#original thought

you can make or buy wigs, clothes, and more to turn them into your character.

presently, i have Magnus Chase from the riordan verse in the corner of my room, crocheted wig on as i’m currently making Alex’s wig to swap them out.

<Silas and Soryn> Part One

Word Count: 2.5k

Potential Fic idea? Lol.

Enjoy!

Next Part...

The forest breathes around you. Not like a living thing—but like something holding its breath, waiting for what comes next.

Your paws barely make a sound against the damp earth as you crouch behind the thicket. The bow across your back is worn into you, shaped to your spine from years of hunting alone. Your three tails flick through the moss in a rhythm that matches the distant clash of steel and the guttural growls rising through the fog.

That sound isn’t prey. And it sure as hell isn’t human. It’s wrong.

Through the haze, you see him. A tall figure—broad, solid, moving with the weight of someone who’s spent his life fighting things that don’t die easy. Silver-white hair clings to the nape of his neck, damp with sweat and blood. His leather armor is torn, soaked through in places with dark crimson. Around him, the dead crawl and stumble: armored skeletons with rust-bitten blades, zombies dragging themselves forward on half-shattered limbs, growling through jaws that barely hold together.

He fights like a storm. Every strike is heavy, deliberate, savage in its beauty. His blade splits rot, crushes bone, sends steel screaming into the night air. He moves like someone who’s been here before—someone who expects no mercy and gives none.

But storms can bleed too.

A blade glances off his ribs. His breath catches—just enough. When the last skeleton falls and silence folds in around him, his knees almost give. His sword drags just slightly in his grip. It’s subtle, but you see it. You always see things like that.

You stay hidden. At first.

This man isn’t part of your world. He doesn’t belong in your quiet stretch of mountain and fog. But the scent of his blood cuts through the rot like fire through frost. Hot. Sharp. Alive. Not the rancid, sunken smell of the corpses he just tore through. Your ears tilt forward, catching the ragged, uneven drag of his breath.

And that’s when you move.

You rise from the brush like something the forest forgot to warn him about—soft, silent, untamed. The rabbit fur of your bralette and loincloth presses against your skin as the mist coils around your ankles. Three tails trail behind you like pale ghosts as you circle him from a distance, watching his shoulders, the trembling strength still carved into his frame.

Then you step closer.

Kneeling beside him, you lean in and breathe him in. Once. Twice. Past iron. Past sweat. Past blood. His scent is alive—wild, steady, human. A low hum rumbles in your throat, more instinct than sound. Your fingertips press into the tear in his armor, testing the wound, measuring its heat. He doesn’t stir, not fully. Just a faint shiver against your touch.

His face is angled toward the dark canopy above, jaw sharp, lips parted as his body trembles with exhaustion. Even bloodied, he looks dangerous—not the kind of danger that makes you flee, but the kind that tilts the world on its axis just by breathing.

Your ears twitch forward. The forest is silent now. He’s still breathing. That’s enough.

You trace the shape of his pulse beneath your fingers. Strong. Stubborn. Alive. And right then, without words, you decide.

He’s not going to die here. Not tonight.

The sword is heavier than you expected. Not in weight—though dragging him by the straps of his armor is no small task—but in what it means. You stare at it for a beat, lying there beside him in the dirt, slick with blood and rot. A blade like that belongs to someone who’s survived far too much. Someone who’s dangerous when they wake up.

You glance down at him. At the stranger who stumbled into your forest and spilled his blood on your ground. And against every sensible thought screaming in your head… you curl your fingers into the leather strap across his chest.

Your body strains as you drag him through the moss and wet leaves, your heels digging grooves into the earth. His armor grinds against the ground, leaving a jagged trail behind the both of you. Every inch is a battle. Your breath burns, your shoulders ache, and yet—

Why are you doing this? He’s not your problem. He’s a blade waiting to turn on you when it’s strong enough to lift.

Your mind claws at itself with every step. What if he wakes up before you get him there? What if…

But your tails keep moving. Your grip doesn’t loosen. And the sound of his ragged breathing—uneven, stubborn—keeps you going.

The forest darkens the deeper you go. The path is familiar: an ancient hunting trail carved into the mountain, lined with roots you know how to dodge even in pitch black. The cave waits for you at the end of it—a small, jagged mouth cut into stone, hidden by overgrown brush and the way the land bends. Not much to look at from the outside, but inside? It’s yours. Warm. Dry. Lived in. Everything you need to survive and nothing more.

By the time you drag him to the mouth of the cave, sweat slicks your neck and your breathing comes in sharp bursts. You have to stop. Just for a second. You rest your hand on the edge of the rock, shoulders trembling, chest tight.

That’s when the world cracks open.

A white-hot slash of lightning tears across the sky, splitting the clouds in two. For a heartbeat the forest is laid bare in blinding clarity—the trees bent like they’re bowing, your tails caught in the wind, his pale hair glowing like a ghost’s flame. Then it’s gone. Darkness folds back in with a growl of thunder that rolls through the ground and into your bones.

You lift your head just as the rain begins.

Not a soft drizzle. Not the gentle kind. No—this is a storm that devours. A sudden, violent downpour that hammers the canopy and floods the forest floor, water rushing over roots and stones like the mountain itself is trying to wash everything away.

You drag him the last few feet with a sound caught somewhere between a grunt and a snarl. He doesn’t stir. Good. Or maybe bad. You’re not sure. But when the first sheet of cold rain lashes your bare shoulders, it doesn’t matter. He’s in your space now. Your cave. Your storm.

The storm hunts the mountain outside. Every flash of lightning cuts through the narrow opening of your cave like a blade, chasing you both further inside. The shadows bend and stretch over the walls, jagged teeth of the entrance swallowed by the roar of rain.

You hook your hands beneath the straps of his armor again, your muscles screaming, and drag him over the uneven floor. Water seeps into the cave’s edge, slicking the stone beneath your knees. It’s cold. It bites. But you’ve lived with worse.

The deeper you go, the quieter it gets. The sound of the storm becomes a low, distant growl. Stalagmites rise from the floor, slick and ancient. From above, stalactites drip steadily into a small pool, each drop echoing in the cavern like a heartbeat. The pool itself shimmers faintly—fed by a spring and lined with faintly glowing worms nestled along the edges of the rock. Hanging moss trails down from the ceiling, catching stray droplets like threads of glass.

You stop when you reach the alcove tucked deep in the corner. It’s safe here. Hidden. Warm, if you coax it right.

You grab the smooth stone tucked into the small crevice where you’ve kept it for years and strike it against flint, sparks biting at the dried kindling you’d stacked before your last hunt. A few short breaths, steady and focused, and a flame flares to life. You feed it snapped logs, dry bark, shredded moss. Soon the orange glow pushes against the darkness, licking across the cave walls, painting the ceiling in flickers of gold.

Your gaze drifts back to him—again and again.

The firelight crawls over his skin, sweat catching the glow like it’s been etched into him. His chest rises and falls in uneven waves. The hard line of his throat moves with each swallow of breath, Adam’s apple bobbing slowly. Even unconscious, there’s a weight to him, a presence that doesn’t fade.

You tear your eyes away and move toward the pool. Cupping your hands, you dip them into the cold water, bringing it to your lips for a quick drink. It’s sharp and clean. It steadies you.

But it’s not for you.

You pad softly back to where he lies beside the fire, his damp hair plastered against his forehead. Droplets slide down the curve of his temple, disappearing into the edge of his collarbone. You sink to your knees beside him and press one hand gently against the rough stubble of his cheek.

His skin burns hotter than it should. Too much blood lost. Too much fight spent.

You tilt his head slightly, fingers brushing his jaw as you part his lips with your thumb. Then, without letting yourself overthink, you lean down. Your mouth covers his—not with softness, but with purpose. Your breath mingles with his as cool water slips from your mouth to his, careful and controlled. His throat moves beneath your palm as he swallows weakly.

When you pull back, the firelight dances in the quiet. Outside, thunder growls against the stone. Inside, your breath shakes just enough to remind you: this isn’t something you do for strangers.

But you did. And now he’s here—his scent, his heat..

What are you doing, girl? The question burns hotter than the fire.

The fire crackles low, a heartbeat of light against the heavy breath of the storm outside. The warmth doesn’t stretch far, but it’s enough to chase the bite of mountain chill from your fingers. You pull the crude, stitched-together blanket from its hook on the wall—rabbit fur at the edges, patched deer hide layered thick to hold in heat. It still smells faintly of woodsmoke and musk. Of survival.

You kneel beside him again. His breathing is shallow but steady, each rise of his chest slow and uneven. You unfold the blanket and lay it carefully over his body, tucking it along his shoulders, down over the torn leather of his armor. For a heartbeat, your fingers hover above his skin before you let them fall—brushing gently across his damp forehead.

His heat bleeds into your fingertips. Too warm. You press your palm there a moment longer than you should, as if you can memorize the weight of someone you don’t understand.

Then you move.

Your ears flick toward the storm as you push to your feet. Lightning rips across the mouth of the cave, splitting the night wide open. The rain howls against the stones like it’s trying to claw its way in. You hesitate—just once. You’ve already dragged him from death’s edge… and now you’re about to step back into it.

But his sword’s out there. And if he wakes without it… he’ll be vulnerable. Or dangerous in ways you can’t control.

Either way, leaving it there isn’t an option.

You slip past the entrance and let the storm swallow you. Cold rain slams into your skin, soaking through rabbit fur in seconds. Mud sucks at your feet as the path back twists beneath your toes, the scent of blood guiding you as much as memory. You push through the thick tangle of brush, lightning illuminating the forest in sharp, silver flashes.

Then the smell hits—iron, rot, something foul enough to stick to the back of your throat. The clearing is exactly as you left it.

Skeletons lie broken, limbs twisted in angles no living thing could survive. Bone splinters glisten in the mud. Green-black smears of decayed flesh cling to the grass, half-washed away by the downpour. Rain pools in the hollows where heads once sat, rippling with each new strike of thunder overhead.

You keep your steps light, careful. Old habits.

The sword has to be here. It belonged to him—its weight in your mind is sharp, cold, too deliberate to be lost to the storm. You scan the clearing, blinking through the rain as it slicks your hair to your cheeks, tails dripping heavy behind you.

And there—just beyond a shattered ribcage—steel catches a shard of lightning.

You move toward it, slow, eyes flicking over the battlefield like something could still lurch out of the dark. Your fingers close around the hilt, wet and cold, heavier than it should be.

The moment your hand wraps around it, the storm seems to roar louder, like the forest itself is holding its breath again.

The sword is heavier in your hands now—colder too, rain dripping down the blade like it’s bleeding. The metal bites against your palm, the weight dragging at your shoulder as you trudge back through the storm.

Every step squelches through mud and wet moss. Every drop of rain feels sharper than the last.

You stare down at the weapon, brows pinched tight. It’s not the first blade you’ve seen, but something about this one—about his—puts a sour twist in your stomach. There’s a history in it. The way it’s been sharpened down to a stubborn, merciless edge. The way it cut through those monsters like they were made of nothing at all.

What kind of man carries a blade like this? A hunter? A soldier? A killer?

What happens if he turns it on you the second he can hold it again? You’ve survived years without anyone. You owe him nothing. You should’ve left him there with his damned sword and his blood in the dirt.

But your grip doesn’t loosen.

You push through the final bend in the path, the cave coming into view—a dark mouth against the storm. Lightning flashes above you, jagged white splitting the sky open, and the rain drowns out everything else. The smell of wet earth clings to your fur, your breath coming rough and uneven as you step under the lip of the cave, boots slapping against slick stone.

And then your heart stutters.

He’s not where you left him.

The blanket has slid down to his waist. His broad shoulders are trembling, his body fighting against its own weight as he half-sits against the wall. The firelight paints him in broken gold, sweat slicking his skin, his chest heaving as though breathing itself is a war. His eyes drag around the cave, unfocused and glassy—fever-glazed, searching but not seeing.

For a beat, the storm disappears.

All that exists is the sound of his unsteady breathing and the way the firelight flickers against the blade in your hands. The questions in your head go quiet.

The danger isn’t theoretical anymore. It’s sitting right there in front of you, half-broken, half-alive—still dangerous, but fragile in a way that unsettles you more than it should.

You take a slow step forward, water dripping from your hair, sword gripped tighter than before.

✧˖°── .✦────☼༺☆༻☾────✦.── °˖✧

@cathedralofaudra @babylilxc @sinnabarmoth @chuppiechanchan @needlewandandthimble @tofufairy

I tagged people that I thought might like this. ❤️😊😁