TheAmishPirate

Return to Thellamie

Somebody? Somebody please tell the universe that it really needs to do something about all these mathematical errors, they're really starting to add up.

...pun somewhat unintended.

Hazel detaches himself from the mirror. He wasn’t aware that people could be attached to mirrors. This is proving to be an educational day already. He lets the mirror hold his hand a while longer though. Just a bit. Just a little bit. Let his breath go from big gasps to moderate gasps. Give his legs a chance to sort out which feet are his. Sooner or later, he’ll remember where he is, when he is, what this is, and other pressing questions now that he is. Um. Not so pressed. Anymore. Okay. Okay? Okay.

Oh gosh, he yelled at Olesya

Oh gosh he slapped Olesya

Keli and Seli aren’t looking at him, but they are bowing to him, and that’s worse actually. Olesya is, is, (oh, Olesya) a bomb in the shape of a wolf. Armed. Very much still armed. (Two armed, at that. Hee.) None of this is ideal for a bomb. Especially bombs that have just been slapped. Especially especially bombs that are telling him how much they want him?! (He has a bad feeling; a sharp, heavy stone in his heart. And just who is he trying to impress with a line like that? You’re no ace detective, Hazel Valentine Fletcher, you’re just fretting like you always do. Something’s just, up, that’s all you know. It might not be that bad.

He hopes it isn’t that bad.)

Oh heavens above he has to say something now

"Ah. W...wow. That is." Not making his cheeks any less red!!! "Sorry, I didn’t mean to hit you there, I, I’m just a little surprised. That is, thank you, that's really nice of you to say." And there's meaning there too. Thank you, Olesya. Even if you don’t really mean it. “I, had intended the contest to be restricted to the ball itself, but, this is a bit of a gray area. And I never really laid down super detailed rules. Trying to close every loophole never really works out, doesn’t it? That is to say, I, you’re good, you’re fine. It’s alright. Just, for fairness, we should…I, you, we, shouldn’t, do…more, until the ball officially starts.”

this is how he dies he is going to perish on the spot why is nobody saying anything aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

“Uh! Keli, Seli, could you please fetch us some tea? To cool off with? And when you’ve brought it, could you wait outside for a few minutes and make sure nobody comes in for a bit? We, are just going to chat for a little bit. A few minutes. We’ll be fine, no worries.”

He waits until they’re gone. He listens for the door to click shut. He breathes out.

Hazel sits cross-legged in front of the trembling huntress. There’s hardly anyplace in this room that wouldn’t be within arm’s reach for her, but all the same, he chooses to sit right in front of her.

“If it’s alright for me to ask; are you okay, Olesya?” He has to crane his neck up a bit to look at her. “I don’t mean to overstep. But, I did mean it. We’re good. No worries. And, if you need a listening ear, I’d be happy to offer one."

[Rolling to offer Emotional Support: 6 + 2 - 1 = 7]

Breathless Dead

Dolce prays without words.

The wood creaks beneath his leaping hooves. One-and-two-and-three, and tumult rises to devour each sound as it appears. No one will see the next steps of his dance. No one, save for the goddess for who found favor with his dance. This joy is for her alone.

A hunter would stab the unprotected back given the opportunity. But this is not the sword of a hunter. It was only passed on by a hunter, wasn’t it? A gift to open up a path. One that leads past Bella’s back, and ends in taking Ember’s hand. To whoever sent this gift, he will thank them by using it properly.

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t close his eyes…completely.

He lunges for the heart.

Please, Artemis.

Do not let him sacrifice anything needlessly.

Return to Thellamie

It is soft. It is heavy. It is warm. This is how it starts.

It is night on the windswept plains. It is the end of an adventurous day. It is a rare moment alone. This is how it can’t stop.

The warmth of piled blankets is almost like the warmth of a body. Almost.

First fly the questions, whittled down to points with no space for answers. What does he think he’s doing? You were doing so well. You don’t have to do this. Why? Why come back to these thoughts, again? Is this who you want to be? Is this who you’ve wanted to be? How much longer are you going to struggle with this? When will you get your act together?

She wanted him. She hungered for him. She bound him, and he could not move an inch, and he could only be where she wanted him. He tried to speak, and she devoured his words, and his lips, and his tongue…

Next come the knives. Surgical. Sharp. Begin with the beginning, the real beginning. A chain of mistakes led to a tragedy. The chain must be broken. The earlier, the better. Give no ground. Why did he choose wrong, when he could have chosen right? Walk me through it. Find the error. Correct it. Make new plans. Reinforce them. Correct it. Do better. Why can’t you do better? Correct it. Why are you like this? Correct it. Do better. Never again. Never again.

…would enough of her pollen stop her nails from hurting? Would he feel the fear and thoughts drain, and drain, and drain away as she kissed, and kissed, and kissed, no matter how hard he tried to fight it?

Questions and knives. Knives and questions. It will end, eventually. It has to.

He’s done enough thinking. He knows what happened. He knows what he will do. It is over and done with now. Aren’t the blankets comfortable? It’s time to sleep. Breathe. You have to focus on your breath. Feel the air fill your lungs. Count the seconds. Exhale. Don’t rush it. It’s over and done with. You know what you’ll do next time. Aren’t the blankets comfortable? Turn, and wiggle, feel the knit texture brush against your skin. This is nice. You are filthy. This is a nice bed. Tomorrow will be better. Look forward to it. You’ll sleep soon. Breathe. This feeling is poison. Count the seconds. You’re rushing it. Six, then two, then five. There’s other ways to count breaths. Any of them will do. This is fine. You are fine. It’s time to sleep. This feeling is

failure

Last, always last, the flood carries him away. Sleep will end it, eventually.

In the morning, he will feel better.

In the morning, he will smile.

In the morning, he will remember. Warmth and shame. Shame and warmth.

He knows what he will do. Next time, it will be different.

*********************************

No plan survives contact with a wolfgirl’s mouth.

In his defense, there’s a lot of wolfgirl! That much wolfgirl shouldn’t be able to appear and pounce so quickly! Though, come to think of it, that’s probably really useful to do when hunting, so maybe it happens more often than you’d think. Except! This is a ball! And not a hunting!

Which is all to say, if you were to ask him later what he was thinking in this exact moment, he wouldn’t have a particularly good answer. Not only because he’d be wondering how you knew any of this happened, or why it was so important for you to know what was on his mind when Olesya was attacking his face with her face. Though those would also make answering. Difficult.

But if he had to say something? And he had enough time to get his thoughts in order?

It didn’t feel good. It didn’t feel right. And that was probably a bad thing.

“Heymmrph! Waimmmphh!!! Timerprrhhh! Outmmmmmmph!!!!”

There is. So much? So much. Wolfgirl. The muffled protests of her prey a deerboy can’t stop her. The frantic tap-tap-tap-taps on her…arm? Golly, her back is really far away, anyway, that can’t stop her either. And. So.

(His heartblade showed some aptitude for shifting shapes. Possibly because it was more shape than blade. And yet, it resisted the form of a bow. Not completely, mind you. And he did get close. But he never quite got the knack of it. Something about the shape was right, but too much about the shape was wrong.

That said. He learned how a bowstring longed to be gently released, allowed to fly free. He learned where to hold his arm so as not to bruise himself with every shot. He learned the height to aim, the time to breathe out, and the thrill of an arrow thudding near to the mark.

But most importantly, he learned what a novice archer ought to shout when an arrow doesn’t go where you thought it would.)

-smack!-

rings a flailing hand against her jacket.

“DOWN!”

rings the voice of the Golden Fawn.

[Spending a String on Olesya, because he wants her to stop, start over, and use her words instead of her face.]

Breathless Dead

Somewhere - he couldn’t remember where - he went from bounding after moonlight to dancing before a goddess. When the hunter stops, he stops. His head tilts one way, then the other. Twitch, twitch, flick go his ears. He hears nothing. He sees nothing.

The next steps of the hunt are his. It is the way of things. He turns where he is led. He creak, creak, creaks, closer, knowing nothing. He stops, by Her side.

There has not been a sacred stag for many, many years, so Dolce of Beri will have to do.

“Th. T. Thhhh. There. I-is.” Breathe. Bite back all frustration. Please, Mistress of the Hunt. Bear with his broken tongue. They are the first words he has spoken since the foul march began. “Is. There, necessary…play?”

Obediently, he waits by her side. Obediently, he listens.

Return to Thellamie

He would really like that cup of tea now please. On account of his throat forgetting it wasn’t a desert.

Frankly, it is a clerical error on an unimaginable scale that Hazel Valentine Fletcher should even be sitting before the Khatun, much less talking to her, and don’t get him started about her talking about him. To him. The cold, iron fist of the Khaganate, now that, that he could wrap his head around. At least then he could be angry, and afraid, and feel like standing up to her was the right thing to do.

Now.

Prince?

Now?

Khatun?

Now,

Clever, prince?

(Khagan?!)

it’s getting tricky.

The shawl’s too hot. The shawl’s too prickly. They’re too close to the fires. There’s too many fires. There’s too much quiet. There’s too little sense. The tiara doesn’t fit. The teacup’s still empty. There’s nobody between him and the Khatun. There’s several twisting hallways, very big sluzhankas, and very big huntresses between him and the exit. The charm is right where he left it; beneath the shawl, pressing against his shoulder. He doesn’t know what he’d say. Only that he’d have to say it quickly.

She’s still looking.

She’s still waiting.

“Thank you, Khatun. I appreciate the help and also not being rolled up in a carpet.”

He doesn’t laugh. You don’t react when you do something silly. You do not pull a face unless the audience is right. You do not look away you do not look away you do not look away you do not look away you do not

“Though, to be clear, there won’t be any competing outside of the contests, for anybody. I’m, not saying any of your hospitality is meant to be competing. I haven’t taken it that way at all. Really, it’s been nice to rest after all the running around. But if there is to be any helping, it has to be done in the contests. Thellamie needs a Queen, but I don’t want it tearing itself apart to get one.”

The steam builds. The whistle rises higher, ever higher.

”I just wanted to tell you, up front, in case of…carpets. And if you hadn’t heard already. Avoid any misunderstandings.”

The flush builds. The red rises higher, ever higher.

[Oh no it’s a conversation now and that means it’s Friendly Benefits: The Khatun takes a String, and says one thing she finds attractive about clever, clever Hazel.]

Return to Thellamie

The world’s turned big on him. That’s the only reasonable explanation. Somewhere, in the time between falling asleep, and waking up, they’ve gone and scaled up the world and left him out of it. Check the tapes, you’ll see. Tents were never supposed to be this big.

It’s like…it’s like the one time he took a train, and stepped out into a grand station, and while his folks were figuring out where to go next, all he could do was stare up, up, up at the ceiling. All this space? All this space. Enclosed in one giant room. One giant room, that little him was standing in, when space this big was made for, for, how big was an X-wing? Would one of those fit in here?

No spaceships in this tent. Just wolves. Appropriately-sized wolves. Looming over what had been an appropriately-sized deer, and his inappropriately-sized shawl. He fights the urge to tug it closed. Again. Not that it would help. This shawl was cursed, somehow both entirely too big for him and also impossible to close over his chest. Juniper hadn’t covered it, but he was pretty sure that would be a rude thing to do in front of the Khatun.

(He doesn’t realize the effect. With the shawl tugged in as tightly as he can manage, you can’t see the neckline of the shirt at all. If you forget about the bit around his waist, it looks like he’s not wearing a shirt at all.)

Speaking of things that would be rude to do in front of the Khatun, here is a collection of things he also does not do: Squeak, jump, stare slack-jawed, or make any face that is not perfectly still and polite hold that poker face with your life, Hazel! Speaking of things that Juniper hadn’t covered but he still had a pretty good idea of: Khatun?!?!

That’d mean him

And, her?

Her. Her? All of, her? That her?

And him?!

(His place)

That’s! Bold!

Golly, a cup of tea would come in handy right now. Lots of things you can do with a cup of tea. Hold it. Sip it. Look at it. Sip it some more. Good stuff, good stuff. But he doesn’t reach for one, oh no. Not because Juniper told him that the Khatun must take hers first. Well, she did, and he did remember that. Or, rather, he was so ready to not take the tea first that he’s got that game plan, ready to go, as all the fluttering, dizzying heat in his body scampers to a pit in his stomach to hide away. Silent. Shaking. (Still fluttering. Somehow.)

Hazel opens his mouth. Respectfully.

“I…can’t say for sure that I do, Khatun,” and he got the pronunciation right. He’s practiced. “Which is to say, it is still very early; I don’t know everyone who will be competing yet. I think it wouldn’t be a very good contest if I had already picked out a winner.”

(He knows why he is here.

He knows he will have to tread very, very lightly, Or Else.)

Breathless Dead

The Starsong believed there was a mystery in music.

Journey to a hundred hundred planets. Meet a hundred hundred worlds, of all shapes and sizes. Grown with forgotten intent or thrown together by nameless fate. The mountaintop with room only for one or a sea of life flowing beneath the ground. One house. An entire city.

It doesn’t matter. There will be music there. There will be room, in the audience or the players. There will be a song from the stars - even if it is only one - that finds a new home. But this is only part of the mystery.

In the court of the Dead God, there is music. Music to draw a sheep out of himself, his hurt, and higher still.

Atop the creaking floorboards, there is room. Room for even the Mistress of the Hunt to play. A chef from Beri is a rounding error.

Between the notes from Olympus, there weaves a song from the stars. Plucked from a dream, dancing after a goddess, softly ringing from bells in curls.

Together, they build it a new home.

[Rolling to Speak Softly with Artemis: 6 + 3 + 3 = 12. What song is in your heart?]

Return to Thellamie

(A boy cannot escape a thorough education on all the exciting aspects of a girl, and the sorts of clothes one might wear to make them even more exciting. He will be raised by his family, surrounded by his friends, and bombarded by advertising. One of them is bound to do the job eventually. Thus warned, he will be fully equipped to avoid the sight of them at all costs, lest he become. You know. One of Those Guys. Everybody hates Those Guys. Ask anyone. All for the rest of his days he will perfect the skills necessary to survive in this world. The delicate art of never looking another soul in the eyes while walking through the mall. The lightning reflexes to outdraw the annoyingly risque commercial and change the channel.

Sound, though.

Ears can neither be averted nor directed. Sounds just. Happen. You can hear them. Even if you aren’t listening for them. You’ll keep hearing them, like it or not, until you or the sound goes away.

How is a boy supposed to deal with sounds?)

“Right.”

(Right. Shoot. She’s not one for big goofs. Dial it back, Hazel. Dial it back.)

“Juniper told me…” Blink. Stare. Up. “That is, Juniper, and Yuki both told me-” A foxgirl makes. A noise. There is a groan low, low in a girl’s throat. “Um. They told me about the Khatun. A lot. Stories, and things.” Muffled. And then, laughter. Delighted. Savoring. “Which is to say, I had thought it would be…neat, to get the chance to see her, sometime. While I’m here. You know.” Someone is losing. Someone is clutching to their senses for all they are worth. And they are losing. “Which is really, to say, that I never,” Losing. “Would have,” Falling. “Like this, expected. I mean.” Bit. By. Bit.

Hazel grips his short shorts. Hazel’s burning ears flop uselessly. Hazel looks up, and is met by a solid wall of wolfish muscle, and he remembers he stil needs to look Up.

“...you wouldn’t happen to have any spare clothes I could wear, would you?”

His voice cracks at the worst possible moment.

[Rolling to Entice Olesya: 1 + 4 + 1 = 6! Uh oh!]

Breathless Dead

What makes Dolce drag his shivering body one step deeper into Hell? What does he think of when a goddess approaches? Is it love in his heart when he stays locked in formation while his friend struggles to speak, to stand?

Is it Nothing?

Ask him later. He's too full now to give a proper answer. Ash and reeking. Screams and blasphemy. The tattered remains of the plan. They must stay here. They must stay here. They must stay here, and he is too full to say how they will do it. He is too full to answer. Nothing comes together. Nothing grows. Nothing is worth the knife.

Dolce does not answer.

Dolce takes one step deeper into Hell, following after the wolf who had so much more than Nothing.

Return to Thellamie

Pumpkin spice is pretty good! It's not his favorite flavor, but still, pretty good! It helps a lot that there's really only one season for it, so you don't have many chances to get tired of it. It's a special treat for autumn times, a good companion to chillier days.

That said, there are a lot of situations where pumpkin spice is a bit unnecessary? It works sometimes! Pumpkin spice Oreos are incredible, and make for an amazing cheesecake crust. But curiosities driven him to try a couple of cereals with limited edition pumpkin spice flavors, and every time he has visions of tasty spiced goodness, and every time he only tastes disappointment. It's like they were more concerned with having the seasonal flavor rather than actually doing a good, respectable cereal flavor. So, that's put him a little on guard over the stuff. It's intriguing whenever he sees it, but ohhhhhhh he's been burned before. Curiosity can only overcome so many scars.

*************************

Hazel opens a chest full of bras.

Hazel closes a chest full of bras.

Where is Juniper right now? Somewhere past a line of hanging dresses. She said she was going to try and find some jewelry, if it hadn't been given to another sluzhanka already. The delicate clink of metal jostling around mingles with the rain patterning against the tent. Juniper is not here. Juniper is not getting closer.

Hazel silently rises, takes two steps back from the chest, and freezes mid-stride. His weight rests forward. He can walk to the chest again at a moment's notice, and anyone who finds him here will think he hasn't opened the chest yet. Hopefully.

Hazel closes his eyes. Takes a deep breath in. Exhales, slowly.

Bras.

He forgot that bras were clothing too.

Didn't even occur to him. There were about 15 bajillion styles of dresses, shirts, skirts, shorts, pants, blouses, petticoats, and he's not sure if he's used all those terms correctly, but he's definitely seen most of them. At no point had he considered anything other than outerwear. Unless socks counted, but these were very outer-y socks they were talking about.

So. Bras.

Letting the two of them decide was out of the question. Completely against the spirit of this big game of Make Believe. Olesya would never approve. Also, letting Keli and Seli pick their own bras would end up with them picking something they could stash a rope, smoke bomb, and/or a spare handkerchief into. That would not end well. For anybody. (Probably mostly him.) So he has to pick something for them. Hazel Valentine Fletcher needs to tell two foxgirls which bras he would like them to wear. Information that will certainly convey no additional intent or meaning whatsoever. Cool cool cool cool cool cool awesome and cool.

Unless? Unless! Unless he let them keep whatever they were wearing right now! Yes! He wouldn't even have to raise the topic. If he hands them new clothes without handing them new bras, they might not realize that he even had the option to pick some out for them! There we go, problem solved, easy game, easy life.

Hazel turns about and walks away.

Hazel slows to a stop.

…were they wearing bras?

That. Hrm. That, is a very good question. Was there a way to tell? You know, without them directly telling you, while winking and waggling their eyebrows. Nevermind whether or not this sort of thing happens often; this is about Keli and Seli, who have gone bra-less at least once in their lives, because they are Keli and Seli. The possibility is there. Or, maybe, did it depend on the outfit? Were there outfits where certain structural properties of a top made a bra unnecessary? Like, swimsuits. This definitely isn't a swimsuit situation, but the point stands. Unless those dancer outfits were close enough to swimsuits to count.

It's tough going, contemplating complicated clothing concepts in a world without Wikipedia. (Or the concept of a browser history.) Suppose there is a way to tell. Suppose it's a way that everyone knows, except him. Suppose he gives them a set of clothes, and they all look at him funny, and Juniper says how daring It is of him to forgo the bras. While Keli and Seli wink/waggle at him. It's bad enough, thinking of the message you're sending with a choice. But is it worse than the message you could send without realizing it?

The rain falls. Jewelry jingles lightly.

A chest’s hinge creaks.

“Juniper?”

She finds him standing far, far away from The Chest. He hands her a selection of chaste, functional bras in a variety of colors. “Could you pick one out for each of them? Please?”

Because of course he can't pick them himself. Of course he would never pick anything remotely risque. He should get a gold star for achieving this much on his own. What, did you think he would emerge from the Seigalamu’s pile of plunder with lingerie? Or nothing at all?

Really. Imagine Hazel Valentine Fletcher knowing that a missing bra could be scandalous.

Where would he even have learned such a thing?

Juniper takes the multicolored bundle from him with ease. “Of course, oh honored guest. Were you having trouble deciding?~”

“Yes! Because I don't know their sizes! And also! I don't know how color coordination works!”

“Do you need help picking their panties too?~”

“Whatever they're wearing is fine!!!”

*************************

The final outfits are a clever little idea. If these two like their performance outfits so much, why not carry on with the theme?

Seigalamu dancers favor sweeping dresses, with sharp lines, bright colors, and dangling sleeves. And tassels. Many, many tassels. The sort of thing that does not fight the wind, but flows with it. The dresses with the diaphanous sleeves, those were a good find.

“Now, I know how excited they were to be unveiled,” and he is understanding, but firm, in his scolding. “But those veils are their signature. Anyone who hears the names Keli and Seli sees a pair of veils. How is anybody going to know who they are if they can see their faces?” (He's proud of that bit of goofball logic. It's hard not to smile and ruin the delivery.) “It would be terribly rude to squander the infamy of the sluzhanka you've given me, Bagyum Olesya.” And he bows, at just the correct level of respect, just like Juniper showed him.