abraxaslogs | OPEN | at the changing of the seasons

Entry tags:

OPEN | at the changing of the seasons

WHO: Susan, OTA (closed prompts in comments)
WHAT: Roaming the Horizon and Nott; a couple of closed prompts
WHEN: October catch-all
WHERE: Nott, the Horizon
WARNINGS: Slutshaming, talk of pregnancy loss, gore/violence, emeto.

[ I | Nott ]
Susan has, at least on the surface, fitted herself pretty neatly into life in Nott. She can often be found by the docks, her long hair bound up under a cap, helping to unload boats or gut fish or whatever other work is going. It isn't a lot, but it's enough to keep body and soul together - and it's enough to keep her mind busy, which counts for something.

And she watches. She's gotten good at watching, keeping an eye on the comings and goings of folk around the streets. It feels... important, somehow, to keep alert to what's happening. If she sees someone she recognises, from the cells or from the castle, she'll whistle to draw their attention. "Hile! Over here!"

When there's no work, and she's not sleeping back at the inn - she spends less and less of her waking time there, just long enough to sleep and share out her takings - she spends most of her time sitting on the waterfront, her bare feet dangling in the cold water of the lake. Restlessness wars with weariness, and both with loneliness. She won't object if anyone comes to sit by her, either.

---

[ II | Horizon ]
When restlessness wins out over weariness, the Horizon ends up calling her. Her domain has some space to move, after all. It isn't as large as some, but she maintains its borders, gives herself a good-sized field to roam in. There's still a ranch house there - still just as she left it, back in her old life - but she's almost never inside it. She prefers to sit out on the stoop, beneath the summer sun of a perpetually warm evening - or, more often, to roam the grassy slope.

You may find her in the quarter she's designated for target practice, stony-faced and intently focused as she fires shot after shot from Roland's gun at the bottles set up on the wall. She's getting better - but she's not necessarily getting better at noticing who's around, so don't walk in front of the firing line.

Sometimes, the limited scope of her domain isn't enough. At those times, she saddles up a horse - almost always the big bay, Pylon - and rides out more widely, exploring others' domains. She cuts a strange figure in some of them, no doubt, a girl dressed like a vaquero in serape and wide-brimmed hat, with the mark of the Lovers patterned into her clothes, riding a horse that looks too big for her. But she'll tip her hat, for all the world as though she has the right to be there, and rein in her horse as she approaches.

"Nice place, sai."

Never hurts, after all, to be polite.

---

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Susan worries. She worries a lot. Eponine is, at the end of the day, the whole reason she's here - and now Eponine is gone.

She's not about to accept that. She waits a day or two, just to be sure Eponine won't come back on her own (like a dog that's not been fed is the rather unkind thought that comes to mind), and then, with an air of some irritation, she starts looking. There's a part of her that resents it. There's maybe even a part that whispers Ye could still take a horse and ride for the Free Cities. He'd meet 'ee there, and be glad ye came.

But there's a much bigger part that's concerned for her friend's safety and wellbeing, and that stubbornly refuses to give up on Eponine. So here she is, cap pulled low over her eyes, trying not to be uncomfortable in this kind of rough company, looking for Eponine in the darker alleyways of Nott.

When she finds Eponine, she doesn't hail her immediately. Instead, slipping into a seat nearby, she digs into her pocket and pulls out a bar of chocolate, holding it out to the other girl. That bitterness is still there, but it's below the surface, tamped down by relief. Her smile is genuine, if a little scolding.

"Ye could've asked me to come along with 'ee."

“You couldn’t live like this,” Eponine fires back.

She’s cross too, though in the back of her mind, she registers that she has no right to be. She’s cross that she’s been forced into this lifestyle again, and she’s cross that Susan’s found her. Eponine doesn’t want to be seen like this, dressed as she is in a dress so ragged that long rents in the skirt show the pantaloons beneath. The whole thing is filthy and Eponine herself seems dirty too. Susan wouldn’t know it, but it’s a costume, an act. Her dress from the castle and even the nicer ones that she stole here are safely hidden away. Poor gets money here and Eponine knows she cuts a pathetic figure.

“Why have you come to find me? You can tell Nadine to stick Julie’s nose up her arse. I’m not licking it no more.”

There's the anger, flashing bright and raw in her eyes, and the smile is gone like a gleam of sunlight on water.

"Ye think Nadine sent me? What, after everything?" She tosses the chocolate bar down in Eponine's lap, scowling, and folds her arms. Under the anger, there's a visible hurt, too. "How many times do we have to have this talk? I came 'cause ye're my friend, ye miserable pendeja." Though times like this, I couldn't say why. But she's hitched her horse to this wagon, and she's not about to let Eponine fall away this easily. Not while she's got the choice. She's not had many friends in her short life, and she's not going to just turn her back on any of them. "And if I ain't yours, then ye'd best tell me now, 'cause if ye don't, I'm gonna keep comin' back. I think ye need someone to talk to. Tell me I'm wrong."

“Why?”
Eponine picks up the chocolate bar from her lap and she runs her fingers surreptitiously across the foil wrapper. She’s doing better than in Paris here, but she’s not had money to spare for chocolate either.

Eponine sighs. She finds friendships difficult. She doesn’t understand it - doesn’t understand why Susan does keep coming back.

“What am I supposed to talk about, Susan?”

"Why ye ran off, for starters." Susan sighs, tucking one leg up to her chest and resting her cheek against her knee as she looks at the other girl. That anger's still there, still visible in her expression and the tension in her shoulders, but it's hard to be purely angry at someone who looks so... well, so pathetic. "Ye never really told me anything. Ye just upped and left. At least tell me what got your goat so bad."

The anger between them both is palpable in Eponine’s silence. Admitting her mistake makes it irredeemable. Makes Nadine irredeemable. And Eponine so wishes that everything could be fixed. She feels stupid.
She scuffs her bare foot against the stone where she’s sat.

“I thought Nadine…” she starts eventually.
She takes a breath, steeling herself for the truth.

“I thought she wanted me. I thought she loved me, or at least liked me to have me. I thought it were gonna be a good life.”

Her smile’s pained, and she sniffs, blinking back tears.
“She’s just wanting me to kill me. That’s all. Shouldn’t be surprised really, should I? I mean, it was stupid to think nothing else of it.”

Susan looks at her for a long moment in silence, chewing on her lip. She wants to stay angry. She probably should stay angry. This is no kind of explanation, really, no kind of excuse for running out on someone who's given up as much for her as Susan has, and it doesn't even really make sense.

Except that it does. It makes total sense. The look on Eponine's face, the crack in her voice, makes total sense. I thought she wanted me.

Fair enough.

She sighs, digging in the pocket of her pants for a kerchief, and holds it out. "Who told 'ee so?" Knowing the answer, of course. Fucking Julie. That trouble-making sow. Except that, beneath the bitterness, there's a certain nagging sense that there might be truth in it. She isn't about to forget what Roland said to her when they parted, nor how Nadine looks at her husband like she'd do anything he said. "What'd she want to kill 'ee for? If she wanted 'ee dead, she's had chances before now."

Eponine ignores the handkerchief. She's not crying. Not properly, not yet.

"Who would hate me enough to tell me, Susan? Use your brain!" She snaps. Her anger isn't directed at Susan, but unfortunately for the other girl, she's there and she's so easy for Eponine to take her frustrations out on.

"She is waiting for Flagg to give the order. It's what he does, you see? Kills people to keep the rest in line. Isn't it just so always? The ruler kills the others to keep them scared." She shakes her head. "And who would miss me if he killed me? Nadine ain't stupid. She knows that no one would bother looking. It's me what's stupid for falling for her. Why would anyone want to help me?

It ain't her fault. None of this is her fault. Don't be a bitch about it, Sue. Just breathe, and stay calm, and...

Her hand snaps out without the intervention of her mind, and she slaps Eponine across the face. Not hard, not hard enough to do more than sting a little, but a slap nonetheless; and she's on her feet, legs akimbo, glaring.

"Ain't I here? Ain't I been here this whole fucking time? Didn't I leave everyone else to come along with 'ee, to help 'ee?" This isn't helping. Still, she can't keep it from spilling over, and there's a hint of tears stinging at her own eyes now, as though she was the one who just got slapped. "Nadine's a pawn, sure. Flagg, he's evil, evil like ye don't even ken. And Julie's a bitch, aye, and mayhap one who'll even tell the truth to hurt 'ee, but don't ye sit there feelin' sorry for yourself that no-one wants to help 'ee! What the fuck am I to 'ee? Or do 'ee reckon I'm out to kill 'ee, too?"

Eponine sits open mouthed, her hand on her cheek where Susan slapped her. It wasn’t hard and it’s not the first time Eponine’s been hit across the face. But it stings the worse for Susan being her friend.
She listens without taking Susan’s words in but her face turns from shock to absolute fury and she stands up suddenly, launching herself at Susan. The idea is to knock the younger girl flying.

“You bitch, Susan.” Eponine aims a punch right back.
“You hit me as well? Fuck you, Miss Priss. You are as bad as that Julie. Fuck you.”

There's a strange, hollow feeling in the pit of her chest, like her heart's gone to stone and dropped all the way to her boots. The thought that comes to mind, bitter and sharp, is: You bitch. You shallow, selfish bitch.

Miss Priss. Miss Oh-So-Young-And-Pretty. Miss Pert. Gods, but she's sick of it.

She rolls with Eponine's punch, and meets her lunge head-on, grabbing Eponine around the shoulders in hopes of pinning her arms. She's no fighter, not really - but she's damned sure she's stronger than the half-starved runt in front of her. She's wrangled horses all her life, and a horse is a sight harder to manage than a bitter girl with no manners.

"Fuck me? Fuck you, Eponine!" Regardless of whether or not she's managed to pin the other girl's arm, she gives her a shove now, her face blazing with fury. "When the fuck did I do 'ee so much wrong, huh? Ye've had all I had to give 'ee, and more than I thought I could, and ye'll turn around and make me your enemy the second I ain't sweetness all the way? And I'm the priss?"

Eponine stumbles back and falls on her ass when Susan pushes her. Susan's thoughts are right. Eponine stands no chance in a physical fight.
She looks up at Susan and spits, hard as she can, at her. Eponine might be rubbish at fighting but she's got good aim and she spits right at Susan's face.

"Who asked you, Susan? Who asked you? Nobody!You come here, chasing me, clinging to my skirts like I shall get you sweets and that. Have you not understood that, Susan? Why I have runned from you always? Because you are as dull as ditch water and too good for me." She scrambles to her feet, pushing back at Susan.

"So go stick your nose in Nadine's arse. Go and lick Julie's feet. Go and suck on Flagg's -" She stops and laughs cruelly.
"But no. No, you won't do that. Because any mention of such things makes you wobble with fright." She squares up to Susan, happy to tug at that hole in Susan's armour.
"It is because you are a frigid bitch, Susan, without no stirring of womanhood in you. I pity that man of yours, for he'll find no joy in ice such as you."

Now it's Susan who laughs. There's something a bit manic in that laugh, a high and jarring fury that's only a shade less cruel than Eponine's. There's a deeper hurt, too, in her laugh and in the look on her face, pale and tight, as she wipes the spittle from her cheek.

"Like ye'll get me sweets? Like I thought from the off I'd get aught but shit from 'ee? Ye made yourself clearer than that, pendeja." Her fists have clenched white-knuckled at her sides, and she doesn't budge when she's shoved - just digs in her heels and glares. "Ye ken why I came here, 'Ponine? Why I came chasin' 'ee? 'Cause it's clear as all hells ye can't look after yourself! 'Cause ye're a pathetic, cringing child who pushes out anyone tries to be nice to 'ee, and I kept tellin' myself it ain't your fault, and if someone just tried...!" Her lip curls, her fists clenching and unclenching at her sides. "I knew ye'd end up right here, and I wanted to stop it. But I ain't stoppin' shit, am I? 'Cause this is where ye want to be. Sat on your bony ass in the gutter, feelin' sorry for yourself, and shovin' out anyone tries to help. I came 'cause I felt sorry for 'ee, ye dumb bitch."

The smile on her face is sharp and ugly, and there's tears clear in her eyes as she takes a slow, deliberate step back. "But ye're right. I'm a frigid bitch, and a pert priss, and dull, and a whore and a slut and a boyish shame beside - and I'm too good for 'ee. Guess I should've listened the first twenty times ye told me so."

"Why didn't you listen then? Add stupid to the list, idiot."

Eponine shoots back. All the ugly words, ugly names that she's been called over the years rise to the surface and Eponine has to fight to stop herself calling Susan much, much worse.

Unlike Susan, Eponine isn't close to tears. She's not laughing manically. She's just... calm. Same as always. Like this fight means nothing to her.

"You ain't no whore, Miss. You just wish you were. Ain't no wonder them babies died than have you for a mother. What would you have done with them? You ain't no slut. No man'd take a glance at you. Now me, yes. I have tits and an arse and a hole what can accommodate. Yours is full of poison and puss, I'd warrant. Disgusting, dirty girl."

Sticks and stones may break my bones, they say, but words may never wound me. Susan's been called all those things before. Stupid, idiot, dirty, poison. It's all just words.

But she's wounded, all right. When Eponine brings up the baby, she feels it as a blow, feels again how she'd screamed when she woke up here with an empty belly and nothing living inside her, feels how it had hurt, how on the pyre what grieved her most wasn't her own death, wasn't even losing Roland, but what had never had the chance to be.

She screams again now, and there's no words in it, just fury and hurt. She thinks, in a moment of blinding rage, of the pistol still hidden in its holster under her shirt, where nobody's yet found it. But she's not that far gone yet, and it's only her fist that comes up in a wild swing - a fist with sixteen years of hurt and a month of hauling heavy loads down by the docks behind it, punching full-force for the smaller girl's jaw.

There's a sickening crunch as Eponine's jaw is surely broken. She reels backwards, stumbling over once more in her daze. The pain from her jaw leaves her seeing stars, Blood trickles from her fattened, bust lip, and she spits something small and brown from her mouth. It's a tooth.

"You disgusting, horrible brat," Eponine swears, hurling French insult after insult at Susan from where she's sprawled against the building. It takes her a minute to sit up - and about as long to loose a small, but deathly sharp knife from her pocket.

"Will it come to it?" she lisps, spitting blood and fury. "Will you make me kill you? Will it be you that turns me a murderer?"

She stands, unsteady on her feet, and lunges at Susan.

Guilt comes fast, seeing Eponine knocked flat like that, bloodied and hurt. The tears still stand in Susan's eyes, half-blinding her; her cap has been knocked off, her braid falling loose down her back now. Some part of her, even through the anger, wants to throw her hands up and say she's sorry, she never meant it to come so far.

Except she did. Does. Ye used the child against me. Anything else, she might have forgiven, but not that. Never that.

It's enough to give her pause, though - and that pause turns out to be dangerous, given who she's dealing with. Perhaps some part of her thought that once she knocked Eponine down, she'd stay down, give Susan a chance to catch her breath and get the hell out of this horrible place. Eponine's never been that easy to knock down, though - Susan should have known that much from how she kept snapping at Julie, no matter how many times she was beaten back - and she's on her feet again much quicker than Susan expected, and there's a blade in her hand.

She sidesteps, but not fast enough, and feels the knife slash against her arm, leaving a thin trail of burning pain. It's in something of a trance that she fumbles under her serape, finds the weight of the gun snug against the side of her ribs.

"Ye ain't gonna kill me." Her face is still tearstained, her eyes wild - but her voice is surprisingly steady. "Ye're a lot of things, 'Ponine, but not that. Trust me, I'd know." She's been practicing with the gun, in the Horizon. This time, when she draws it, it doesn't catch on her serape. "Back off. I'm leavin'."

The gun stops Eponine dead. She's no match against a gun, not even with her knife. She looks down at her blade, at the blood on it, at Susan's arm and the long cut on it. It'll sting Susan, but nowhere near as much as Eponine's jaw will hurt her. It's not fair. She never wins.

"You don't know nothing about me," Eponine's gaze doesn't budge from Susan's finger on the gun. "You don't know. Oh God, you think you do, but you don't know nothing of what it is to be this, Miss Sue, and being preached at by righteous idiots with stupid accents and words what no one else uses what makes me feel like an idiot."

She shakes her head.
"I am DONE being the idiot. And I am done with you. And I am done being threatened by everyone."

Eponine is done. Fear has overtaken her, fear of the gun, fear of Susan's precision. She swallows. She blinks. Susan's going to shoot her the moment that she lets her guard down, and once more, it'll be Eponine left to lick her wounds.

Well, not today.

She growls, and lets out an almost animalistic shriek as she lunges at Susan once more, knife still in hand. Her aim is to make Susan drop the gun, so she stabs out as hard as she can, wherever she can reach, aiming to push the knife in deep as many times as she can before Susan knocks her away. She's not losing this fight.

There's something Roland said to her, when he gave her the gun: bide your time, he told her, 'till you're sure the need is there. Don't draw a weapon you're not prepared to fire. Don't fire till it's needed. Make sure it's true.

Gods, she wishes she'd listened to him. She wishes she hadn't drawn her gun now, of all times - because when Eponine looks at her with those furious eyes, looks at her finger trembling on the trigger, Susan knows all at once she's not going to shoot. Not like this. Not with nothing to win by it. She doesn't want to kill Eponine, she doesn't. She should have kept it hidden. She should have run.

But she's drawn her gun, and she won't fire it; and it's not Dave Hollis who comes to mind then, not the men she killed at the jail. It's Olive Thorin, useless flintlock in hand, tumbling from the saddle with a blood-and-gunpowder hole in her. It's knowing that a gun you can't fire is worse than no gun at all.

It's too late now. All this passes through her mind in a moment, and before the moment's passed, Eponine's on top of her. The gun discharges, loud in the narrow alleyway, and it's all Susan can do to wrench it to the side first, so the shot doesn't hit anyone - and then it's too late for thinking about that, too, and the knife's in her side. In her arm, in her belly, over and over again. Susan cries out, and now she's the one cursing, letting out a string of profanities that would make some of the hardened vaqs in her hometown blush to think she knew them. She staggers, stumbling, and instinctively grabs at the nearest thing to steady herself - which happens to be Eponine's shoulder. The front of her shirt and serape are rapidly darkening with blood.

Despite it all, she laughs, the tears running down her face. She laughs and cries at once, and she pulls back and tries to headbutt Eponine in the nose. "Ye ain't done, 'Ponine. Ye ain't ever gonna be done with it till ye quit... quit bullshittin' and try."

It's hard to get that much out. She staggers back and away, against the wall, the hand holding the gun coming up as if to grab at her bleeding waist, although she won't let go of the pistol's grip. If she comes at me again, she thinks, I'm gonna have to shoot her. Then, almost at once: No. If she comes at me again, I'm dead.

Sorry, Roland. I'm sorry.

There's blood, Susan's blood, spattered across Eponine's cheeks like red freckles on her olive skin. Her rags too, are streaked with it, and it's matted in her messy hair.

Susan's right. There's no going back and no stopping because she's done the unforgivable - and not even done it right, for there Susan stands, doubled over and bleeding out.

Eponine turns away, shaking off Susan's clammy hand so she can be sick on the floor. This wasn't supposed to happen. None of this was.
But now her best friend's dying.

"Does it hurt?" Eponine comes closer, aiming to push Susan right up against the wall, She pushes her finger against Susan's stomach wound.
"Does this hurt? Where the baby was? Is this what hurts most?"

Her smile is almost innocent and she lets out a chuckle that's jarring in the ringing silence of the alleyway. It's almost dizzying to be in charge after so long, to be the one with power, and like a child in a candy shop, Eponine just wants to indulge - indulge on hurting Susan.

"I hate you, you know? Perfect Susan? Stupid Susan. You didn't even fight."

It hurts, all right. It hurts enough that now Susan's the one who retches, gagging emptily on the ground. She could shoot Eponine so easily. Point blank, just the way she'd done to Herk Avery. She wonders if Eponine would look as surprised as he did.

"If I..." She hawks, spits. There's blood in it, though she's pretty sure it's from a split lip, not from the wounds. Fuck, she hopes it's not from the wounds, or else she's in real trouble. "If I'd fired, ye'd be dead too. Sold my soul for Roland. Left Roland for you. Ain't gonna sell my soul again, too." The gun does come up then, again, shaking visibly in her grip. Her finger isn't on the trigger when she jabs the barrel against Eponine's bony shoulder. "Some fuckin' sister. Some fuckin' friend. If I shot now I ain't sure it'd kill ye. Not in the shoulder." There's blood on her teeth, her breath coming shallow and rasping. "I was gonna ask ye to find rooms with me, ye ken that? Someplace safer. Ye fucking bitch."

The inn didn't seem that far away when she walked it before. Now, the other side of town feels like it might as well be on another continent. Her hands are slippery with blood, and her head's spinning, and more than once, stopping to lean against the corner of a street and catch her breath, she wonders why she's even trying. Why bother? Who's to say if Nadine and her posse will even help, when it comes down to it?

She does it for the same reason she's done a lot of things in her life: because she doesn't see anything else to do. No matter how much she wants to just lie down in an alleyway and pass out, to cry herself to a sleep she might not wake up from, she's too stubborn for that. She's embarrassed, and exhausted, and grieving something she didn't know she'd been so afraid to lose - and none of that is a good enough reason to lie down and die. So she stops every few hundred yards to catch her breath; she presses her hands as best she can against the worst of the wounds in hopes of staunching the bleeding; she sways and staggers and swears; and she keeps on going.

When she staggers into the inn, it's dark outside, and the bar is all athrong. Later, she'll have the wherewithal to be pissed off about that, embarrassed at having an audience when she finally makes it into the lamplight inside. Right now, she's barely aware of those watching eyes. Her tearstained, bloody face is pale, and the whole front of her shirt is crimson. It has occurred to her several times, in this past hour, that she might just die anyway. Eponine might have killed her, after all.

I just went to give her chucklit and a friend. That's what feels worst of all. At least the first time she'd died, it had been for something. This wasn't for anything. Nothing but her own blind, trusting hope. Nothing but soft-headed stupidity.

She lets out a rough, breathless sob, and collapses. Someone, somewhere, is yelling for help.

Get yer own help, she thinks, and is dimly aware that she's about to pass out. I'm done.

After about a week at the inn, Julie picked up a job as a barmaid. She figured it made sense -- if she had to work, ideally it should be somewhere that was a) close, and b) she could get trashed at nightly. And it wasn't the most frequent engagement, usually only taking a few hours here and there for a few days a week. She also knows that a drunk man is a generous man, and she's considered exotic enough to make a healthy sum in tips that were almost always dropped between her boobs and into her bodice. So she's there when Susan stumbles in, holding a tray of mugs aloft on one hand.

"Jesus Christ, fuck," she swears as Susan falls across the floor, and puts the tray on the nearest table to rush over. Holding a clean bar towel, she pulls Susan half into her lap, pressing down on the wound. "Fuckin' shit, you gotta hold on, girl. Someone -- someone go find Flagg! Or Nadine!"

Across the bar, someone rushes upstairs to their door.

“Isn’t this what family does?” Eponine asks. “See, I knew you never listened to me. I knew it. I told you my mama were dead in a cell and my Pa plotted to murder me. I told you that. You didn’t listen.”

Rooms would have been nice. Rooms and a place to rest her head and a place where she didn’t have to carry a knife or fight.

“Are you listening now, Susan? I don’t want you.”

Except she does, desperately. But the moment Susan hit her, it was over.
“Why did you hit me, silly girl?” She presses again against Susan’s wound. “This is your fault, you know?” Her own blood mixes with Susan’s as it oozes from her broken jaw.
“If you hadn’t hit me, this wouldn’t be so. If you’d just stayed away… but I’ll have to run now, or face prison for this. See, proper family, ain’t we?”

Eponine let’s put a shaky laugh before leaning in to plant a kiss on Susan’s cheek. She takes the opportunity to put her hands in Susan’s pockets and steal anything that’s in there.

“I liked you, Miss Susan, until you hit me. Now, you’re just as bad as my Papa and Lord only knows I would have done worse to him if I could.”

It's Nadine that comes rushing down, still tying on her kerchief, the bodice of her overdress only half done. All she knows is there's an emergency, someone's hurt, but it's more than enough to put a fire under her.

"Shit!"

She's not a woman given to hard cursing often, but when the situation warrants it...Face severe, Nadine joins Julie to assess just how bad things are. There's no time to ask what happened, not right now.

"Okay. Susan...Susan, listen to me, we're going to take care of you. Just hang in there."

She turns to Julie, her voice quieter and more grim. "We need to get her to her room and we're going to need to a big bowl of clean water, clean linen, and...maybe a needle and fishing line. I think I can do something about this, I had to give myself a crash course in field medicine right after the world ended, but I'm going to need your help."

At least assuming there's no damage to any vital organs. A handful of books consumed in a very short time while trying to bring Joe back from the brink only covered so much.

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OPEN | at the changing of the seasons

CLOSED to Eponine

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Warning for callous discussion of infant deaths/murders/stillbirth. And sexual talk. I'M SORRY!!!

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OPEN to anyone at the inn in Nott | CW: blood/injury

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