#PennedPossibilities 311 — What is a memory that makes your SC swell with pride?
That armor. The black dragon armor, light as an autumn breeze. The last who owned it, legends say, a million died to take it away from her, but failed in the end.
She gave it to me: The ruler of the world, the most powerful thaumaturge alive. I was the one who nearly killed her, when we fought for our lives incidentally breaking the Curse of Harmony upon her.
I didn't break the curse but was the one who nearly killed her. Yet...
My friend—whose life I saved by pushing her out of the way of a plasma bolt and getting my flank burnt as a result—reminded me of the legend. Made me test the magic, which let me fly like an arrow and loop and dodge more agilely than a sparrow. She added, "She told me it's the first time anyone's got that close in a century. It's a bribe, you know, A loan. She wants you to work for her. You impressed her. "
#PennedPossibilities 310 — MC or SC POV: What was your favorite day or holiday when you were a child? Favorite Day Remembrance CW: Sad.
Why are you making me remember this now? My favorite day? When I was a child? It was /that/ day, each time Mom returned home. She would sing to me, but she belonged to the world, the theatre, to the concert hall. Plenty of her albums proclaimed that. "Midnight, the Voice and the Heart of the Nation." Those albums, they're all I really have of her. She wasn't one for family pictures. Or family. It's why I can't listen to them any more, and walk out of restaurants when any of her show tunes play.
I do sing her songs in the shower, unthinkingly. My roommate doesn't know who I really am, but she's told me my voice is just like hers. Stupid memory. Stupid reflexes.
I remember being /so happy/ when she'd return home. She'd sing to me, but wasn't at all "hands on." She'd sing and she'd listen to me telling all the things that happened that day with friends and nannies—always with a smile, but I was always on the floor or in my bed or in someone else's lap. Her manager—with whom I share my hair color and skin color so he likely fathered me—would hold me while she sang sometimes. He'd read to me. He'd call me his little tomato, since that was the hair color we shared.
I remember the pair once laughing after I'd been put to bed, not sleeping. I'd peeked through a barely opened door to see. /Him/ she held.
I loved them both.
You've made me remember. Are you happy now? How many times could it have been that I remember her returning? A few dozen? They died before I was five, and now I remember /that,/ too.
[That's the Aurora Midnight, the devil girl from the Reluctance stories. Author retains copyright (c)2024 R.S.]
#WordWeavers 2405.10 — Antagonist POV: What do you like the most about yourself?
[A short tootfic. Likely canon. Her Highness speaking. From /Inklings:/]
My jaw almost dropped at the shear gall of the question, but the Midlands plenipotentiary was, if anything, expert at being jovial. His smile was disarming. He was a diplomat. I didn't gape, but put the tea cup down carefully.
"You're referring to the dragon incident, aren't you?"
He nodded. He plunked a couple lumps of brown sugar in his tea, stirring. It accounted for his corpulence, something rare amongst his gaunt brethren who spent much of their day running on forest paths. He'd made it from the Midlands in just weeks, on horseback I guessed. Poor horse. "It's on everyone's tongue. You'd mobilized the militia. Detailed reports hit the Forest Ridge High Tower as if carried by a thunderstorm."
He was making sure I knew "people" kept him well informed, and that my military wasn't what interested him. Much, anyway. I sighed, crossing my legs as I sat back.
I'd mobilized the best and most radiant of my magic users. None could best me, but we expected to face a wyvern the size of my in-town mansion. It had burnt up part of the Fell Woods. A good thing, thinking about that unassailable haven for monsters and wild beasts. Then it attacked a farm.
"The attack on the farm was an accident," I said off-handedly, steepling my fingers.
He paused. Blue eyes speared me. I'd never announced the details of what happened because if I made them official rather than rumor, the public might panic. Nobody died.
The Midlands ought know, I decided then and there. It'd be to my advantage. I'd let him decide the implications. "The grain silo had a moisture problem. It had started to ferment. Who would have thought a dragon might like beer?"
He chuckled, then, "You're serious? You know this? /How?"/ He put down his tea cup with a loud clink, spilling some of the reddish liquor.
I'd rode in with an elite company of my army, through a wood arch that proclaimed "Cornfeld," into a farm yard. I'd been ready to use my radiance to repel fire; dragons of all shapes breathed fire. My troops had the best spears, but it had been centuries since anyone had needed weapons against dragon scale. Would newiron even work? Drowning the beast by swirling airborne the farm's pond was almost our best offense, if the magical beast decided to fight. I knew they disliked fighting. I hoped that I had that much correct. If I had to resort to radiant kinesis to heave rock from a stone fence, it might decide to retaliate against my Townships—if I failed.
What I found was a half-naked girl, barely a woman though very tall, mollifying a distraught farmer and mediating with a red dragon who looked to be hanging on her every word. I could tell this, even though the dragon had the form of a giant bat.
Apparently, with her mediation, both parties were apologizing to each other!
Worse, though covered with mud and ash, visibly scarred, the young woman was devastatingly beautiful. The type of beautiful that made a seasoned and well worn woman like me think of a different kind of bedmate. I wasn't a man...
Wintereyes was her name. She had befriended a dragon.
Innocent and kind.
And immeasurably dangerous.
The ingénue now attended my magic university, despite being uncomfortable around people and wearing clothing. Learning to be human. One of mine.
I said, "What I like about myself is that I know when to fight and when to make friends."
The main antagonist. This is the person she once considered as the person who ruined her life. She once worked for someone whose stated goal was assassinating her, and didn't care if they succeeded. For the last few months, the MC lived in a roommate situation that made them neighbors. Her roommate was being trained by the main antagonist, but also had a bad relationship with her. Their proximity was always a background tension in the story. In the current story, the MC is now working for the main antagonist and understands the MA's "evil" reasons better, but still dislikes her. The MC could ask for her own suite, free of charge, in the same building but is planning on taking her new salary to live elsewhere.
#WordWeavers 2405.02 — What are your MC’s living conditions like? Are they better or worse than average?
Wow, this question! A bit of background: I wrote the original novella, then wrote a prequel novel based on the history in the first story, then retconned the novella, worsened the situation and followed it with new events to make it a novel, /then/ wrote the sequel. It's her life story, now.
In this last story, the answer to this question is the running joke. The new work takes place over three days. She starts having been living with a fellow student, an ever-seeking-male-companionship elite who months ago offered her a free roommate situation—so long as the MC slept with her in the same bed (and her new roommate only sleeps well being held). The next day it's the couch after the MC is reunited with a former coworker (bodyguard) whom she introduces to her elite roommate. They hit it off. Noisily. All night long! The next night, not wanting a repeat performance, she connives to spend a (satisfying) night with her new boyfriend in "palatial" digs in the Residency where the main antagonist lives, but is currently out on a military adventure. Having reconciled with a childhood friend, the subsequent night she ends up on his bed, in a Residency guest suite, sleeping with him and a pile of thaumaturgy books they nerded out over. She regrets not having had more fun with him, but he's too sweet and obviously not ready for that. The next day, she's fighting for her life in a hospital.
Her living conditions are way above average, arguably superior.
Previous Living Conditions
Born in a nice house in an obscure village
Raised in a newly built mansion for a newly titled elite (her)
Homeless for months, having run away, living in encampments and wandering the east coast
Big city hostel for over a year
Gangland trainer's nice apartment with separate beds
Boarding house with aspects of a brothel, where she must defend herself
Leased a one room dance studio where she sleeps on a mat between a wall of open windows and a wall of mirrors, having no need of further furniture
A series of high line hotel and mansion rooms owned the Doña she works for
As for the homelessness, she was moving around without money while hiding her identity, and rarely stayed long. The worst was trying to sleep under eaves in the city during storms; she didn't always have a tent. Regardless, it qualifies as below average living conditions for a total of about a year. It did focus her like of asceticism.
#WordWeavers 2405.01 — Introduce your setting as if it’s a character in your story.
[/Well, I decided to jump ahead in the WiP and write what might be the start of the next chapter. The title may be named:You Have Mail. Pardon the Dickensian texture; this is a first draft. —RS/]
I never expected a human habitation to feel as protective as my dorm room did. Sure, my lodgepole tent protected me through the blizzardy winters in the Fell Wood, as it did the wolf pack that had adopted me. I provided the tent, though. I repaired it, stored it, and raised it year after year. I maintained the cooking fire for all the wolves and cubs. It was I who was being protective, not it—or so it felt.
My dorm room wanted me to know that for the next few years, at least, it existed solely to protect /me,/ to comfort /me./ Increasingly, it did so as I added memories. Mother Wolf and I used one of the two small beds, the left one, piled with fuzzy brown blankets as needed or clothed with luxurious white cotton sheets that felt cool against cheek or jowl. Since I was tasked with the cleaning instead of the dorm servants, my room smelled of us, faintly of yeast, sweat, and a wolf that occasionally hunted rabbits but favored the cafeteria's pasture-beast stew.
The little red iron stove kept us warm through winter; the room's wood panel walls kept us shaded from the hot summer sun. It lovingly provided a rare enclosure—almost like walking within the orange and white rock walls of the slot canyons of the south woods—creating a remarkable silence in a land of noisy humans and huffing machines. This and its soft radiant cloud-light ceiling made me feel... what? Swaddled? Like being /home,/ as my parents would have used the word back on the farm when I was a child. My spirit books, fashion magazines, and papers cluttered the worn ink-stained blond pine desk. I ran my bare feet over the oval tapestry rug letting the patterns of wands and dryad trees caress my toes. My skin stuck to the cushy tan leather chair as I stood, but I knew that was it hugging me.
Situated to the rear of the building on the first floor, the casement window at the end of the rectangular space opened to the clay roof of a shed. Crisp autumn breezes fluttered the gauzy drapes as I looked out at the barrier forest beyond the stables, lit by the setting sun. The window conveniently allowed Mother Wolf to jump up, as she did right now, and clatter into the room as she pleased. She greeted me with an ever-wet red tongue on my face and backside. (A white wolf opening the front door of the women's dorm, with a key in her mouth, and walking in always frightened at least one student or professor. People called me their Wild Woman, but still never got used to the implications of the name.)
Best of all, as the special guest of Her Highness, nobody dared inspect my room. Everyone knocked, no exceptions. Wolf inside, right? Framed pictures of my boyfriend hung suspended by single powder blue silk ribbons, and they were /very/ inappropriate. Looking at him warmed me deeply, reminding me of being /us,/ together—so I didn't care that my foolish "civilized" human brethren might think. People existed to enjoy themselves, regardless of what nosy people might say. This room supported me as I lived here, trapped in the Townships because circumstance required me to learn to be "more human" as Her Highness was fond of saying. My little supportive enclave encouraged me to be me, and allowed me to dress or not dress as I pleased behind its closed oaken door.
When the House Mother knocked, I simply threw on a dressing gown. I turned the pictures around before answering—to be respectful. It tickled me that she never asked why I always smiled when I opened the door.
#PennedPossibilities 282 — Are there any insignificant memories that stick with your SC to this day?
Well into my teens, I had made friends because by then the last and least of the chieftain's sons was not and was know never to rely on his status for anything. People thought me safe, and I earned my place amongst the fishers and the traders. It's the girl whose name translates to "the winged silver fish flying" who became my best pal, as the Endless Islanders use the term. We sailed together, fished, ate together when we were in the same village, occasionally explored the two volcanoes that make the eyes of Crab Island. Boy or girl, didn't make a difference to us. Strong, she was always trying to prove herself my equal in strength and courage. In the end, she proved more courageous.
That particular day... She put her hands on me, wanted what could be shared by becoming closer as boy and girl. Very close. I remember her yellow-brown eyes. Her smile, her kiss.
But also who I was. The throwaway son of the chieftain, but his nonetheless. Yes, Islanders can't marry unless she's pregnant and we knew how to prevent that. We agreed, not ready. But it's not 100%, never could be.
If we had had a child... If it were known we loved one another... With what would happen after my father was murdered, it would not have been simple worry for her safety during succession as Mother had taught me, but that she'd be a hostage—or killed.
That day, I said "No." We'd never discover if it were love. We both cried.
That "No" comes back to me every time I meet women, especially exiled in the Endless Island where I feel guilty that I'm safe.
#Writever 2404.01 — Time
[/Apologizing ahead of time. —R.S./]
"Are you sure using /Unlock/ on his door— what?" Céline said, getting her first look inside the centuries old Montpellier townhouse. Dust coated everything in the foyer, and the apples in the crystal bowl on the Art Deco console looked like shrunken heads. An orange was covered in blue-green and the dried soup might have been a banana. Little flies and a cloud of spore swarmed up in the gust of air when Béatrice shut the door.
Celine covered her mouth with a kerchief as they walked around the rat droppings on the red Persian rug toward the stair. She added, "So, Risgold died?"
"Not exactly..." Béatrice's voice trailed off.
"Well, I'll miss the old fart; was missing him is why I mentioned it at the Sorcerer's Club. Always good for chuckle, his misinterpreting things in spells." They descended the stairs.
"Yeah. Always discovering the unexpected by accident—"
"Needing us to point it out. Why are we going to the servants quarters?"
"He lived alone, so he cooked."
"Ah. Of course—"
Béatrice sped ahead. She held out an arm to stop her from entering the kitchen. The stately woman shook her head.
Céline groaned. "He is dead, isn't he?" She sniffed. "Something smells off."
"It's the icebox; he left it open. Please be careful. Open the door but don't enter. There's an active spell."
Céline nodded. With eccentric Risgold, it was /always/ a spell. These days, male sorcerers wore a business suit when working with customers, or jeans and a white t-shirt when they worked because they were comfortable and easier to clean. Risgold? Robes. Shades of the 17th century. His white hair wasn't a powdered wig, but at his age looked like one. He even used a finger flame to light women's cigarettes, the few that still smoked, anyway. Then there was his candles. He used them around his house instead of electricity.
The sconce beside the door held a melted down, drippy sample.
The door was a swinging door, the better for the servants to push open with a foot with filled trays for the upstairs. Béatrice had Céline pull it open, possibly because it kept Céline from reflexively stepping in...
Risgold looked up in the light of the ten candle chandelier, blue eyes sparkling in the dancing flames. "Ah!" he said, tugging on his long wizardly beard. "I'm glad you showed up. This is a half-recipe, but should prove plenty for all of us. It's really simple—" He squinted at the /Provence Cuisine/ cookbook he had propped up before him.
Céline's smile grew as she cried, "Risgold, it's so good to—"
Béatrice restrained her by grabbing her shoulder tightly. She pointed to this side and that. The icebox door stood open behind the old man, rotted meat on one shelf, a burst carton of milk having toppled itself to the floor. Inside of a sphere centered on Risgold, everything remained fresh. The chicken on the marble top. The sliced vegetables. The stock pot on the gas fire, bubbling and steaming. The man: very much alive.
Risgold looked up, his finger on the recipe book. "Just a minute. I'm trying to figure out what this means." He tapped the page with a finger, then grabbed his ebony wand. "Don't know how to measure 3 grams of time, but I can certainly add 3 minutes—" he finished, swishing it.
The flash was blinding. The next instant, the stock pot splashed as Risgold dropped cut potatoes into it, then returned to scrutinizing his recipe. In the space of three minutes, Risgold noticed his visitors, greeted them... grabbed his wand and swished it.
#PennedPossibilities 275 — If your MC could convey one last message to someone they have lost or left behind, what would it be? The Letter
Midnight sat at the table at the back of the jazz club, listening to the clarinet solo on the stage. You couldn't smoke inside, but the space still smelled faintly of smoke and... gardenia perfume today, for some reason. Cait handed her an Aperol Spritz in a martini glass and said, "Twenty minutes until your set."
The dark-skinned woman nodded, but as she put down the stemware with the icy orange liquid, she found a letter on the table. It was sealed with red wax. She put the drink aside and flipped the parchment-like envelope. The only writing was a faint image of a full moon almost completely obscured by a black cloud. The edges of the envelope were burnt. Recently. It was the smoke she smelled.
She blinked at it and stiffened.
The symbol /meant/ something. She just didn't remember why. Like how she woke on a sidewalk a decade and a half ago, with a broken skull and no memories, but knew things. This letter was for her.
She broke the seal and took out a thick card. The calligraphic letters weren't English. Crescents and blots that swamed in her vision until they aligned into words. She put down the card, gulped the champagne cocktail, then with a few breaths looked at it again. Her thoughts of the songs she would sing tonight vanished. Why was this here? Now that she'd found a life singing, and had met a man she could spend time with? She had no need of old memories that had refused to come, no matter what the therapy.
She pushed the card across the table to the candle flickering in the red jar. It read:
/I was told to write it, to get it out of me, so I humored the silly little dragon. I don't remember your face anymore, and I avoid your records because it's too painful to have lost you. Nothing went right after your disappearance. I later ran away from home, which made it worse. Nevertheless, at this point in my life, I can say I've done well. I've saved lives, I won a championship as a prizefighter, I've protected a city, and am making an alliance that may prevent a war. Through marriage. I don't believe I'm going through with— You might be a grandmother soon, were you here. I don't know where you are but, if this letter somehow gets to you, I hope it can bring you peace. I want you to know that the daughter you left behind has done well for herself. Maybe you can be proud of that. With love, Aurora./
The woman knocked over her her empty glass. The ice scattered on the tile floor. She knew that name. "Aurora." She remembered...
Cait, standing by the bar, looked as Midnight shot to her feet and said, "I'm going out for a cigarette."
"But you don't smoke—"
"I'm going to start!" she cried, rushing out, forgetting her purse but remembering... Other things.
#WordWeavers 2404.01 — MC POV: Write a Mastodon introduction post.
#Introduction I'm really new to the #Mastodon thing, but Her Highness told me I had to do this and taught me how. Everyone at school calls me their "Wild Woman," thus my @WildWomanOfFellWoods handle. I'm becoming used to that because it's true. I've lived amongst #wolves since I was 7 with the Blue Feathers pack, so I'll be posting lots of #wolf spark renders, like the one of Mother Wolf below. (Read the ALT text.) She's the third white wolf in that role because people live longer. I #hunt with #knives, but am learning #archery because I'm not yet a provider for the pack. I can't run as fast as they can, so I use my #knife once they've brought down the prey. My #gift is befriending #beasts. I can speak with them and they become smarter. I'm not sure if the effect is just on those beasts I've met, or if it spreads. If you've noticed wolves being smarter or more friendly to people, please private message me! If you want to. Not trying to impose. This goes with red #dragons. I befriended the one all over the news who burnt up the farm—and, no, she wasn't going to burn up the capital! She sneezed. Next to a grain silo. 😅 Nevertheless, if another shows up and turns out friendly, let me know! Sorry. I don't have any #dragon pictures. You can ask me about dragons, though. I also do #modeling, so you've probably seen me in a magazine. Yeah. I'm that #model. I won't post pictures, though, because I'd have to CW. But you can ask about that. I'm #shy so I don't do meet ups.
In the wands universe, it seems (so far) that the magic revolves around the concept of spirits and something quantifiable as "spirit." I don't fully understand it, yet, but semantically it is unlikely that working with radiant spirit is the same thing as being spiritual. If I know me, I'll certainly twist the word to encompass it anyway, to make the readers think about the topic. I'm writing /Inklings/ with Wintereyes as a prequel to another story I wrote for her where she encounters a god, but I found that story incomplete. Still... capital S Spiritual? I don't think so.
The devil-girl in the reluctance universe is a natural-born Buddhist in how she approaches life. She isn't spiritual, however. She just... /is/.
None of the current WiPs include the concept.
That said, I have written such characters in other novels. The /Walking Trees/ MC was that, on steroids. Many of the SCs in the balance universe were spiritual. Just nothing currently.
#PennedPossibilities 249 — MC POV: What is something you were insecure about when you were a child? Violation Physics, Six Blind People, and the Elephant
I've never told anybody this. I'm not even certain I can explain what it feels like to a throwback like you, but I'll try...
Imagine for a moment that you are paralyzed. You cannot move, but you've lived all these years somehow able to feed yourself and able to interact with the world with ease. You have friends, lovers. Somehow, it all works. It's normal. That's biology. That's physics. That's... reality. People have families, children, live their lives, die—/and they never move a muscle/.
Imagine the world being that way.
Yet, before I can remember, I'd learned to walk. It was immensely fun. I could lay back down, never move a muscle, and live a life just like you, /but why?/
Walking, when nobody else does... Wow! What an experience. Seeing colors after being blind.
Though nobody taught me how to walk, as far as I could remember, I had a friend, a boy, who could also walk. I stumbled a lot, but he'd explain to me the problems with my gait, how I placed my feet wrong, didn't flex my knee right... things like that, which allowed me to run like the wind. He could only walk, but it allowed us to play like nobody else could. I thought we were soulmates.
I was aware that a few other people could walk. They didn't help us. Adults weren't teaching us. I had a library full of things about /moving/. It was up to us to learn the big words, and together, with his help, we did.
At age 8, he left me. I felt betrayed. Worse, I could walk and run, but I knew I could sprint, jump, leap, pedal, swim, and so much more. Unfortunately, I needed help to understand that little bit I didn't get.
And...
Nobody would teach me. Adults would tutor me in /anything,/ and it seemed they tutored me in /everything./ Every waking hour. Of every single day. Except...
/Moving./
I was alone, with my books. I'd read about swimming, how to float, how to stroke with my arms and paddle with my legs. Yet, each time I'd enter a pool, I'd sink.
Drowning doesn't feel good.
Would I kill myself? Would I forget what I knew? Would I stop walking? Nobody else ever moved around me.
Without companionship, I ended up walking less, never running anymore. My muscles became noticeably weaker. I felt myself becoming paralyzed.
I needed to find someone who would teach me to walk before it was too late! I began to fear I'd forget the joy of movement under the deluge of /important/ lessons, the craziness of dealing with my body growing up, and the responsibilities of becoming an adult.
/That's why I ran away from home./
Walking. Mostly, it was about walking.
The ability to walk is what you'd call magic. Folding gravity, turning it dipolar, may look like magic, I suppose. What it feels like is too hard to explain...
#WordWeavers 2403.01 — Introduce yourself as if you were a character in your story. What would your role be?
Can my story be autobiographical?
My first recollection was looking up at a dashboard in a car. It was green, made of metal. My dad was driving, but I don't think there were seatbelts.
I don't remember much from those days because I acquired language late, and then it was French because Mom sent me to a Montessori. I don't remember French, so I don't remember much. Autism was a secret that ran in the family, though I wasn't as bad as Uncle who stayed home all day building houses with cardboard and tape.
My specialness would account for other factors when I grew up, and, oddly, lead me to becoming an author. I think I had little native understanding of people's behavior, less of their expressions. It led me to intensely studying them, learning to predict what they'd do as if my life depended on it.
It did. If I didn't get it right, bad things happened. Don't remember specifically what, but I'm sure of this. Not understanding the language, nor the people, made it hard to remember more than images.
My next recollections come from when I was 7 or 8. It was night and I was home alone, no lights on. Batman was on primetime (/POW! Zowie! Holy Guacamole!/). By the flickering light of the the TV, Chef Boyardee raviolis heated in the pot and smelled really good...
#WordWeavers 2402.21 — Is there a genre or type of story you’ll never write?
I interpret this as meaning "won't write" because it's something I have an emotional reason versus simply to "difficult to write" and "not worth the trouble." Sexually explicit or gratuitously violent are off the menu. I do write stories with a lot of tease and stage setting for the reader's imagination. I don't shy away from violence, sometimes graphic, if and only if it advances the plot or defines character. Anything else I'd consider given sufficient motivation.
#WordWeavers 2402.20 — How does your antagonist sleep?
Oh, very easily.
She's been killed and revived at least one time, as best she can remember. What she can remember that she's killed uncounted people, or caused them to die. It was for the sake of humanity, though. She's left encoded diaries in places because over centuries, she understands no one can help but forget most everything. Her experience lets her build back to gaining control because she has patience. She can wait for her competition to die while reinventing herself. In addition to being immortal, she can do one other trick no one else can do [spoilers], one she's taught no one else. In an untenable situation, people soon realize they shouldn't pressure her—it would be suicide.
#PennedPossibilities 227 — Is your SC receptive to warnings and advice given by others?
The SC I'm thinking of has made a lot of mistakes, ignoring warnings and advice given by others. Mind you, no one was ever on her side in her desires, even her parents. She paid for rash actions by becoming trapped in the mob, blackmailed. She wasted much of her twenties being a runner and a liaison with growers, working not to get into situations that might make her responsible for someone dying and having it pinned on her. Now that, thanks to the MC, things have changed, she's still willing to act on her gut, but she'll take advice, too. That's got her doing recon for a disastrously under-crewed museum-piece frigate. At least our flying friend is wearing good armor.
#WordWeavers 2402.11 — Share a scene that gave you lots of joy to write.
I take great joy in writing tracts that make people question what they they think they understand of their world, even if it makes them squirm. I just wrote this. It's a first draft, but it qualifies for this prompt. Wintereyes has lived the last ten of her 17 years living amongst and hunting with wolves, but is now attending school, forced to learn how to be human. She's visiting a solicitous boy's house...
I slipped off the shoes, and instead of putting on slippers, pulled off my long socks. I preferred barefoot, anyway. The less clothes I could get away with the better. I wriggled my toes, then looked left and up.
He stared down at me. I grabbed for the nearest sock.
"No, no," he said, down on his knees, grabbing my wrist even as I grabbed the sock. "Nothing's wrong."
We let go simultaneously, but his warmth and the pressure lingered. "I should have asked—"
"What? You weren't comfortable, and—" He laughed briefly. "The silly things I did when I first arrived on the Endless Island... Embarrassing— You did nothing wrong." He looked at me now. I blinked and looked away. "You're different—'
I sucked in a breath and reached for the socks and scooted the shoe back with a foot.
"—I like that. And you surprise me, how honest you are. I like that, too. And..."
Liked me? My eyes met his now, trying to figure out what he meant.
He finished, "It's not ink. It's a magic scar, I get that. You seem to want to hide it, them. Every woman I've met never forgets her blemishes, yet—" He pointed at my right ankle. "—I don't think you care if they're hidden at all."
"Should I?" I asked. The scar was the size of a circle of my thumb and forefingers. It looked like a half-eaten sunflower with bright yellow petals, a ripe bruised apricot with a dripping bite out of it, and a cracked open acorn with a brown cap and bits of tan meat left in the bronze cup. "Of course, " I admitted, "I know I should."
"You're honest about how you feel."
I blinked at him, not understanding. He looked at little confused, but I interpreted it as him being accepting. I crossed my right leg over my knee and took his left hand. I reached it to my scar.
He stopped breathing, but then touched. "It feels like an acorn!"
Yes. I knew most humans didn't let others touch them. Wolves I lived amongst did. Most social beasts did. Controlling the interaction, always.
And. I have a bad habit of stringing together clauses like a desperate child afraid to stop talking lest they be summarily cut off and sent to their room to contemplate their isolation. In a related bad habit, I tend to start follow on sentences with "and." It could be a single word sentence. It could act as a follow on clause from a previous sentence.
None of these are particularly bad, if used sparingly.
Technology and science wasn't magic, and Sharp Eye knew this more than ever. Five generations ago, Fleetmaster Running Talon had turned a portable cannon on his first Tyrannosaur, and ended their species rein of terror. Since that day, science and progress had ruled their world. Telescopes and the study of astronomy were unknown to her grandkin. The laws of orbital dynamics took a decade to render correctly, and her own grandmother had invented the slide math-relator that made verifying it all possible.
She lived in a world that promised her hatchlings steamships that could cross the Great Ocean between ports reliably, in days, because it need no sails. It offered /their/ hatchlings the possibility of powered flight using a lightweight heat engine. Literature discussed the not too fictional possibility of one day visiting the moon.
She ought have been happy with life and her grand future.
This wasn't the case. She turned the great telescopes with there photo capture plates toward the sky every night.
She'd found a streak.
Not a new planet. Something far smaller. Something far closer.
The rodent was very brazen outside the window. She'd been throwing the mammal bits of meat for the last month as she'd directed the telescopes, so of course he was. It chittered. With googly eyes, needle teeth, and the rotted smell of offal, the creature wiggled its pink nose and whiskers at her. It could see through a window! So smart. Its furry kind survived the freezing nights on the mountain, where despite her downy feathers, and a heavy parka, she could barely breathe the frigid night air. It burned her lungs.
She'd found a giant rock in space. A week later she confirmed it was two. The latest plate insisted she'd found a co-orbiting swarm, the biggest the size of a city or larger, the rest not that much smaller. Its mass made her think it was mostly iron-nickel. The length of the streaks on the plates grew smaller as the planet's gravity well influenced the orbit, sending it down on their heads.
Physics was physics. The ellipse calculations were irrefutable.
Between the constantly erupting volcano lands on the opposite side of the continent—which made sunset burn orange and purple, and sometimes caused snow to fall at the equator—and the dirt and dust that would be kicked out of the atmosphere by the meteor impact to rain down molten rock across the land, would it be that prolific mammal's descendants who'd inherit her decimated world?
Sharp Eye took a deep breath, inhaling the steam of her tea. The big question was: Did she announce her findings? While she had time?
Did it matter?
Who was she to break the world's ignorant bliss by announcing the inevitable? Fame didn't matter any more. How could it?
She sipped her tea and watched the soon to be victorious vermin nose through gravel, looking for roaches. She set the cup down, thinking how pleasant living only in the present was. She knew the future.
Then she thought, surely roaches would survive. Right?
(/Toy/, n. An object for an adult to play with, especially a gadget or machine.)
The shop door dinged sharply when I pushed inside. Quaint. A real brass bell, darkly tarnished. I smelled sandalwood incense. Everything was appointed in dark wood, from window frames to crown molding, with scattered green velvet chairs. The floor was oak parquet. Walking by you'd think it was an old-timey bookstore, a pricy one, had it also sold coffee.
It did not.
Dimly and comfortably lit, the illumination diffused unseen from the walls and ceiling. Asian pulps and read-onces stocked walnut bookshelves. Lines of garishly dressed and barely dressed anime figures filled locked glass cases. Some museum pieces reputedly dated back a century or more. You could be forgiven for thinking you entered a super premium anime and manga store.
On closer inspection, there were plenty of circuit cards and hard plastic parts for sale, all used and multiply repaired, securely preserved in vacuum seal bags. Assuming you were a low-res fanatic still into toying with old fashioned electronic compys, this shop fed your addictions, too.
It fed all your addictions, thus the shop's name. Further back, from whence an eldritch neon glow radiated, I spotted what I'd hoped for: The newest in liquid metal and automata.
I stepped in, avoiding an aisle with a sloppy greybeard elder who looked undecided between two stupid looking box fans dangling wires.
(/Toy/, v. To treat without being serious, especially in a superficially or tauntingly amorous way.)
I didn't make it to the rear before an android stepped up at the end of the aisle. /She/ smiled as I approached, liquid skin quickly flicking between various manga costumes worn by unusually voluptuous women, sometimes holding an unclothed bouncy shape in between changes. Once she was instead a fully featured male.
The android touched a palm to my chest, stopping me. "I am the latest model, COSPLAY 7C. I can be anything you desire."
I frowned and shook my head.
"Or /do/ anything you desire."
I rubbed the scraggly beard on my chin, deciding if I wanted to end the amusing show. I'd just left a business lunch and wore my tailored suit.
Maybe that was it? "I'm not here for your hard sell."
She frowned, transforming into a mid-thirties shopkeeper with her red hair in a flip, wearing an /Addictions Shop/ sweatshirt top, in green and brown, but nothing below. Her garment was barely long enough to hide her ample hips.
She said, "We have better priced models, like the 3A, which you can program to be a receptionist, a clerk, or a cutesy executive secretary." She touched her middle finger to her cheek, which dimpled when she grinned toothily.
(/Toy/, n. Denoting a diminutive or specific breed of creature.)
I shook my head. I pushed by her. She scooted around the counter to face me there. The glass case held a selection of the latest eVR games with animations running around the box, as well as helmets, gauntlet controllers, and paint-on liquid metal body suits.
The android noticed where my eyes darted and added, "The 7C can act as a body suit, and can walk with you inside, carrying you through the 3D world, allowing you to be—at first glance only because of Autome laws—anybody, any person, and functionally any gender. With a full sensorium access, even to genitalia—
"I'm a wage runner," I interrupted her. "I don't have that kind of money, and that's not what I'm here for." I reached into my suit jacket and brought out a holo. I placed it on a laser pad, saying, "An article on bugler.automations stated you do budget customs."
Illuminated, Freddy returned to life. A video recollection captured in the holo, anyway. The black and tan toy dachshund jumped up, yipping at the lens, tail spinning like a propeller. I blinked, but my eyes burned as always. The android clerk, of course, caught the sudden tear. I was willing to pay, in any case.
Pursing my lips, I said, "She died last week and, uh, my— son is heartbroken..."
The wind changed abruptly and it blew the smoke and flames out over Kill Lake. Let the long-necked flippered monster that always tried to tip over my raft, and the daggermouth fish that made swimming problematic, deal with the tarry grey clouds. I accounted for the change in wind direction as that the forest spirits had found it in themselves to stop feuding long enough work together, for once, lest fire consume their leafy homes. The relatively clean air allowed me to stop blinking with tears long enough to see and pad past embers, to close in on the source of the forest fire. Everything smelled like a campfire.
I heard hissing.
Burnt but not consumed birch hisses. It's moisture escaping the green wood through the enveloping bark.
Unexpectedly, I heard the arsonist before I saw her. She hissed, too. Canvas-like wings snapped closed, which made me look right, moonlight and fire combining to resolve shadow into deadly substance. Charcoal crunched under heavy weight. Branches hosting tiny flames, cracked and snapped.
Red pebbly skin glowed with a metallic sheen. The wyvern, the size of a small cottage, lumbered into view through the trees, walking on the knuckles of her wing claws and back legs. Her massive tail swished through burnt brambles, brushing them aside and throwing burning sparks in a spray skyward. The hiss sounded each time she exhaled. Her breath caught fire an arm length from her mouth.
I smelled kerosene.
One amber eye looked my direction, then both as she turned her lizard head my way. Her eyes were bright amber because spirit fire flickered inside those orbs. A snake's tongue briefly flicked out.
I did not know at that time the red dragon was a she. I did not yet know that the hiss and the fire were her trying to speak to me.
The wolves I lived amongst understood how I'd befriended them, why I lived amongst them, and how my gift made their cubs lives better. I'd shared my humanity with them in exchange for what made them wolves. Now, for the sake of the pack, and Fell Forest, they begged me to share my gift again.
I was part wolf, now. Part other beasts, too. It scared me to think how becoming part dragon would change me. Dragons weren't beasts; they were monsters. She would be my first monster. Wyvern eyes, set in her head like a predator, centered on me. She blinked. Like a bird, causing my breath to catch. Flames bluely flickered in the air between us—a deadly earnest warning not to do what I must.
I was part of the pack. I had to save them.
I understood one thing, however. The best way to handle misunderstandings, like incidentally burning down a neighbor's "home," was to talk matters out.
Only after that failed did you bite off part of the alpha's ear. The red dragon had no ears.
I walked into the open, elbow over my nose, coughing, stepping over smoking charcoal. I tightened the wet fabric over my mouth, hoping I could get close enough to use my gift before being incinerated.
"Someone explained to me that you were a prizefighter," the blue-winged day angel said unexpectedly. "Makes sense why you were such a good enforcer for the Boss." Bolt had been thoughtful the last block or so. Like the approaching clouds in the sky and hot rising humidity, I saw it coming on her face.
"He blackmailed me," I said, shrugging. "Fun work, though. You saw, I frightened people into paying. Acting crazy. Fists, sometimes." I cracked my knuckles. "Which was fun, too."
"Blackmailing you was his first mistake."
"And his last."
Bolt chuckled, but paced me, slightly in front, evaluating my expression. An ask? "I'm told you don't like dairy—"
/Okay. Where's this going?/ "Upsets my stomach—"
"—and rarely eat eggs. Just veggies. Even with beans and lentils, that's piss-poor low-grade protein for all the physical training you do daily."
I shrugged.
"No fish? Not pescatarian?" Arched brows. Her wings lifted, expectantly, feathers rustling in the breeze.
I studied her. Bolt was a new friend. I'd saved her during the sting operation to topple the Boss, from being shot by the constables—spiriting her away before they could arrest her, and me. The next day, she'd saved me from being blasted by a thaumaturge far stronger than me. I'd have been incinerated. She had healing burns all over her legs for her trouble. We'd both been used all our lives, and bonded over that, when it came down to it.
Yet... Someone had fed her misinformation about my diet. I suspected who. An old friend, a devil-boy who'd once worked for me, loyal to a fault. He had a crush on me, but was accepting my new boyfriend, not fighting it. For the time being, at least.
He was testing her.
I shrugged, just as my stomach growled, loudly, and my face warmed.
She pointed to the top of the building we walked under. "Just so happens, the best Fish & Fry pop-up in Home City is topside today on the terrace." Day angels "roosted," living on the top floors of buildings (or the canopies of forests, or on cliffs. Wings. Naturally.) The physical requirements of flight made them pescatarian. Devil girls and boys were never that strong. I was an exception. Prizefighter. For others, fish was yuck! Eyeballs, don't you know?
"Wanna try some fish?" she asked.
"Um..."
"Mackerel's got the crispiest, sweetest, lightest batter in existence. Shrimp, also. Broiled. Fried kippers and onions. It makes me drool, thinking about it."
I looked askance, waiting to see where she went with this, equivocating non-verbally.
"I'll fly you up! You'll love it."
"What makes you think so? I am no kind of angel."
"The extra protein will help your training, but I guarantee the taste will win you over. I'll even buy."
"Guaranteed, huh?" I stopped. Looked up. Counted fifteen stories. A lot of stairs. With a ride? /Let's test this!/ "Wanna make a bet?"
She sniffed the air. She pursed her lips. "Yeah, sure."
"I don't need money." I gave her a look, grinning, wanting to test her certainty, her resolve. "You kiss me." I would not force her to pay, of course.
She took a deep breath. She looked away, so I didn't know if she flushed. "I can do that. Deal!" She grabbed me around the chest before I could renege, under my armpits.
She hoisted me skyward. It was thaumaturgy: Gravity fields warped around us, playing with my inner ear as she flapped, manipulating them with her wings. A minute later, she set my feet on terracotta tile. The scent of fried food hit me. Super fresh oil. I heard the hiss of fryers, the clack of plates, and flatware tapping against earthenware. Day angels swarmed the vendors. I saw none but the feather folk. I captured every eye.
Of course, I /loved/ Fish & Fry. Kippers and onions, too. Everything she bought me.
Bolt said, smiling nonetheless, "Were holding out on me, weren't you?"
"Don't know who sold you that bridge, but they made a profit. This is as good as any place on the sea coast." I shivered. "Crispy. The perfect amount of oiliness. The homemade hot sauce... the right amount of malt vinegar and salt." I licked my fingers, my lips, then wiped with a tissue. "Thank you! As for our bet—"
In front of all the angels—who minutes ago had watched wondering if I'd turn green or upchuck—she kissed me. Not on the cheek, either. One of those tilting your head kisses. Deep. I—
Was she testing me?
I returned it, though I preferred devil boys, myself.
After a minute, when she decided she needed to breathe, I decided she wasn't a half bad kisser. Maybe she liked me? More than the being-grateful-for-saving-her part? We'd have to discuss, but she needed to buy me a second helping of the rice-battered shrimp, first!
Cats aren't necessarily cute, but kittens certainly were. My big sister held a basket of the squirming fuzzy creatures. Grey stripe tabbies, but one orange one with sparkling brown eyes. He liked to wrestle, then try to jump free to explore. Old enough to be taken into town and given away, it was why the footmen carried our two-seat litter so soon after the rain. Their playful mewing masked out the rustling of the forest, the slap of sandals on the wet road, and the splats and drips from tree branches on the canvas above us.
I tore off another sketch, balled up the paper, and tossed it out the curtains. I quickly drew the orange kitten again, roughing it in with charcoal, then filling in patches of color with orange, brown, and red chalk. I was well aware of Sister's eyes on me, but quickly forgot, caught up in the moment—
"What are you doing?"
I jerked the blue chalk I held, coloring the pillow under the kittens, slashing a dark line across the page, tearing the center. I growled in frustration, ripped out the page, and crumpled it angrily. "Drawing! You did that on purpose!"
She giggled.
Face warm, I threw the new paper wad, but hit the pink curtain. It bounced onto the tiny floor between us. The litter held two small chairs, with room enough for Father's and his bodyguard's knees between us. The bamboo construction was light enough for six to carry for a journey.
"No, that." She pointed at our feet as I bent over. I smelled her jasmine perfume, then got batted by the orange tabby on my forehead.
"Mew, maow!"
I touched my head, annoyed, thankful for finding no blood on my fingers. I could have stayed home, practicing my caligraphy, but no! Father had told Sister to bring me to the merchant's guild, today. I held up the paper.
"Yes, that."
I shook the ruined drawing. "This?" Orange followed it with his eyes. "Trash? I'm throwing it away. Not like we have room to leave it on the floor."
"Men are carrying us."
"So?" I asked. With a flourish, I pulled aside the drape and tossed it out.
"Ow," someone said, just as the kitten who'd been squaring and wriggling his hindquarters, pounced to follow his new cat toy.
The tabby sailed, or rather tumbled ungracefully, out into the open air—
Followed instantly by a thump and an, "Ow!"
Then by an outraged, "Rowrlll!"
Finally, following by slipping, and clunking and rattling the litter, and a final, "OW!"
Sis had jumped up, barely holding the kitten basket upright—as the litter tipped. Men shouted at each other, and we spun right as one after the other of the men lost balance and we fell. With a thump, I rolled through of the pink curtain, chalks flying, the fabric ripping as I slipped out. We missed the rock and mud road, but I tumbled onto the soggy late autumn leaves piled there. I soaked a moment later in a pool of cold water, essentially a dark tea steeped from yellow and brown oak leaves.
It stunk of rotting wood and algae.
The kitten batted his white cat toy until it hit my knee. He looked up, then jumped on my lap, making my pantaloons now both muddy with cat paws and wet. He gazed into my eyes with his caramel ones, as if saying, "Forgive me?"
I bit my lip. I may have snorted, not admitting it though.
Sister started laughing. Her long hair lay wet and limp on her shoulder. Mud streaked her blouse, but she grinned, then laughed some more. "I never thought I'd see it, but you look cute sitting there."
I growled.
[Litter of kittens, litter as in palanquin, litter as in littering, litter as in leaf litter. The kittens might be scratching the leaves at this point, so maybe also simply cat litter? 1hr. Author retains copyright (c)2024 RS.]
"Hey, Neko-chan!" Something soft and nerfy hit my forehead and I jumped up confused.
A yellow tom tilted his head at me, then said, "The Queen wants her crème. Chop-chop, otherwise, /chop chop!/" He leapt right and disappeared off the table top.
"What just happened?" I whispered, blinking, realizing quickly nothing I saw made sense. I sat on a colorful Catalina tile top café table, feeling drugged. Looking further, I saw dozens of tables but no other furniture.
Coffee houses had more than tables, right?
Elite cats with snooty noses in the air—Siamese, Persian, Abyssinian, Bengal, Egyptian Rex—sat on these tables, with little rose decorated porcelain bowls before them, tiny lace napkins beside them, and lumps of sugar and a milk pitcher at the center between them. Conversation ebbed and flowed, but sounded like a muffled prelude to a cat fight.
Beyond, I saw a bar. It was all dark wood, rounded, with a bright Catalina tile surface, appointed with brass. All domestics "manned" the espresso machine, washed dishes, and managed order slips: an American Shorthair and two Wirehairs. One operated the filter holder, banging out grounds; another poured into a blender. I watched them doing this, but still couldn't figure out how they did it with paws. They just did. My head wasn't working, though I apparently was working—waiting tables!
"Chop-chop!" called the yellow tom. My heart jumped into my throat. My head insisted there had to be furniture to sit on, but why if table tops were perfectly large enough? I looked over the edge of a three story drop to the tile floor and gulped, suddenly finding I couldn't move, as if I were paralyzed.
Worse, I realized I looked down at /paws./ I had a coat of light grey with dark grey stripes. With effort, as if pushing through molasses, I managed to brush one paw against the grain to feel how soft it— no, /I/ was.
This wasn't right...
Something softly patted my nose. I expected to hear "Chop-chop" and to see the tom. The world tilted. Seeing my fur, the table, and being patted all occurred in the same space of nonsense reality.
Pat-pat.
/Pat-pat./
/PAT-PAT!/
"Gah!" With a gasp, I opened my eyes. Mau-mau, our little Siamese sat there, blue eyes on me, paw pulled back, obviously wondering what happened. My right ear felt crushed against a hard surface. I'd lain my head on a table.
Mau-mau cautiously touched my nose.
"Sleeping on the job, again?" Alex, our busser asked.
I shot upright, causing Mau-mau to hiss and jump away. 3 PM weekdays, /Cat Café Plush/ was always dead. I glanced around to see our café chairs with green cushions had returned, as had the plates and silverware. A single patron sat on a green corduroy sofa, surrounded by cats vying for his warm lap. He had all our hosts and hostesses to himself.
I smelled the coffee, before Alex clacked down a double shot before me. "Sakura will be back any time. Wake up. Chop-chop!"
I smiled up at the blond guy. "Thanks."
"No problem."
I drank it with a spoon of turbinado sugar. I rubbed the fine hair on my wrist and thought about the three story drop from the table top and shivered.
Robson and Omar from the security detail stood to either side of Fenrisúlfr, side arms leveled despite the mortal wolf demigod being bound in glowing energy loops. Lightning flickered around him from the magic damper. The demigod could work miracles. One had deceived a nascent multi-planet government into allying with Rouge Star Traders LLC. This afternoon, his miracles lost me three crew.
A planetary defense force (PDF) corvette and a Rouge Superfrigate raced us to light speed. The lights on the bridge flickered. I grabbed the armrests of my chair before the gravity compensators failed momentarily toward port, jerking us that way. Robson grabbed a stanchion. Omar chose to fall with his charge, twisting to strike the demigod with elbows and knee, instead of the wall. Fenrisúlfr groaned.
The Rouge threw relativistic iron pellets at us, einsteined into the ten ton range, impossible to see, except as a gamma ray blip a few seconds out. Rouge trading money hired the best galactic thaumaturgists who produced gravity loops superior to most modern militaries.
"You see that?" I yelled, pointing at the tactical tank. Green lines marked our evasions; burnt-out orange firework trails, their targeting solutions.
Glowing amber eyes bore into me. The wolf winced. I'd have to write up the rib fracture. Geneva Convention allegation, training failures, etc. I added, "Tell me where you hid the Lug you stole and the PDF will stop the Rouge from killing us. You're mortal. I know it. You want to die?"
A growly voice said, "Your reputation proceeds you."
"You think /The Sakura/ is /lucky?/ We always escape? I lost two men and a woman today!"
"I see futures. Yours, Rin, are good."
"You let yourself get captured?"
We dodged three more relativistic misses before he shrugged, smiled, and nodded. I ground my teeth.
I touched the intercom. "Engineering? Mr. Thomas. Where's that boost you promised?"
"Um, Captain Sasaki, ma'am. About that?"
"What now?" I glared at the wolf warped by spirits and gods. It bared a fang in a grin.
"Remember that power failure?"
"The upper cargo holds?"
"Lost atmosphere in—"
"—the fuel compartments?"
"Aye, ma'am. The drive isn't happy."
I rubbed my temples. The relativistic drive used a miracle to violate physics. Ours contained an avatar of Nergal, the "Burner," the Babylonian god of the sun and wanton destruction. A dual drive and weapons system. The denatured lion god required live sacrifices: Tank-grown hyenas.
Hyenas. Resembled a wolf, right?
"Ms. Watanabe, you have the helm."
Engineering looked like a gate to hell. Thaumaturgy erected gravity folds and time discontinuities to protect the environmental pod of the ship from the thauma-mechanical superstructure. The metal walls aft glowed dull red. A doorway opened into a lava-filled volcanic "host" chamber. Refrigeration like a winter gale barely kept the crew from sweating. I smelled brimstone.
After another dodge, I asked Fenrisúlfr, "How do you like engineering?" The wolf gripped the safety railing with white knuckles.
"Medievally modern? Not a thaumaturge. My magic is intrinsic. Your point, Rin?"
"We're on a first name basis, now?"
"The lady's showing me around her house, isn't she?"
"Mr. Thomas. How closely related to a hyena does the sacrifice need be?"
"Dog-like. Hyenas proved easy to clone anencephalus."
"Will a wolf do?"
Fenrisúlfr stood stark straight. "Are you mad!" he snarled. "That's murder."
"Let's see..." I counted fingers. "Let the Rouge kill us? Maybe get a death sentence? We all die? I sacrifice you, my crew survives, and we fix the shit you caused planetside? Quick! It's your ship? Your choice? No answer? Pity."
My poker hand, in a nutshell.
I walked closer to the open door, security dragging Fenrisúlfr behind. It looked like a hatch on a submarine or to the firebox of a locomotive. The heat tightened my skin. "Where's the Lug?"
The ship dodged hard three times before he yelled the location. I transmitted the message immediately. We were ten light minutes from a response.
"Doesn't that feel better? You told my future accurately."
"I had confidence." I waited near the heat, just in case.
The next instant, /Bang!/ The impact sheared off parts starboard. Gravity compensation went off seconds, long enough to float free of the decks. The ship couldn't dodge, lest we be smashed to a protein film.
Lights and gravity returned. Nobody had been thrown aside.
I'd barely sighed when titanic flaming lion's paw emerged from the glowing hell. Claws snagged a startled Fenrisúlfr, snatching him into the fire.
The engine began purring.
Turns out Fenrisúlfr had predicted my future correctly, not his own.