Who would be down to keep in touch in a Discord server?  I'd be down to create it if we have enough takers!  

My discord is PanPan#5174 -- I definitely check that more often than here.

| come to break the spell
beauty and the beast inspired.
he is a powerful crime lord.
she has come to repay her father's debt.

| but i fooled around and fell in love
he has just discovered that he's inherited a large sum of money.
the catch? he has to marry her.

| colors that don't exist
he's had trouble picking up a paintbrush.
then he sees her.

| coming home
they were childhood best friends.
she moved away and he cut off communication.
she's back.

| there's no remedy for memory
he's remembered her in each lifetime.
will she remember him?

| ACOTAR vibes | pride and prejudice | modernizing fairy tales | romance |
| secrets | conflict | slow burn | addictions | obsession | gods retelling |
| liars | con artists | bets | fate | hatred | denial | fated |
| set ups | love triangles | self-discovery |
| pride | redemption arcs | feuds |
| forbidden | mistakes |
| indebted | hope |

i will love you forever if you want to present me with a plot idea that ties in one or more of the above themes.
please feel free to suggest!

Suddenly, everything was in screaming, blinding color. Red liquid seeped out from under her mother’s body, touching her bare toes. She wiggled them, like she was at the ocean’s edge and feeling the snow for the first time. People moved around the room, cursing and checking the beautiful, albeit dead, woman on the ground at her feet. Beautiful blue eyes looked up at her, fear still in them as all life had drained away into the puddle around her feet.

“Grab the fucking girl for christsakes.”

“What are we supposed to do with her? She’s bloody dead. We should just leave her. We don’t owe her anything, especially if we all end of dead as well – what’s the fucking point?” Gunshots continued to ring out around them, out on the large Wymberly lawn that she liked to build snowmen with her brother – when permitted, of course. Where was he? Where was Remy? He would know what to do.

“She died giving us this fucking intelligence and I’m not going to leave her daughter at the mercy of a misogynistic dictator.” The voice was deep, but feminine and held all the weight of authority. Strong arms wrapped around her and lifted her up and away, away, away. Instinctively, she clung to her mother’s hand, trying to use her strength to drag the limp body along. Someone was screaming so loudly, shrill and sudden. The sound was deafening and she wished it would stop. It was so loud. But, it was her voice. She was screaming. “Shut her the fuck up. We have to go. NOW.” A hand clamped over her mouth and everything squeezed tightly, forcing the air out of her lungs. Everything grew dark.

A deep inhale as she awoke, keeping her eyes firmly closed. Deep meditative exhale and slow, nostril focused inhale. The same nightmare, over and over and over. Rose had taught her the appropriate coping mechanisms, but nothing had ever stopped the dream from occurring. As a child, and even into her teenage years, everyone had insisted that they would stop eventually. The trauma had occurred when she was so young, so innocent – surely time would dull the pain and dull the sharpness of the memory.

Fuckers were wrong.

Clover – Azalea in a life long since dead – swung her legs off the side of her twin-sized bed in the small apartment above her shop. The routine of her morning was always the same. Brushing her hair and twisting the long, black strands into a tight bun at the top of her head. Deft fingers pinned down any stray strands. A splash of cold water on her face and a small smear of jelly against her lips to keep the moisturized in the crack-inducing winter air. A soft pair of cotton slacks in deep navy were draw over her hips and secured high on her waist. She tucked an oversized button-up top into the bottoms, before finishing the simple ensemble with a thick tan belt and matching knee-high boots. Looking in the tarnished mirror above the sink, she was pleased with how plain she looked. No muss. No fuss. Oversized clothes to

A single slice of plain toast, washed down by water that was relatively clean, if not a few days old from siting on the counter. She leaned against the frame of the large glass doors that led out to the porch that overlooked the street. It was a hazy day, winter looming on the horizon – no more than three months away. In the distance, the seamtress heard the practicing shots of the militia. Frowning, something moved against her elbow and stormy eyes flickered downward.

“Good morning, beast.” A loud meow filled the quiet studio apartment in response. “I already filled your damn dish with some leftover rockfish a patron gave me. So don’t act like I don’t give you your due, my liege.” She scratched the black cat behind his ears before picking up her keys. Thick brows furrowed momentarily as she scanned over her home calendar to discern the day’s events. Her scribbles and arrows were almost illegible, but with good reason. No one else needed to know how to read it, to truly decipher the meanings of the little symbols on it. “I’ll be late tonight. Some old cunt of a general needs a new fucking jacket. Not like he doesn’t already have a closet full of the exact same jacket.” The aforementioned beast gave another meow as it stretched and settled onto its perch on the windowsill.

Clover locked the door to the apartment behind her with a deft click, indicating a lock much stronger than it might initially appear. The wooden stairs down to the shop squeaked in protest at her heavy boots, before she opened the door and moved about opening for the day. She settled the fabrics that arrived the night before into their proper places on the display. Knowledgeable hands lingered on a particularly fine silk that instantly popped into her mind as a sultry chemise. A smile curled her lips. If there was any left over, she’d have to make herself one. Bernard would enjoy it, surely. Thoughts of her occasional lover filled her head. He wasn’t the best fuck she’d ever had, but it was enjoyable enough to seek him out when other options were not available. It had been a while, perhaps she would seek him out tonight after her final appointment. Imaging the rest of her evening in her head, she unlatched the outer door, at the same time as the cobbler across the street.

“Mornin’ Chloe! Looks like a storm may be abrewin’ out that way.” He said through his thick beard, dappled with white.

“It does! I sure do hope it won’t cause too much of a fuss. I have quite a few appointments today. Miss Terril is supposed to stop by for a new gown. She seeing you too?” Her voice immediately changed from the crude inner monologue to her charmed voice. It was well cultivated, this manner of speaking. Calm, quiet and timid. Never loud enough to draw any attention at all. Plain. Plain. Plain.

“Thinkso.” He turned his sign over from closed to open, as she did the same. The swirling script beckoned clients into Rose’s, whose larger sign hung above the door. Rose’s written there in clear lettering with red painted flower buds adorning either side. Beneath was carved Modiste. Alterations. Clothier. Clover’s – known to everyone as Chloe - adoptive mother ran the most coveted tailoring shop in all of Thebes, and Northam, if she wasn’t being modest.

She had also successfully run the largest Resistance operation in the country. Both of which she passed on to her daughter.

Clients came in and out all day, buying small things – hats, gloves, socks – but a few made appointments for finer items – dresses, suits, ties. Apparently, the bloody High Commander would be attending a small gala amongst Thebesian elite in four weeks time.  And if that motherfucker was going to be in attendance then everyone had to be dressed in their absolute best, and the best was always something extravagant and overpriced – fortunately for Clover. The noon bell at the center of Thebes chimed, ringing out twelve precise notes. In unison, the bell to her shop tinkled above the shop door. Gray-blue eyes rose to meet the bright face of her apprentice, a young boy with slender fingers and thick brown hair tied at the nape of his neck.  He limped in, having fallen out of a tree as a boy and it never was rightly set. It was the only thing that saved him from mandatory service and permitted him to take up his true passion, his true talent.

“Momma sent you a biscuit and ham for lunch, Miss.” He moved over to the long wooden counter and set down a neatly wrapped parcel. The smell of crispy ham, freshly pan seared, wafted up and she closed her eyes to inhale it deeper.

“That woman is a saint, Dennis, a saint.” Chloe said, smiling as she unwrapped her lunch.

“So you say.” Brown eyes rolled at his comment as he set to organizing the new buttons that had just arrived.

“And we know what we say about me, yeah?”

“You’re never wrong.” Dennis groaned in response, hoisting himself up on a bench.

“That’s it. I am always right.” She laughed, giving his shoulder a sisterly shove and setting to work on the biscuit. It was buttery and flaked across her tongue, sending an explosion of flavor through her. Clover hummed as she ate it, a little song from a time long before this life. The widowed Mrs. Boston crafted such delicacies from the basics that memories would occasionally drift through her mind. Her mother’s lullabies, her brother’s laughter and the merriment in his hurricane eyes.  “Mmm,” she wagged her biscuit holding fingers in his direction, “do you think you can close up for me tonight? I was hoping you’d get started on Mr. Keller’s white shirt. I have to go to the…” she leaned over as if inspecting her calendar, though she knew full well what her schedule was.  The pause lengthened.

As a child, Rose had made her memorize everything. Dates. Details. Colors. And she had to be so observant, so aware of everything that was going on around her.  At the same time, it had to appear as though she was disinterested, as though sewing and cloth were the centers of her small, plain universe. “The Belvedere estate. One of the generals needs another new militia uniform for something.” Dennis snorted in response and Clover smiled. He would make a good member of the resistance, when he was older, when he could be completely trusted.

The bell chimed again and eyes lifted from the few crumbs that remained of her lunch. They met striking emerald gaze, framed by long and flawless black hair. The owner of the features exuded elegance, grace and a magnetic allure that everyone was powerless to resist. Hell, Clover had even succumbed to the Terril woman’s wiles once, before deciding that it was not a dalliance she wanted to partake in long-term. A broad smile took over her lightly tanned face as she rounded the counter to greet the new arrival.  Dennis stiffened at the sight of her and then squirmed, focusing too hard on sorting the array of buttons.

“Elora. I take it you’re needing a new dress,” a pause, “for the Umstead Gala?”

“Of course. The High Commander will be in attendance.” She greeted the seamstress with a kiss on both cheeks in turn. “And you know how I feel about men in power.” A playful smile played her perfectly plum lips, the very same grin that had landed the tailor in the woman’s bed nearly two years ago.

“Mmm, the same as we all do, I think.” A soft giggle escaped her, the carefully polite laugh she used when anyone might be listening. Her real laugh often resulted in the occasional snort – it drew too much attention. “Now, what color were you thinking of?” And they set to work, sorting through fabrics and lace. Occasionally, Clover would beckon her apprentice over and instruct him in the proper fabrication of the desired dress and how to coordinate it with an appropriate fabric. He diligently wrote down the measurements that she called out, even though Elora Terril’s body had been the same perfect size for the last three years.

“Dennis, would you mind fetching the red lace from the back storeroom?” He hopped to his feet, favoring one leg slightly, at her request, taking a quick parting look at Elora as he went. Immediately, Clover straightened and met the heiress’ eyes. “What news?” Her tone shifted from honey-sweet the punctuated and neutral.

“The Belvedere girl is getting wed soon, so the gossip goes.” Elora turned her striking emerald eyes back to the mirror, examining her eyebrows to make sure no strand was out of place. “The old general has given his consent for their marriage, after a year of the poor Lane boy courting her endlessly. A slight step downward for a Belvedere but the rumor is it is a love match. Small time spice trading family towards the western border.”

“Are they to reside in Thebes? When is the wedding?” The black-haired woman gave nothing away, even to one of her closest confidantes.  Perhaps, the appointment at the Belvedere’s estate was for a wedding suit for the elderly general.  She wondered, briefly, if she would be hired to fashion a wedding gown. It had been about a year since her last white dress commission.

“All details that I don’t yet have, though they would be foolish to not invite the Terrils to the ceremony. I am certain reliable information with be available shortly. And undoubtedly there will be a bridal shower – perhaps I will volunteer to host it.”

“That could prove advantageous.” The seamstress mused, running through a plethora of scenarios in her mind.

“I’ll have Lawrence reach out to the groom. I bet they would not be opposed to making the acquaintance of such a large munitions importer from Espania.” Elora gave her friend a coy grin. Clover smiled back, briefly, mind too busy working out a number of different angles. The Terrils were one of the few that knew who she was. Maybe five people in total knew that she was the puppeteering mastermind of the Northam Resistance. Aaron Striker was one of the others and the figurehead she hid behind. Many suspected he was the namesake of the little shamrocks composing their widespread network. During his pause, Dennis reemerged from the stores in the back with two different red lace options.

“Oh splendid.” Elora’s face returned to her mask of beautiful elegance. Clover took the fabrics and held them against the chosen color. “Yes, I think this one will do nicely.” She fingered the darker, more sultry choice. “Well, I must be off. Perhaps you could bring the gown by when it is completed, Chloe darling. It was been ages since you visited.”

“I’ll see if I can pencil you in.” The resistance leader smiled, setting aside the chosen swathes of cloth and knowing that it was going to be a very long week indeed with so many important events looming on the horizon. She’d have to hire that god damned Jessica to help manage the workload. The girl had gifted hands but an attitude that rivaled the devils. The Amazonian woman sauntered out of the store and was offered a hand by no less than two gentlemen as she made her way across the street to have a new pair of heels fashioned for the Umstead Gala.

The rest of the day passed in easy fashion and she even had a little downtime to begin styling Elora Terril’s dress after completing the raunchy little number her favorite escort had commissioned. All of her clients had varying tastes and she came up with the most exciting lingerie that even Clover’s creative little mind could not have fathomed.  The time arrived for her to depart and she instructed Dennis clearly on what she needed and then left him the spare key, letting him know she would retrieve it on her way home this evening. The seamstress had two keys, and only two keys, to the shoppe. Being away from one for an extended period of time was worrisome and so they infrequently parted.

The Belvedere estate was not located in central Thebes – none of the Northam “nobility” stayed in the city proper unless it was at one of their misstress’ apartments. The common folk lived above shops, considered middle class if there was still such a thing held over from the twentieth century. The poor lived on farms surrounding it and worked at the pleasure of others. They did not own the land they cultivated, tilled, and managed. It would be nearly impossible to walk if she wanted to arrive within the next week. For fall, the snow was light but there was still a decent three inches covering the ground outside of Rose’s. Sighing, she surrounded herself in her jacket and trudged towards the nearest carriage station.

The ugly carriage driver eyed her suspiciously when she requested the estate, clearly thinking that she was not appropriately dressed to be a consort. He said nothing and charged her before even climbing onto his seat, like she wouldn’t be good for it when they arrived. Fucking prick. The price was steeper than she knew they would charge someone else, but she was timid and had to maintain that façade. The moustached Belvedere general would see that cost added into their bill, certainly. Chloe the seamstress dwelled on old memories, of times long passed, as the carriage bumped along the roughly cleaned streets. She remembered the general, with his upturned nose that hovered above the thin moustache and his angry brown eyes. She had seen him frequently as a child at Wymberly, as a favorite of her over-bearing father. The man had not made her uncomfortable with his glances, as a few of the other military men had, but he certainly was difficult to look at.

Arriving, Clover exited the carriage without a hand from the driver. Retrieving her bag, she held it on her bent arm as her weight shifted to one side. Her jacket’s hood was up around her head, keeping small flakes of snow from melting into her black hair. The estate was not large by Wymberly on the Marsh standards but certainly to someone that lived in a single bedroom loft. Stormy eyes roved over the exterior of the house, worn brick and nearly six bedrooms if she judged correctly. Everything about the place immediately registered in her steel trap of a mind, from the tall evergreens on either side of the door to the fact that only the curtains in the upper right window were open to allow in the fading evening light. Swallowing, the seamstress ascended the steps and rang the bell. The house was wired for electricity, unlike her bedroom, and a loud bell echoed throughout the house. Removing her gloves, she drew down her hood under the protection of the awning. Slender fingers drew down a short strand of hair in front of both pierced ears. Simple gold dots resided in her lobe and a small cresent moon in the helix of her right ear, perfectly covered by the carefully placed strands.

“May I help you?” An older gentleman with a large scar running from his forehead to his neck opened the door. Before she averted her eyes, she noticed the dismissive way his eyes roved over her form, taking in her plain breeches and pulled back hair.

“Miss Paice, sir. I’m the seamstress, for General Belvedere.” She kept her eyes downcast, not meeting his gaze. Timid. Plain. Timid. Plain. They were her mantra. Yet, as much as she tried to hide it – successfully most days – Azalea Gabriella Evelyn Walther was anything but plain. Dirty blonde hair was routinely dyed an onyx black and her face remained unadorned by makeup. Eyebrows were thick and plucked only enough to have a passable shape. Her nose curved upward just slightly and her jawline was strikingly sharp. She caught many an eye of men and women, but not enough for them to become obsessed, not enough to draw too much attention.

“Of course.” The man sniffed, as if expecting a man or someone much more pleasing to look at. “He is expecting you this evening. He will be returning from the Beloit shortly. Please, follow me.” He closed the door behind her and her intelligent eyes quickly scanned the entrance. A pair of stairs led directly up to the second story landing, four rooms exited immediately off of the dining area and she suspected the fifth door at the end of the short hall was the servants’ quarters. Quiet steps followed the butler up to the second story. Gaze swept across the oriental carpet beneath her feet at the top of the landing. “Wait here, Miss. I’ll come for you shortly.”

The silence, being utterly alone, permitted her the chance to explore everything without moving from her location. There were two, maybe three, servants present in the house from what she could hear. There were two obvious entrances, the front door and the back that led through the servant’s chambers. The resistance operative suspected, however, that there was another exit – a private one. These large estates usually did, for a variety of nefarious reasons – the most common being an entry point for mistresses of high-ranking militiamen. Suddenly, there was quite a ruckus. Clover managed to catch sight of a man in military blues dismount a horse through a far away window. She was unable to see him clearly through the window. Minutes passed and she turned towards the front door, expecting someone to enter and finding only silence.

Behind her, the butler cleared his throat. “Miss Paice.” Clover jumped, pretended to be startled by the arrival she had heard coming almost the moment the man had been instructed to retrieve her.

“Oh, oh, my apologies. It’s just such a lovely view.” She apologized, keeping her eyes down and letting a blush dapple her cheeks. That had been a difficult skill to master, the purposeful blush. Let’s get this over with. Fucking old bastard was likely going to comment on her physique, mention that she’d look so much prettier if she gave him a smile. The ancient individuals that the High Commander surrounded himself with were the worst of the whole lot.

“General Belvedere is ready for you now.” His voice was calm, neutral. She shuffled after him, keeping her head down and moving at a respectful pace. The butler led her to the room at the back. It was large, with a sitting area and a four-poster bed far against the wall. It was extremely tidy, the kind of neatness that came with a military upbringing. A large mirror rested beside the window, ready to provide her with ample light. A man stood beside it, clothed only in a white shirt and tight-fitting boxer-briefs. It was the standard uniform for the militiamen beneath their wool clothes. Something was immediately off. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. “Miss Paice for you, sir.” He directed her with a wizened hand to a chair in which to place her bag. Frozen, she noticed his feet first, bare and obviously young. The skin along his legs was tight and covered perfectly formed muscles.

Clover’s eyes traveled slowly up the man before her. Every single muscle was chiseled from fine marble, no, they were flawlessly sculpted from a deep tan clay. All of her training, since she was seven years old, flew out the window to her left. Before her was no grotesque old general with a tiny moustache that looked like a pen smear on his upper lip.

Someone was going to die for this. They had told her General Belvedere needed a new tailored suit, not what resided before her now. The old, loyal General Belvedere who had to be nearing his eighties. The one that she expected to swallow her gags as she measured his inseam.  Someone was going to pay for this misinformation.

Because before her stood the most fuckable man she had ever seen.

God damn. How was it fair that anyone was that fucking attractive? Soft lips parted as her eyes met his. Molten gold gaze captured hers and belied the intelligence he held there. His lips were full and inviting, leading her to wonder what they would feel like against the inside of her thigh, right above her serpent tattoo. Heat coalesced in her core and without meaning to, stormy eyes flickered to the large bed in the corner. Ah fuck, this was not going to go as seamlessly as she planned. Turning away from him, she brushed back one of the little strands of dark hair in front of her ears. She opened her large pack and withdrew a folding stool. She opened it and set it down before the mirror, feeling the heat off his body as she leaned over. Fuck.

“If you wouldn’t mind stepping up on the stool, please, General.” Clover was careful to keep her voice extremely soft. She might have faltered when she first looked at him, but the professional in her quickly took over. “My notes indicated that you needed a new set of dress blues. Is that correct?” The seamstress couldn’t help herself and met his gaze again. A bolt of electricity shot through her and ignited a low fire in her stomach.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Here it is—our cozy new forever home! Hopefully it all looks and behaves the same way as before. Please do all your posting here, and ensure that your post URLs read ".com"!

Again, as a reminder, please double check that all your threads here are safe and sound. The old ".co" website will expire on February 17. When this happens, I will redirect the ".co" URL to point to ".com".

Sorry for the confusion! I'm no developer, so this was the easiest way for me to ensure the transfer without any down time. Please let me know if you have any questions, or if you find anything that seems off.

Coming soon: A new theme! You all are the best for bearing with me through these things. :)

—Astro + the I&P staff

I wanted to drop you all a line here and let you know that if things are looking a little weird here this week, it's because we're doing a bit of updating/forum maintenance. Just routine stuff like updating themes, plugins, etc.

We've done site-wide back-ups of everything, but just a reminder that it's always a good idea to save your own threads to your computer periodically just in case!

I'll update this thread with any additional info or instructions, but for now, keep on keepin' on! Thanks for bearing with us!

—your friendly neighborhood Astro & the I&P Staff

Books always mentioned a harvest day in relation to some meaningful event, but Aela found that to be fanciful poetry. If it was one single date, then she would be able to spend much more time in the comfort of the woods just beyond the edge of their farm. Every day in the late spring and summer she would rise before the heat sweltered, to pick the beans, shuck the corn, and dig potatoes. Harvest was a whole season, not one day. Their table was fairly bountiful with the fortune of being blessed with a waterbender for a father to keep the soil nourished and the plants growing tall. Deft fingers slipped through the vines and selected the beans based on their skins’ texture and thickness. Dark eyes did not even need to fully set their gaze to the chosen vegetable to know if it was time to pick - she had been performing the same task for over fifteen years. Ever since she was eleven, the tasks given to her by her parents consisted of the harvesting and attracting as little attention as possible.

The basket at her hip showed the early signs of overflowing so she adjusted the strap that kept it secured to her body. Aela ran an absentminded hand across the green beans to shake some more room free, but none appeared.  She brushed back the baby hairs that the morning’s efforts had whipped free from the confines of her cream-colored ribbon.  Another mundane day, the ideal day. Uneventful afforded them the protection they needed. There were still two more rows to check but her basket was full. Great. The sarcasm was almost palpable. Careful not to bend over too far to lose what she had gathered,strong hands grabbed the corn basket by its worn handle and hoisted it up into her arm on the opposite side. The trudge back to their little farmhouse afforded her the time to daydream in the sunshine.

Aela often found her mind wandering to thoughts of visiting the capital city to watch the firebenders perform or to experience the excitement of walking down a road of cobblestones rather than dust. What a treat it would be to see the palace as well, in all of its majesty, with intricate designs carved into the stone by the attentive fingers of earthbenders. The young woman was well aware of the beauty and architectural marvels wrought by those that were exceptionally gifted with earth manipulation. Her mother had some minor skill in that area and demonstrated it when needed. It was for that reason that the farmhouse just ahead of her rested on a solid layer of stone with stone steps leading up to the door. Her mother had insisted on it to keep as much mud away from the inside of the house as possible.

The house itself was made of wood and stone, setting her father more at ease. The man supported and appreciated his wife’s gift, but even as a very minor airbender, he felt confined in a house made entirely of stone.  As she approached, the conspiratorial whispers of her twin siblings, Bayu and Brisa, met her ears. A dark glance was cast towards them as they headed off with their pails to feed the chickens and milk their solitary cow. The pair were notorious troublemakers, even at nineteen, due to their exceptional airbending gifts and minor talent with waterbending. Bayu even had a small ability to start fires, but they were often extinguished with no more than a heavy breath.  It made him quite the subject of conversation in their small county, being a triad.

In contrast to the twins, Aela was remarkably ungifted, or so the family maintained to anyone that passed through or when they visited town. It was rare to have a completely non-gifted child from two partially gifted parents, but rarer still if she revealed what she truly was. Even her siblings did not know. It was for the best that no one beside her parents ever learn she was a bloodbender.

Bloodbenders, legend told, had once been the most revered of the five talents. They were capable of extraordinary feats of healing,  painless transition to the afterlife and humane hunting techniques. They advised kings and scholars, capable of learning the truth with minimal pain to those that concealed it. That all drastically changed when Akeldama Heridu manipulated the Queen of their nation into the genocide of an entire House that had slighted his honor. The treason was discovered and all benders turned against those with the blood gift. The slaughter of Aela’s people turned out to be a fairly simple task. Within the span of twenty-fire years, the crown declared that bloodbenders had been eradicated with the exception of a few in hiding beyond the borders. Her gift was the reason that her parents had fled to the very outskirts of their once great nation. Aela’s grandmother had been a bloodbender and passed on the gift to her. Fortunately for the dark-haired maiden, she was able to hide any nicks or scratches with the help of her father’s waterbending healing abilities. They were minor skills compared to the power that Aela’s grandmother had once wielded and to what Aela herself might be capable of, but it was all they needed to keep her safely tucked away.

Gray plumes of smoke drifted from the stone chimney as she entered with the corn and the beans. Her mother was at the kitchen table, kneading dough for bread but she had already prepared the canning materials for the beans.

“Looks like a big bunch,” Helle Prim comments to her daughter with an appraising glance. Despite her shoulder stature, it was clear that she commanded attention when needed. She had been a teacher before they had fled to the further reaches of the realm, a highly sought after professor at the capital’s university.

“Still have two rows to do but I figured I’d bring the corn in for you and empty the beans in the snappin’ bin.” Aela smiled slightly and set about her tasks until the basket was empty yet again. The heat from the fire was stifling in the later summer heat. Opening all the windows, Aela once more shouldered the strap of her now empty basket.

“Make sure to check the tomatoes. I doubt they’ll be worth a damn this season with all the heat. Your father has had trouble keeping their soil moist.” Aela nodded at her mother’s words and exited the house, only to find her siblings racing back towards her.

“Aela! Aela! The cow won’t stand up. She’s sick. Something’s wrong,” Brisa shouted before shoving her brother. She urged him in the direction of the workshop across the plot of land, where their father was chopping down a rather large tree in order to make a new door for the barn. The previous hadn’t faired well against a stray gust of Bayu’s wind during bending practice. He took off running as Brisa motioned for Aela to follow. Losing the cow was not something they could afford. Their father was exceptional at turning her milk into a delicious, creamy butter that sold for a good price at market. The funds obtained from the profitable butter was the only way they’d be able to attract a match for Brisa and Bayu. The bloodbender took off after her sister, leaving the basket discarded on the stone steps.

The cow was laying on her side, breathing heavily. Before Aela even laid a hand on the great, suffering beast she sensed that there was a blood clot in it leg and one that have travelled to its lungs. The swelling was minimal on her leg but she as struggling to get oxygen. They couldn’t lose the cow. They must not. Aela’s fingers twitched slightly. Her gift was used so rarely, in fleeting moments when she was completely alone in the dense woods beyond the proper. She had saved injured animals here and there but nothing on this scale.

“Brisa, go get some water for father to use when he arrives. Hurry.” Aela motioned away, as her sister slipped away with a nervous movement. She kneeled down by the great beast and closed her eyes, running her hands delicately over its side. The rapid pace of its heart thrummed beneath her fingertips and she felt the twisted coagulation of blood in the lungs. She delicately moved her fingertips, slowly moving them from her pinky to her pointer finger to contact her thumb. Over and over she manipulated her fingers until the blood began to cooperate. She did not have a spare second to glance over her shoulder as she worked. Bending was difficult for her, so foreign, but the cow had been a part of the farm for eight years. It provided for them, nurtured them, aided them. The least she could do would be to attempt to save it before their father arrived. Sweat beaded at her brow as the blood was pulled from the lungs, drawn out and back into its proper place. Immediately, the cow’s breathing eased, taking snuffling breaths to test out its ability.

Aela felt a swell of pride inside her chest, having eased its pain and saved it from the immediately threat. Still, clots remained in the legs that may travel back to the lungs. Firm touch massaged both hind legs, from hip to hoof. She heard the pounding footsteps and someone returned and hastened her movement. Two clots freed themselves and flowed harmless along. One remained but she crawled backwards as her sister, brother and father all entered. Dirty hands were hastily wiped on her dark brown breeches.

“She seems to be a bit better already. Maybe she just needed a rest.” Aela suggested at the cow’s miraculous recovery. She would have to come back later to remove the final clot. She excitedly bit her lip to keep her joy contained. At her words, The cow righted itself and then stood with a lumbering movement. How marvelous to see the effects of one’s gift used for the benefit of others. Edgar Prim narrowed his eyes and looked at Brisa and Bayu.

“Maybe we shouldn’t jump to hysterics right away?” He chided gently, rubbing at his sweat covered neck. He smells like walnut and salt, Aela thought fondly of her father as he gave a heavy sigh. “But at least it is not as bad as we thought, hmm?”

“Pa, I know she was sick. I could feel fluid in her lungs, she couldn’t breathe.” Bayu protested, surprise and irritation flickering across his face. The man was accustomed to being the most perceptive, the most skilled bender in the room.  “Did you do something?” His eyes turned accusatorially on Aela.

Aela gave him her most practice look of annoyance and held up her hands. “What could I do? Sing her back to life?” The rotation of her wrists waved her ungifted hands about towards his face. Bayu’s head conceded with a nod but Brisa did not fail to notice the way their father had slightly stiffened.  She narrowed her hazel eyes at him as he clapped and ordered them back to work. The remainder of their tasks were at an abnormal pace. The twins slowly completed their tasks, dragging their feed as the wheels in their mind turned over and over and over. Aela, in contrast, finished the rows of beans, the snapping and canning as swiftly as possible. With an hour left before they’d eat, she gave some hurried excuse to depart and ran off into the woods.

Far from the sounds of the farm, the bloodbender slowed her pace. Knee high leather boots strode lightly through the brush. The gentle rustle of pines from the summertime breeze eased the anxiety that had built in her chest at the accusatory stare her brother had given her. Would Bayu and Brisa understand what she was? Would they still love her? Aela let the wind cool her warming cheeks at the stressful thoughts. She walked the paths of the forest that only she was familiar with, feeling the earth beneath her tread and the hum of soft animal activity all around her. She closed her eyes, usually able to maneuver without needing to see it. As she did, bright pinpricks of awareness sparked behind her eyelids. She slowed her breathing and focused, each burst became brighter when she turned her attention that way and she could hear the steady (and sometimes rapid) beat of the beings heart.

Aela smarted, the realization that these were living beings and she could sense them startled her. The surprise was so great that normally surefooted steps faltered. Stumbling forward, a ready hand shot out to grasp the nearest tree trunk. The movement permitted her to right herself, though she cut her hand on a sharp projection of bark. A hiss drew itself through her gritted teeth and she gripped her hand. Fear shot through her when blood dripped through her clasped fingers to the forest floor, bright and shimmering gold. For their metallic color of their blood, bloodbenders were easily eradicated. A simple prick of their finger yielded a golden well of blood on the skin, effectively signing their death warrant.

Dark eyes darted around the forest and in her panic, she saw no one. No one saw, she consoled herself. No one saw. She inhaled and drew the unspilled blood back into her palm, slowly allowing the skin to stitch itself back together. She wiped and wiped at the blood until it turned thick and crusted, falling to the ground, no evidence remaining on her body. Hurriedly, without another glance, she raced back to the farmhouse. Unbeknownst to her, a hunter watched.

And he did not like what he saw.

The next morning started as all other mornings had. The same eggs and crusty breads, smeared with just a bit of the Prim family butter and a sprinkle of salt. Edgar had a gulp of coffee, while the rest drank fresh milk. Aela was always the first one out the door, trying to avoid as much of the heat as she could. Yet, when she opened the door her eyes fell on a plum of road dust down the hill from their farm. Brown eyes narrowed, struggling to discern at first before panic slid through her. Riders. Multiple riders.

“Mama, someone’s coming and I think...” she looked down at her healed hand. “I think it’s for me mama. I think they’re coming for me.”

I decided to join and try to spark life to my muse! The name is K-La! I look forward to writing with you all.