Daily 2

There were few things that scared Myrrh Corbin; and even when she found herself scared, she knew that, logically, there was often nothing to be scared of, or if there was, then it was better to simply resign to her fate. Silv had played many a prank on her, lashed out in anger at her, caused her to tremble in fear. He never liked her, the girl whom his parents picked off the street, the girl white as a ghost, the girl who always teased him and told him to shave his pitiful whiskers–the ones he didn’t have, the ones that both parties knew he could never have. Fae didn’t have facial hair. Fae were tricky creatures who maintained a look that somehow balanced between both ethereally ancient and impossibly, eternally young. That was not a look that Myrrh Corbin would ever have, and yet there was the taste of eternity in the back of her throat, like an experience she had felt before. As though this wasn’t the first time she’d been here. Little memories that lingered, bubbling excitement over something she would never have been excited about. And between it all, this little sense of nonsensical peace, like a nameless serenity that took over even in the most hectic of times. Like the knowledge that it would all be alright.

Of course, that all changed every time she met him. Whatever name he went by. She learned how to be afraid. She learned that she didn’t want to lose him. That, in the grand scheme of things, in the independent equation, there was one variable that could never be truly ensured. It wasn’t him, not quite. She knew that, a thought in the back of her mind. She was bound to him, in a way she couldn’t explain. No one could. Not even the fae. It was funny that they knew what she was, what she’d done, this time. They didn’t usually know. But there was that thought, that one day, she wouldn’t come back. Because she only came back when he did.

And he was such an odd one. Every time she saw him, and she always saw him, he acted as though he’d never been through what she’d been through. Every time she saw him, she saw that he was new to this world in a way she never was. And she was there to guide him, every time she met him. Every time, she would love him, and then he would return.

Even then, the balance of the world remained exactly as it ought to. Even then, somehow, people lived and died as they were supposed to. And even then, he seemed to know what he was. There was something ethereal about him, as though he were covered in a shroud. And it made sense; he was not of this world. He was there to learn, and she was there to guide. And that was her role, but of course it always slipped into love. Love she had experienced time, and time, and time again.

He wasn’t so otherworldly this time. Well, not unless you asked someone who didn’t know him. He was odd, he was strange, he didn’t know anything about anything and he couldn’t cook. That was the funny thing about him. In some lives, he could dance. In some lives, he could release the most beautiful melodies from an instrument. In some lives he could carve wood, in some lives he could paint a masterpiece. But he never could cook. And in this world, he really did know nothing. Something had drained his power, and had left behind a man who was nothing more than that–a man. A human, with human wants, needs, pains. He couldn’t see into the stars as he’d always been able to. He couldn’t haunt the halls as he was so fond of.

And he didn’t know her name.

Every time she had met him before, he had known her name.

So many names before, but this time…he didn’t know Myrrh. He didn’t know her this time. And so this time, it was her duty to know him. And know him she would, no matter how Silv protested. He didn’t understand that this was who she was, was why she was.

I think that hurt/comfort and doomed romances really stick out to me for some reason. I can’t quite explain it, but perhaps it’s for the same reason that I like to watch movies that make me sob. I want to feel something, I want to remember that I’m human, and sometimes media like that can help you do that. Sometimes, seeing someone hurt, and then nursed back to health; that makes you yearn for that thing in yourself. You want to be held, to be cared for like you care for your characters. The people who want that care are the people who are broken down the most, or at least that’s what I think. I know that things can hurt, I know that life can be dark. And that’s why I write those things. It starts off dark, and teaches us that there are things that will always be there, light things, happy things, things like love and hope. Hope is a lesson that you have to learn, and it sticks with you for a long time when you’ve gotten done with it. I think that, seeing characters be tragic, it reminds me sometimes that I’m human. And sometimes, if I’m not giving them a happy ending, the purpose is really just for me to learn how to symbolize. Because sometimes you have to remember that characters aren’t real; as much as I love to unhealthily attach myself to fictional ideals, they’re not real. Sometimes they’re just symbols, lessons to be learned, commentaries to be written. Sometimes characters are just…there. They are boiled down to one personality trait sometimes, and that’s not always a bad thing. Because characters teach us how to see. There are so many things in the world that can’t be seen, not directly, however we do try. Things like love, which invite us to explore them, to learn about them, to teach about them too. And seeing characters be healed, broken. Seeing characters with spirits beat down and raised up. Testing the human condition. It’s like a whole new world, truly at your fingertips, whatever you want it to be, it will be. You can see how a person would react in a situation you’ve never experienced. They say write what you know, and what you know is human nature. You know how people act, you know what they say in some scenarios. The more people you know, the more you can predict. But sometimes that’s dangerous. Sometimes you forget that characters aren’t human, and that humans aren’t characters. Sometimes you have to relearn humanity all over again, something dark and terrifying. Sometimes you have to remember that people are full of good, even when stories might try to tell you otherwise. Sometimes, you have to recall that you are full of love too, even when darkness escapes in your stories and your songs, you are someone

Scout leaned down over where the spycrab had made its home, on Engie’s desk, looking up at them with beady black eyes. He knew exactly what it was; a monster. Even Snipes thought it was cute–really? Nah, that thing wasn’t cute. It couldn’t ever be cute. And he was certain Soldier wouldn’t agree that it was if he knew it was French.
Every time he reached down to try and touch it, it tried to pinch him, snapping its pincers open and shut defensively. Of course, that was fine. Crabs did that, and quite frequently. The real problem here was that this crab was a chainsmoker. And not only was it a chainsmoker, it wasn’t even a crab. Yeah, that was why he didn’t think it was cute, not even in the slightest. ‘Cause that thing…that was just Spy. Had to be, right? Spy was nowhere to be seen, and the crab was pretty darn possessive of Spy’s disguise case. Which was also not something Spy would ever part with willingly. As of now, Scout was trying to swipe that wallet away. What was he gonna do? He didn’t have any weapons. Except those darn claws–they pinched his skin again and he hissed, bringing his finger to his mouth and sucking on it as if it’d help the pain go away.
He’d been fine with crabs before, but now he hated ‘em. Leave it to Spy to ruin everything for him, just like always. He rolled his eyes, then motioned with two fingers from his eyes to the crab. “I’m watching you, you little backstabber.” With a groan he crossed his arms and turned around, only to meet the eyes of Medic, who looked particularly crazy right now.
“Vell, Scout, you were right. This is the Spy. And that…that is very curious.” He followed that statement with a long, mad-scientist laugh. Scout thought it best to distance himself, and stepped away from the desk.
“So, what’cha gonna do? You’re not gonna fix ‘im, are you? Cause it’d be way funnier if you just left him like that.” He glared at the thing again.
“See, I reckon, we put him up for sale, we’d rack in thousands. D’ya think old Helen would mind losin’ a merc?” Engie tapped on the desk. Scout expected a smirk, or a grin, anything really, but Engie was dead serious.
And Scout was all for it.
“Aw, hell yeah! Sell that dime-a-dozen, backstabbing scumbag.” Scout cheered. His voice lowered. “But like, seriously. In an auction, or some’n?”
“Sell ‘im like a product, I’d say.” It was then that Engie grinned. “Y’think we could come up with some clever name?”
“Crabson.”
“I thought you didn’t think he was cute?”
“Nonono, not like a son. Arson. Right? That’s the word, right? ‘Cause, his tiny little cig. It’d be hilarious if he accidentally set somethin’ on fire with it.”
The spycrab snapped at him. He only stuck out his tongue at it, playing with his dog tags as he thought up the plan. ‘Cause if they sold this guy, they could rack in tons, and then they’d also be rid of Spy forever, which was definitely an added bonus. He would never have to deal with that dumb Frenchie ever again. ‘Course, Ma couldn’t exactly love a crab, but that was probably the best part, because he did not want Spy around his Ma anymore.
“Whatever. Good enough for me.” Engie said, in response to the name idea. Surely they’d find some way to sell this guy.
“Well, little guy, yer goin’ up for auction. Good luck out there.”
Scout was just startin’ to see why maybe selling a crab with the express purpose for arson might not work so well when he woke up to the sound of mission alerts.
“Darn.” He muttered under his breath. Man, he’d love to sell that guy.

The Terens are a people who value preservation of nature, but don’t gatekeep it. They live in forests protected by the Mother Tree, and have created a pact with her. They know which of the trunks and boughs are fit for consumption; using mostly only the ones which have rotted or fallen, as nature would choose to provide. The Terens were also gifted with the power of flight; massive wings to be put to use. These wings vary; oft matching those of a creature which already exists. Hierarchies do exist, unfortunately, though they make attempts not to base their social system off of the type of wing one might have. Duties are taken up by those with the appropriate wings, as it’s simply practical. For instance, those with owl wings are nocturnal, as are those with bat wings. Bat wings are the rarest in their society, and often come with darker skin as well.
The Terens take wings very seriously; they are used in many forms of affection. Couples use their own wings as blankets, sharing them for warmth. They are used along with arms in embraces, touching one another if you do not know the other person well, or wrapping around each other if they are a good friend. One may never pull on them; and the preening of feathers by another is only permitted by consent, otherwise it’s incredibly rude. To clip someone’s wings is unforgivable; the only ones permitted to do so are those in power, and only as a punishment.
The Terens speak the same common language as most humanoids in their world, but, as this is not always practical, they also whistle. They whistle like no other humanoid can, singing songs like birds might, communicating over long distances.
The Terens do hunt even birds on occasion. They do not allow prey to suffer; always putting them out of their misery, as is a hunter’s duty, and they do not hunt needlessly, nor do they harm mothers.
The Terens are often seen with paints on their skin; different markings that mean different things. Paints on the face will often denote a tribe, paints on the arms symbolize the aspect of nature that they feel most connected to. There is a universal color that means nothing at all, and is used for fun alone; yellow.
The Terens do have weapons, and they do train with them, but it is mostly for hunting. They tend to be highly territorial, but not aggressive. They tend to allow others into their land selectively, but they do nonetheless. Traders and travelers are often welcome, though only if they make their presence known beforehand. They will not consider an outsider an aggressor unless they forcibly or secretly make their way into their territory, in which case they have measures to capture and interrogate them.





https://scratch.mit.edu/projects/1144541166/ – moodboards for the teren lands, and two other lands that are in the same universe because i thought up a lot </3




The revitalization fungus (credit to @primosaur for this concept), created by the Exalten mages and gifted to the Terens. This was engineered using processes that drafted genes from living trees, and is intended to be used on dead trees; which the Terens are able to use for building. Knowing that living wood is stronger than dead wood, this is of great practical use, and could aid greatly in construction. However, some of the Terens are divided over this; is it moral to allow dead trees to undergo a process that is similar to necromancy; i.e., bringing them “back to life” to use for their own personal gain? Or does it function entirely differently; do the woods feel, or is it a facade? Is it something that is taken from the forest, or does it not affect the trees at all?


As Luerna had grown used to, the morning lights, which were brought with the dawn, filtered through the unpaned window in her house, the beams tracing along her maroon woolen rug and revealing traces of dust in the air, flittering about as though they were house-pixies. Luerna had always wanted a house-pixie; she thought it would be sweet to befriend one. But she had never even seen one in person; they were native to the mainlands, to Exalten, and hardly any ever came into contact with a Teren, especially not if said Teren still lived in their own village. Still, Luerna liked to imagine that those specks of dust were pixies, though she knew that, of course, pixies were larger than that, though not by much. And as she rose from her nest-bed, spreading both arm and wing as she made to stretch, she cocked her head and wondered what the pixies really did look like. Did they keep their hair long, and luscious, with gold beading strewn through the locks, like the Exalten natives? Or did they have their own predetermined style, one she couldn’t even imagine? These were the first thoughts of Luerna la Voore, fantasies and daydreams she allowed herself to chase after, for they could surely do no harm.
Luerna rose and did as she did every morning, shaking her entire body vigorously as she woke up every limb and feather, consequentially messying her hair. A laugh erupted from her and she turned the shaking into more of a dance, a stomping dance, one which made the boards underfoot creak each time she touched them. This was another freedom she allowed herself; within these walls, she was herself, and no one else. She was not a spectacle to be displayed, she was not to be seen and not heard, and she was not even a la Voore. She was just Luerna, a girl like any other girl.
Though of course she’d have much rather snuck out, today was a bit of an important day, and that was why she would do as her parents wished and clean up, thoroughly, and dress up, heavily. She had to admit that, albeit flashy, she did love the way that the gold chains which were part of her formal, traditional outfits glinted and glimmered in the sun, even occasionally casting golden glares onto her ink-dark, corvid wings. And she did like the way they clinked together when she walked. She’d never know how they sounded when she flew, because of course she wasn’t supposed to fly with formal wear. But just once, she’d like to hear the sounds of gold in the wind.
Once her self-expressive, shaking dance had finished, she made to prepare herself. What a day to look forward to, her father had said, rubbing his forehead, which also bore a crease. What a day to look forward to, indeed.
As Luerna scoured her closet for an appropriate wrap, she tried to remind herself of what her father had said, and, more importantly, what he’d said she should say. She also tried to do both of these things quickly, because the handmaidens would come in soon, and she wanted to be as ready as she could so as to give them less work to do.
The revitalization fungus. That was what her father had told her about. There were far too many conflicts revolving around it, ones that Luerna was afraid to insert herself into. Her father thought it practical, and her mother agreed. Luerna had made deliberate attempts to form no opinions on this matter, though she had heard the uproar from the villagers. Many were split in their beliefs. Some believed that it was merely a matter of practicality, that revitalizing the trees was not a true necromancy, nor was it wrong, it served a purpose and the tree was long dead anyhow, it would not truly be bringing it back to life. Others believed the opposite; that the trees could feel, that they had died peacefully and deserved to remain that way, that they were already sacrificing by allowing them to use their wood, and that it was a matter of obeying their wishes. Those were the two most pressing opinions, but of course even others existed, ones that stated more wild things.There was no proof either way; the mother tree had also not given any input on this matter, which was further frustrating, because that duty fell on her. She was the girl who the mother tree had chosen to be her vessel of communication, but she hadn’t thus spoken to her. Luerna’s beliefs often aligned with her patron’s, for why should they not? And since the mother tree’s beliefs seemed to be entirely neutral at this time, so were hers.
Luerna chose a wrap of black, trimmed in gold, and wrapped it around her body, once, twice, bringing the two ties up to her throat and adjusting it so that it remained there, wrapped around her torso and underneath her wings, crossed over her chest, and fastened behind her neck. That was the top, and the bottom was far simpler; a loose, flowing fabric that matched the top, which she wrapped around her waist and tied in front to form a skirt, which was easy to maneuver in and fell around the sides of her legs, leaving the front and center part open. There. She was satisfied with that, and hopefully her mother would be too. But now, of course, it was time to accessorize.
Her drawers were all flung open at once as she pulled the top two open, and, simply by force, the bottom two came as well. Her jewelry was well organized, something she was grateful to the handmaidens for having done for her, knowing she never would have done that herself. Gold bands along her arms, pulled up to her shoulders, bangles on her wrists, and rings that all connected in a manner mimicking a glove, slipped onto her fingers. She clasped a tight necklace around her throat, then lowered two dangling ones underneath that. The earrings, which connected in three different piercings, were too complicated for her to want to do herself, so that was something she would leave to the handmaidens. She was just putting her hair up, braiding it with beading along the back, then taking two large front parts and strewing large gold bands through them, when the handmaidens at last did come. She smiled and greeted them kindly, nodding at them as they bowed at her. She despised that custom.
They took on her least favored duties; the earrings, the painting, and the ever so loathed decorating of her feathers. It took so long, and restricted her flight even further; pinning them up like they were wings in a case for display, fastening gold bands to each of her feathers, dangling chains along them. But it didn’t take long for her to feel foolish for complaining; she remembered then that the handmaidens had had their wings clipped; their families held some debt, and so it was tradition that their capacity for flight be stripped from them. But it was neither of their own faults, it couldn’t be. They were hardly older than she was.
At last the doll was prepared, and ready to be paraded. She felt like a fool, and this glitter on her face was itching, but she dared not touch it for fear of ruining the look the handmaidens had spent so long preparing.
They brought her out onto the bridges, so she could reach her mother and father in the chief’s hut.
“Luerna, baby!” Called her mother, who was dressed and decorated in a way that was similar to herself, but was somehow even more complex. She held out her arms and embraced her daughter gently, running her fingers along her cheeks. “Has she spoken to you yet?” And of course she was referring to the mother tree. Luerna could only shake her head, truthfully. She braced for that twinge of disappointment she could discern from the way her mother’s lips turned down, if only for a split second. There it was. Her mother was disappointed–maybe not in her directly, but it was frustrating to both of them. Luerna looked down, ashamed, and neither said anything more.
“Your father is already on his way to meet the others and greet them before the meeting officially begins. We’ll catch up.”
Luerna pulled at her bands, impatient, and frustrated. She bit her tongue to keep from saying anything; she had nothing of use to say, anyhow. Instead she simply followed her mother, silent and pondering. Would the mother tree ever speak to her? She hadn’t spoken to her on any matter since this drama had begun. Had she abandoned her, and chosen another vessel? It was both disappointing and dizzying. Her thoughts, which she’d had repeatedly, were racing again. What if she truly had abandoned her? What had she done to deserve that, then? Surely if it was found out that that was the truth she’d be shunned entirely.
Though the walk felt long and arduous, not to mention uncomfortably, and awkwardly, silent, it was, in reality, quite a short one, which took but a few moments. She would eat after her appearance at this meeting, an appearance she would really rather not be making. Still, again, she silenced her own complaints.
It was a cool morning out; and a gentle breeze touched Luerna’s skirt, sweeping it gently around her ankles. She was fond of this weather, and chose to enjoy it for as long as she could, before her mood became soured by the sights of chiefs and oligarchs.
She saw the uncanny, false-smiling gazes of the meeting attendees only seconds before she heard the whizzing of arrows. She met her father’s eyes just as a flame roared to life at his feet, and she heard her mother’s screams just before she felt her hands pulling her back from the bridge.





Her mother tried to keep her from looking back, but Luerna couldn’t help it. The protests had already begun; no doubt these were from the self-titled naturalists. Parts of her found themselves drawn to them. The mother tree agreed with some of their philosophies, but not others. That was the thing about the mother tree. She held no allegiance to any mortal species. And Luerna found that was true for herself, as well. She held no allegiance to any man. Not aside from Adrenius. Adrenius was a lover her mother was well aware of, and one who she trusted with all her being. Her father, on the other hand, had not been made very aware of him, and it was better that way. Her father was the sort to look down on people like the handmaidens; and it was from one of those families that Adrenius came. His mother was a handmaiden, serving for a generations-old debt that Luerna was certain even her father had forgotten, and had ought to have forgiven by now. Regardless, it was true, and it was true that her father would not approve of Adrenius.
She had seen her father taken from the bridge by his guards, shielded from the arrow rain by the wings of his protectors. She knew that he was safe; she had seen them following behind her and her mother. And now they were out of harm’s way, but still the sights of that platform going up in flames had been burned into her mind. She’d never seen anything of the sort, not aside from a bonfire. Though it hadn’t harmed her, it had terrified her. She had gone into a momentary freeze, a state she knew she desperately needed to escape. So, feeling her mother’s pull against her weight, she had forced her feet down the boards, and into the weaving trees, hand tracing along rope railings as she ran down the suspended structure. She was missing Adrenius more than she ought, hoping that his area was alright; that none of the handmaidens he lived with had chosen to partake in these attacks.
Imagine her relief when he was there; panting, having just landed at her pad; and then her anguish upon noticing the wounds he bore. She felt her contact with her mother break before she gave the movement a second thought, knowing that she needed to reach out, to hold him. From beneath tufts of glistening, wet black hair his eyes, nearly the same color, met hers. They seemed even darker than usual, not in color, but in countenance. And then, just as they’d met gazes, he doubled over, hand pressed to his stomach, weight borne by the arms of Luerna as he fell. He seemed too weak to even look back up at her, and then Luerna realized another thing, in the back of her mind.
He had never been here before, and he had tried. He had never been let in, not for any purpose. Even now–especially now–there was no possibility that it had been guards who had let him in. Something was wrong; someone was not where they were supposed to be. Or perhaps someone.
“The canopy is down.” That was all that Adrenius seemed able to say, prioritizing this news. And Luerna quickly and loudly repeated it to her mother, revealing both of their worst fears. The canopy was down. The protection that surrounded their homes was gone; and in the distance behind Adrenius, when she at last glanced up from him to see where he’d come from, she saw the smoke rising. This attack was larger than she had initially expected; and clearly, well organized. They were coming from every direction.
And still, the mother tree was not speaking to her. This worried her more than usual. Even now, as the forest was being set ablaze, there were no words spoken, not even any cries of pain. Something had silenced her.
Or perhaps that connection truly had been severed, and she would be left to wonder what she had done to deserve it. She hadn’t meant for this to happen, she had done her best to be the best servant possible. She was a capable, responsible girl, even if she did like to run sometimes. Sometimes the mother tree encouraged that freedom.
So what had she done, then?
There were too many concerns in her mind, but when she looked back to Adrenius, each one of them disappeared in entirety. He was her priority now. She heard her own voice crying, calling out for a medic, anyone who could help. She was helping him onto a stretcher, and only then noticing every one of his bruises, his cuts and blood that spilled from his abdomen. Someone had done this to him. Likely he had tried to fight off these attackers; to stop this. And then he had but one resort. A warning, but a warning all too late.
As selfish as it was, Luerna was glad that he had come here, even if it was almost useless. He would be alright, if she could nurse him to health.

“Attempt the hydra” they said. Jaspers georg, with 100 WPM, seemed up for the challenge. She was really bored and decided this was something she would do. She would also do it with her eyes closed. Fingers flying across the keyboard, eyes totally shut, she attempted the challenge because at least it would boost their word count, and then it would also give them some extra points! Hopefully she isn’t making too many typos and her muscle memory is winning this challenge for her. She is being really silly. Her fingernails feel a bit too short, she has been biting them even though nobody thinks she chews them. She does, but only sometimes. Because she hates nail files and she hates cutting them with clippers, and she plays guitar so if they’re too long on her left hand she can;’t even do anything. Aso it’s probably easier to type with nails that aren;t three miles long, or at least that is what she thinks. She is trying her best to type fast but she might be doing a little slower than usual. When she opens her eyes there better not be more than twenty typos or she will actually cry. Just watch. Or listen or whatever. You can’t see or hear her but she promises she will actually cry if she does too much of this wrong. Here eyes have been closed this entire time. She’s very scared and hopes that her typing speed is fast enough right now. She is not paying attention to anything and she is also listening to flawed mangoes which is really fun > okay do emoticons count as words? No clue but there one is! When will the timer go off? She wonders. Did she remember to set the timer? She will figure that out soon enough. When is it going to end she is literally going insane a little bit. However she still has her eyes closed and flaw3ed mangoes is the best music ever. It gives her existential crises. She is a little bit of a silly person who likes to listen to and watch things that will emoitonally destroy her. She is doing perfectly fine. She wants to watch hacksaw ridge right now, not just because ANdrew Garfield is cute but because she spends the entire second half of that movie doing nothing but sobbing. She could also watch Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 23, because she spent that entire movie just SOBBING her heart out. She drank like three stanleys of water. She also is upset about the fact that stanley is a trend because she’s been using those things since she was a child. Like six years old child. That’s pretty radical right? Okay please let this be over 500 words and not have too many typos she will open her eyes as soon as she hears the chime go off she is hoping and praying. She has literally no internal clock help her please guys. Please. Okyay uh she is doing a little jiggy in her chair just dancing tof lawed mangoes please when will this timer end it’s driving her insane um hello guys please she wants to open her eyes

DOES NOT COUNT TOWARDS WORD COUNT – WRITTEN EARLIER, SUBMITTED FOR CRITIQUITAIRE

1,836 words so it just fits the submission </3


Hanging lights of crystal and gold had been strewn through the great room. Sounds of shifting feet could be heard, although overwhelmed by the vibrations of resounding strings touched by gently handled bows and by the chatter of folk—this dance was coming to an end now, though those who were partaking in it seemed to pay no mind to that fact.

A young woman of twenty-three years, with tanned skin and eyes so deep and dark they were abyssal in colour, rather than their so-called brown, and with exceedingly long, deep brown hair with hints of copper naturally strewn through it coiled up on her head, entered the room, her right arm hooked through the crook of the elbow belonging to an elder gentleman, one with a lithe, sure build and gray hair, trimmed nearly into a beard and combed back hair that made him look more youthful than his contemporaries in age. His eyes held a mischievous glint in them.

Now, the woman's countenance was bright and youthful, and it much matched her gown, a satin and silken thing in an iridescent shade of pale green, with a sweetheart neckline, with short white tulle sleeves that draped along below her shoulders, and a white lace bodice, and a long, swooping skirt embroidered with white flowers which reminded one of dogwood blossoms. It was this, which breathed with an air of spring and summer, that matched her youthful soul, one which, though this observation was not immediately apparent, was all at once loving and protective as a mother, timid as a sparrow, serene yet strong as a stream, and excitable and playful as a young pup.

When one looked first at the man, and then at the lady he was escorting, they would see several obvious differences. It was an almost comedic juxtaposition, the visual comparison in both height and figure, as well as disposition. The girl stood at five feet with but a few inches to pair, the man at six feet and change. Where she looked out on the world with a sparkle in her eye, and a smile touching her lips, one kind and gentle and innocent, he held a mischief, a dark arrogance to him. A smirk, rather than a smile. And it was obvious to any who looked that they did not belong together—not that they were involved romantically, but even just seeing them alongside one another was somehow unnatural.

The man at the door, with his one hand on the door-handle and the other behind his back, held his head up high as he spoke, their introductions. “Now enter the Lady Kennedy Roswell and the Gentleman Charles Darling.”

Kennedy's smile turned sweet and small as she acknowledged the doorman with a grateful little nod of her head, her gesture rudely interrupted by the tugging against her right arm. Darling, who was, though unbeknownst to many of the guests here, the employer of the young lady Kennedy. Or perhaps the unknown factor was that she was his employee—Darling was well-known in these courts as a businessman, and renowned as well, whereas the young lady had just but begun in these circles. She had gained her position under Darling through a good friend of hers, and an odd, not quite friend of Darling's; an older woman by the name of Margaret. Hence, Darling had taken to having Kennedy as the date he would escort, a formality above all else.

Down the steps into the room they went, one step after another. Though a bit arrogant, Darling was polite and chivalrous, as any man truly ought to be. He let himself serve as a platform for Kennedy's balance, surefooted and solid; not that the lady, with all her athletic history, quite needed it, though perhaps she may if she fell to her clumsiness, which was in itself a credible possiblity. So she graciously took a hold of his arm even tighter than before, her left hand atop the wrist of her right in order to solidify her grasp. As the descent continued, down the staircase which was of an oddly massive length, she made to look out at the people in the crowd who proved to be of interest. Her gaze touched the heads of several women and men, very few whom she recognized at all, though she did find a familiar face at last—the lady Francesca Pauling, who caught her gaze, nodded and acknowledged her with a smile. Kennedy released her hand to give a timid little wave, and, in her distraction, stumbled on a step, relying on Darling's strong arm to hold her up. Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment and she apologized, grateful that he'd been there as a solid foundation; though it was truthful she disliked him, she would never voice that thought.

There were very few people Kennedy disliked in any capacity, yet the man Darling had managed to place himself very high upon the list of those few for whom she did hold more contempt than she felt comfortable with.

As they neared, at last, the bottom of the flight, Kennedy caught sight of a gentleman who was… far noisier than she'd have liked. She felt an inherent sense of indignation upon seeing him, one which she immediately made to repent of. This gentleman, who was a stranger to her, was rather loud in the ways in which he went around, greeting every woman, even those on the arms of other men. When said men chanced to respond like an angry dog, he would jump back with a speed that almost caused her to laugh. He was nowhere near as sure of himself as he wanted others to think he was. He was perhaps not necessarily objectively handsome, though he held it in his mind that he was—and, much to her own chagrin, Kennedy felt inclined to agree with his unknown inner thoughts. He held at least six feet to his name, with a very lean frame, and neatly combed and cut brown hair. He was turned perpendicular to her, and she saw his profile; his nose was upturned with bumps that, again, were not hailed as conventionally attractive, but then again, who decides such things, and what government do they have over the feelings of women?

It was when he turned, however, that solidified his handsomeness in Kennedy's mind. When he looked to see which new guests had come in and joined the party. He held an air of unsure arrogance around him, and a playfulness too. Those meant nothing to Kennedy. But his smile, so bright and so excitable, crooked as it was; and his eyes. Oh, she thought, his eyes. Blue like thunderclouds, pale and vivid all at once. Her gaze lingered on him as they passed, and once again Darling felt the need to be rude and nearly hurt her as he pulled her along harshly.

Kennedy, rather than speaking out as she ought, kept quiet and anchored her thoughts to herself as she had been made to feel she ought. A certain apprehension grew within her, a tumultuous sensitivity in her stomach, and she made to look back at the man with the thunder eyes. What a fool and a scoundrel he was, an ignorant flirt to every girl in his vicinity. Hand after hand she watched him kiss, her neck craned back to see as her escort pulled her forward and away from the man. Though she found a sense of ire in the manner of his actions, she could not bring herself to look away from him. She ought, she thought, after this dance, to introduce herself to him. For though his public displays of arrogance irked her, something was there, in the distinct way he laughed, or in the crooked way he smiled. And in those eyes… those thunder eyes.

The moment that Kennedy had finished obliging Darling with the honour of the first dance as she ought to, she freed herself from his side without a word as he found himself preoccupied in conversation with an associate, and herself drifted through the crowds in search of the thunder-eyed man, who had somehow caught her attention despite the disreputable.
countenance he had proven himself to possess. She found herself pleased when she spotted him, for he had presently finished a dance with Francesca, and still remained linked in arms with her, smiling as he murmured unremarkable albeit charming sweet nothings into her ear. She, unlike most of the bachelorettes here, including Kennedy, was not one to be easily swayed or made to blush, and it was for that reason that this gentleman had eyes for her. It was she who also noticed first as Kennedy approached, and who smiled and embraced her friend, giving her a gentle kiss—as well as a somewhat disapproving narrowing of her eyes. Kennedy of course acted none the wiser, though whether this was due to ignorance or due to wilfully ignoring in and of itself, none could tell. As Francesca departed from the two, slipping loose from the man's grasp, she met Kennedy's eyes from the side. An obvious warning. An again, infatuated, Kennedy declined the signal.

“Ahoy.” She said with a smile. “I am Kennedy Roswell. I've not been here long, so I hope you'll understand and forgive my asking, but who might you be?” The sound of her own voice was like the grating of sharp nails against a chalkboard to Kennedy's ears. She winced at herself, forcibly compiling herself all over again. She expanded her chest in a bit of a futile attempt to lower the temperature she felt rushing to her cheeks—oh, what was this? She did not blush! Not this easily. What rubbish. And of course in her own stupor she was entirely unaware of how the man felt upon seeing her, the trance he seemed to be caught in, captivated by her in a manner which Kennedy would no doubt have considered undeserved and unnecessary. His gaze caught every aspect of her and he felt the need to cough, as though to steady a ragged breath.

“Good to meet you.” The gentleman nodded ahead, at last able to function once again (though Kennedy was oblivious to any change in his attitude), making to link their arms and lead her forward. To where, she paid no attention. She was looking into his thunder eyes, and then away and back again, with the hopes that he would not truly notice. “I'd be S—” It seemed as though he'd begun wrong. He quickly corrected himself. “Jeremy Jones.”

What an odd name. It tasted sour in Kennedy's mouth. Her own odd senses irked her and she frowned, wondering why such a fine, natural name ought to taste and feel so dismal in her mind. It was not just this man's name but other names, and other nouns, especially, and oddly, words such as stingray and eggplant. It was odd, she knew, and another thing she told nobody; by reason of the aforementioned observation.

alright, so, here's how this one works. I've been writing this project for a bit, and the prologue, which is very long, already existed. That doesn't count towards my word count. The actual part I wrote for the daily exists in chapter one; I added the prologue for context, but you don't have to read it for this to make sense. enjoy !

IvyCreations wrote:

Prologue

Goldie Locke certainly was a mischievous character, as all who knew her would agree. Frequently she could be found pulling a prank on someone, hiding something that was desperately needed from they who needed it, or even resorting to such methods as theft, solely for her own entertainment. Yet in spite of all these defects, Goldie still remained the poster child of the town. That is to say, those who lived in the town did their best to at least pretend to tolerate the child. Goldie's parents were of great renown and held a high status, hence the reason that everyone did their best to remain on their good side, even if that meant tolerating a child who surely could not have been anything but devil spawn.
Goldie rarely noticed her own flaws, and when she did she chose not to dwell on them. Others would point out her shortcomings, and all she would do was argue and disagree, occasionally bringing a child to tears with her unnecessarily rude retorts. Goldie was, unfortunately, one of those children who had not been taught to the golden rule (which is certainly ironic for a girl with a name like hers), and who had also never been told that others were deserving of her respect. Her parents did little to teach her these things. In fact, her parents rarely taught her at all. They relied more on maids, nurses, and nannies to teach her the things that they really ought to be doing themselves. While the staff may have been able to teach her from books, they could not give her what a parent ought to. The Lockes were often out of home, traveling, weather for business or pleasure, and it was rare for Goldie to see them. The only people that Goldie really ever saw were the maids and the tutors. She rarely saw other children, for she did not attend school with them, and it was rare for one to truly want to play with her of their own merit. When a child did play with her, it was mostly because a parent made them, and in those instances they were more often than not looking for a way out of the situation; Goldie was not the sort of girl who liked to play nice.
Goldie always knew exactly what she wanted, and that was always what she got. None of her parents' staff dared to stand up to her, and none of the other children's parents dared to either. While Goldie had it in her mind that she was far better than anyone she knew, and that she ought to be living the best life because of all of the material things that she had, she was blind to the fact that she was, in fact, living a very sad life. A girl with no real friends is a very unfulfilled girl indeed. A girl who thinks that objects are all that there is to the world is no happy girl. The maids had it in their minds that this girl would never find a true lover, something that they considered to be dire. and perhaps they were right. Up to a point, that is. for if Goldie had continued in her current path, it is true but she would have likely lived exactly as she was currently living, and never find reason to change. But Goldie made a decision one day—a decision that was born out of her mischief, but resulted in something far better.

————

It was dead in the middle of summer, on a hot day that Goldie wasn't particularly enjoying. She despised anything that was too hot or too cold, instead preferring something right in the middle, a perfect balance that was more tolerable on the skin.
It was on this day that she found herself to be immensely bored. It was a weekend, so there were no lessons to be had, and she also had no playmates that day. Although, technically, Goldie was not supposed to wander where she pleased, the maids let her more often than not. This time they allowed her to leave the manor all together, for she had decided that day to st off on her merry way into the forests behind her home. She was entirely unprepared, but she didn't intend to really explore, only meaning to take a brisk walk, and perhaps discover some interesting fun of some sort. It was certain that Goldie would get bored with this too, and come home in no time at all.
This, of course, would have been true, had Goldie not stumbled. In her search for new dandelions to add to a wreath, she tripped over a root, which launched her directly into a clearing. This clearing was beautiful, but not in any way that a simple girl like Goldie could ever understand. However, what was curious about it, was the fact that, in it, there lie a log cabin. It was a gorgeous cabin, constructed masterfully, and looked to be quite cozy. Had any other passersby stumbled across this, they would likely have noticed the telltale green paw symbols across the doorframe, which denoted something threatening, and have avoided the place altogether. Goldie, being Goldie, noticed, but did not understand the meaning. Regardless of whether they understood the meaning, any other person would also have turned to leave at this point, having prior acknowledged that they truly had no business in anyone else's home. Again, Goldie, being Goldie, did not think this way. She was entitled to what she wanted, and what she wanted was to enter, and so enter she did.
It was a surprise that the place was not locked, or it would have been if Goldie had not been given everything she wanted in life. It was a cozy, and even welcoming home, with a pleasant spread of carpets along the ground, of pictures on the walls, of…displayed weaponry scattered in glass cases. Reds and browns surrounded her, dark wood making up the home, the beams on the ceiling from which dangled a small glass chandelier, next to which there had been erected a high mezzanine. Goldie was not interested in what lie up there, at least, not in that moment. Right now she was fixated on all the things she saw downstairs. The three chairs at the table, the three bowls of porridge which lie on said table, and three glimmering pistols hanging on the wall nearby. Unlike the majority of the weaponry in this household, they were not in glass cases.
Goldie found it intriguing, the differences between everything she saw. The three chairs were of entirely different make and size, the bowls the same, and still the pistols the same. This of course only enticed Goldie even further; surely if there were three like this, she could find one that was just right for her. Like the perfect temperature between hot and cold.
In her haste to try these things, Goldie dropped her flowers, and her wreath fell, scattering across the ground. She paid no mind, intent on taking a seat.
The first seat, of course, was far too large and stiff. Unsatisfied, Goldie shifted into the second, which was far too narrow and creaky.
At last, at her third and final attempt, she found the most comfortable seat of them all. It did not creak, it was not stiff, and it was exactly the correct size for her. She found it to be so comfortable, in fact, that she sat on it for quite some time, and in that time chose to help herself to the porridge she'd seen on the table.
The first bowl was the largest. The porridge within proved to be far too hot and lumpy, and it burned her tongue. With a scowl she moved onto the second, the medium-sized one, which was far too cold and liquified, and did not satisfy her at all. Then at last she tried the porridge from the smallest bowl, and found that it was exactly to her liking. Unable to help herself, she ate the whole thing.
As soon as she had finished, she heard a snap. The leg of the chair upon which she sat then gave out, and she collapsed onto the ground, having broken it.
She growled and dusted off her dress as she stood, then glared disdainfully at the chair as though it had really had any say in what had happened to it. It was truly not its fault; the way it had been built was entirely at the behest of another being, it was simply doing as it was told; for the majority of its life it had been told to stick together and stay a solid object, as it ought to, but of course the screws within had given it a different objective at this time.
Goldie found that she was quite tired of the downstairs, and was set on making her way upstairs when she recalled the pistols hanging. There were three of them, and Goldie found it so odd that there would be one for a child, for surely only a child could have hands so small to hold it, and surely only a child would have been sitting on the chair she had broken.
She was scarcely tall enough to reach the hanging pistols, and had to drag up a stool in order to reach them. She hobbled her way onto the unsteady, green-wooded stepstool and pressed her hands against the wall, steadying herself as her fingers traced the woodgrains. Then she reached up for the largest pistol, certain that she could hold it perfectly fine. Of course this was not true; it was too bulky to fit between her fingers, and far too heavy for her. With a disappointed grimace she returned it to its place, then reached for the second one; the middle-sized one. It was better; but still a bit big, and far too slippery. Even a bit light, she had to admit. So, with a sigh, she took hold of the last one. Though, from a distance, it did not look it, it suited her far better than either of the other two did, and she found her grasp on it to be quite comfortable, even as a girl of her small age and stature.
This, she thought, ought to protect me while I explore this place. She wouldn’t keep it; not because she was worried about stealing (she was under the impression that everything in the world was hers to touch and take) but because she knew the nannies would have a cow if they saw her returning with a weapon in hand. But she did not know what lie upstairs, so she thought she ought to keep it with her whilst she explored there, just in case there were any malicious figures seeking to harm her.
The stairs led up from the far end of the house to the mezzanine she had seen before, and standing upon it she could see everything she had seen from below, though it was a bit different when seen from here. Still, being a girl who was not much one to appreciate things like interior decor, she didn’t linger on the sight for long, and abandoned it entirely to pursue new things. The first new thing she saw was the bedroom; which seemed to take up the entirety of this floor area, and which had a ceiling that met at a triangular point above. In it, there were three beds, each of different size and make, just like everything downstairs. The sight was odd, but not completely out of place.
Of course, Goldie was enticed to help herself to the beds. So she took a look at the largest one first; painted in deep green and gold, which was quite tall and seemed quite sturdy. She pulled the covers off with no concern at all, letting them drape over the foot of the bed as she crawled onto it. She sunk into it and found quite quickly that it was uncomfortable and stiff; and launched herself out of it with the knowledge that she’d rather die than sleep in a bed like that.
The second of course, was so soft. Far too soft.
Is it safe to assume you’re a bit bored now?
That’s alright. You won’t be for much longer.
Mama bear’s bed was red, with bedspreads of flowers and bushes. This isn’t information you wanted to know, nor is most of what i’ve already told you, but regardless, now you do know.
Baby bear’s was blue. That’s all. It was blue, and it was just right. And, as you also know, as soon as Goldie had tucked herself into it, she fell fast asleep under the covers, gun still in hand, held tightly, her sleeping fingers tracing the trigger.


————

The bears returned shortly after, only to see their home in a state of…not disaster, but disturbance. There were small things that could be noticed; the way the rug had shifted and the green stains from a pair of shoes, which was of course odd because the bears never wore shoes, especially not ones so small. Clearly, someone had been in the house, and that much was obvious simply from entering the room.
Papa bear was the first to notice, and ordered that his family stay behind him while he investigated. He was certain that shoes so small could not belong to a hunter, and that surely they’d have laid traps and not just disturbed their home if that had been who they were. But no. They hadn’t; not that he could see. What he could see was that someone had touched his food, and someone had moved his chair. A loud growl sounded as he angrily complained about this fact; and then mama bear’s soft, shy voice pointed out that the same had happened to her. But at last there came the crying, sniffling voice of baby bear, whose chair was in pieces, and whose food was all but entirely gone. This of course made papa bear even more upset; and he became alarmed when he realized that baby bear’s pistol was also missing. He told his family to stay behind as he grabbed his own pistol and trailed up the stairs.
His bed, and his wife’s, were disasters. That was upsetting; but what was really the worst of it was that there was a girl in his son’s bed. She didn’t look large enough to be a threat, she was a child herself. But how, and why, had she gotten here? And why had she destroyed baby bear’s chair, and helped herself to his food? She must be quite a spoiled child, indeed.
Cautiously, papa bear drew back her covers, and found that she held baby bear’s pistol in her hands. He was trying to puzzle together why a small girl would have come into their home, especially one who looked so well cared for, and have eaten their food, but only some of it, then decided she had to protect herself, and fallen asleep in another’s bed. It was a curious event that had happened here. With a sigh, he pulled the pistol from her hands, expecting her to wake, but all she did was stir. Gently, he lifted her into his arms, taking care not to mishandle her, and carried her back down the stairs.
Mama bear saw her and met the sight with a gasp, baby bear’s eyes widened in curiosity and fear as papa bear lowered the girl onto the couch, and handed baby bear his pistol. Immediately, the little one returned it to where it ought to have been hanging, and quickly returned to look at the girl. He was a curious one; he drew near and looked at her, but never touched.
“Why would she come here?” Mama bear whispered to papa bear.
“She must be one of the town children.”
“Still… to our home? And destroy our son’s chair?”
“She must be a very spoiled town child.”
“We must get her back home.”
“How are we supposed to find that?”
Suddenly a voice sounded from behind where the two had huddled, the voice of the girl herself.
“I can find my own way home, thank you very much.” She had woken to find baby bear’s nose almost directly above hers, and had pushed him out of the way, propping herself up on her elbows to see the people whose home she had so carelessly invaded. She did not offer an apology, nor did she speak any other words. She simply rose from the couch and made to walk past all of the bears, only to find that she was unable to move, held by the collar of her dress.
She looked indignantly up at papa bear, freckled cheeks burning and blue eyes piercing, and crossed her arms. “You will let me go, and you will do it now.”
Papa bear could only laugh.
“Honey, you should let her go–” said the shy voice of mama bear. But still, papa bear held on, and tilted his head quizzically, as though trying to figure what to do with such a bratty girl. Goldie had never felt the fur of a bear against her skin before, and it was both very comfortable, and very uncomfortable at the same time.
“Stay here.” Said papa bear to his family. Still holding Goldie by the collar, he picked her up, carrying her around as though she were nothing but a sack of potatoes, put his pistol in his holster, and at last brought the girl to the door. “You and I, we’re going to go find your family, and we are going to do it together.”
“Put me down!” Goldie shrieked at last, choosing now to writhe rather than comply. Papa bear’s eyes narrowed in annoyance, but he lowered her down, letting her feet meet the ground, and allowing her to move freely.
“I know my own way home. Let me be.”
“The woods are no place for a young human girl.” Papa bear grunted. “I’ll guide you, and then, once you’ve reached town, I’ll let you be. Sound good?”
Goldie only stuck her tongue out at him. She seemed resolved to stay where she was, but she wasn’t exactly a patient girl, and staying here didn’t really benefit her, so she instead began trekking forwards. Papa bear waited a few seconds before following her; he wouldn’t invade her space any more than he already had. Instead, he watched after her, just to be certain no wolves or hunters were here who might want a small girl.
The walk was, for the most part, quiet, aside from the times when Goldie pointed out that she truly despised her current situation, and that she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself. It would have been fine, she told herself, had she woken up before they’d returned. She had to admit she had no clue what time of day it was, not even in the slightest, though at least she could tell that it was still vaguely daytime after all.
There was smoke rising in the distance. A bit more than usual, but Goldie knew that had to be the smokehouse on a good business day. She pointed out that she ought to follow it. Papa bear of course knew where they were going already, but the smoke did help them to keep their direction. Goldie was tripping on everything, but of course that was just who she was. Clumsy. She wished this bear wasn’t here to watch her embarrass and humiliate herself like this, even occasionally catching her when she couldn’t catch herself. She growled rather than thanking him for his help.
At last, as Goldie was tearing brambles from her massive tresses of hair, they came upon the town. She was glad to be home, glad to see it–
Devastated.
Destroyed.
She didn’t get to see much before papa bear swooped her up in his arms, covering her eyes. But she knew what she had seen, and she wanted to look again, fighting papa bear. She knew she’d cry if she looked again, but still, she had to.
Charred remains of people and structures alike littered the ground. A massacre had taken place here, a raid. All Goldie really had seen was the body of a man on the ground. That was all she had seen, and still it was enough to be burned into her mind.
Papa bear didn’t look for very long. There were fires still burning, but it was so eerily silent. There were no lives left here. Whomever had lived here did so no longer; there were no survivors.
He looked down at the child in his arms with a sorry look. He couldn’t leave her here, but he knew, her life would never be the same.
With a heavy sigh, he turned, and chased back through the woods.

THIS is where my word count starts

One
Six Years Later

It was late into the afternoon, and the dusk had begun to set on the horizon. Had any passersby chosen to look up, specifically at the far corner of the building upon which the bell-tower sat, they would have seen the infamous golden curls of Goldie Locke, of the Bear Guild, flowing from beneath a hood of emerald green and gold, gently tousled by the breeze around her face, mimicking the clouds that streaked the pink skies. There were very few civilian passersby who bothered to look at the far corner of the bell-tower, where there was no road that ran alongside it. Those who did merely saw what appeared to be a child, pointed it out, and moved along. If someone did bother to summon the police, which was likely, Goldie had her ways around that. She, like her mentor, was limber and quick, and would be off the scene the moment she noticed trouble. But for now, she was watching the target. Her gaze was direct, and focused.
Spinning around her fingers, perfectly balanced, was her multitool, which functioned similarly to a balisong, though held many more devices within as opposed to simply housing a blade, and also made a perfectly good fidget. It kept her body occupied so her mind could remain sharp; these tricks were just games, second nature to her.
Her finger caught on the gold metal as she watched the target stop. There was a contact here, and there would be a trading of goods as well. Goldie watched intently, and so did the target. Their contact wasn’t here yet. But they would be soon.

—-

Goldie looked up at the woman they had just introduced her to. The loss of her village was something too complex for a nine-year-old to have borne at the time. All she knew was that she had lost something important. Her parents were alright, but they were long gone. Even she hadn’t been told when they’d return, so she had no information to give to the bears in that regard. They promised to keep her safe and nearby, in case they did return soon, but Goldie wasn’t really focused on her parents. They were never around in the first place. Even now, it didn’t feel much different that they were gone. It was just something normal. They were the people who had made her, sure, but they weren’t ever around themselves. She hadn’t learned anything from either of them.
But she had learned things from the maids, and from the nurses and tutors. And though she was a brat, and never appreciated their help when it came, when Red Haube told her that she was a bounty hunter, Goldie seemed to have made up her mind. She was going to do that too. Red told her the entire story. How she came to be what she was. How she held a grudge against the wolves–and who didn’t–because she had been tricked by one, long ago. The horrible concept of having been eaten by the wolf was what filled Goldie’s ears. Surely Red was making things up. How could she have survived that? But somehow, the wolf had eaten both her and her grandmother. Red had told her that the woman in the corner, who lay sound asleep in her chair, was the very same grandmother. So, naturally, Goldie asked how they’d survived. The answer was, as Red put it, “simple.” Her brother, Judas, was a huntsman, and had rescued them both. That had been many years ago, and since then Red had become a huntswoman.
“I don’t know how to care for a child,” Red said to her, “and Grams sure don’t either. So you’re getting me. Hope you like the family business, ‘cause that’s all I got to offer you. But trust me. I’ll make a huntswoman out of you yet.”
And that was how it all started.

—-

Goldie watched as a stranger in a black coat approached where the target stood. Or, to be more specific, a pretend stranger. It was odd to see Red adorned in anything other than her namesake; red hair in a scarlet cloak. The cloak was even more a giveaway than the hair; so Red abandoned both, having applied a blonde wig. Goldie had messed with the hair to make it look more realistic, and it seemed to have done the job. Red would receive information, pass along a package. The actual contact was currently quite indisposed; Adalbern had seen to that. Most men were scared of a bear to begin with, but of course, a bear who was also a member of the Guild? That was something else entirely. So he had hardly argued when Adalbern had picked him right up off his feet and dragged him away.
Goldie wondered how Red was so good at talking to a wolf without getting upset right then and there. Surely, she was harboring some sort of resentment toward this person, even right now?

Recorded April 16, 2373, 09:39
Uploaded April 16, 2373, 11:03

We're about to leave for the Kuiper Belt. I'm going to miss Idaho. I know I'm about to go on a massive journey, one that so many girls dream of, but that's all I can think about. I miss Idaho. A lot. And I'm scared. It'll be twenty years for everyone else before we're seen again. It takes that long to get to the Belt. I've already said goodbye to all of my friends. I know we won't be friends anymore; not when I wake up. It'll be twenty years for them. But for me… it's just a really long nap.

I can't even begin to think of everything I'm going to miss, and everything that's going to change. I just…I know that this is exciting. I know that this is important. But I can't help but cry sometimes.

Dad's calling us. There's not a lot in the car, because there's not a lot to pack. We're never going to see this house again, I'm sure. One suitcase is all I have. Everything that ever mattered to me. Maybe it'll be real valuable in the future.

I gotta go.

Recorded April 30, 2393, 02:24
Received from Ori Leon on May 4, 2393 at 04:38

They just woke us up.

They told me to record this message for scientific and historical purposes.

There's not a lot to say. It's bright here. They pulled me out, and it's weird. The process is long and tiring. My head hurts and my eyes are still a bit dilated. My limbs are still numb from the cold. And I'm starving. They said I can't eat anything solid yet; there's an IV in my wrist giving me nutrients. Hopefully I'll start to feel better soon. That…that's all I got.


Recorded May 2, 2393, 14:54
Received from Ori Leon on May 7, 2393 at 16:39

Hey, Earth.

It's cold out here. That's something a lot of people don't tell you, I think. Like, they say it's cold, but they don't say it like they mean it. They kept reinforcing how often we'd have to exercise to keep our bone density up, and how to grow plants out here, and everything else. They sort of just mentioned that it was cold. I was born in Idaho, so I know cold. I guess I just didn't expect it to stick around like it does. It's cold, you keep expecting it to change, but it never does.

It's weird. It's weird to think that it's been so long. I'm not even going to try to contact my old friends. Kish, and Liah… I'm not ready for that. I can't do that. I'm just not ready for it. I can't talk to anyone I used to know. There's no use in looking back on anything, not anymore. This is my life now. We're Kuipers; that's our role. We are the only relics from those thirty years ago. This whole colony, this entire mining expedition.

We're alone out here. Communication back to Earth takes a few days. It feels so dark out here. Even darker than black. Black is just a color, but this darkness is more like a feeling.

We're alone out here. But maybe it'll be okay. Maybe we really are the pioneers of something new.

Maybe.