Finn McLellan

@saranadosfiction

Disabled transmasc butch fantasy writer in this world, stabby bastards of various stripes in sundry fictional ones. Writing LGBTQ+ gaslamp fantasy (among other things) over at @house_of_five@wandering.shop (they/he)

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Finn McLellan@saranadosfiction· Jul 14

#WIPSnips | phase Phase -> moon, and it had to be this snippet because of Jai's wonderful illustration (which is at the bottom of the linked story). Back in Sabbat's backstory, and a pivotal moment for multiple reasons. ( saranadosfiction.com/2021/02/13/c... )

Compared to the hell that’d been pulling on the damn dresses every morning, the shirt and trews went on as smooth as silk. And, with the addition of the waistcoat and the neckscarf, the person looking back at Sabrian in the mirror could’ve been any cabin boy or boat-boy off on shore leave and running back home through the streets of Dockside.

Sabrian grinned, watching the unfrozen corner of his reflection’s mouth twist upward in fierce triumph. *Hey, what d’you fucking know? I’m still me.*

Question was, was he still *Sabrian?* It’d been a perfectly serviceable name for most of his life so far, and he didn’t have too many problems with it in and of itself, but something about it didn’t quite fit right any more – that, and he’d heard it too many times in his uncle’s mouth for it not to come with an added ‘girl’ and ‘daughter’ that made his lip curl.

*Sa- Best be something close, else I’ll not know myself any more. Sabr… Sab… Saba…*

*Sabbat. I’ll be Sabbat.*

He wasn’t quite sure *why* he’d landed on that name, but the moment he tried it on he knew that it fit – curt, sharp, and stabbing-sounding in a way that ‘Sabrian’ just wasn’t. Perfect for the kind of person he was planning on becoming, in other words.

“Sabbat,” he said, and the boy in the mirror grinned lopsidedly back at him. “Sabbat. Aye, that’ll fuckin’ do.”

Ten minutes later, one of the second floor windows swung silently open. A shadow slid out of the darkness of the house, swarmed up the wall, and, moving with all the speed and agility of a born roof-runner, launched itself out into the empty space between the rooftops, hanging for a second in weightless flight before landing in a diving roll on the flat roof of the shop across the way.

The moon shone down. The fog rolled in. And the boy called Sabbat raced onward, chasing a brighter future.

Finn McLellan@saranadosfiction· Jul 13

( saranadosfiction.com/2024/03/05/s... )

“Are you alright?” Viola asked, turning to look at him with an expression that seemed equal parts worry and full-on shock. “You look like hell.”

*It that fucking obvious?* “Fuck *off*, Cervanso. ‘m fine.” *Except for the fact I’m fucking dying, but there’s sod-all you can do about that.*

“Of course you are. Your nose is bleeding, by the way.”

“Fuckin’-“

“Here.” A clean handkerchief – because of *course* Archer just happened to have one spare, wouldn’t be him if he wasn’t annoyingly put-together even in the middle of all this, would he? – landed in his lap, stark white against the black of his trews. “I’m assuming you’d rather me carry you up the stairs than Viola, and it’ll be a good deal easier for me to do so if you’re not bleeding on me.”

He’d let Cervanso half carry him back when Caine’d thrown him off the roof in Steepside – though there was hardly much ‘letting’ involved, given he’d been barely conscious at the time – but there was a world of difference between that and this and gods, it might be just the pain talking (more than enough of that to go around at the moment, after all), but if he was going to die without telling Archer he loved him, then at least he was going to do it having spent every second he could in his arms. That, and if *Archer* was carrying him, he’d not need to worry about falling asleep before they made it back to the room.

“Sabbat?”

*Fuck. Getting distracted.* “Aye.” He wiped his nose on his sleeve, leaving a bright red smear on the cuff, then balled up the handkerchief and pressed it against the lower part of his face. “Better?”

Archer sighed. “The point of the handkerchief was partially to *avoid* you having to use your shirt, but yes, better. Ready?”

Finn McLellan@saranadosfiction· Jul 13

#WIPSnips | almost Ooft :( Have Sabbat *also* having a wee bit of A Day (or, in his case, An Evening) ( saranadosfiction.com/2020/12/02/b... )

^Be a fuck of a lot easier if I wasn’t trying to do this with a busted leg, a hole in my hand, and a whole parcel of injuries being kept at bay by a probably-cursed magical box, I’ll tell you that for fucking free.*

Then again, where’d the challenge be in that?

The stonework around the window was almost as iced-up as the sill, but the hinges on the shutters gave him the purchase he needed to hoist himself up and get a grip on the gutter, the cold metal biting into his palms even through the leather of his gloves. And from there, even with his leg and hand both not bearing weight the way they should, it was the matter of a few breaths (and a fairly substantial amount of silent swearing) to haul himself up and over and onto the snow-covered ledge jutting out from the base of the mansion’s sloped roof, ready to start the next stage of the climb.

Which was about the time his leg gave out and he fell flat on his face.

*Fuck!*

He managed to control the fall well enough that he didn’t slip off the ledge, at least, and the snow was deep enough to muffle any noise. Still hurt like hells, though, even through whatever the box was doing to him, and he bit his lip hard enough to draw blood trying to hold back a yell of mingled pain and frustration as his bodyweight landed squarely on his injured hand.

*Fuck fuck fuck fuck* fuck! *What fucking use am I going to be if my fucking leg won’t fucking work?!*

*More use than you’ll be if you get yourself killed because you fucking panicked, that’s for damn sure.*

Finn McLellan@saranadosfiction· Jul 13

#SummerOfStories 13: So all the crew are going through it in several ways, but for sheer number of bad things happening to them on-page in the serial so far it's probably between Fest and Sabbat (and Fest I think takes it, since Sabbat's problems are technically a good deal more his own fault)

The door wasn’t locked – which was odd, because Avebury seemed like the kind of person who’d not want anyone to go snooping around their stuff – and, when he put his hand to the doorknob, it opened faster than he’d expected, almost as though someone was pulling it from the other side.

*What the-*

It wasn’t Avebury.

Which made perfect sense, because Avebury was downstairs and there was no possible way that he could have got past Fest and into the room without him knowing, but also made absolutely no sense at all because the person standing in the doorway (and looking very much as though he was about to either throw up, pass out, or both, which was coincidentally also exactly how Fest was feeling at that precise moment) couldn’t possibly be here either.

“…Sabbat?”

The assassin lunged towards him – he flinched sideways, barely dodging out of the way, hand going to his throat to try and protect himself from an attack which he knew he couldn’t entirely avoid, and-

And Sabbat crashed to his knees on the floorboards, doubled over, and was loudly and violently sick.

*…That… doesn’t seem good.*

He wasn’t entirely sure what he was supposed to be doing – he had vague memories from childhood illnesses of his father patting his back and telling him it was better out than in, but he doubted that’d go down particularly well in this case – but standing around staring almost certainly wasn’t it.

The problem was, right now he honestly couldn’t think of anything else.

Finn McLellan@saranadosfiction· Jul 12

In which Fest shows an unexpected aptitude for deception (much to Viola's surprise - and relief)

*So instead we hope to the ancestors that he knows what he’s doing – or, at least, that he can convince* them *of that for long enough for me to get an idea of the quickest way to take them out.*

“‘scuse me, gennelmen, ladies?” Fest’s voice, floating out of the fog, sounding a good deal more rural than his usual tones, and a good deal more slurred to boot. “Don’t suppose any of you have a light, do you? Only I must’ve taken a wrong turning back there, and I can’t read my map well enough in this murk to see where I’m *s’posed* to be going.”

*Oh you young idiot. That’s the oldest trick in the damn book, and you should know as much – you read enough of them.*

If he was planning on getting himself mugged, he was going the right way about it. If, on the other hand, he was planning on some kind of penny-dreadful-hero reversal…

Then I bloody hope you’re better with that blade than I’ve been assuming, because you’re likely facing down the Sinnlenst’s equivalents of me and Sabbat, and they’re going to be playing for keeps.

“No lights here, friend. Plenty of gaslamps back down the street you just came up, though.”

*And she’s already suspicious that he’s not what he’s pretending to be, if the scent of her is anything to go by. I really bloody hope you know what you’re doing, Fest.*

“I tried that, but none of them’re bright enough. Are you sure y’don’t have a light on you? A box of matches’d do.”

“Gods, are you deaf? You’ve come to the wrong temple, if you are.” Louder, and with more exaggerated enunciation, “We don’t have any lights. Sorry.”

“I-“

Another voice, deeper than the first. “Hey, wait a minute. That’s Foreval’s latest conquest, isn’t it?”

*Crap.*

“…So it is. What’s the game, then?”

A pause, long enough for Viola to start wondering if she’d already missed her cue, and then Fest spoke up again, his voice suddenly free of all pretended drunkenness and most – though not all – of his presumably-exaggerated accent.

“Oh, thank the gods. I was hoping this was the right place.”

“That so?” The woman still, and still suspicious, though less so than she’d been before. “If you’re supposed to be helping us with this, you’re late. If you’re not, clear off back to whatever it is your mistress thinks is more important than getting this nosey little problem out of the way.”

*…Spirits and ancestors, this might just work. Assuming he can keep his tongue behind his teeth while they’re busy insulting his friend.*

For a moment, she thought he wouldn’t be able to manage it. Then he took a deep breath in through his nose and said, calmly, “I’m supposed to be helping you. I know them a little, and they trust me, which means I can almost certainly get them to come out here to you. No violence needed.”

If she’d been in two-legged form, she’d have had to fight to stop herself laughing out loud in sheer incredulous relief. Yes, they weren’t away clear yet, but spirits, he was doing a damn sight better at this than she’d given him credit for.

*Lesson in underestimating people, that, and worth taking to heart.*

Finn McLellan@saranadosfiction· Jul 12

#SundaySnips | drink Look, I couldn't *not* use this scene, given. ( saranadosfiction.com/2021/07/23/s... )

Archer winced, looking away. “No. You’ve lost too much blood already. I’ll… Gods dammit, I’ll think of something.”

“Or you’ll stand there tryin’ t’be noble an’ starvin’ y’self an’ we’ll get fuckin’ nowhere.” He reached out, resting his left hand carefully on the other man’s shoulder. “You ain’t makin’ me do this, Will. An’ I ain’t doin’ it on account of thinkin’ I owe you anythin’. I ain’t doin’ it out of anythin’ other’n my own fuckin’ choice.”

“I could hardly ‘make’ *you* do anything,” the vampire said, with something that might’ve been a laugh. “But your point’s taken.” The tip of his tongue flicked out, licking the crust of dried blood from the corner of his mouth. “Gods. Are you certain?”

“Aye.”

Archer frowned. “You don’t sound-“

“Fuckin’ hellfire!” Sabbat growled, his fingers digging into the other man’s shoulder. “I said I was fuckin’ certain, an’ I’m fuckin’ certain. Fuckin’ do it an’ get it over with.” *Before I lose my nerve over the fact that my best friend’s looking at me like I’m fucking prey.*

“Thank you,” Archer said, quietly. He paused for a second, then added in a more normal tone, “You might want to let go of my shoulder.”

Sabbat blinked, caught off guard as much by the shift in tone as the request. Then, feeling oddly as though he was moving through treacle, he prised his fingers free of Archer’s shirt and began to pull his hand away.

As he did so, Archer reached up and, with a muttered ‘Let me’, caught hold of his wrist and turned it so the inside of his bared forearm faced towards the sky.

Then, very gently, he pulled Sabbat’s arm towards him, fastened his mouth over the wound that’d already been made, and began to drink.

Finn McLellan@saranadosfiction· Jul 12

#SummerOfStories 12: Into the climax of Blood on the Snow, and Viola, Sabbat, and Mortimer very much deciding that getting the hells out of the Sinnlenst gathering they've been infiltrating is a *very* good plan ( saranadosfiction.com/2021/02/02/b... )

“You do that, then. I’m not leaving without Fest.”

“An’ Archer told me t’keep the both of you safe. He ain’t easy t’kill permanently, you are.”

“He’s *pack.* We don’t leave pack behind!”

“He’s a fuckin’ *sorcerer*, Cervanso. Ain’t him y’need t’be worryin’ about right now.”

“We need to leave,” Mortimer said. He held up his hand, forestalling both of their objections. “Now.”

“What-?”

He pointed wordlessly behind the two of them, towards the entrance of the ballroom.

Caine, silhouetted against the light of the still-intact gaslamps in the hallway, stood up, letting something fall from his hand as he did so. It hit the floor with a heavy, sodden thump, rolled, and came to rest on its side, facing towards them.

The two humans couldn’t possibly see what it was, not at this distance. But, hearing Mortimer’s breath catch in his throat and seeing the way Sabbat’s shoulders tensed, she had a feeling they’d guessed.

Someone screamed.

Caine’s head turned, faster than any human should’ve been able to move – but then again, he wasn’t human any more, was he? – and he started to walk, slowly and deliberately, in the direction of the noise.

There was an empty, hanging moment.

Then people started running.

Finn McLellan@saranadosfiction· Jul 12

#WIPSnips | extra Back at the very start of Blood on the Snow, and Archer buying a paper ( saranadosfiction.com/2018/09/04/a... )

The newspaper-seller couldn’t have been more than twelve – a thin, ragged girl with short black hair sticking out from under her tattered cap, and small wind-chapped hands half-hidden in the sleeves of her too-big overcoat. She’d obviously just come from the printers, judging by the size of the pile of papers on her sled, and the tips of her fingers were stained black with new ink, contrasting starkly with the white of her skin.

“Extra! Extra! Hideous murder shocks city! Body found drained of all blood! Read all about it!”

Archer hadn’t been planning on buying a paper that morning. ‘Hadn’t’ being the operative word.

“How much?”

“Ha’penny, sir,” the girl said, breaking off her patter to peel a paper from the top of the stack. She handed it to him, then made a small sound of surprise as he passed her significantly more money than she’d requested. “You sure, sir?”

“Absolutely. Get yourself something hot to eat.” And then, quieter, “And take the rest to the slaughterhouse down by the river gate. They’ll sort you out, and it’s a damn sight better than rats.”

She nodded, then flashed him a shy grin, fangs briefly visible between her cracked lips. “Thank you, sir!”

“Don’t mention it.” He turned, walking away as the girl started back into her spiel once more, and made a concerted effort to pretend that he’d only picked up the paper out of the goodness of his heart and a vague sense of curiosity.

He wasn’t at all sure that it was working.

Finn McLellan@saranadosfiction· Jul 11

In lieu of an answer, the assassin held his arm out, twisting it so Fest and Archer could both see the inside of his forearm. There were a series of small cuts marking his skin – and, as they watched, another set opened up, lines and curves that almost looked like…

“They’re letters,” Fest breathed. “Oh holy gods. They’re letters.”

Finn McLellan@saranadosfiction· Jul 11

#SummerOfStories 11: In the first half of Silver in the Ashes, and Sabbat and Archer enjoying a brief moment of respite in the bathhouse up at the Hall (saranadosfiction.com/2022/01/29/s...)

“Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere near your neck. And if I have to, I’ll tell you. Is that good enough?”

“Aye.”

Another pause, this one a good deal shorter, and then he felt Archer’s fingertips pressing against his scalp, ten cool points of pressure cutting through the warmth and fog of the room.

“There. Comfortable?”

“Aye.”

“Good,” Archer said, quietly. He took a deep breath, the sound hissing in Sabbat’s ears like waves drawing over sand, and then began, very slowly, to run his fingers through Sabbat’s hair in long, even strokes, pausing every so often to tease out a particularly stubborn knot.

It felt *good.* It felt better than it had any fucking right to, especially with that damn box right there on the side of the pool and Avebury only hours away from turning up and making this whole fucking mess even more complicated.

*Gods. Put this feeling in a fucking pipe and you can forget about the sixdamn Smoke.*

Course, the fact that his head and lungs were still full of the stuff probably had more to do with it than anything else. Certainly explained the warmth in his chest and the way that the steam rising off the pool seemed to be curling in and around itself, chasing its own shadow in and out of the patterns on the tiled walls.

*Shouldn’t’ve let myself get that far into the damn dreaming. Only meant to take the edge off.*

Then again, hadn’t Verist said he wanted them gone until sundown? Plenty of time to dream, then.

Finn McLellan@saranadosfiction· Jul 11

#WIPSnips | attack Very near the climax of Silver in the Ashes, and things are getting more than a little desperate ( saranadosfiction.com/2024/11/23/s... )

The blood wasn’t working.

It’d worked before – had worked every single other time he’d used it to calm Sabbat’s breathing or slow the shudders wracking his frame, enough so that he’d almost come to think of it as a routine part of the dark parody of domesticity that their lives had devolved into over the last few days – but now, now when they were so damn close to the ritual being finished, *now* something had changed, *now* the blood had stopped doing whatever it’d been doing… or, worse, whatever was wrong with Sabbat had gone far enough that it wasn’t making a difference any more.

He’d bled enough to leave him light-headed, smeared enough gore over Sabbat’s face to more than undo the time he’d spent helping the assassin wash in preparation for the evening, and all that it’d achieved was a mess of red smeared across the sweat-soaked sheets, a heavy slaughterhouse stink rotting in the sickness-sweet air, and the body of the man he loved thrashing and jerking on the bed, eyes rolled back, jaw clenched, breath hissing between his teeth, every muscle as tense and taut as though there was lightning arcing through his veins and sparking across his bloodied skin.

“Gods, what the hells am I supposed to *do?*”

What he wanted to do was hold him until the convulsions stopped, but gods, he’d enough knowledge to know how that would go with a seizure this bad. So all he could do was watch, and pray, and hate the fact that that was all he could do.

*It will stop. Every other time he’s had one of these attacks, it’s stopped within a few minutes. This should be no different.*

But none of the other attacks had resisted the blood in this way, and none of them had been this damn violent, so where was the guarantee that anything he’d seen so far was going to hold true for this?

Finn McLellan@saranadosfiction· Jul 10

For context here, this is back at the very beginning of the serial and Viola and Fest have broken into Archer's rooms (for a very good reason). Unfortunately for them, Sabbat's *also* let himself in via the window, and isn't pleased to have encountered unexpected intruders in Archer's space.

“Eep?” he managed, and then winced. *Wrong answer.*

There was a brief, horrible silence.

Then Sabbat snarled, yanked Fest’s head back hard enough to make him yelp in mingled pain and surprise, and leaned in, close enough that the two of them were practically nose to nose. “Y’think I’m jokin’? Y’think I won’t just kill you an’ have done with it?”

“N-no!” Fest squeaked, eyes still squeezed shut in the vain hope that it might somehow make the situation any less terrifying. He swallowed, suddenly very very aware of quite how vulnerable his jugular was right now – vampires couldn’t *permanently* die of having their throats slit, of course, but that didn’t mean it was something he particularly wanted to experience. “I mean- I-” *Oh gods, I wish Viola was here. She’s the one who had an explanation for all of this.*

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t cut your fuckin’ throat right here and now,” the human growled.

“I can give you two.”

*Viola?!* Fest cracked an eye open, catching a brief glimpse of his saviour as she stepped into the room. *Oh thank the gods. Something’s going right for a change.*

“Don’t recall askin’ *you*,” Sabbat said, though he seemed more than a little taken aback by the new arrival (which, as far as Fest was concerned, was just fine by him).

“One:,” Viola went on, as though he’d not spoken. “He’s a vampire, so cutting his throat’ll do sod-all other than inconvenience him and get blood all over the bathroom. And two: I don’t want you to. I’ve already saved his life once today, and I’m damned if I’m having you put all that hard work to waste.”

Finn McLellan@saranadosfiction· Jul 10

Actually got writing done this week, so have a sneak peek of the next chapter and Fest (briefly) getting to actually feel pretty good about things:

Somehow, that actually made him feel better. He wasn't sneaking back into the university by the back gate because he wanted to dodge having to lie to his professors about how his apprenticeship had ended, he was deliberately using a less public entrance so he could spy on secret meetings going on under the noses of the academics and gain information for the secret society he was now very much a proper member of - and, given everything that'd happened over the last couple of weeks, he was starting to feel like he could actually call himself a proper spy into the bargain (or, at least, someone who was better at spycraft than the average student).

Which was a feeling that lasted right up until he rounded a corner and nearly walked straight into the one person he'd really bloody hoped to avoid actually coming face-to-face with until a good deal later in proceedings.

Finn McLellan@saranadosfiction· Jul 10

#WIPSnips | substitute That I don't have, but swapping in 'replacement' gets us a wee bit of class commentary and a bit of background-information-swapping as Viola and Archer discuss who's carrying their kill home from the hunt ( saranadosfiction.com/2023/06/28/s... )

“I’ve had to wash bloodstains out of that kind of fabric before. I know how much work it takes.” *Not that you’d be doing the washing, I expect.* But, then again, she’d not seen any servants any of the times she’d been by his rooms, and it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility that he did at least some of his own laundry. *Though you’re probably rich enough to just buy replacements if you need them. I know half ‘melia’s friends do that, when they can’t be bothered to send away for something to be cleaned.*

“I appreciate it. Let me know if you want to trade places, though, and I’ll strip down to my shirtsleeves.” He smiled, a brief flicker of an expression that somehow made him look suddenly a good deal younger and less world-weary. “I might not have had to deal with bloodstained coats all that much, but bloodstained *shirts* I understand very well.”

“Sabbat?”

“Oddly enough, no – or, at least, he’s not the reason I originally learned how to deal with that particular problem.”

“The Revolution, then?”

He nodded. “That and the Border War. Though I suspect your experiences were a little closer to home.”

“If you mean the assassination attempts on Amelia, then yes.” She crouched down, grabbed the eviscerated deer by the legs, and slung it over her shoulders, wincing as the motion sent a starburst of pain radiating outward from the still half-healed bulletwound in her shin. *I’m definitely going to need to have someone take a look at that at some point. Just… not right now.* “Shall we?”

“Lead the way.”

Finn McLellan@saranadosfiction· Jul 9

(Okay, so technically it's two ongoing files - this is a random snippet from the older one, since I started a new one when 4thewords changed where you load into a file when you open it - but...)

A screenshot from 4thewords showing a document titled 'Journalling' with a wordcount of 36133. The section of text we can see reads:

'If all of that's happening on the second day (which is the 1st of January by our reckoning, just to be awkward) then dinner that night is probably of the 'quiet and subdued' variety, since everyone's exhausted - especially if some of them have also had to go out and do storm-damage-prevention stuff as well as their normal duties. The big storm rolls in on the night of the second day, which also allows for several characters to be lying awake listening to the house creak and groan and the wind howl around the chimneys - entirely possible we have at least one person creeping through the hallways with a candelabra, because that's a fun trope and we want to lean heavily into the Gothic for this section.'

Finn McLellan@saranadosfiction· Jul 9

Archer doesn't usually let his heart rule his head like this - and deeply regrets it, after the fact - but he's tired, angry, and has just been hit with the knowledge that the person who's responsible for Sabbat's current state is in the same house as him *right now.*

Sabbat’s voice. *At least he’s alive. For now. That doesn’t change what I need to do.* “Step aside, Viola. Please.”

“Archer! Fer fuck’s sake!”

“No. I’m not bloody moving, and you need to get a hold of yourself and *sit down.* Sir.”

“Step aside.” She might be strong – werewolves generally were, and she was a fighter besides – but he had height and experience on her, and the advantage of vampiric reflexes besides. It was the work of a moment to slip his off hand under her arm, wrap his fingers around her shoulder, and *twist*, pulling her off-balance as he slid his leg forward to sweep her front foot in a move that, if she’d not been trained enough to roll with the motion, would have landed her on her back on the floor.

As it was, she recovered better than he’d expected, grabbing hold of his shirt and yanking him backwards as she shifted her weight to counterbalance the momentum of the throw. He managed to drop his knife before he hit the ground – he’d been telling the truth when he said he didn’t want to hurt her, and werewolves could heal from broken bones a damn sight more easily than they could from a slashed artery – but, even without the blade to hand, he had more than enough ways to keep her down if she was going to insist on getting in his way and-

“*Will!*“

Something in the assassin’s tone cut through the fog filling his head, dragging his consciousness back into his body with a wrench that was almost physically painful (or maybe that was the sudden shock of realising that he was on the floor, on his back, and currently being pinned down by a very angry-looking and very naked werewolf).

“I …What in the *hells* just happened?”

Finn McLellan@saranadosfiction· Jul 9

And then, when things have got a fuck of a lot worse (and we're well beyond even the very stretched definition of 'line' here, so this is very much just an addendum because why the hells not):

$“No,” Archer said, and put as much cold command into the word as he could muster. *You are not dying on me. I forbid it.* Sabbat blinked. “What d’y’mean, ‘no’? Y’don’t get t’give me orders.” “I meant what I said. No. You are not dying. Not while I have the means to stop you, not unless you ask me to let you go.” He took a breath, steadying himself. “The ritual’s almost ready – another day or so of work, and it should be in a place where it’s more likely than not to work. If this poison won’t allow us that time, there’s an antidote, though it’s dangerous enough that I’d prefer to avoid using it unless we absolutely have to. And if that antidote fails, or the ritual fractures, then… then…” The words stuck in his throat, knife-edged and jagged as shards of volcanic glass. “Still not willin’… t’say it?” And something inside Archer’s skull snapped. *He’s right. If I’m not willing to have this damn conversation – if I’m not willing to use the bloody word around him – then I’ve no business trying to do this at all. And if hearing it makes him realise that he doesn’t want to go through with this… well, then I’ll know before the end.* He lowered his voice, leaning over the bed, his mouth a hair’s breadth from Sabbat’s ear. “Then I’ll do my best to Turn you and bring you back as who you’ve always been. And if that doesn’t work, if you come back wrong, if you lose what makes you *you* in the paths and mists between the lands of the living and dead, then I’ll hold you down, cut your throat from ear to ear, put a stake through your heart, and not let anyone else lay a finger on you until you’re burned and gone to ash and your soul safely harboured on the other side of the sky.” *There. Condemned from my own mouth.*$

Finn McLellan@saranadosfiction· Jul 9

So I could have gone with a more standard declaration of romantic love, but...

“Want you t’promise me somethin’.”

“What is it?”

“If I- Fuck. If I ever- If I ain’t– If somethin’ happens an’ I ain’t *me* any more-” *Why is this so fucking hard to say?*

“I would, and I’d not let anyone else wield that blade,” Archer said, quietly. “You know that.”

“Course.” The treacherous prickling at the corners of his eyes was back – he looked away, bit the inside of his cheek hard in an attempt to fight back the tears. “Wouldn’t’ve reckoned anythin’ less.”

Finn McLellan@saranadosfiction· Jul 9

#SummerOfStories 9: So I'm realising I don't actually describe clothes very much, which means the best I can do you is Verist in a slightly odd combination of kit (in his defence, it's ridiculous o'clock in the morning and he wound up grabbing whatever was at hand)

“Breathe.”

And, as his fingers closed around the box and the pressure in his throat eased, he did just that, gasping down lungfuls of cold, clean mountain air until his lungs burned and his head swam with the taste of it. The worst of the rest of the pain was receding as well, washed away by the Smoke-like warmth emanating from the artefact, and, as he spat the last of the blood out into the snow and wiped his mouth with one shaking hand, he finally looked up and into the face of the stranger who’d possibly just risked their own fucking neck to stop him breaking his.

The stranger in question was a tall man, human by the look of him, with a long grey braid and a white duelling scar cutting through one leathery brown cheek. He was wearing a quilted silk dressing gown, pyjamas, and riding boots, and supporting himself on what Sabbat was fairly bloody certain was a sword-cane.

And, from the way he was looking at the two of them, he was almost certainly wondering what in the hells they were doing on his driveway.

“Good evening,” said Archmage Verist. “Or, I suppose I should say, good morning.” He crouched down, leaning on his cane, and frowned gravely at Sabbat. “Let me first extend my deepest apologies for your current state. I didn’t realise that my wards would react quite so violently to your… unwanted passenger, and since our mutual friend didn’t have enough time to warn me you’d be coming – don’t pull that face, Will, I’m not blaming you for it – I didn’t think to deactivate them.”

His wards. Fucking hellfire.

*Should’ve fucking realised. Foremost magical expert on all things pre-Fall, famously not taking a side in the damn war and yet a close enough friend of Archer’s that he trusts him with this, and he’s not got a gate or guards? Of course he’d have a fucking ward up.*

Finn McLellan@saranadosfiction· Jul 9

#WIPSnips | keep Turns out shooting Archer in the head is not a good plan when it comes to your long-term survivability, as this pair of Sinnlenst are in the process of finding out (and as the one who actually made the shot has already discovered) ( saranadosfiction.com/2021/07/10/s... )

They saw him coming, for all the good it did them. One of them grabbed for the other rifle from the cart, but a throwing knife to the hand put paid to that idea before she managed to close her grip around it. The other didn’t bother, just went straight for his sword.

Sabbat didn’t much give a fuck either way. *Sword or no sword, you’ll still end up just as dead. Might just have to take a few of your fucking fingers first.*

He charged the one with the sword first, shoulder down, slamming him back against the cart before he had a chance to get the blade clear of the scabbard. The other one made a go at getting round behind him, but he was faster than her – she swung wildly and he dropped down, letting the blow sail over his head and nearly catch her friend in the face in the bargain.

*Too fucking slow.*

She’d left her leg exposed, too busy swinging for him to keep her guard up. He hooked his boot round her ankle and pulled hard, sending her crashing down onto her back in the slush.

She glared at him, spat blood, rolled away as he slashed for her throat. “Get fucked, Order scum.”

Normal times he’d have had something to say to that. Right now, wasn’t much he felt like saying to her. Or to anyone, for that matter.

The other Sinnlenst was still standing, one hand pressed against his ribs, his mouth working soundlessly as he gasped for breath. His other arm was reaching backward over the cart, fingers inching oh-so-fucking-slowly towards the wrappings of the discarded rifle.

Sabbat whipped the razor round and sliced through the tendons in the back of the bastard’s knee.

Finn McLellan@saranadosfiction· Jul 8

Sticking a label on this one a) because it's from a sex scene (though everyone involved is currently fully dressed), and b) it's technically spoilery for Fire in the Sky

“If you want to do this,” Archer said, pulling back just enough to take a breath, “we almost certainly need to be wearing fewer clothes.”

Sabbat made a frustrated noise in his throat that, if it had come from anyone else, Archer would’ve called a whine. “*Fuck.* Go fuck y’self.”

“Not *quite* what I had in mind,” Archer said, before he could stop himself. “I’d much rather be fucking you.”

*Damn.*

He’d not meant to say that. Hells, he’d barely meant to *think* it.

And if he’d gone too far, pressed too hard, been too damn dominant when he barely knew what Sabbat wanted when it came to the bedroom…

“I’m sorry. I’m not-” he began, trying to find a way to drag the conversation away from what he’d just admitted before it could completely ruin what they’d already built between them.

“Archer?”

“Yes?”

“Y’mean what y’just said?”

*I don’t-* “Of course I bloody meant it. I don’t apologise unless-“

“Not the fuckin’ *apology!* Fuck*sake*, you ain’t that fuckin’ dense, I know you ain’t. Y’mean what y’said about…” He trailed off, flushing darker than Archer had ever seen him, and looked away. “Y’know what I mean.”

*You’re… shy? About this? Gods, what- how-* And, with a sudden rush of realisation, *Oh gods. You’ve never done this before, have you?*

Finn McLellan@saranadosfiction· Jul 8

And here's the kid in question (though 'kid' here means 16/17-year-old, since he's of a height and size with Sabbat), with apologies for the redactions since we're well into spoiler territory:

Shank turned out to be a yellow-eyed vampire boy with skin a couple of shades darker’n Sabbat’s own and a mess of jet-black hair – not a usual combination up here, which meant he was likely at least part-Docksider. He scrambled to his feet, nodding to the rest of the kids he’d been playing dice with, and disappeared off into the back of the den, returning a couple of moments later with a battered knapsack slung over one shoulder. “Clothes an’ blood’re in here, boss. Figured he’d want somethin’ t’carry his gear in an’ all.”

*Easy enough to translate that: you want me out of here, but you’re scared enough of what I might do that you’d rather pay extra to get me gone sooner.*

He wasn’t about to argue with the gift, mind, especially since the offer of dry clothes’d reminded him exactly how badly he’d likely fucked himself over by sitting around in half a pint of freezing river water. [REDACTED] “Give over, then.”

The kid flinched away, hand tightening on the strap of the knapsack, and looked to Cass for guidance.

*Hells, make that scared enough that you’d rather not be anywhere near me. Question is, is it the assassin you’re scared of, or [REDACTED]?*

“Do as he says, an’ then fuck off an’ leave us alone for a minute.” She stood up, took the bag from Shank’s hands and flipped it open, checking the contents over before she bumped him companionably on the shoulder with the side of her fist. “Exactly what I asked for, an’ more besides. Y’did good.”

The kid’s face lit up like she’d just promised him half the stars in the sky, but he looked across at Sabbat again and bit back whatever he’d been about to say in favour of a gruff “‘nks” before skulking off back to his mates, keeping half an eye over his shoulder the whole way as though he was expecting a knife in the back.

Finn McLellan@saranadosfiction· Jul 8

#WIPSnips | humid Back in Blood on the Snow, and Fest having an atypical reaction to a ritual ( saranadosfiction.com/2020/05/16/b... )

“Then you might need to pick me up off the floor. Though that’s not very likely, and it’s only happened… twice, I think. Maybe three times, but I don’t remember much about that casting anyway.” They waved a hand dismissively. “It’s alright. It *should* be fine.”

*Which, given my luck*, Fest thought, *means I should probably start looking for the nearest hiding place. I wonder how ablative those textbooks are.*

If Anneke noticed his apprehension, they didn’t think it worth a comment. They raised their arms, closing the circle with an audible crackle of magic, and began to chant. The words weren’t familiar to Fest – unsurprisingly, given he’d not studied this particular type of spell in great depth – but the language was: the unmistakable short syllables and harsh consonants of Old Sacaask, rising and falling with a rhythm that, while it echoed that of normal speech, had a music all of its own.

As Anneke chanted, the air suddenly seemed to thicken, heavy with electric potential. It felt to Fest almost as though the two of them were standing inside the beginnings of a very localised thunderstorm – he almost expected to see tiny clouds building in the rafters, or miniature bolts of lightning snaking down to strike the tops of the tallest bookcases – and he bit his lip, resisting the urge to reach forward and break the circle before the pressure built any further.

*I don’t understand. This barely happened to me before – now all of a sudden it seems to be happening every time I’m near someone casting a spell. What’s going on?*

Anneke’s voice rose, the words coming faster and faster as the energy of the spell built – and, with it, the hot, heavy, humid feeling in the air, pressing down hard enough that it felt like a physical weight. Fest could feel the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end and, when he wiped his hand across his brow, it came away smeared with blood-tinged sweat.

Finn McLellan@saranadosfiction· Jul 7

And each and every one of those justifications was doing shit-all to stop the cold, creeping terror slowly pooling in his guts. He swallowed hard, tasting bile at the back of his throat, and heard the killer’s – Caine’s – weight shift again as he did so, as though the other man had turned towards the sound.

“Waking… up, are… you?” There was another crunch of shifting weight on snow, a pause, and then the dim red light which’d been pressing against his eyelids abruptly vanished. Caine’s voice, when it came again, was close enough that Sabbat could feel the heat of the bastard’s breath on his cheek, and he had to fight back the urge to twist his face away from the slaughterhouse stench that accompanied the words. “Good. Wouldn’t be… fun… otherwise.”

*Fuck*, Sabbat thought, succinctly. And then, without warning, a hand closed around his throat and he felt himself being lifted into the air, the toes of his boots scraping against the snow as Caine straightened up to his full height.

The bastard was strong. Unnaturally, freakishly strong – there was no way Sabbat could’ve pried his fingers open even if he’d had two functioning hands and hadn’t been halfway frozen to death at the time. But, thank the Lady, he was also apparently an utter fucking sadist.

If he wasn’t, he wouldn’t have bothered to try and make things slow.

And if he hadn’t done that, Sabbat would probably have been unconscious well before he managed to get his wounded hand into the breast pocket of his coat, get hold of the flat bottle he’d stolen from Archer’s rooms earlier in the evening, yank the cork out one-handed with a strength borne of utter terror and desperation, and hurl the contents straight into his captor’s face.

Caine screamed – a raw, animal sound – and staggered backwards, clawing at his burning flesh with his free hand in a fit of sheer pain-filled panic that, if Sabbat was honest with himself, was more than little sodding gratifying.

Finn McLellan@saranadosfiction· Jul 7

In fact, here she is meeting our main character for that story, who's a trans farmboy off to seek his fortune:

“Ahoy there. This seat taken?”

He blinked, suddenly aware that he wasn’t alone at the table any more. “I don’t- I-”

“Perfect.” The new arrival dropped down in the chair across from him, setting their mug down on the table with an audible thunk. “You alright? You look like you just got a spar dropped on your head.”

“I’m… fine.” He winced, coughed, and dragged his voice lower. “I mean, I’m fine. I’m not from around here, is all.”

“That’s obvious.” They grinned, showing sharp white teeth. “Tamarind Ashgrove. Tam, for preference. And you are?”

“Caleb. Caleb Brewer.” He offered his hand – the new arrival took it, gave it a hard, firm shake, as though testing a knot in a rope, and nodded. “I’m off to seek my fortune.”

“Y’know, I thought you might be.” They must have caught his expression, because they sighed, rolled their eyes, and ran a hand through their cropped hair. “Right, let’s get this over with. I’m a girl. That’s what you were wondering about. Am I right?”

“…Yes.” He hadn’t realised the question he’d been wanting to ask had been so obvious. “I’m sorry. I was wondering if you were-”

“Like you? No. Thought I might be, for a bit, but no.” She pulled a slight face. “Sorry. This is awkward as hell, isn’t it?”

“A bit.” He’d been hoping it wasn’t that obvious, but… “Um.”

“Only reason I figured it was the fact I’ve done similar, Caleb. You’re fine.” She looked around, obviously looking for another topic of conversation. “Let me guess. You’re looking for an adventure, aren’t you?”

Finn McLellan@saranadosfiction· Jul 7

#WIPSnips | quarter Fire in the Sky, so 'ware spoilers at the link, and Viola, Fest, and Sabbat setting out into the foggy night on a rescue mission ( saranadosfiction.com/2025/05/14/f... )

And, to Fest, who’d been watching the whole conversation while jogging impatiently from foot to foot, “Y’need t’piss that badly, y’should’ve gone before we left. Go find a fuckin’ alleyway.”

“That’s- I’m not-” Fest stammered, going red enough he looked halfway to glowing like a streetlamp himself. “I didn’t-“

*Fucksake. I am* not *being the responsible adult here. I refuse.* “If the two of you want to bicker, you can do it on your own fucking time. Sabbat, you know this chunk of the quarter better than me – you want to take the lead here?”

“Reckon y’can keep up?”

“Reckon if we can’t, you’re going to be down two for your rescue party.”

“An’ y’think that’d be a problem?”

“Faster to take down a pack of Sinnlenst when you’re not running on your own. And besides, Fest here’s the one who knows the priest-“

“Anneke,” Fest put in. “Their name is Anneke.”

*And you’re sweet on them and haven’t realised it yet. Which means this is going to go bad fast if we don’t get there before Avebury and his gang do.* “-Anneke, then. Fest’s the one who knows them best, which means he’s the one they’ll actually listen to about any of this.”

“Don’t need ’em t’listen. Worst case, knock ’em over th’head an’ carry ’em out.”

“Out of the middle of the temple? Good luck with that.” And because she was fairly certain that, judging by the expression on his face and the way his sword-hand was twitching, Fest was going to do something inadvisable if they kept on down that particular alleyway, “Straight up from here?”

Finn McLellan@saranadosfiction· Jul 6

“Well?” she said, after the pause had dragged on for long enough that it was obvious he wasn’t going to volunteer any more information without prompting.

“I…” He swallowed hard, looking away from her. “I was married, once. When I was younger than you are now.”

*What the hells does* that *have to do with anything?* But she bit her tongue and stayed silent, waiting for him to get to the point.

“Elisabeth – my wife – was human. She died of a fever. It was a long death.” He took a short, shuddering breath, went on. “I had time to research, and contacts. I thought I found… no, I *did* find a possibility. A way of Turning someone which allowed them to retain themselves. I offered it to her.”

“You-” she began, but he went on, cutting her off before the word had even properly left her mouth.

“She said no.”

*…Of course she did. Of course she bloody did, because she didn’t want to come back not herself, and she broke your heart.*

“I burned my notes, after she- when she was gone, but Philip’s library has more than enough for me to pick up where I left off. If the gods are smiling on us.”

*…well now I feel like the worst kind of scum.*

She’d not meant to make him relive that – hells, she’d not even known about it or she’d not have asked – and he was obviously trying to keep his composure (and, from the set of his jaw and the short, staccato rhythm of his sentences, having a bloody hard time of it), but she’d needed to know.

Finn McLellan@saranadosfiction· Jul 6

#WIPSnips | stadium Stadium -> auditorium -> lecture theatre, and Fest running very very late for his first lecture of the day (for very good reasons, admittedly) ( saranadosfiction.com/2021/09/18/s... )

Coincidentally, the University was also uppermost in Jonathan Fest’s mind at that precise moment, though in his case this was mainly because he was both running horrifically late *and* exceptionally aware that his odds of sneaking into the back of the lecture theatre without getting noticed were dwindling by the second.

*It really is not my fault this time, though, for all the good that’s going to do. It’s not as though I* chose *to spend half of last night dealing with a break-in. And I could hardly have left Anneke on their own after that – even if I hadn’t owed them already, that’s not the kind of thing you* do *to your friends.*

The entry hall was more crowded than usual, but he didn’t have time to wonder why, not with the bells already starting to ring out the hour as he shoved his way through the throng.

*Gods dammit, why did it have to be bloody Beckett’s class out of all of them? Half the others would just let it go, but he’s bound to make some kind of joke about it and then everyone’ll turn around and stare at me, and I’ll be lucky if the damn windows don’t go out this time, and hells, why did I have to get the kind of sorcery that flares up every time I’m embarrassed anyway? If I’d just got something actually* useful, *I’d-*

“Hey, Fest! Hey! Over here!”

He skidded to a halt, staring around the hall until he caught sight of a familiar face bobbing above the crowd. “Alvasdottir? Why aren’t you in lectures?”

The shorter student shook her head, her long black braid whipping behind her like the tail of an angry cat. “Not on this morning, remember?” She elbowed her way through the press towards him and, when she was close enough, gestured emphatically towards the knot of students crowded around the noticeboard at the base of the main staircase. “See, I told you you were going to be one of the lucky ones!”

Finn McLellan@saranadosfiction· Jul 5

So poor Fest winds up in that situation a lot, but for this one we're going with Mortimer and a wee bit of a culture clash when it comes to acceptability of nudity (and specifically female nudity in front of men):

“Thank y-” Mortimer began, turning to face her. Then he stopped, went red, put his hand over his eyes, and said, very quietly, “Ah. No clothes.”

“What?” For a moment, she had no idea what he was talking about. Then realisation hit, and she couldn’t help rolling her eyes. *Humans and their sodding nudity taboo. Of course.* “Yes, no clothes. Unlike the damn vampires, we don’t take them with us when we shift.” *Mostly because we’re actually shifting and they’re just playing with magical guises.*

“I knew- I mean- That is- Look, I’ve barely got to know you, you’re going to be practically my sister, and you’re *naked*. This is not in any way a normal situation.”

“For a human. Perfectly bloody normal for werewolves.”

“Yes, and I’m not one.”

“And I don’t have a spare set of clothes with me, so you’re going to have to deal with that.”

Sabbat made a sound halfway between a bark of laughter and a growl of irritation. “Y’never met a werewolf before?”

“Not- She’s *naked!*”

“‘She’ is also standing right here,” Viola interjected, not bothering to hide her annoyance. “You can keep your eyes shut while you’re talking to me if you want, but for the love of all my ancestors will you shut up about the damn nudity thing?”

“I- Sorry,” Mortimer said, going even redder. “I’m assuming you went human-”

“Not a damn human. Twolegs.”

“-two-legged, then, because you wanted to talk to us properly.”

Finn McLellan@saranadosfiction· Jul 5

Had to be this one, I think (for context, Sabbat's just offered to let Archer drink from him again despite having passed out last time he did that)