closed up, mysteriously, as if it were never there at all.

Nereo closes his eye and rests back against the pillow.

The battle is over. He remains. But where is he?

Whoever set up this room attempted to make it comfortable. There is a pile of books on a trunk against the wall. There is a mirror, angled towards the door, and healing supplies, and a pitcher of water. There are lanterns lit by magic. There’s a rose—what a curious thing. But before he can look more closely, he sees the doorknob turn in the reflection in the mirror. The door opens.

“Commander,” Daeran blinks at him through the glass. “You’re awake.”

Nereo tries to respond, but his throat closes up as if he’s swallowed fire.

“Hardly surprising, of course, considering the quality of care you have been receiving... courtesy of yours truly,” Daeran continues with a graceful shrug. “My, you look well. Hardly any bruising left.”

Nereo unsteadily grips the goblet handed to him. His throat welcomes the cool water as Daeran skillfully applies a healing spell over his body. The magic quickly cascades through him, and, feeling better already, he glances at Daeran, noting his simple tunic, his blond hair pulled back, and the focused line between his brows.

“What happened?” he asks. “Where are we?”

“We are in a private room. Away from prying eyes. I have been healing you, little by little. It’s been several days since the Crusader armies marched under your banner and took Drezen from our enemies.”

Nereo frowns as he struggles to take the words in. Is that why his head hurts? Has he been out for days? When he does not respond, Daeran ventures to lay a hand on his shoulder.

“We won.”

“The Lady of Graves is kind,” Nereo mutters at last. “She has given us leave to fight another day.”

“Some kindness,” Daeran snorts, before changing the subject. “You sound awful. May I?”

Nereo isn’t sure what he means, but the pointed look Daeran gives him makes him sit up all the same. Broad permission given, Daeran whispers another spell, and this time sends a focused aura of healing to his throat. The warmth seeps down and settles in his chest, like hot tea with honey.

“Ah,” he says, jagged edges of his voice smoothed. “That helped. Thank you.”

“You are most welcome,” Daeran says. “Though truthfully, I only wished to save my ears. Your voice is hardly melodious at the best of times, commander.”

“And yet you still heed it,” Nereo chuckles weakly. “I am grateful.”

Daeran smiles, but does not respond. “I’ll let Irabeth know you’re back among the living, I suppose,” he says after a beat. “She’ll be eager to speak with you, as will many others. Your new look has caused quite a stir… even by your own standards.”

“My new look?”

“Your new powers,” Daeran explains. “If you thought to keep them a secret, you should know they are rather hard to miss, given their physical manifestation. Mind you, it doesn’t faze me in the slightest. If anything, I’m intrigued by the lengths you went to in order to assure our victory. Certainly impressed, and that’s quite rare.”

“I… I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Nereo swallows. He thinks about the tearing he’d felt in his chest when the wound reopened that night. In that moment, he’d wanted nothing more than to stop fighting, and not out of some noble impulse for peace; he would have given anything to be anywhere else. But did that change him? His heartbeat quickens, and he touches a hand to his face, searching for differences. His left eye is still missing, and his fingers graze over a healed cut on his cheek. Nurah. The memory makes him wince.

“You truly do not know,” Daeran observes after a moment. There is something in his voice, something not unlike the wonder in his words when he’d first seen Nereo take the Sword of Valor in his hands. “Allow me to be the one to enlighten you.”

He tilts the mirror towards him.

Nereo stares. It seems the laceration to his face was deep enough to scar, even with Daeran’s healing magic. What shocks him is that he has grown a new pair of horns.

No wonder his head feels so heavy. They curve in a majestic arch, like those granted to the most powerful and mythic of the demonic forces, and their tips come to a dangerously sharp point. When he touches them, they feel warm, alive, and alien.

“What… what is happening to me, Daeran?” he asks after a long while, voice scarcely above a whisper.

Daeran shoves the mirror away. For a moment, Nereo thinks he is about to berate him for what he’s done, but instead, he sits upon the mattress, very nearly upon his lap, and leans in to fix him with a piercing stare.

“Listen to me,” he says, and that awed voice is suddenly a stern command. “First of all, I believe you. This may have happened without your willing it… but you have to contend with it all the same. You find yourself in an unenviable position, commander. Simultaneously revered and reviled, a subject of curiosity at best, and suspicion at worst. Take control of this narrative, and do it now, before you must face the public. Neither ally nor foe, but you are the one who has the strongest influence in how they will see you. Understand?”

“No,” Nereo says honestly.

“Tell me, then, what will you say when the maligning rabble asks how the Commander could turn to the dark arts, and throw his lot in with the demons?”

“Will they say that?”

“They’ll say a great deal worse, believe me.” Daeran watches, and the intensity of his gaze makes Nereo want to hide. “But you will reply with the truth: That only an ignorant fool would utter such nonsense. That nothing has changed. That the Commander is unassailable and triumphant as ever. Nereo, this is important. Do you understand?”

Daeran’s words are sobering. Nereo musters a nod. If Daeran is this concerned, perhaps the situation is even more dire than he says.

To his great shame, tears prick at the edges of Nereo’s good eye. He reaches up to rub them away.

“Oh, Nereo,” Daeran hums, watching him with a small frown. Whether it’s sympathy or impatience, Nereo cannot quite tell.

“I suppose I have no choice, then, but to extend my hand to you in your hour of need.”

Daeran speaks with an almost ceremonial flourish.

“Obviously I alone have the acerbic wit to shut down any who might try to slander you, not to mention the money and the connections needed to keep us all in good standing. So, starting now, I am your staunchest ally. Your, as you so drolly put it, ‘biggest fan’. There may well be some displeasure, some backlash as to your new abilities, but it will pass quickly and without incident. You’ll see.”

Nereo looks at him, unconvinced. “It almost sounds like you’re trying to cheer me up, Daeran.”

Daeran scoffs. “You’ve done something nobody thought was possible, Nereo. I won’t allow people to belittle that just because you have a bit of extra keratin. Besides,” he adds, and dares to reach up and lightly graze Nereo’s horns, “they are very dashing.”

“Then I suppose I must thank you, and leave it in your hands,” Nereo sighs, relieved that Daeran has pivoted back to poorly timed flirting rather than warnings about his precarious public image. It allows him to calm down, if only for a moment.

“Hardly,” Daeran replies. “Just… don’t cry about it. After all, you know what they say. There’s no use crying over unexpected demon powers!”

“Never heard that,” Nereo says.

“Because I just coined it. You are very welcome.”