Jethro, Bel, and Erskin: have feelings and problems

"Then." You take a deep breath. Exhale slowly. Try again.

"I can't."

Breathe.

"One lover with a deathwish is too much already. I can't -- I."

Breathe. Bel, breathe. Jethro looks like he thinks he might have to tackle you. You don't want to scare him, you like him. And Erskin, he looks like... he looks like pain and regret, is what he looks like.

"Do what you want," you snap, turn on your heel, and stalk out. You're not so angry you forget to be gentle with the fluffcheep (scoop him up, put the coat on, put him in your coat pocket) but the thought of figuring out what to do with those shopping bags is just too much. You leave them where they are. You don't slam the door as you go out, you're too upset for theatrical gestures like that. You just need to go.

 

You raise clawed hands toward the ceiling and yowl frustration. "COULD EVERYONE PLEASE JUST GROW THE FUCK UP?"

 

"Shoosh," you tell him, reaching out a hand for papping, but at the murderous, fangs-bared look he gives you, you take your hand back. "Alright, er, don't shoosh, then."

 

Defeated, you flop forward over your knees with a gusty sigh.

After a moment you straighten up and shake yourself out. "Aright," you say briskly. "Let's see how long this shit takes to wear off. You lemme know when the Land Of Terrible Fuckin' Decisions And Their Bullshit Consequences stops looking like the Rock Candy Goddamn Mountain. Meantime, I got socks to knit. Paw, don't let him leave or do stupid shit."

You stomp into the respiteblock, slamming the door good and hard.

 

You blink a few times, then obligingly curl up against Paw when he scoops you up. This is nice enough, you suppose, settling in for a good long proper nap. You'll put up with your partners' stroppy bullshit tomorrow.

 

The thing about knitting is, it's really calming. Rage knitting is a thing, sure, but it's a very temporary thing. By the second repeat of the cable motif, your anger has eroded away and left only the worry and sad behind. To be fair, the feeling was like 99% worry and sad with a thin layer of mad on top, like a gross scowly chocolate coating. You put your sock down, wash your face, and go out to check on your moirail.

He's sleeping in a Paw pile. That is fucking adorable. After wrestling with yourself for a minute or two, you get down there and join him. Just because you're not going to put up with his bad life choices anymore doesn't mean you can't hug.

In fact, that's kind of pale romance in a nutshell, right? Hugging, and not putting up with bad life choices.

 

- MEANWHILE -

The hive is lit up and loud with music. Security is nonexistent. The party appears to have been going on for a couple nights already. No one is remotely capable of self-defense right now. You send a brief message:

CH: * Pancho, I made a promise to you and now I'm about to break it. I'm sincerely sorry for that. But I've been informed that there are other trolls in the same circumstances we rescued Erskin from, and I can't afford to wait. I know you'll understand. Pity you. <>

Then you turn off your phone.

You make a nest of your coat under a tree, and snuggle the fluffcheep into it, with the napkin containing the other half of the squeakbeast hatchling he wasn't quite able to finish before, and the little jingle ball you bought him. He'll be safe and warm there for a while. You tell him you'll be back soon; he doesn't understand, of course, but seems content to stay put in his little cave of wool and you-smell.

Releasing the camera drones and linking them to your HUD glasses is the work of a moment. Your weapons are all in order. Heavy caliber firearms, one of Pancho's chainsaws, and plenty of gasoline.

The front gates are standing wide open. You chamber a round in the shotgun and stride right in.

 

You doze for awhile in your pleasant enclosure, then help yourself to the squeakbeast remnant (tasty) and the jingleball (frustratingly non-edible). You are so preoccupied with chewing through a strap of the ball's material to get at the jingling object inside, which is very probably edible, that you are very startled when a shadow falls across your enclosure's entrance.

SON? you enquire. SON, ASSIST ME WITH THIS JINGLEBALL.

The shadow does not make any noise. Instead it dives for you, a quick pecking strike, and clamps around your leg. You are dragged from your enclosure and dangled in the air by a large, scaly creature with a long tail and abominable manners. You shrill your displeasure and thrash— your position is unfamiliar, and you can't get enough leverage to peck or box the neck of the enemy who has captured you. With a huff and an enormous effort you double yourself up along your stomach so you can reach the part where your foot is caught, and rake your mighty claws ferociously across the eye you encounter by the mouth that has you.

You are dropped, which is insulting. You roll over and shake dirt off of your fluff.

RIGHT, THAT IS IT, you announce, and gallop furiously after the scaly attacker, who has the sheer gall to simply walk away from you. Your back paw twinges a bit but your front limbs are more than capable of delivering your wrath straight into the creature's hind quarters. You dig in, scramble on top of the twisty back part, and clamp your beak around the long, thin neck. The creature immediately begins to thrash, tumbling you over and over as it rolls about. But you are as clever as you are strong, and you know this way it can't breathe, not with your mighty beak pinning its abominable scaly neck like this, so you hang on with all your power while it flops and flails and claws at you with its hideous long-fingered scaly hands.

Eventually, it stops flopping, and then it stops twitching, and then it lies very still. You experimentally let go, prepared at any moment to continue your assault, but it just lies there. It has stopped breathing. You have triumphed. You sit back on your haunches, raise your proud muzzle to the sky, and roar your victory to the deeply impressed stars and moons.

Then you get the body by the neck again and start the laborious process of dragging it back to your enclosure. Your son will be hungry when he returns, you are sure, and this should make a very fine meal. Nutrition is very important. While you wait for him, you can also make some headway on that blasted jingleball.

(this is roughly the size difference, tw: blood)
(the fluffcheep will have preened himself clean of blood and dirt by the time bel returns, but still have a few scratches around the flanks and foot, underneath his fluff.)

 

You return, spattered with blood, reeking of smoke, and limping, to find a dead lizard as long as your arm sharing the coat nest with your pet. The fluffcheep looks up with the jingleball on his beak like a muzzle; he's gotten hold of the bell inside, and can't withdraw without letting go of it. Cracking a smile for the first time in hours, you sink down crosslegged to help the little guy disengage from his toy and give him all the pettins. And snap a couple pictures, because d'aww.

"Did you kill this scalebeast? How in the world? You are a fierce little guy, aren't you? Yes you are, yes you are! I am impressed! Oh, you want me to eat it? You know, I am pretty hungry, and it doesn't look half bad. Let's go ahead and do that, huh? Oh crap, are you hurt? Let me see -- I know, I know, it's sore, just let me look at it... okay, that's not so bad. The big jerk bit you, huh? Well, you sure showed him. Good boy. Good boy."

You skin and gut the lizard while the fluffcheep samples the discarded soft bits, build a small fire, and set the meat to roast. You haven't done this in a while; it's kind of fun, but it makes you miss Pancho. You're not quite ready to see if she's mad at you, though, so you troll Lainey instead.

CH: * I just killed five undead douchebags and burned down their party house, and my tactical camera drones were recording the whole time.
CH: * I wonder if that is the sort of video that would interest you.
CH: * These were, of course, the same rainbow drinkers who filmed themselves treating Erskin like a nummy football and put it on CruelTube.
CH: * Also, the fluffcheep killed a lizard three times his size and then got his face stuck in his jingleball, it was SO CUTE.

 

DD: jseus dyou EVER sellp
(a pause of several minutes)
DD: Anyway, there's always a market for snuff vids but it's pretty off-message for Dish Dish.
DD: Why don't you get yourself a channel? You might as well do some managing of your own image, you know, and you'd be able to collate your boyfriend's videos into playlists with the proof that you're not just his accessory. Plus we'll be able to cross-link when your campaigns start up.
DD: But like, I can't hold your hand through every last little public enterprise, Blue, I actually do that thing where a troll lies down in sopor and goes unconscious every now and then.
DD: Send pics of your little flufferbuddy, though, I want those for personal reasons.
DD: NOW GOOD DAY I AM GOING BACK TO SLEEP WITH MY BOYFRIEND OKAY IF YOU WAKE ME UP AGAIN IT HAD BETTER BE BECAUSE YOU GIFT WRAPPED A MOON.