MaeB

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴏɴꜱ - ᴛʜᴇ ᴜɴᴛᴏʟᴅ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴀɢᴇꜱ [ ᴍᴀɢɪᴄ, ᴍᴜᴛɪɴʏ, ᴍᴜʀᴅᴇʀ ]

@Hero

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴏɴꜱ - ᴛʜᴇ ᴜɴᴛᴏʟᴅ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴀɢᴇꜱ [ ᴍᴀɢɪᴄ, ᴍᴜᴛɪɴʏ, ᴍᴜʀᴅᴇʀ ]

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◊ ᗩEᖇᗯYᑎ ᑕᗩᒪᒪIOᑭE ◊
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_{__________________
• ȶɦɛ ʍօʊռȶǟɨռɛֆ - Kυɳʅυɳ
• ȶɦɛ աʏʋɛʀռ ʀɨɖɛʀ ƈǟʍք
• ϝҽαƚ. CσɳʂƚαႦʅҽ Láιԃιɾ Cαԋιʅʅ
• 7:45am
__________________}

The crisp Mountaine air cut at Aerwyn’s rosebud cheeks like shards of glass. Today was especially windy, powerful gusts whipping at the Royal Mage’s thick, glossy jet black locks. It sliced through her nostrils with every inhale, chilling her bones beneath the thick, Tunnbaq fur coat she adorned. The coat had been a Royal Gift for her most recent birthday, one she’d accepted graciously and worn loyally since. The dense fur caressed her jawbone, enveloping her slight frame and trailing behind her in a waterfall of opulent white hair. Aerwyn had set off at sunrise, tasked with some Crown comms between the Royal Family and the Wyvern Rider corps. The Rider camp resided fairly deep into the Mountaines, set into the windward versants; Wyverns rode best with the aid of Mountaine air. The Camp was not a place of luxury nor comfort. Built entirely by practical hands with nothing but the basics for the Riders; Shelter. Camp beds. A kitchen compiled of a stove and artisan chopping board. The Riders needed very little save for their armour and winged battalion.

Aerwyn’s fur-clad form so juxtaposed to the rocky fissures and grey-washed scenery turned the heads of Rider passer-bys. Chin lifted, shoulders broadened, the Royal Mage glided up the mountain path to where Constable Láidir was sharpening his blade. The morning sun bathed the mountainside in an amber glow, cottonball clouds rolling across the skyline dotted with the airborne Wyverns that circled overhead. Aerwyn’s steely gaze, like Antartik ice, raised to watch the Wyverns fly. Their large, dragon-like wings beat methodically, riding the harsh breezes with practiced elegance. A smile twinged her blushed lips. She marvelled in the Mountaine’s beauty for a moment, revelling in the patriotic electricity that crackled beneath her skin.

“Your Grace,” came the gravelly tone of Constable Cahill. Brandishing his freshly-sharpened blade like a staff, the towering man’s grip flexed on the handle, the steel glinting in the morning light. “And to what do we owe the honour of your presence on this fine morning?”

Cahill’s heavily bearded face and wiry brows were absent of expression. Nothing save for a hint of inquisition danced behind his dark eyes. He stood like a doorway to the Camp, blocking her entrance with his body built like a house. Standing at 6ft4, the Commander loomed over almost anyone, constantly looking down on everyone as a consequence. He had an air of defence around him at all times, an impenetrable force field of professionalism and dedication to the throne. Cahill’s bravery was the helm of the Wyvern Corps, the respect of every Rider tattooed across his scarred, leathered skin. Aerwyn was fairy-like in comparison, his beastly form dwarfing her on the mountainside. The Mage pulled the Tunnbaq fur coat tighter around her still, the wind splitting the fur follicles like parting seas. Her icy gaze locked on Láidir, unwavering and unnerved by the Constable’s physical presence.

“Crown business,” Aerwyn responded in a clipped, bored tone. She discarded the Constable’s facetious question to the wind, letting it drift away, weightless. “Why don’t you invite me in, Láidir? Give me a tour of the Rider’s recent progress?”

Flinching at the dominance of using his first name, Cahill bowed his head in reluctant submission. With a theatric swoop of his hand, he gestured for Aerwyn to cross over the camp threshold. The Crown had ordered a visit, to check-in on the Wyvern Riders. The soldiers saw themselves as above Continent Law, arrogant thanks to their winged beasts they tamed and mounted. It was an exacerbated egoism specific to the Riders that the Crown had taken a mild irritation to. They rarely ventured down to Kunlun from their mountainside camp but when they did, they threw their weight around. Taking over taverns, brawling with ignorant drunkards, muscling in to exclusive clubs they were unwelcome to. Kunlun meretrixes cowering in brothels fell prey to the Rider’s heavy hands and the Crown had asked Aerwyn to reinstate the balance. A challenge only the finest of Mages would be up to.

Rider brutes avoided Aerwyns eyes as she trailed behind Cahill, her face smoothed into an expression of passive disdain, pursing her lips in a way that established her head and shoulders above them. Wyvern cries echoed against the rocky walls of the camp, the smell of unwashed leathers and flesh desperate for a bathe stinging her nostrils. Cahill sheathed his blade as he strode the stony path, boots crunching on gravel beneath his weight. The Constable’s warriors bowed their heads in his wake, a sign of respect for their leader. If only they exercised the same restraint they showed here when they descended upon Kunlun. The air crackled with static tension, the Royal Mage’s presence in their camp setting them all on edge.

Approaching a canvas-roofed gazebo, serving as an area for Rider meetings and briefings, Cahill whistled as if calling a dog to his heels and Aerwyn watched the seated Riders rise obediently from their seats. Wordlessly, they scattered like ants and Cahill inclined his head to offer her a seat at the wooden table. Tabletop scattered with an assortment of well-worn maps and tankards, Aerwyn ignored the offer of a seat. Instead, she remained standing, levelling her gaze at the Constable as he lowered himself into a chair at the head of the table. She let a chilling silence fall, the whistle of wind rustling the maps and flapping the fabric roof above them. Neither of them spoke for a moment, simply assessing one another with challenging eyes. It was Cahill that looked away first, adverting his gaze and submitting to the Royal Mage’s satisfied smirk.

“The Crown has learned of your insubordination, Láidir-“ his name practically spat from Aerwyn’s lips. “Did you honestly think you and your bunch of vagabonds could behave just as you please, in such blatant disrespect to your King and Queen, and return to camp unscathed?”

Spoken like a mother scolding her child, Aerwyn’s upper lip quivered in a sneer. The image of those poor defenceless whores in Kunlun, wordlessly accepting their fate at the hands of the Crown’s Riders, drove her on. Their vulnerability, their fragility and nakedness, it pushed the Royal Mage forward. Her moral compass pointing her towards the inevitable, the Mage summoned her inner power, blue eyes aglow with the Magic that brewed inside her. She took a singular step toward the Constable, who sat indignantly at his table. An elbow laid nonchalantly on the arm of his chair, Láidir rest his chin on a clenched fist. Despite his aggrieved aura, Aerwyn saw how those knuckles were whitening, balled fists barely containing anger. Still, her power hissed beneath Aerwyns fingertips, expression unsettlingly calm.

“How quick you all are to forget Lucan’s punishment the last time you fell out of line like this…” the Royal Mage tutted, shaking her head.

She lifted a finger, blue electrical sparks sputtering from the end, pointing it at the Constable like the tip of a merciless blade. A shrill, Wyvern cry erupted overhead and Cahill’s eyes shot upward, breath hitching in his thick neck. The man, always so fearless, inwardly cowered before the Royal Mage’s vengeful stance. Nothing the eye could see externally, no trembling hands, no quivering knees. Just resolute silence, steadfast in the face of a Royal scolding. No line of defence. No denial. No resistance. Just quiet. Adamant.

“No deed goes unpunished in Kunlun,” Aerwyn said flatly, quoting the words of the Crown when punishing unlawfully practiced Magic. The blue-hued power at her fingertips fizzed ominously. Láidir’s hooded eyes watched it carefully, unblinking.“No deed-“Aerwyn repeated, “Goes unpunished.”

The Mountaine air suddenly stilled as if someone had flicked a switch. No wind. No breeze. Not a single puff of air. Wyvern cried out in protest from the skies and Aerwyn took ahold of the winds in her grasp, mentally reciting an ancient dialect as she casted. Her hair began to dance around her angular face, eyes narrowing. The Tunnbaq fur coat flapped in her winds. Then, with a flick of her wrist, she sent the gale-force wind shooting forwards. It forced the Rider’s wooden table flying off its feet, the tankards and papers shooting into various directions. Ale soaking the maps, metal clanging as it dropped to the ground, the Constable’s chair was thrown back by Aerwyn’s wind as if he were light as a feather. Láidir grunted as his body thudded to the ground, landing in a heap. The summoned winds howled then dissipated. Stilling as quickly as they’d ignited. Riders, onlookers, watched wide-eyed as the Royal Mage knocked their leader down with a simple flick of her nimble wrist.

This was the job of a Royal Mage in Kunlun. To oversee. To manage. To tame. To remind those that have forgotten that the Crown comes above all. The Mountaines, an unforgiving Continent full of testosterone-fuelled warriors, would only respond to offence. Aerwyn’s softened, gentle heart remained hidden for tasks like these. In an ironclad armoury, her vulnerability and her softness would be locked away, disguised by a veil of impenetrable authority. This was the job of a Royal Mage in Kunlun.

“Stay out of Kunlun, Láidir.” Aerwyn’s voice raised in command. The Rider Leader had begun to rise to his feet, dusting himself off, face stony with suppressed rage and embarrassment. “And remember you are under Royal Command. Whether in flight. On foot. Or between the legs of a whore. You are not above the Law.”

Aerwyn sighed. She lowered her hands, sliding them beneath opposing sleeves to shield them from the winds that had recommenced in the Mountaineside. No answer. No response. She clicked her tongue disapprovingly.

“Don’t make me come back to this place again,” the Royal Mage warned, scrunching her dainty nose at the camps smell. “Your unwashed jockstraps are an offence to my senses.”

Turning on her heels, Aerwyn took the first slow, small steps of her descent. Láidir cleared his throat behind her and her head whipped round, challenge flashing in her eyes.

“Yes, your Grace.” The Constable gritted out.

And Aerwyn left, the smell of lavender and tonka in her wake.

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The Royal Mage had retired to the Mage quarters. She’d retreated to the Library, burying her head in ancient tomes. Learning was never complete. Magic a lifelong lesson. Lucan had encouraged her love for reading, nurtured her thirst for knowledge. It was in the room surrounded by shelves of leather-bound books that she received the letter of summons. It was placed before her, just above the open book from which she read hungrily, waxed shut with a Royal Seal. Aerwyn arched a perfectly preened brow and took the letter between her fingertips. She slid her finger across the edge of the envelope, tearing it open. Blue eyes skimming across the quilled page, Aerwyn’s eyes widened.

Every Royal Mage. From every Continent. Called to Aethelguard. That night.

“Lucan!” she called. “Lucan! Come quick!”

The letter crinkled beneath her pinching digits. She read and reread the words inked on the page as she awaited the Retired Mage, her predecessor, to arrive. She shook her head in disbelief, curiosity tickling her heart. She wanted Lucan to confirm what she read before her. Confirm that this was, indeed, a summons.

〖 𝚁 𝙾 𝙶 𝚄 𝙴 𝚁 𝙾 𝚆 〗⌠ The Fall from Disgrace ⌡⌠ British Espionage / Crime RP⌡

@Byte I’ll do the same for mine… Hope you had the best time on vacation!

@PatientBean I’m so sorry to hear you’ve been struggling… No pressure but if you feel up to it, Rogue Row is here for you to escape for a while <3

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴏɴꜱ - ᴛʜᴇ ᴜɴᴛᴏʟᴅ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴀɢᴇꜱ [ ᴍᴀɢɪᴄ, ᴍᴜᴛɪɴʏ, ᴍᴜʀᴅᴇʀ ]

Ylfa being the only mage from the Antarctik: "Ya'll motherfuckers ain't hardy enough for Winter."

@Byte

GIRL, I’m actually so excited for you that you have an entire Continent to yourself! Things are about to get icyyyyy.

I’ve put together a Discord Server for those of you that do that kinda thing…

Summons Discord

Austin Is Dead

@Auragreedia Thanks so much! I did enjoy writing this, I just love the story and can’t wait to develop it further with you all!…

Excited to collab on some dialogue as well, especially when it comes to the actual funeral ^^

〖 𝚁 𝙾 𝙶 𝚄 𝙴 𝚁 𝙾 𝚆 〗⌠ The Fall from Disgrace ⌡⌠ British Espionage / Crime RP⌡

@Byte

Perfect, Byte! Love it! I’ll work on a reply soon.

In the meantime, did you want to put together a CS for your tech side character? I’m going to introduce another Agent to the mix.

@PatientBean How are you doing? Did you manage to access the Google Doc? Or would you rather I post the case as an IC post? If you want to double up and play another character to thicken the plot, please feel free!

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴏɴꜱ - ᴛʜᴇ ᴜɴᴛᴏʟᴅ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴀɢᴇꜱ [ ᴍᴀɢɪᴄ, ᴍᴜᴛɪɴʏ, ᴍᴜʀᴅᴇʀ ]

@Byte@Ducksworth@SilverPaw@Obscene Symphony@Mr Irony II

Alright, friends! The time has come for us to begin this story. Had some incredible submissions but I’m so happy with the roster. Thanks for your time so far!

I’m going to be drafting the first IC post in the next day or so…

For now, I thought I’d use “Chapters” to structure this RP. You can find them in the zeroth post IC. I’ll update them as we go, of course. Open to suggestions, too!

We’re free to explore each Chapter as deeply as we’d like. Be free. Be creative. Craft your own story. But let’s follow the general template outlined in the Chapters.

If I think the direction of the story needs to move on to the next “Chapter” in order to progress, I’ll make an announcement to wrap up your posts and ready yourselves for the next plot. I like momentum and development.

I’ve decided against a Posting Order to start. Let’s try and flow freely. But if I feel like any of us are getting left behind or if things get clunky, I’ll put a posting order in place.

I’ve roped in my lovely Co-GM to help me manage any lil story-related workload bits. We’re quite a big group so I’ll appreciate the help on maintaining this RP so it can live a long life.

Hope this all sounds good to you! Let me know via PMs if you have any ideas you’ve got cooking. Cast your eyes over the Chapters and please… Have fun! <3

Austin Is Dead

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♡ 𝓢𝓾𝓶𝓶𝓮𝓻 𝓕𝓸𝓻𝓭
𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓔𝔁-𝓖𝓲𝓻𝓵𝓯𝓻𝓲𝓮𝓷𝓭 ♡

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Summer had been running errands for her mother when she heard the tyre pop.

“Well, shit.”

The racer red Mini Cooper had been the first gift she’d bought herself once she’d settled in financially at OverZealous - A reputable marketing and advertising company. The first few pay-checks had been spent dragging herself out of her overdraft but once she was back on her feet, she’d slid her debit card across the dealership desk with a proud smile. Growing up in a single-parent household with enough sisters to start a 5 a side football team, Summer wasn’t accustomed to excess. She’d grown up on hand-me-downs, leftovers and thrift stores. A brand new Mini Cooper was definitely not within her grasp before taking on the role at OverZealous. It became one of her most prized possessions; A symbol of her hard graft and evidence that she didn’t have to use her power of persuasion to achieve her dreams.

The pot hole responsible for her blown tyre felt no remorse for adding to Summers already overflowing emotional baggage. She mentally cursed the lack of road maintenance in Elysian Heights, wishing she was already in the City where roads were freshly laid and public transport was plentiful. Running errands was only supposed to take a couple of hours, leaving her plenty of time to drive to the funeral…

“Shit, the funeral…”

She’d instantly called the Garage from the car, the dial tone beeping through the speakers, and she begged them to squeeze her in for a tyre change. They’d been hesitant. Told her they’d been ‘crazy busy’ the last couple of days.

“There’s a big funeral in Elysian Heights today, ya know - Loads of randoms visiting town for the parade yesterday…” the garage receptionist had explained.

Summer had slowed to a stop at a red light and stared blankly at the road ahead. Eyes draining of life as the word “funeral” repeated in the echo chamber of her mind, she felt her chest tighten. Summer’s stomach coiled inside her, rigid with knowing. She knew Austin’s death would become a spectacle. Town gossip. An event where opportunists could come to Elysian Heights and mutate a powered death into anything but what it should be: A tragedy. The receptionist said she doubted they could even squeeze her in today and the emotions began to bubble over. Eyes flicking to the green light, Summer shifted the stick into first gear and found the biting point, the handicapped Mini struggling to pull off. Her knuckles whitened on the wheel, teeth biting down on her lower lip. She needed her car. She needed it for today. She needed it for tomorrow. Elysian Heights wasn’t abundant with alternative garages… Her options ran dry as quickly as the tyre drained of air.

Summer resented her power at times like these. The right thing would be to thank the receptionist for her time and punch the red button. Let it go. But today wasn’t just any other day, okay? It was Austin’s funeral and her heart ached enough without this added stress. So she made the decision to use her unfair advantage. Begrudgingly, Summer sucked air through her teeth and switched up a gear, already driving the route to the garage. She narrowed her eyes, summoned the inner power that crackled beneath her skin. It sparked to life and tingled at her fingertips as she flicked the indicator and spun the wheel.

“You know what?” Summer said slowly, her voice taking on an otherworldly tone. It became deeper, more commanding. It echoed, against all scientific odds. “I think you’re going to find the time to fit me in today. I’d really appreciate it. You’re going to meet me in a moment and you’ll make sure someone can take a look at this blown tyre. You’ll replace it. And then you’ll charge me extra for the inconvenience.”

Silence fell. The other end of the line deathly quiet. Summer pressed her lips together in a hard line, the instant guilt of using her power feeling like bile in her throat. She’d made it acceptable in her mind, adding the extra charge. It evened the playing field. Sort of. After what felt like an eternity, the receptionist sighed, her voice pouring back through the speaker.

“I’m going to squeeze you in. Head on over now, we’ll get the tyre looked at… But I have to tell you, we’ll have to charge a premium for the rush.”

Her voice was vacant. It often sounded that way, after someone had been persuaded. A flat, emotionless tone. It racked Summer with guilt each and every time. But she pressed her foot down further on the accelerator, the Mini’s flat tyre cursing her, and she let a huff of relief hiss from her lips.

“Thank you so much,” Summer switched gears again, “I’ll leave you guys the biggest tip.”

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"Bay 3, opening bay 3!"

The receptionist hadn’t lied. The garage was amass with organised chaos. All the crashing, banging, clanging and the shouts of mechanics hard at work made for a layered orchestra of activity. Summer had greeted the girl at the front desk with the warmest smile she could manage. A twinge of guilt plucked at the strings of her heart, the persuasion hadn’t yet dissipated and when Summer introduced herself, she watched the residue of her influence cloud the receptionists face.

Over the girl’s shoulder, past the mechanic that was taking a look at the paperwork, Summer spotted a face she recognised. Amongst the thrum of people, she saw Jaxon. A lightbulb illuminated in her mind. They’d been at high school together! Not friends. Not close. But they’d known eachother well enough to recognise one another in the hallways. She tried to catch his eye before saying to the mechanic holding her chart,

“Is that… Jaxon?” Summer said hesitantly, angling her head to get a better look. “I know him! We went to school together.”

It wasn’t meant to come off as a name-drop. She was just surprised to see him. But the garage staff member peeled off in Jaxon’s direction anyway. Summer settled her bill in advance with the receptionist, thumbing her pin in, ignoring the excessive charge for a singular tyre change. She told herself it was worth it. Worth it for the karma. Worth it for the inconvenience. Worth it for Austin’s funeral. Declining a receipt, she placed a healthy wedge of bills on the desk as a tip.

Then, she looked up in Jaxon’s general direction and waited.

♥ “𝐀𝐬 𝐈𝐭 𝐖𝐚𝐬” ♥ 𝐛𝐲 𝐬𝐮𝐧𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐬 & 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐳𝐞

• 𝐉𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬𝐨𝐧 ‘𝐉𝐚𝐱’ 𝐓𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐫 •

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• 19:45 | The Farmhouse @ Mossy Oaks Farm | •
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The warm air of the Farmhouse was thick with log-burner heat. Jax was resetting the kitchen whilst his son, Scout, finished his dinner. The young boy’s starfish hands gripped his plastic spoon, shovelling somewhat clumsily at his bowl of pasta. Jax glanced over his shoulder whilst wrist-deep in soapy water, scrubbing away at the pots he’d used to quickly rustle up Scout’s simple dinner. Although he was no Michelin Starred Chef, Jackson had become quite domesticated over the last few years. Fatherhood had really moulded him, reshaped him. Scout was not his best customer, a fussy eater with an affiliation for plain pasta and sliced apples. But on the odd occasion he cooked for someone other than his 5 year old son, a very rare occurrence, Jax enjoyed the art of putting a tasty dish together.

There was something about prepping fresh ingredients from the farm, carefully seasoning, making marinades and the like that brought Jax a specific breed of inner peace. Perhaps it was the order of it all that he embraced? The careful, methodical calm of following a recipe and producing something delicious? He took like a duck to water with knife skills, his hands intuitively knowing where to chop, how much pressure to add to the blade, the best angle… Those hands, so adept on the farm, wielded a knife with a practiced expertise. There was no elaborate menu tonight. Scout had, to no one’s shock or surprise, requested “Daddy’s ‘Mato Pasta.” He’d of course obliged, bartering a deal where “Mato Pasta” would happen if he also had a small bowl of runner beans from the allotment alongside all those carbs. Scout had angled his head at Jax, eyes narrowed. The 5 year old had feigned a deliberately elongated pensive look, a theatrical “Hmmmm” humming in his lips. Jax had laughed, ruffled his son’s hair, and told him he wouldn’t be taking no for an answer.

“What would your Great Grandpa Maverick say, huh? He’d turn in his grave if he knew of your pathological fear of all things green!” Scout had wrinkled his button nose in mock disgust but was begrudgingly nibbling on a green bean as Jax laid the wet crockery on the drying rack.

He often did that. Brought Maverick into the present day in honour of his memory. The man had practically adopted Jackson all those years ago and he had everything to thank him for. The grief of losing him had flipped the man’s life upside down for a while. He’d spent days on end losing himself in the groundwork of Mossy Oak, blistering his hands with manual labour fuelled by the heartbreak in his chest. Though the deeds weren’t left in Jackson’s name, Maverick had as good as told him the farm was his. On his death bed, near the end, he’d frantically reached for Jackson’s hand and made him promise to take care of Mossy Oak. It was a moment seared into his brain. A memory he treasured with a laden heart…

A knock at the front door plucked Jackson’s attention from the washing up and Scout’s eyes widened mid-chew. An exasperated sigh huffed out of Jax as he wiped his damp hands on a kitchen towel.

“That’ll be your mum, Scout!” Jackson sighed, fixing his son with eyes softened by endearment. He hated this chapter in their routine. The “Hand-Over.” “I’ll grab your bag. Finish those beans.”

The farmhouse floorboards creaked as Jax moved through the house to the front door. He smoothed his expression to neutral, shut off the dripping faucet of dread in his chest and gripped the door handle in his fist. The cool night air bouldered through the opening door, easily pressing through the material of his ribbed white vest. Instantly, goosebumps littered his body. Jax inhaled the familiar scent of the outdoors; The hay bales, the manure, the damp earth, the thickets… This was his home. Candace was stood a few steps back from the entryway, a knitted cardigan that swamped her slight frame wrapped tightly around her hips. She looked tired. Dark circles, poorly disguised by a lick of concealer, sat beneath her doe eyes. Her waist-length blonde hair, bristling with the absence of a good brush, was piled atop her head in a messy bun. Jackson shouldered the doorway, leaning against the wooden arch and fixed her with a furrowed brow.

“You alright, Candace?” he asked, his voice cool and calm but peppered with genuine concern. She flinched. Ran a hand through the stray hairs that leapt from the bun. “Did you want to come in for a minute? Scout’s just finishing up with dinner.”

The two of them, once fiery lovers, shared a bond that couldn’t be broken. Creating life bound two people together like no other. Despite there being no real romantic love between them anymore, Candace was the mother to his child. And that made her his responsibility, still. Scout spent the majority of his time with his mother and that meant her wellbeing still fell under his remit. Seeing her looking fragile in Mossy Oaks driveway made him twinge with concern.

“I’m fine, Jax…” Candace retorted, her tone clipped. There was nothing believable about her response but he nodded once, curtly. He didn’t push the matter, not even when he heard her snapping impatiently at Scout as he bundled into the backseat.

Even as Scout had shoved his little arms through the straps of his overnight bag and ran to his mother, arms spread wide, Jax couldn’t shake the feeling of unease. Arms folded, brows knitted together, he watched Candace’s car crawl down the Mossy Oak driveway in retreat. The taillights got smaller and smaller, eventually disappearing from view and the ghost of Scout’s goodbye was wrapped around him. The farewells were always hard. But this one felt harder, still.

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_{________________________________________
• 12:02AM | The Farmhouse @ Mossy Oaks Farm | •
_______________________________________}

Jax had struggled to unwind that night. He’d scraped Scout’s leftovers into the compost bin and finished washing up before pacing into the living room. The burner hissed for an extra log, the embers glowering hypnotically. He snatched a log from the woodpile and wedged it behind the grate in one easy movement, flames immediately lapping the wood up hungrily. Turning to the armchair that sat in audience of the fire, the same one Maverick had occupied almost permanently, Jax caught sight of himself in the antique mirror that hung above the decorated mantle. His tousled blonde hair, the stubble that framed his angular jaw, the white vest that hung off his traps…

Candace’s tired eyes haunted him. He sunk into the worn arm-chair, leaning his head against the backrest. Adjusting his light-wash, loose fitting jeans, Jax spread his legs and slumped back into the embrace of the chair. He let the well-worn cushions envelop him comfortingly. Running a palm over his face, he massaged his own temples, deep in thought. He wished Candace had been honest about what weighed on her. It was the not knowing, the defensive blockade she’d built against him, that left Jax feeling frustratingly out of control. The price of co-parenting felt hard to bare at moments like these. But the heat from the burner soothed the tight coil of worry in his stomach, loosening his tense, hardened muscles.

This room harboured so many memories. Happy, light-hearted memories. The faces of a family he’d been an honorary member of stared back at him from frames. The photographs were a reminder of the magic of Mossy Oaks. This was a place of love. Of family. Scout hadn’t had the chance to experience that feeling and Jax clicked his tongue at the thought. His ocean blue eyes found themselves drifting over the photo frames, landing on one in particular. Mavericks granddaughter. Lily-Rose? He forgot. She had Mavericks smile; All consuming. The kind that lights up a room. Jax felt his eyelids double in weight and he fought them as the flames of the fire flickered before him. Maverick’s smiling eyes watched him from a frame, his granddaughters infectious laughter practically ringing out from atop the mantle. The gentle rise and fall of his chest was heavy with the threat of sleep, body finally feeling relaxed enough for rest. He hazily thought of making his way upstairs but the arms of chair and the crackle of burning wood pinned him down, the seductive whispers of sleep in his ear.

Then, the rattle of keys in the door grabbed Jax by the scruff and shook him awake with a gasp. It was a sound that he hadn’t heard in years. The tinkering of keys rattling against the door. Was he dreaming? Was he being robbed!? He rose from the chair, fists clenched and jaw set with defensive alarm. Floorboards groaned beneath the weight of intruding steps and his ears ached as he strained to listen. Jackson’s heartbeat thumped in his chest. The quickened “thump, thump” of his heart thudded with warning and quick breaths heaved from his throat. The protector of Mossy Oaks, the one left in charge of this haven, snatched at the handle of the fire poker. Its handle felt heavy in his palm and he flexed his grip. Hasty long strides toward the door revealed a face he recognised.

She was staring right back at him. Wide-eyed and brandishing a baseball bat. A baseball bat!? Her face was aghast. Disgusted. Pinched with disdain, the woman kept the bat in the space between them and Jax relaxed his grasp on the fire poker. He knew that face. He’d seen it littered all over the farmhouse. Sinking realisation washed away his panic like a dam breaking wide open.

"How dare you burgle an old man's house!"

That was a voice riddled with nerves. Her poor disguise of strength was like glass to Jax. He could see the slight tremble of her fingertips, the barely-there wobble of her bottom lip. She had no idea who he was. But he knew exactly who stood in the farmhouse brandishing a baseball bat. Leaning the poker against the doorframe, Jax raised both hands in mock surrender. His expression was earnest, fighting a knowing smirk as he slowly raised his hands. Like approaching a wild street cat, he spoke as if coaxing a stray.

“Easy there, tiger” he purred. “No one’s robbing the old man. I live here.” Jax spoke firmly. Clearly.

Whilst keeping one palm raised in continued surrender, he reached and grabbed one of the many photographs framed in the entryway. It was of him and Maverick during lambing season. Bleached by sunlight and worn by many nostalgic fingerprints, the photo captured the two of them cradling little cotton-ball lambs in the barn. Jackson was younger there, of course. That version of him less tan, less muscular, clean shaven… But it was him, no doubt. Maverick was grinning at the camera and his favourite farmhand turned family was crouched next to him, matching the excitable smile. Jax brandished the photo like valuable evidence, gesturing for the woman to take a look.

“That’s me and the old man himself,” he insisted, nodding with conviction. He pointed an index finger at his photographed face then directed the point at himself. “Name’s Jackson. Jax. I work here. I live here. Have done for years now.”

Piercing blue gaze fixed on hers, he waited for the penny to drop. The baseball bat stayed between them, the threat of it said she might just try and use it. He did nothing but wait, watching the fear in her eyes.