Origami Narwhal

The Puzzle Box - 2.8

A/N: Nar here. Please comment with your favorite potato-based recipes, I'm starting to run out of ideas for Ivy's snacking habits.
Craumont lives and grows, as all cities do. For every familiar landmark, there's ten new faces around it— and I feel it keenly here, in this plaza. The blacksmith's hammer clangs, but the man who made my first gauntlets has been replaced by his son. The grimy tavern where I'd met a brawler is now a reputable inn.

But children still play...

The Puzzle Box - 2.7

Helena lied. An oily, bitter realization— one that I drink down like poisoned wine.

It's not Helena herself that's a problem, no. Instead, it's that someone lied at all. Another layer to the investigation, another barrier, and another motive, I'd wager. I swirl those thoughts like a spoiled draught, debating if I want another sip.

“How'd she lie, Gelson?” I ask as we climb the stairs to the priest's office. She's walking in front, on account of my tail. “Was she s...

The Puzzle Box - 2.6

Knock, knock.

My scaled knuckles rap against the door to the rectory. It's a new sound, and a new experience— Ivy Crawford, willfully entering the Church rectory, led by nobody and recovering nothing. And for polite conversation, no less.

Well, it might be polite, and maybe that's a step too far in qualifying it. Never too late to start a brawl.

“I can lead.” Gelson says, or maybe offers. “Your reputation remains—”

“Poor? Yes.” I chuckle, stepp...

The Puzzle Box - 2.5

I don't stop at the bakery. I skip past the theater, even though it’s playing my favorite part of the Epic of the Hero. A thought becomes a mystery becomes curiosity, and it gnaws at me incessantly:

Why is that damned puzzle box important? Why did it need to be in a vault, why break in just for one thing?

I push through the twin fragrances of baked starch and flour. A raucous retelling of the Hero's meeting with Daughter Moon stops me for only a few minutes, and my...

The Puzzle Box - 2.4

Between a rock and a hard place. Helena Harkness, still rustling through her bag and running a hand through her hair. Gelson, and the obligations I’d let myself get wrapped up in for some reason. I can’t blame the detective— I think I’m done with this, too.

Oh, for the love of Adamantine— the time I’d actually been stuck between two hard objects was better! The Imperial Temple wall was at least comfortable, and the boulder could be punched out. The bat-monster-...

The Puzzle Box - 2.3

The detective's name is Ruby Gelson, and she's added enough honey to her tea to make my teeth ache.

She's practically drowning in the chair she's chosen; a chair sized for my father rather than folk that could walk through doors without stooping. Her curly black hair looks well-kept, and her brown eyes dissect my tea set like it's a particularly strange bug.

At the least, it doesn't look like Ruby will be a boring woman to spend time with. It’s enough to soothe the apothecary's ...

The Puzzle Box - 2.2

“I’ll get straight to the point, everyone,” a sandy voice cuts across the room, accompanied by the thud of a swinging door. “There’s been a robbery, and I'll need your testimonies.”

A woman with dark, curly hair strides out, black boots clicking against the floor. She scans across the room, lips curling into a lined frown. When her eyes land on me, her dark wrinkles deepen into an irritated glare...

A glare I can’t help but snort in response to, loudly ...

The Puzzle Box - 2.1

Rapidly rising from a Delve depth of five hundred marches is, by most accounts from Mages, a dumb idea. The first two hundred aren’t so bad, but rising from anywhere deeper causes pockets of compressed magic to expand inside the soul and body, tearing at the fringes of the self in uncomfortably real and abstract ways. But I’ve had plenty of time to adapt, plenty of time for my body and magic to change, and nowadays a rapid ascent from five hundred marches just makes my scale...

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The Drake of Craumont - 1.15

Harriet says nothing. The guests stare. Elizabeth’s eyebrows shoot up, and I can see shock flicker across her features before she quashes it.

“Alain,” Winston says warningly, drawing closer. “Don’t make me throw you out.”

“What?” I say, before I can stop myself. So where's the catch, beyond the madness of the offer itself? What's the scheme? It's enough to make my tail twitch. “I assume you'll want the furniture too?”

“No, we won't take a thing! This is...

The Drake of Craumont - 1.14

There is politics to seating arrangements. A technique, a tradition, and some other t-word, all of it drilled into noble heads to ensure that nobody has any fun at any meal, ever.

Truthfully, that was always Olivia's thing. I don't remember a lick of it, but even I know that putting me at Winston's left and his husband on the right is a statement. Equivalency, maybe? Or would it be rude if he didn't put me there?

Feh. Politics. I let out a low growl into a bite of food, rather tha...

The Drake of Craumont - 1.13

“Amelia Ivy Crawford.” A soft voice drawls, emphasizing each word as if it was new. Or, perhaps, old and forgotten. “As I live and dream.”

A shadow crosses the warm light pouring from the door, cutting it in half and leaving me in the dark. Drawn from my thoughts, I look up, past the servant and to the shadow’s source.

There, cast in black, is an old... something. Enemy? Acquaintance? Pain in the tail? 

A woman in an ankle-length yellow dress, wrapped around b...

The Drake of Craumont - 1.12

I’ll take the long way back to the Manor.

I wander those back alleys, eyes scraping on the stark shadows left by the afternoon light. I breathe in the calm air of those tiny parks that dot the city.

Gods, I get myself a bit lost, as lost as I can get in a city that was once home. 

It gives me time to turn over the thousand whys in my head, spinning them like an inscrutable puzzle. I'd risked my life following along with an ambitious, inexperienced Mage, but why? Did s...

The Drake of Craumont - 1.11

The Delve pressure eases gradually as we move, like we're rising through water. It'll continue to lighten as we go, and it won't take more than ten minutes before we're out of here completely.

Which is great, because I am very ready to get out of here. If Winston asks for me to guide her again, I'll just say no and recommend someone with a bit more patience. 

The Delve Heart tugs at me, practically humming in my hand. Looks like my estimate was off, then; five minutes till we...

The Drake of Craumont - 1.10

Maybe it's more obvious to me than it is to someone without the senses of a Mageblood. Helena's got magic, sure, so she counts as one by technicality, but it hasn't changed her yet. She can't move the way I do, or control magic with the same ease as breathing.

But, Gods, if I'm not screaming at her to pay attention, as I sprint towards her. She's turned in response to my shout. Don't look at me, idiot, look at the monster charging towards you! At this speed, the best I can do is point a...

The Drake of Craumont - 1.9

I think I like autumn here better, but that doesn’t come as a surprise. The brisk wind, the brilliant leaves, the odd scent that comes with it; it’s all perfect. Watching the world prepare itself for winter, preparing for inevitable rebirth and change in a way countless poems try to capture... it captivates me.

Distracting, too. I push myself off the ground, dusting myself off and making sure I don’t pick up any splinters from our latest kill.

“Do these count as kills, do ...

The Drake of Craumont - 1.8

Stone, brass, and broken glass give way to bark, soil, and spotted shadows. The window exits between two tall pines at the edge of a grassy glade, and I reach back into the chapel to pull Helena through.

Her fingers latch onto my arm, hands curling around like I'm a particularly thick piece of rope. She's light enough that I can just pull her straight up to standing, but I do have to step back so she doesn't plant her boots on mine. My tail lifts, too, so it doesn't become a tripping ha...

The Drake of Craumont - 1.7

A muddled blur of white, pink, and grey screams down from the flock overhead, its gleaming beak making it more javelin than bird. The flock follows in ones and twos, unspooling like a chain following its anchor into the sea.

“They’re diving!” Helena calls out from somewhere behind me. Her voice has a shrill edge to it, but she keeps her tone even.

“I can see that, Helena!” I shout back, pushing Wind into my arms and pulling a hand back for a punch. Something catches the ...

The Drake of Craumont - 1.6

The abyssal shock of a Delve washes over me in a roiling golden fog. It digs at my skin, my scales, my soul, scraping away the World like bits of dried mud. For a heartbeat, I am laid bare before the fog, raw like healing skin and fragile like fresh scales.

My foot finds purchase on solid ground, my head breaches the fog, and my soul curls back in on itself contentedly. A subtle pressure remains, like I'm at the bottom of a pond, but it's something I got used to years ago. My stomach tw...

The Drake of Craumont - 1.5

"I never did thank you, did I? For agreeing."

I grunt, eyes still trained on the portal. One hand is curled through it, my skin melding to scales as the fingers dip around the impossible fringe of the World, and the other is trying to find where the tear ends and the World begins again. I'm not sticking my head into this thing, seeing what lies beyond that eye-bending golden shimmer, until I know how stable it is. Standard procedure. I even have to get re-trained on it every two years, ...

The Drake of Craumont - 1.4

Feathers, fangs, claws, and horns. Not a single Drake in sight, and certainly not a scaled person of any other variety to be found among the Magebloods here. Maybe I shouldn’t be spending so much time looking as I pick my way through progressively grimier alleys and scraggly little parks. The one blessing is I don’t see too many people living on the streets; maybe they live in that Wildflower District, maybe the local churches are helping, and hopefully my cousin is doing his part.

...

The Drake of Craumont - 1.3

Craumont, in my opinion, is much prettier under the sunlight. The nighttime view is just a chaotic scattering of light and smoke.

But it really is pretty, during the day. The buildings lining the main streets are decorated wonderfully. Stone and brick isn't terribly interesting to look at, but they make it up with bright paints, decorated shutters, broad windows displaying all sorts of finery... and lots of flowers. Countless flowers, real and fake.

Spreads of wildflowers in their...

The Drake of Craumont - 1.2

I wake to the tocking of a tall shadow in a pitch-dark corner, rhythmically breaking the murky silence. The old Elm Clock, dragged in from the hallway when I was no more than six years old.

Thick curtains glow silver at the fringes, spilling white light across a faded carpet. It’s the only light in the room, just enough to see the fuzzy edges of my old room. Enough to see the blankets tossed every which way, to see how my tail has scored holes through the silky sheets. Such a waste, a...

The Drake of Craumont - 1.1

A cold, hard edge is at my throat a heartbeat faster than I can duck away. I can’t look down to see it clearly, but I can feel how it catches and tugs at the collar of my blouse.

“Let’s make this easy, pretty lady.”

Tsk. They’d snuck up from behind far too easily. I’ll take the compliment, though.

But I can’t just get lost in my own head like this. Should’ve listened to my gut and not taken this shortcut to begin with. Maybe I can blame it all on the soft pat...