finally jarred something loose in me today with dndfic. sprinted with kei afterwards, wrote 423 words where i'd been able to do zero for months, and decided to finally start pulling endgame bits from my doc full of fragments.
A bright spark of blue bleeds into the shaft of the last arrow, jumping eagerly from his fingers to sink into slim, straight wood, sinking into the soft, rich earth to bury itself into the arrowhead. Energy hums warmly along his arm for just a second longer, and the sensation fades along with the last whispered words of the spell.
Erlkazar keeps a tight hold on their borders. Even camped just on the other side it’s unlikely they’ll come to harm, but habits are hard to break. The forest and mountains around him are full of life, trees sheltering so many bright sparks.
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“You’re distracted,” Jolyon says, apropos of absolutely nothing.
Uldren jumps like he’s touched an Arc charge and goes back to his binoculars so fast, he might end up with a bruise on his nose for it.
“I wasn’t,” he says, much more coolly than he feels.
Jolyon snorts quietly.
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Ada is warm, like porcelain left out under the late springtime sun. Her body hums quietly against Aunor, pliant, and Aunor feels so uncharacteristically drowsy, so deeply lulled towards indolence on a perfectly serviceable morning. Even the faint glow of the schematic Ada is restoring isn’t enough to kickstart her into action.
“Go back to sleep,” Ada murmurs, and her voice is fond and amused and a million other things that Aunor is too blissfully sleepy to pick apart.
“It’s Tuesday,” she replies, croaky and slurred in turn. “Got things to do.”
“They can wait,” Ada says patiently.
“Mmm. Maybe.”
Aunor pulls herself closer to Ada’s back, pressing bare thighs to the warm plating along Ada’s legs. The sleek tubing of her spinal relay is begging to be kissed and it’s the simplest thing to give in and press her lips to each of the bumps that houses all of the lovely vital things that make Ada who she is, but keeping count is hard– so hard— and Ada is so warm, and the faint grey skies filter in the softest light, and Aunor thinks, muzzily, that her reports can stand to wait an hour or two.
Osiris makes no noise as he transmats into this Lighthouse, and he is immediately assailed by Saint's booming voice; he sounds almost hoarse, like he's been shouting in glee for hours. He probably has. Sagira hums quietly.
Geppetto turns to blink at them, slowly, and Sagira tips her shell in greeting. Geppetto turns away, silently, eye glinting knowingly.
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Aunor ducks into the warrens lining the Annex, flexing her hand. The Aura is still active, buzzing around and through her, and she deeply resents how much she's come to enjoy this aposematic thrill. Fear me, written in iridescent green scales rippling across her shoulders; I hunt the enemies of humanity in Vanguard blue. Don't count yourself among them.
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Jolyon's fingertips graze the inside of his wrist. The touch is startlingly intimate, and Uldren looks at him in surprise before the touch turns into something more familiar.
time-query-amount, Jolyon taps in code. How long?
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Jolyon is awake the second Uldren slips back into their room. Uldren makes next to no noise as he strips off his cloak and boots and changes out of the rest of his armor, cutting a sharp silhouette against the dim, distant starlight that filters into the room. His skin is cool when he slides under the covers; his hands unerringly seeking out Jolyon’s waist; his lips ghosting a kiss over the nape of Jolyon’s neck, sending a warm burst of sparks over his skin.
“Well?” Jolyon asks.
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Ikora steps into the Hanger, losing herself to the hum and buzz of so many people and ships milling about, and the warm light spilling from the Gray Pigeon draws her immediately. Gold, purple, gray. Her heart swells. In the face of all the grief she’s lived through, the hope that rises in her chest at the sight each time tastes more and more beautiful.
The area in front of the Pigeon is unusually free of Guardians. Ikora is returning Amanda’s greeting, her smile bright as ever and her hands dark with grease, when a huddled pair of Guardians walks past her, heads bent, grins broad. They both pause to flash her a quick wave before diving back into their gleeful, quiet whispers and heading back towards the Courtyard.
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Shin makes sure his footsteps make no noise on the frost that carpets the Derelict. It’s colder than usual.
It’s not often that he’s caught Drifter asleep like this. Drifter is, generally, far too paranoid to not be instantly woken if someone moves within half a mile of him, though a small part of Shin’s traitorous mind notes that Drifter doesn’t seem to mind falling asleep with Shin around.
The culprit of the colder-than-usual environment is laid out on a workbench splattered with grease and radiolarian acid burns: one of Drifter's containment units. He'd been grumbling about some malfunction last Shin had seen him.
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“Jolyon,” the Master of Crows purrs in a tone that Jolyon knows from experience means danger, “bet you I can catch the cartridge.”
The Supremacy booms. Across the frigid slush fields of Ceres, a lone Vandal scout stumbles and falls, lost to an environment not even the Great Machine was able to fully tame. The cartridge sails through the pitifully thin air, and the dark leather of Uldren’s glove blurs as he moves. He doesn’t open his hand.
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He’s never had much interest in psychology. The study of inner – there’s no sense in it for him, not when the bounty reaped of fields encompassing outer is so much sweeter. He holds time and space in his hands and exists outside them both. Were he any more arrogant, he’d compare himself to a god. One of thousands roaming this system, but a god nonetheless.
But this – this makes him think that there might be some truth to ancient, discredited theories of stages and spirals.
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“I have a report on progress in the Botza district,” Aunor announces, heat whirling around her as she comes to a stop precisely five feet shy of Ada. There’s a thunderous expression on her face, eyes bright like forge-hot metal. She’s come here spoiling for a fight she hadn’t gotten somewhere else, that much is clear. Ada will not give her one. She lifts her chin and folds her hands together.
“Then by all means, deliver it,” she replies coolly.
( Read more... )
cw: blood, minor injury
"You Hunters are all alike," Drifter says, as Shin walks up to the massive skull in the corner, his leer matching that bare grinning maw. "Always drawn to the sharpest thing in the room."
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The rain falls and rises and flows eastwest northsouth, and Jolyon feels each drop roll off the soft thick foliage and onto his skin, under his neckline, tracing veins that run down his wrist and under his glove. He shrinks away from the electric heat. Uldren tips his face up and lets it course over him.
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Drifter’s laughing so hard, he might actually be crying. He’s bent double over the railing, laughter wrenched from deep in his gut echoing discordantly through the Derelict.
Shin fumes.
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The rain falls, bitter and acidic, cutting through the sinking acrid air that hangs heavy over the Wall. Saint helps the last Hunter to his feet and sends him stumbling back towards the City with a nudge of Light, his Ghost blinking slowly at him in gratitude. Smoke and steam slink across the ground together, the rain coaxing the latter out, pushing the former away.
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while i'm at it with year-end things, time for numbers!
word count for posted works: 38,162
as far as unposted writings, i'm not 100% sure on my word count – from a cursory look through my docs full of fragments, i've got 20,062 words, 14,131 of which is in my working doc for S11 au. so all together, about 58k words written this year! which feels like both A Lot and Not.
works published this year:
i did this over on twitter, but i wanted to expand on some of these answers as i crosspost so here we go! original post via tumblr.
( onwards! )
