Hare And Kit

Hare and Kit

Augusnippets day 9: hypothermia | overheating | dehydration

Word count: 496

Trigger warnings: implied/referenced death, description of corpses, implied/referenced child death

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“You,” Archaios says, “are not just shivering from pain, are you.”

The child, predictably, shivers in response.

“Fuck,” Archaios says, and picks up speed. “Look, in my defense, you were getting shredded from the inside-out by curse energy, I had other things on my mind! Like keeping you un-shredded! I forgot that humans are—squishy! Don’t like being cold! Fuck!”

Because he’s reveled in blizzards before, only to come across blanched, stiff corpses, squirreled in little snow-dens that they thought would save them. He’s tried to save ones that were still breathing by feeding on their cold, hoping that drawing it away would help keep them warm. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn’t.

“I hate doing that on children, you know?” he murmurs into the child’s forehead. “It’s filthy, feeding from the young. And you shouldn’t have to be so close to death, anyways. You should—”

Be with your parents, laughing and loved, free of curse marks, not small and alone. Be warm.

Too many things this child should have instead of some inhuman hermit that came upon them by happenstance; it all crowds Archaios’ throat and clogs there.

His next step echoes, warps; his own wards welcome him as he slows his run into the cave to a purposeful stride. He has pelts stored away, despite his best efforts to foist everything he hunts on humans that actually need it. Humans always bundle themselves up in the cold, surely those will help.

He has two pelts … well, one is a cloak. He wraps that first around the child, then the second, until only the child’s pale face and baby wisps of their white hair show. Then—and this is the hard part—he sits back until only a comforting hand is touching the swaddled child.

“Fenn always told me my skin was icy,” he tells them. “I don’t think holding you will help, no matter how it’ll make me feel better. But ….”

He’s bundled up the child, stopped touching them with his cold hands. Is there anything else? How will he know this is helping? How soon? He’s always known his knowledge on humans is essentially a dark, unknown chasm, but never has it yawned deeper, faced with a child he must save.

“Maybe,” he starts, then looks at the black marks crawling up the child’s cheeks, and stops. Bringing this child to humans, to anyone that knows better, will only get them killed.

Then a realization clicks, followed by his heart dropping.

“Fire,” Archaios says. “You need fire. Except I … I don’t know how to light one.”

He’s never really needed it—he needs cold, not heat. And he’s never committed to saving a cold victim like this child, so he’s never thought of it before.

Wait, no. He has.

He sighs and heaves himself up. “I hope Tiana forgives me,” he mutters. “And you. For using a practice meant to invite ambient magic to light funeral pyres for you.”

He goes to find sticks.

At the Hook (Line, Sinker)

Augusnippets day 10: execution | fake execution | begging for mercy

Word count: 499

Trigger warnings: description of death, implied/referenced panic attack

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Mag knows his face goes pale when he sees the man waiting for them, the thick, wicked hook in the ceiling. The assistant holding rope in a telling noose.

They absolutely don’t care if this man’s reputation is being used to frighten them into obedience. Either that’s the case, or talking will buy Cassander time to scrounge up a miracle to let them escape, or they’re both fucking dead.

“Please,” he whispers; louder: “Please, no, I don’t, I don’t—! Not like this, fuck, not like this!”

“Not like this?” the man—Marcus? Marius? Martin?—says, an easy smile spreading across his face. “That can be arranged. There are plenty of ways to—”

“What do you want?” Mag interrupts, because they really don’t want to know all the horrible ways maybe-Marcus has found to kill people. He already knows this man would see him hung slowly, death by strangulation instead of a broken neck. “What do you want?! I’ll do anything!”

They want to yank the words back as soon as they leave—it’s too much to give. But maybe-Marius wouldn’t accept anything less, anyways.

“Are you sure?” maybe-Martin says, nearly pouting. “I’ve been wanting to see what a destroying angel will do to someone. It eases up while it’s liquefying your liver—what does the anticipation do to you, feeling better but knowing you’ll die?”

“No! Fuck no! Please, I said I’ll do anything, please!”

“Oh, calm down. I can think of some ways to use a thief as famous as you, if you’re willing to do anything.”

Mag’s heart leaps in relief; his first guess was right. “Yes! Yes, I’ll do whatever—!”

“What about him, though?”

And back down their heart went into dread.

“He’s my partner,” Mag says, not looking at where Cassander was forced to kneel beside him. “He’ll do whatever you want, too.”

Play along, they think, please play along, don’t act out and ruin this, it might be our only chance.

“Of course, yes,” Marcus(?) says. His smile widens, goes sadistic and ugly. “But I want to hear him beg for it.”

Fuck, we’re dead.

Because the keyword with Cassander is proud. He’d fought every step of the way here, to the point that he was more heavily restrained than Mag now. He never apologized or said he was wrong. He’d spit defiance to someone holding a knife to his throat.

A tense pause. Then:

“Please,” Cassander grit out.

Marius(?) raises a brow. “Go on,” he prompts.

“Please,” Cassander says again. Then, picking up speed: “Please, please, please, please, áni, áni, áni—”

He cuts off. The only sound is his frantic breathing.

Mag tries his best to keep from gaping, because what the fuck, while picking over the last word. What was that, another language? Ahni? Ahani?

… No. He’s saying áni. Because that’s Áléen.

“Please what?” fucking Martin(?) is saying.

The answering jumble of syllables is foreign to Mag, but apparently it convinces the motherfucker.

“Well, then,” he says. “Here’s what you’re going to do.”

apparently people are now purchasing thick water to make slimes with because of a trend on tiktok

thick water is for disabled people who can’t swallow properly. stores usually have extremely limited supplies of it.

please don’t buy thick water for fun or to make slime with. it’s literally the only way some disabled people can drink anything. It’s not a fucking toy

I think one thing people forgot about terfs is how RACIST they are towards women of color (god forbid be a trans woman of color) and how those people uphold white supremacist views of gender.

Right, considering the current state of corporate politics on this site, and that it seems that only those affected seem to be actively speaking on the matter, it is up to I, the only fucking cishet on tumblr, to drag this out to a wider audience.

REBLOG IF YOUR ACCOUNT IS A TRANSFEM SAFE SPACE.

We need to show these higher ups how much we truly value them.

Dialogue Prompts for Stoic Whumpee™️

“It’s not a big deal. They didn’t do much.”

“The scars are none of your concern. Don’t look at them if you don’t like them.”

“What happened? Nothing. Nothing worth complaining about.”

“Hey, hey, are you with me? It’s okay, take a deep breath. I know what to do— you’re going to be okay.”

“I don’t like short sleeves. And I don’t like your questions.”

“I didn’t flinch then and I didn’t flinch now—fuck—fine— when someone raises their hand close to my face, what do you think i’m going to do?”

“At one point, it was just me and the cliff. And the wind. Loud, that night. But—well, I’m still here, aren’t I?”

“I’ve said too much.”

“If I’ve learned one lesson, it’s that trust should be sparsely given. Remember that, my friend, next time you try to leave a knife in my ribs.”

“When we go in there, I’m going to act different. Yeah, it’s all bravado. We’re going to pretend we like the bastards, and then we’re going to rob them.”

“Shut up. You don’t know what you’re talking about. You never did.”