tylerfucklin: helenish: drunktuesdaze:devildoll:i’ll be curled up in the cornercounting

tylerfucklin: helenish: drunktuesdaze: devildoll: i’ll be curled up in the corner counting down to helenish beating off to merciless, smirking King Stiles watching the dirty captured werewolf be dragged up to the throne. LEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA, GOD DAMN IT! “What?” Stiles said, irritably, turning when the tent door was pulled open again, having again forgotten the long fresh wound in his side, hastily bandaged after the final battle, the sharp ache of his knee where he’d taken a direct blow with a shield, fighting to get to the king.  “We found something,” Scott said, his face grim. The history books his tutors were so keen on had never mentioned this part, the clean-up afterwards. His father had remained on the battlefield to formally accept surrender, but Stiles had been dispatched to the castle with a small detail of loyal knights to manage the surrender, such as it was.  They’d been expecting at least a token resistance, even if the Argents themselves were well-contained, dead on the battlefield, imprisoned, or long since fled. The courtyard had been empty, the outbuildings unkempt, in need of rethatching, the children’s cheeks thin, their parents’ eyes dead of hope. There had been no resistance. They’d put up the tent in the courtyard because the castle halls smelled of charnel, twisted magic, anger and fear.  “What the hell is that?” Stiles said, getting a better look. It was a dog, a big one, paws like saucers, his black coat dull and bare in patches. His ribs were visible, one of his ears swollen with mange. Scott’s mouth twisted apologetically. He’d always had a soft spot for animals. “I think—” Stiles sighed. “Just—take him down and see if cook has some scraps left in the stew pot.” “He was locked in the dungeon,” Scott said, “and—” he gestured helplessly at the dog. There was a triskele burnt into the tender skin of his side, scabbed and weeping, raw.  “It’s a dog,” Stiles said harshly.  “You don’t know that,” Scott said. “The Hale heir is dead these ten years,” Stiles said. They’d been children when it happened. Stiles’ father had set an extra guard at his door for months.  “It could mean something,” Scott said stubbornly. Anyone else, Stiles would have dismissed him, told him the fight had addled his wits and to sleep it off before he bothered him again, but it was Scott, and Stiles owed him more than that, so he said, “It means someone likes to cut holes in the side of dogs, mystery solved,” but crouched down next to the dog to take a better look. He saw it then, the thin leather strap looped twice around his muzzle, secured to his collar, hidden in his fur. It took them the better part of ten minutes to work it free enough to cut it, their fingers slipping on the straps, which were treated with a thick oil that stung their fingers, made them clumsy.  “If this thing bites my arm off, you are definitely getting beheaded for treason,” Stiles told Scott, but only to break the silence, to avoid the dog’s patient, vacant stare, the rattling heave of his lungs. The dog opened his mouth when the muzzle came free, revealed two long rows of savagely sharp fangs, eyes red and rabid above them, and Stiles had just enough time to scramble backwards to his swordbelt, flung aside on the table, dragging Scott with him, before the dog— Before the dog shivered, let out an anguished, sobbing growl— Before the dog turned into a sallow, half-starved naked man with a bleeding triskele carved into his chest. He took a single uncertain step back, green eyes widening in shock, and then his legs went out from under him and he collapsed in an unconscious heap on the rug the servants had thrown down to cover the cobblestones. Scott opened his mouth and then, wisely, closed it. Stiles dragged off his cloak and draped it over the man, who, up close, had a ring of purpled bruises around his throat and the longest eyelashes Stiles had ever seen. “You’d best let my father know we found—that he ought to come here to see for himself,” Stiles said, and Scott nodded and left the tent. Stiles drew in a breath and put his fingers cautiously to the man’s throat, felt the steady beat of his pulse. “Is it too late to be stolen away at birth and raised by simple but virtous peasants?” Stiles asked him. The man didn’t stir. “Thought not,” Stiles said. CONTINUE THIS OR I WILL -- source link

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