CHANGE IS THE BASIS OF ALL HISTORY.

        ‘has anyone told you you look quite lovely today?’  the cauldron boils, bubbles. how traditional! whether the black contents consist of bitter, bitter chocolate, or something a tad more unspeakable, mehana seems reluctant to share. there is work to be done — spells to be woven, a brew to be made. not everything can be done via stave or verbal intonation. ‘tis not often that she engages in the activities one would expect of one holding the title of witch. but work is work, and she won’t be stopping it for conversation. one can just as easily talk over a cauldron of boiling black contents as one can over some tea. mehana smiles, drops the act of idle conversation. her curiosity quickly gets the better of her.

      a nudge. he points to her forearm -- the naturally gruff intonation of his speech isn’t meant to be forceful or intimidating, only playful. the inked tattoo draws his interest most of all. bigby tries to pretend it surprises him more than it actually does. (he damn well knew that was there. still.) a poke at her arm. ‘goddamn. is that a tattoo you’ve got there? on your forearm, marci?’ the quip is teasing, but his face takes on a faux look of earnest distrust. 

     amélie barely acknowledges the others presence at first. continues as she works, binding her fists up tight, preparing to train. then she shifts. eight eyes blink, black sclera cutting over the reddened vision there. rotate in their sockets, sink and settle. her voice comes dull as a dinner knife.

quarry  is  lost  –  the  scent  of  bleeding  deer,  memorized,  muddles;  something  else.  something  else.  old.  he  knows  old,  it  resides  in  his  metal  bones,  wet  on  his  teeth  –  this  is  older  than  he’s  ever  been,  and  he  knows  he  is  like  a  cat  in  a  lion’s  old  den.  but  it  doesn’t  frighten  him  like  it  should.  logan’s  fear  receptors  have  been  numbed  to  pain,  eternity,  agony  –  the  eyes  of  an  old  thing  don’t  perturb  him.

he  shifts,  hunched  on  his  fours  like  an  animal,  caked  in  mud,  foliage,  and  old  gore  –  the  color  painting  his  hands  to  upper  triceps  is  somewhere  between  innards  and  mud.  

sharp  teeth  come  to  bare  upon  speech,  decidedly  animal.  saliva  clings  to  pointed  apertures.  his  fury  rouses  and  twists  inside  him,  unsettled  –  his  meal  is  lost,  and  his  target  changes.  logan  steps  forward,  palms  flat  like  paws.  

the  sound  that  rumbles  in  him  is  not  of  a  man.  it  is  a  tiger,  or  a  bear,  shaking  and  rushing.  

     now isn’t that just exciting. it’s not every day perchta has the privilege to find a berserkr man in her forest. and by the gods, if that doesn’t send her thoughts right back to the ages when men died screaming on these very grounds at the tip of her axe. he looks straight out of a scene from some gruesome viking legend – refreshing, really, that’s what he is. her own features ripple somewhere between young and old, settle on the hag, grin twisted, enlivened at the prospect of playing a game. insects flutter from her gnarled hair. 

          the garden doesn’t tend to itself. if not for the gardening gloves, she’d be up to her elbows in soil. a green thumb is another of those selfish gifts tadao had bestowed upon her, she is a good gardener because it had benefited him for it to be so. it is not uncommon for people to wander into the garden, thinking it’s a public place  —  a small park that one might use to cut through the block, a vegetable garden tended to by the community. chiyo has taken to leaving the back gate open, perhaps begging for company. leaves rustle beneath kyoko’s feet, and chiyo turns.  ‘ hello,  have you lost your way? ’

        kyoko was trained not to speak unless requested specifically to do so by nathan himself. but programming -- at least the type of it that bases her brainwaves -- is designed to grow beyond step 1. step 1 was silence. she looks at the garden that the other tends to and wonders how it will look in 20, 30 years. this is step 1 of its growth. what will step 37 look like?  her tangent comes to a close, legs taking her closer, fingertips skating along greenery. kyoko’s body whirs impatiently in the silence. then, quietly;    ‘i did not have a way in the first place.’

       the roots and leaves don’t crunch under her step, barely shift, acknowledge her presence only in their utter silence. that’s how things are here in the forest. the sky goes up, the ground goes down, air is air, the woods bow to buschgroßmutter, and the dead things don’t stay dead. but still it seems that this fellow, unlike the plantlife, has taken notice. perchta emerges, white gown bedraggled and filthy. she smiles.

     he’s still adjusting to the eating part of things. it’s… it feels unnatural, to consume on a daily basis. he doesn’t really need to ( does he? ) but others look at him strangely if he doesn’t, so he performs the menial and mundane task of putting food in his mouth to chew, swallow, and shit out later. for their comfort. he won’t lie: puppy thinks he likes coffee the best. it can taste like many things, even if his taste buds aren’t really up to par after his first one was cut out.

     he’s in the middle of adding roughly six more packets of sugar to the mug when he realizes his commander is sitting across from him. oh. there’s no nervous twitching, no display of difference in physicality or emotion, but he does pause. just for a moment. a split-second. a hint of betrayal in his own body. there are no words to say; he wouldn’t if he could. he won’t make himself look, either. can’t.     /     @changedpaths.

      gabriel — well, gabriel hasn’t exactly had time to give puppy a thorough read through. it’s a thing of habit, really, to look at, categorize, spend time specifically assessing the behavior of the team. sounds clinical. it is. but – effective. methodical, individual understanding of every member of his team and their motivations, habits, likes, dislikes, typical emotional responses could offer some enlightenment. call it a one-man team building exercise. never too late to get started. ‘you got any coffee in that, or just a nice, big tall glass of sugar.’

       his brows raise. puppy isn’t the first kind of weird underling he’s dealt with (he certainly wouldn’t be the last / nor was he the weirdest) so he copes just fine with the silence. a pause as he stirs his own tea. he’s trying to lay off the stronger stuff.

          ‘bärchen.’ perchta’s face is less than happy. a palm extends, red nails wound tight round a dangling rock-climbing belt clamp. in the other hand, a bloodied hunting knife. she looks about as disgruntled as a teenage girl would upon discovering a sibling had been swiping from her closet, only, backed up by the barely-bridled fury of an old god. 

      jade wants to run, wants to shove him away, wants to scream or yell or claw. she doesn’t like men. doesn’t trust them, doesn’t choose to see them. but kyoko – kyoko just stands there. 

30 multipurpose prompts. /   4. the tree is very old.

          they’ve been alone for nearly a month now. no companion from before their exile was brave enough to accompany them; no friend nor foe tracked their steps, no pet nor demon tagged at their ankles. no, nuniq alvethen was truly and deeply alone, in a manner which only the truly destitute could relate. trudging through the frostbacks in search of work had been the first challenge — now was the time to wander through the thick woodlands below, and forests are precisely the kind of place that nuniq has never familiarized themself with. a huff of breath erupts from chapped lips. a curse. a shake of the head. their short, stocky body stumbles towards a tree, boots caked thick with snow, hands dusted in white. 

           muttering beneath their breath, they tug at a glove, pull it from chilled hand with their teeth and shake it briskly, bringing it up in a fist to release hot gusts of breath against it. slowly, nuniq relaxes. hands settle into gloves again and they sigh, lean back slowly, breath leaving clouds in the air before them. it’s not so bad out anymore, they note. spring is coming. though lacking in personal experience, they’d read and heard quite much about surfacer’s weather changes. the merchants they passed explained more, and the carta dealers from below had told fascinating stories, long ago when nuniq still did not even know what color the sun was. yes, spring is coming, winter passing, the cold night will soon be over and the fields of earth will come alive. nuniq shuffles his feet. slowly rising, they press a hand to the bark for support, dark eyes reading the world around them —

           their gloves meet with grooves and dips in the surface of the wood. precise and intentional. they turn their gaze upwards, staring in awe at the previously unseen artwork. on the wood of the tree lies a carven depiction of the tree itself, interwoven with words in a language nuniq does not speak, drawn in a style nuniq has never seen before. it is beautiful, and she is breathless, awed and wide-eyed at this creation. they are honored to have witnessed it, and sink to one knee, fascinated fingertips running bare inches over the carven words. ‘gesterdag, brev bann ge dejt’, it reads, and nuniq’s academic heart yearns to understand.