TheAmishPirate

Breathless Dead

There’s no friends for Kat here. She said so herself.

Maybe she could find a friend at the bottom of a real trap, his silly little legs wiggling about and just enough bleats to catch her attention, and what innocent maiden could refuse a soul in need who would certainly be in her debt afterwards yes? Maybe she could find a friend at the point of a sword. Or, no, the handle of a sword, and soon to be the point of her sword, because he’d be blocking her way, just like evil space sheep are wont to do, and she’d have to duel him, and of course he’d lose, and of course she’d be graceful and victorious, and, and, it’s not really the duel that matters, it’s that he showed up for it. It’s a symbol, it is. You don’t gotta say much when there’s a symbol. Keeps things symbol.

She could find a friend in those places. She could find a friend in all sorts of clever and meaningful spots. She could. She really maybe could.

And that’s just not good enough.

Kat’s a good scamperer, she is. Don’t let anybody tell you otherwise. Dolce had thought to get in her way, to stop her with a big, fluffy hug, and if that’s all it was then he’d have enjoyed the sight that so many have been blessed with over the years; a clump of fluff-ful tails zipping out of sight, out of reach, out of trouble. But if you dig down, way way way wayyyyyyyyy deep down? Past all the wool, all the spikes, all the steps it took to get here, and everything in-between? I think you’ll find that Dolce wanted to stop her. And wouldn’t you know it, but I think Miss Fluffybiscuits wanted a friend more than she wanted to escape.

What happens next would require a level of expertise to unpack that simply cannot be expected of silly little sheeps. So I’ll just tell you the important bits: Dolce stands among the bits of net. Kat scampers. A woolly cannonball gets her, mid-scramble, and at least one of them goes a-tumbling in a big old heap. A heap that can talk, even if it’s a bit stunned and forgot to breathe for a bit there.

“My apologies, I didn’t think this was the way to the fan club,” he bleats. “And I didn’t want to miss it either.” He wants to learn about the idol who saved this world. Not to mention she’s got to teach him how to properly do her intro.

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

Dolce feels rather foolish. It’s not fair, and he knows he’s not being fair, and so he’s doing his best to keep a lid on it. But really. What is he supposed to feel, never asking the gods if they actually wanted or needed…any of it? It seems so obvious in hindsight, while being so unquestionable he might as well blame himself for never giving up breathing.

He visits all of them, in turn. He doesn’t have to. But he does. Old habits, and all. But he does spend a little more time with a few of them, and it is laudable he only sneaks anxious attention to the others intermittently. Braver still, that he hazards a question so frank.

“Is that it, then? Either we’re reaching and you’re present, or we’re letting go and you’re distant?” Hera, who rescued him. Hestia, who sheltered him. Artemis, who taught him. And, oh, beans and bother, there’s no ceremony here. Just a chef who’s found a nice patch of grass to give his trembling legs a rest. “I’m…not sure how I feel about that. I always wondered, you know, likely more than I should, but I did think it’d be nice if the gods were…happy. As much as you can be, for whatever that means for a god. And here, it seemed like there was much you could delight in. I thought of you, Artemis, when I met the Supreme Ruler.”

“What…do you prefer? With all this?”

Return to Thellamie

"Like this?"

With a snap and a twinkle and a foxy smile, starlight swishes through his tails, one heading to paws and one heading to triangles. In their wake, a party dress becomes a wishing-dress, which is the sort of dress you get when you wish upon a Faun. The barrettes even have a soft little flower, for extra style points. A wagon Is no runway, nor is it a modeling studio, but it may be just right for showing off a new look to close friends.

"Would I be Syaoran then? I wouldn't mind that. He starts out rough, but only because he thinks that's what he has to be. In time, and with love, he learns better. His heart grows, and becomes his own."

"Or maybe I'm the Yukito, hrm? He had his fair share of suitors. And a whole side to him that he never knew about. Nobody did, for quite a while anyway, but he never learned himself."

"You'd tell me though, wouldn't you, Sakura-chan~?"

Hazel makes the best fox face, you should know.

Breathless Dead

What a horrible thing to say. What a horrible thing to hear. Imagine spending hours with someone, wrapping them in your softest ropes, taking them to your favorite lunch spot where you're their best customer, leading them through the wonders of the arcade, kissing their hand, putting a plushie on their head, and at the end of it all, you're not at least friends?

Well, it's even worse when it's true. And it's even worster when you know it's almost certainly your own, silly fault.

It's hard, y'know? Going a long time without meeting a new friend. Waking up every day in a place where there are no new friends to meet. Carrying the safety of many much people, and yourself, and you're only a little sheep, and you've already dropped them all once, and they'll surely shatter if it happens again. Flashing your fangs without fumbling your floof.

Evil Space Sheepin' ain't easy.

Well, Miss Fluffybiscuits, your lovely pet hops to it, and you, and your side, and the moment. There's a lot of ground between you and the show, and it's not gonna be filled with silence.

He tells you about cans. He tells you about hand-painted designs. He tells you about the many ways to brew coffee. He tells you about wishes he's been made to forget. He tells you about the bells in his wool.

He speaks of vending machines. He speaks of eight rows of twelve cans nestled ten deep. He speaks of no less than twenty two unique designs. He speaks of long roads and boxes carefully packed. He speaks of a thirsty passerby who will never meet an artist.

Begging your pardon. He doesn't say it, because saying it would mean losing some of it, and that's not worth it. But you might not be the most beautiful thing he has seen today.

"...who was Elly?" Was. Was Elly. It's possible someone told him so. Possibly. "That's her on your phone, isn't it?"

How many hours has it been since you last used it? Since he last had a chance to see?

Breathless Dead

Woah woah woah woah woah woah woah woah wait and woah and time out

No, nobody needs to go into time out. Honest to goodness, the most polite vengeful kidnapping he’s ever been a part of. Nothing but good girls as far as the eye can see, except when there’s good boys, and a lot of other folks that’re good, and he’d not have a clear answer on the goodness of sheep which leaves him in perilous legal standing with the case that Miss Katherine Isabella Fluffybiscuits Esquire is presenting against him. But! He’s not in time out, and nobody else should be, except for time itself, because he needs a minute.

He gets Skee Ball. He gets air hockey. He gets pinball. He gets that the claw machine is very, very tricky. He gets combos, and divekicks, and tags, and meter, and health bars, and timers, and he’s not quite got a main in anything but he’s told that’s totally fine and normal. He gets a noodle topper. He gets a plush deer. He gets a precious Foxgirl Kiss from a Beautiful Fluffy Foxgirl. He gets one of those with a gracious bow. He gets two of those tucked away in his wool, where they can watch the proceedings from a good vantage point. He gets Snake Time. He gets Snake Time many times. He enjoys Snake Time. He gets there are people. He gets there are people coming, and going, and staying. He gets a seat deep in the winding paths of the arcade, a little alcove where two folks can sit and catch their breath and soak in the atmosphere.

He does not get the can.

He peers through the net at it, holding it up up up so close to his face. Turn. Turn. Turn. Sniff. Turn. Click! Crisp and clean. Sniff. Lick.

Sip?

Sip.

Savor.

“Where,” and he’s too busy staring to look anywhere else. “Did you get this?”

Return to Thellamie

Yuki!

Was Hazel’s hand always so soft?

“Hmph! Maybe that will teach you not to bite the paw that hardly bothers you.”

Did he just say hmph?

“Yuki!”

Hazel squishes you up in the biggest hug a knight could ask for, and a little more besides, because you’ve been good, haven’t you? Oh yes you have! His cunning, fluffy triangles hear many things, you know. In fact, you’ve been so good, he’ll curl both of his luxurious, beautiful, softful, starlit tails around you. Free of charge!

Go on. You may revel in them. You’ve earned it.

“Just the knight we needed! Our quest to save poor sister Juni,” and that’s one truth, and it might be two! Hee hee! “Is now down quite a few members. Won’t you join us on a little adventure to the Khaganate?” He’ll help! Just between you and him, he’s got a keen eye for trails and that sort of thing. Maybe as keen as your axe! It’s possible!

Anyway, the foxy lad only turns his wide, starry eyes off of you to wink at a certain other fox.

“There’s no need to ask; of course you can join us too! We would never leave you abandoned, lost to these terrible woods, now would we darlings?~”

---

Inara!

It seems you have been outfoxed. On both sides. And they’ve got smiles that you would no doubt be proud of, were they not pointed at you, and just how do you feel about that, hm?

“We would never do something so cruel!”
“Leaving a poor thing like you all alone!”
“For the vines to catch”
“For the roots to swallow”
“And the Thorn-hounds!”
“They’d smell you from miles away.”
“And their jaws…”
“And their claws…”
“And the creaking of branches”
“Dry and hungry”
“Wicked! Scaring the little sweet like that~”
“Ara ara, but we’ll take good care of her, yah?”
“Such good care of her”
“No need to think of the danger”
“You’ve done so much for us…”
“Let us handle the rest…”
“Little sister~”
“Little sister~”

Breathless Dead

Wanna know a secret?

Dolce has never played a video game in his entire life.

Okay he doesn’t actually tell you this. Cunning little cotton clouds are notoriously tight-lipped. It’s true. But what else can it mean, the way he looks at these arcade cabinets? Once, twice, many muches, he circle-hops as you play, and doesn’t find anything of what he’s looking for, if that furrowed brow and tilty noggin mean anything. Then what does the sillyhead do when you give him a turn? Tapataptaps at the buttons. Wigglewagglewoggle the stick. Gets his ear reaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaall close to the controls as he fiddles with them until his ship inevitably gets kidnapped by the aliens. No self-preservation instincts at all. Maybe that’s why he fell for the decoy trap?

Though. Hrm. Is it really much of a secret? If everyone can see him hopping through the arcade like he’s hopping through a dream? Because, you know, you only get to walk into an arcade for the first time once. Though, you get a free first walk-in at every arcade you go to, but you’re only gonna walk into an arcade for the first time for the first time once! It’s special, y’know? You never really forget, unless you do, but then that’s usually because it gets mixed up with all the other happy arcade memories in a big, warm stew, and stew’s pretty good too. Especially on chilly nights, with freshly-baked rolls, and someone to curl up with…

Um! Point is! Everyone here knows the look of someone drinking in their first arcade. And you’re an everyone, so you know it too. The way the rows are set up juuuuuuust so to guide you towards easier fare at first, instead of tossing you right in the deep end or getting yourself so lost you’ll be trapped there forever. The choices of which cabinets go next to what, how bright are these lights, which ones gets modded with prettyful lights, as you browse this garden of video gamey delights. Volumes carefully tweaked so as not to be overwhelming. Though you do graciously wrap one of your fluffy and beautiful tails around his silly ears, just to be safe. Can’t have anyone forgetting who’s the revenger here.

So what if he keeps losing? So what if he’s content to perch on a stool beside you, as you win duel after noble duel on the cabinets except for the ones where you must have had something in your eye and also your buttons wouldn’t listen to you? Let your victim drink in his first arcade. He’ll only ever get the one.

…oh! Your prisoner’s brushing at your tail, looking like a Clearly Lost Space Sheep. He must have wandered over to the rhythm games while you were defending your title as Best Fluffybiscuits. You’d better go and save him from his triple S?!?!?!

“What does that mean, exactly? I thought I was doing better, but that is much lower than A. Am I missing something?” He frowns, most villainously, as he inspects touchpad, motion sensors, the lot, hunting for their secrets.

Return to Thellamie

Enough.

Enough games. Enough of not saying what you want, and then being mad at everyone for not reading your mind correctly. Enough lashing out at everyone around you, and acting like you're in the right. Enough of the hatred, of the masks, of ignoring everything except a heart you cannot see. Enough people have been hurt tonight.

There will not be another one.

He glows.

He shines.

He burns.

The void says there is nothing at the end of a fox goddess’ limb. The void says there is no paw.

Hazel disagrees.

[Rolling to Defy Disaster with Radiance, to restore Inara’s paw. Hazel risks losing his mask/composure/filters in the torrent of starlight: 1 + 2 + 2 = 5! Uh oh!]

Return to Thellamie

Hazel falls to the ground, which is about three surprises in one.

To say that Sayanastia, the Dark Dragon, is…big? Enormous? Vast? Is to lose an essential point of her. To say much at all will lose an essential point of her. Imagination can only go so far. Some things must be experienced to be understood. It is enough to say that as he fell into her depths, all at once floating weightless and crushed breathless, he beheld the scale of a little deer beside divinity. He saw that he could not see.

And now he is flat on the ground. Alone, in the dark.

He did everything he could. He watched, he listened, he adapted, he didn’t run away, he danced in a way that he is only embarrassed about now, because she does not care. She demanded he dance with her, he gave her everything he could think to give, and she left him here to pick himself back up. Everything, all his efforts, swallowed into a void. It might as well have never happened. Did she even mean to toss him aside? Or had she stopped thinking about him already?

Hazel lies where he fell. No clue what’s become of Deo, of Yuki, of all the lovely people of the Chrysanthemum. The Dark Dragon raging at the heavens about puppets and pride and feasts while Juni is locked up in some awful Khaganate prison. Muscles aching, from running, from leaping, from dancing.

Alone, in the dark

his hands clench into fists.

Breathless Dead

What does it taste like? What does it taste like?!

What does garlic taste like? What does ginger taste like? What does broth taste like? What do bean sprouts taste like? What do noodles taste like? What does beef taste like? What does bean sprouts and broth taste like? What does noodles and garlic and beef taste like? What does noodles and spinach and broth and bean sprouts and radishes and beef taste like?

And the egg!

The egg!!!!!

Mmmgghhh! The egg!!!!!!!

The, hrm. The egg? The egg does fit on a spoon, but that can’t possibly be right. Have you ever seen anyone eat half an egg in one bite? Of course not, nobody has the time to get that fancy when you’re getting eggs to-go. And nobody has room for anything on a spoon except half an egg, and if that was the point of it, then why not give you the egg on a whole other dish? Why not have a few eggs on a dish? Why not a bowl of ramen with a little bonus bowl of eggs for your Best Customer, huh???? Think about it. And while you’re thinking about it, cut this egg with chopsticks, it’s soft enough, wait, oh no, it’s a slippery little thing, it’s going everywhere, how do you track down bits of egg white when they’re hiding in the noodles? Well, there’s a bit of egg white, a bit of yolk, and noodles, and broth, and radish, and beef, and that’ll have to do, and what does that taste like?!

Point is, you’ve got to really take your time with a vengeance. Somebody put a lot of work into that revenge, and it’d be rude not to properly savor it.

Do you want to know what it looks like too? Yes? No? Perhaps? Because these cuts of beef are immaculate. Hard to believe they all came from a single slice.

Mmm? Oh, right, yes, how it tastes, of course, of course. How does it taste?

Well he can’t tell you that, not while he’s eating. He may be an Evil Space Sheep but he does have some manners, you know. And. Besides. There’s a lot of vengeance to be had. Which he will bumble his way through, at a sheeply pace, and the only thing you’ll hear from him is the soft “mmm”-ing of someone enjoying a good meal, and the gentle brush of a fluffy little tail as it flicks against the stool he’s been perched on, and he won’t look Shanna’s way, not even once, as he gives a brilliant audition for the role of Best Customer. (He didn’t even look when he snapped the chopsticks perfectly in half, splinter-free, on the first attempt.)

Breathless Dead

These are serious accusations, Miss Fluffybiscuits.

Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps he did walk into the obvious trap on purpose. There are many lines of inquiry a legal mind of your standing could pursue. A heart that believes he belongs in a net is a fascinating theory, with no small amount of evidence to back it up. But that would require asking a distraught evil space sheep to explain why he is so horrible, and that’s just not a good look. Rookie mistake.

The far more cunning angle is that the existence of a trap meant he was still the target of your entirely justified revenge, and he thought to maintain some control over the situation by getting it over with and falling into your clutches in the easiest way possible. Just the sort of thing an evil space sheep would think to do. Except, evil space sheep aren’t known for giving away their thoughts that easily. You haven’t heard a single one of them spill the beans, which is very rude, because you’ve definitely been peckish here and there and those beans might be good snacking. What were we saying? Dunno, it must’ve been something tricky and complicated, and while you could easily unravel any trick any day of any week, you did a lot of walking today and you’re just not feeling it. (But you could! (But you don’t wanna (So there!)))

Now, play your cards right, and you might be able to sell the defense on a plea deal: He did fall into the trap on purpose, because he was so smitten with the fine craftsmanship of the real trap that he didn’t have the heart to ruin it.

Anyway, you’ve got the culprit in the back of a Wicked Fox Taxi, where he is flopped over with the kind of placid acceptance that is so like a sheep, evil or space or not. Things are happening. The world is exerting its will upon him. He’s being carried off somewhere, but things will probably sort themselves out. No need to bleat about it. Far better to lie here on the old, dented back of a Fox Taxi, and study the way the paint peels. And consider the odd question from a dangerously beautiful and fluffy foxgirl.

“Hrmm,” he hrmms. There must be a lot of thinking happening in that fluffy head of his. Or his head’s so full of fluff that the thoughts take a real real real real real long time to get anywhere. Whatever way the sheepy bumbles, he’s got no thoughts left for wiggling, or struggling, or doing anything other than sitting in a big lump as the surprisingly weighty, surprisingly soft ropes of your net nestle into his wool. Imagine the cost of that shake of his head.

“I do not know if I have even had cooked m’n.”

He does not tell you if that’s a joke. Which is yet another mark on his permanent record.