#tracts

“A demon would have long since been provoked into revealing itself. You know who I am, Inquisitor.” “If you were Solas," Caden says carefully, "that still wouldn’t be true.”

In the months following Corypheus' defeat, the Inquisitor's dreams have been plagued by demons in Solas' guise. He does not expect the man himself to actually appear.

4.5k words, mature rating, ykwtfigo

had a fun idea for my oc

i used to read these RELIGIOUSLY as a kid (haha see what i did there)

honestly a lot of them were traumatizing

Things I found while packing:

Where Will YOU Spend Eternity? - a tract some random fundie gave me (c. ??).

A little advertisement for Antonia’s Pancake House, a diner in Paddock Lake, WI, that my husband and oldest kiddo and I used to go to a lot c. the summers of 2012-2014.

This week’s #MiniatureMonday feature is a circa 1850s #blook box measuring just 11 centimeters. Inside the box are 22 tracts published by the American Baptist Publication Society, each in its own colorful printed paper wrapper.

“This book has come apart”

For all the solemnity the xenos conduct themselves with, the eerie sight of the masked Farseers preparing themselves for their strange ritual, there’s an element of farce to the whole situation. After long weeks of pursuit through the jungle, little of that so-called Aeldari grace remains to be found in the exhausted, mud-stained specimens Solomorne warily surveys now. The masked bastard that only speaks in riddles hanging around in his garish uniform certainly doesn’t make the rest look any more respectable.

"You know, I'm surprised Wince called you a bitch. I wouldn't've guessed you were a woman, looking at you."

It's an honest statement, delivered in a conversational tone. Not a whiff of implied threat, a hint of sympathy if anything—Wince knew better than to call Captain Ebram a bitch where she could hear, but she could tell when he was thinking it—and yet the woman standing in front of her looks entirely unmoved.

"Does it matter?" asks the woman.

The deserter. She was smart enough, or desperate enough, to shuck the armor that would've drawn more fire from her present company than it could hope to deflect, but the mold that formed the body beneath could only have been shaped like the perfect toy soldier. Anyone can scavenge a military-issued gun; a posture that painfully straight has to be beaten into you. With hair cropped down to severe stubble and a cold way of inspecting people like a collection of body parts rather than a human whole, it's clearer, easier for the captain to think soldier before she thinks woman. Or person.

In lockstep with a squadron outfitted in matching armor, the distinction must get lost. Alone, the deserter is out of place, hollow and unreadable in a way Ebram finds more intriguing than disconcerting. Her expression hasn't changed once from utter blankness, even when she put a hole through Wince's skull.

"Not so much to me." The captain shrugs. "Mattered to Wince, I guess, but he's lost his right to opinions, and I didn't care for his much when he had 'em. So don't get twitchy thinking this is about revenge or some other groxshit, I wouldn't waste both our time like that. You got a name?"

"Some of your men have been calling me Hotshot."

"That's a stupid fucking nickname."

"You'll have to take it up with them." A considered pause, then, too blunt to be deferential: "Captain."

"I might." She won't. They're always coming up with stupid fucking nicknames for each other. As long as they keep calling her Captain, it's not worth her attention. "They let you have names in the Guard. Somebody had to've been calling you something before you turned up in our corner of the gutter."

"I'm no Guardsman." The deserter's lip curls, disdain subtly souring her low monotone.

It's the most emotion the captain's seen out of her yet, and for some reason that's what sparks her temper. "What you are right now is nothing, except lucky I didn't blow your head off like you did Wince's."

The deserter tenses, almost imperceptible. Of course, the captain had her visitor disarmed before their conversation, but she's sure that won't stop her from pulling something if she feels truly threatened. So Ebram smiles, a show of goodwill and sharp teeth. "If you want to be a step up from nothing, give me a name."

Funny thing to be so cagey about. When you've left behind everything else you know, though, she supposes you have to cling to something, no matter how small or stupid.

It takes a long time for the deserter to answer. Creativity surely isn't a skill the Imperium prioritizes cultivating in its troops, but if she is trying to come up with a lie, it's taking her an embarrassing amount of effort.

"Gee," she says, eventually.

"That short for something?"

"Gia." The deserter's stare isn't challenging, exactly, just unnervingly direct. Not daring, but informing the captain that any more syllables will have to be pried out of her.

Ebram has no idea if she's lying. It doesn't matter now, she wouldn't care if the deserter insisted she was Most Honorable Lady Magnificent Arse af Bendover, but she is suddenly certain that she will never be able to tell if the deserter is lying.

Her eyes are dark enough that iris blends into pupil, absent of any glint of light. There seems to be nothing behind them. No malice, no humor, no intent at all. A thing built to respond to threats and orders and nothing else, understanding truth as coming only from the mouth of a commanding officer or the barrel of a gun.

She had the sense to abandon the first in some other star system; she's not going to be eager for a replacement. But she'll want one, anyway. The level line of her shoulders hasn't faltered once. If the deserter wants to change the shape that's been beaten into her, she's going to need a hammer.

In the meantime, Ebram's got plenty of guns.

"Gia," the captain echoes. It sounds almost offensively cute, applied to this weapon of a woman. She might end up having to use Hotshot anyway. "You're a lucky bitch, Gia. After some recent events, I happen to have space on my ship for a woman who knows how to shoot and follow orders. That first bit, I've seen for myself. I'm still trying to figure out the second part."

The irony of demanding a deserter's obedience isn't lost on her, nor on the deserter in question. Gia narrows her eyes, searching the captain's face for sincerity.

"I'll follow orders," she says, "that help me stay alive."

The perfect answer. Ebram can't help but laugh. "I can promise you better odds of surviving doing as I say over the alternative." It's as much threat as guarantee. "It's the Imperium that wants soldiers dying for a cause. I'm out for profit. No point in profit if you don't live to enjoy it."

For the first time, the faintest glimmer of interest animates the deserter's features. Curiosity, not greed, drawn in by the pure novelty of profit—or maybe of enjoyment—rather than its substance. It's almost endearing, makes her look young, half-formed and ambiguous. Gia can't be older than half her age, twenty-five or so, Ebram calculates. "And your men won't want revenge for their crewmate? Captain?"

"Whoever wants to decide they're fonder of Wince now than when he was breathing, you'll have to take it up with them." The captain waves her hand dismissively. "Most of 'em are smart enough they won't bother pretending it's about him. More importantly, they won't make it my problem. And if you're not smarter than them," she adds with a smirk, "you've got the bigger gun."