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miz-blue · 3 months

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For all of the northerners that stood up for Texas during our freeze and said, "Don't make fun of them, they've never dealt with this before. Their infrastructure isn't made for snow and freezing."

This one is for you.

Where I live 108°F with 80% humidity with no wind is normal.

Pacific North West is dealing historic best waves 35-40°C or 95-105°F.

First of all. Don't make fun of them for bitching about the heat. Just like Texas isn't built for a freeze and our pipes burst, Pacific North West isn't built for heat and a lot of their homes don't have AC.

If you live somewhere with a high humidity like 80+ HUMIDITY IS NOT YOUR FRIEND. The "humidity makes it feel cooler" is a lie once it gets beyond a point.

If you live somewhere with a lower humidity, misters are nice to cool off outside.

Once you get over 90°F (32°C) a fan will not help you. It's just pushing around hot air. (I mean if you can't afford a small AC unit because they're expensive as hell, by all means a fan is better than nothing).

If you have pets, those portable AC units aren't safe. If your pets destroy the outtake thing, it'll leak CO2. Window units are safer.

Window AC units will let mosquitoes or other small bugs in. Sucks, but that's life.

Now is not the time to me modest. If you have to cover for religious reasons, by all means. If you don't, I've seen people wear short shorts and a swim top. It's not trashy if it keeps you from getting heat stroke.

If you do have to cover up for religious reasons, look for elephant pants or something similar. They're made with a breathable material.

Shade is better than no shade, but that shit it just diet sun after some point. Don't think shade will save you from heat stroke.

I know the "drink your water" is a fun meme now, but if you're sweating excessively you need electrolytes. Drink Gatorade, Powerade, or Pedialite PLEASE. I don't care if you're fucking sitting in one spot all day. That shit WILL save you from heat stroke.

Most importantly. RESEARCH THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN HEAT STROKE AND HEAT EXHAUSTION PLEASE!

If you're diabetic and can't drink Gatorade, mix water, fruit juice, and either lite salt or pink salt

If you can afford it, cover windows with thick curtains to insulate the house

If you have tile floors, lay on them with skin to tile contact. If you don't, laying your head on cool counters works too.

If the temperature where you're at is hotter than your body temperature, don't wear heat wicking clothing. Moisture wicking is safe though.

Check your medication labels. Many make you more susceptible to sun and heat

-Room temperature water will get into your body faster. This is something I learned doing marching band in high summer in Georgia, and it saved all of our asses. Sip it, don't gulp it, especially if you're getting into the red; same goes for whatever fluid you're drinking. And just in general drink during the day.

-If you are moving from an air conditioned space to an un-air conditioned space, if at all possible try to make the shift gradual. When my dad and I were working outside and in un-ac houses a few years ago, he'd turn the air down to low in the truck about ten-fifteen minutes before we got where we were going. This way your body doesn't go from low low temps to high temps. S'bad for you.

-If you can, keep your lights off during the day. Light bulbs may not generate a lot of heat, but the difference is noticeable when it gets hot enough. I literally only turn my bedroom light on in the evening when it gets too dark.

Don't be afraid to just like... pour water on yourself if you need to. The evaporation will cool you off.

Put your hand to the cement for 15 seconds. If you can't handle the heat, it'll burn your dog's paws. Don't let them walk on it.

Dogs with flat faces are more prone to heat stroke. Don't leave them out unsupervised.

Frozen fruit is delicious in water.

Wet/Cold hat/handkerchief on your head/neck will help you stay cool.

Pickle juice is great for electrolytes! You can even make pickle juice Popsicles!

Heat exhaustion is more, "drink water and get you cooled off." Heat stroke is more "Oh my god call 911."

Image Description provided by @loveize

[Image description: an infographic showing the difference between heat exhaustion and heat stroke. The graphic is labeled "Heat Dangers: First Warning." Signs of heat exhaustion: faint or dizzy, excessive sweating, cool, pale, clammy skin, rapid, weak pulse, muscle cramps. If you think you or someone else may be experiencing heat exhaustion, get to a cool, air-conditioned place, drink water if conscious, and take a cool shower or use cold compress. Signs of heat stroke: throbbing headache, no sweating, red, hot, dry skin, rapid, strong pulse, may lose consciousness. If you think you or someone else may be experiencing heat stroke, call 911. End description]

Be safe.

-fae

#PSA #I am in the danger zone for this one RIP #curse you summer #or late spring in this case

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miz-blue · 4 months

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@incurablenecromantic @thefearofcod

The holy grail of searching through academic literature is coming across a string of publications that are like:

Here’s An Idea. Smith et al. 2016

Terrible Idea; a comment on Smith et al. 2016. Johnson 2016.

You’re Wrong Too; a response to Johnson 2016. Nelson 2016.

Guys Just Stop Fighting, None Of Us Know What’s Going On; a Review of the Current Literature. McBrien 2017.

#lol #so petty

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miz-blue · 4 months

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I enjoyed this very much! Your Alastor is so delightfully prickly, and I loved his slowly building regret after he sent Vox away. Also, while I didn’t take this angle in my fic, I was hoping that someone would touch on the homophobia of the period which I would say you handled well! My heart hurt for Alastor thinking that he might be ruined due to allowing a moment of genuine connection.

Unmasked

This was a piece done for the Pride Ring and Prejudice Regency-Era Collaboration for Bapple's Orchard!

Hope y'all like radiostatic

There was a saying shared in hushed whispers between the servants of the esteemed Master Ardoin; "absent his grin, he's been done in." In the privacy of our own quarters, we'd repeat it to ourselves and each-other after receiving a tongue-lashing that could curdle a cooling torte, his amicable smile never faltering. Should we ever see him with any other expression besides that tirelessly jesting thing, it was to be taken as a sure sign that our benefactor had been replaced. A dry and nearly humorless observation, as far as gossip went, but it required a remarkable bit of guile on our collective parts; after all, the previous favorite to spread like a germ from ear to ear was that his very shadow could hear what his owner was too preoccupied to. I preferred that one; I confess that on nights that particularly favored one's imagination for the supernatural, I saw the thing framed by candlelight and wavering with motions not matching the movements of its puppeteer.

But I ramble, as I am so often wont to do; so shared was our penchant for it that my master referred to my tangents as "endearing meandering". I have to wonder if he recognized that the only thing I used more than my mouth was my ears. I offer all of this by way of exposition to better frame that which I intend to share; the only letter he ever published. Permit me the opportunity to further expand on this, that the story told between the margins of this letter might be worth the expense of it all.

***

"Are you certain you need to fuss over your appearance so much when you are preparing to attend a masquerade ball?"

"Even typical balls feature masks, and the mask of subtly enhancing ones shortcomings is no exception. Perhaps my face will not stay covered. It's enough to make one wonder: why do we insist on these preposterous gatherings at all?"

Alistair Ardoin had long fostered a most bothersome habit for those that endured his company; asking questions he already knew the answers to. The young man, inspecting his reflection for imperfections, was clearly on edge. His thin, pointed nose is turned up at the amount of starch in his collar. His deep brown, nearly black eyes have their brows furrowed around them from focus and irritation. He brushes falling locks of his brown hair out his face, one hand still tightly clenched to the upturned fabric around his neck.

He was all for the gildings of social events; the opportunity to impress and delight with his candor and cadence. It was the unspoken purpose of them, to find and court a suitable mate, suitability mostly falling to how much the parents cared for the prospective suitor, that he took such issue with. He had never been much for what passed for romance, perhaps because he was born to play a different sort of role. A privileged few were privy to the truth of Alistair Ardoin, and I was among this cadre. I'd tended to the roots that fed the flowering tree he called his performance; the doubt he felt for himself and for his world, the reluctance to be beholden to expectations, the fear of reliance on others as mere unstated deference. Such anxieties were coming out, apparent from the way he fretted over his appearance and cursed the need for these wretched events in the first place.

"You're always telling me it's not always my place to question matters I can't influence, sir. Perhaps this is a time where it's not your place to question such proceedings."

"I will allow that slip of the tongue because I have no way to rebuke you, Husker, but I resent the reality you present. That I cannot influence it is, in fact, why I am questioning it."

"And so often, the revelation of not being able to influence this reality is the answer that such queries are seeking out."

"A third time speaking out of turn will leave no need for query, Husker."

"I am not so blind as to ignore a line drawn, sir. Are there any further preparations I need to attend to?"

Alistair finishes preening his clothes, moving on to fussing over his hair, the placement of his cologne. "Will that gossip rag magnate be attending the festivities this evening?"

"I should think so; it is an event meant for socialites, both of the established and aspiring sort."

His expression darkens in the mirror. "Is that what V. Oxton would consider himself? I suppose when you print sordid half-truths and whole-lies, it's no trouble to bend language to suit your own fancy. To think that the printed word could be utilized to such malevolent ends. Truly, no medium can long exist in dignity before being wrung of all traits excepting its base function. It is a disgrace to the Ardoin legacy."

"Eloquently spoken, Master Ardoin."

"I intended it to be so." Stepping away from the vanity mirror, he brushes off his chosen outfit for the evening, dark and slimming with eye-catching red embellishments.

"f I could be so bold, though, master, you've yet to even meet this V. Oxton fellow. Perhaps you should not be so hasty to cast aspersions."

"Perhaps it shall be at my discretion to cast them as I see fit. For now, we depart to this wretched obligation."

The estate of Zeriah Stiahl beckons the carriage through her gates, the diminishing sun granting the wrought iron and cobbled stone spectral shadows. Many of the most notable barons and industrial titans of Pruthring are already converging on this event, some being escorted across the grounds, a few already being ushered through the doors, and the less punctual still being directed past the entrance. Husker and Alistair are appropriately covert in observance of the masquerade's tenets, the master donning the countenance of a buck with a rack of impressive antlers and the subordinate choosing the appearance of a black cat. At the door, servants impersonating lesser demons, masks twists into expressions of malice, agony, and malfeasance, guide guests into the reception hall. Within the dim gathering, quiet conversations are thrown from wall to acoustic wall, assaulting Alistair like cannon fire. "I heard Lucien the First still has yet to return from his self-imposed isolation; they're starting to prepare Charlotte to take the throne… Rumor has it Camille has been profiting from this ghastly war by selling weaponry to both sides…"

All around him are easily entertained herds, waiting for the next scrap to tear into like carrion eaters, flapping from carcass to carcass, squawking endlessly. How it disgusts him. If he's meant to entertain this chatter, it will be with the humour of one that's enjoyed a few drinks.

"Husker, permit me some reflection with my drink," he directs, his dutiful right hand finding a spot further down the bar. At the far end, Alistair nurses a glass of rye, neat, allowing the conversation to pass over him much akin to the currents of a stream over an embedded stone. Despite the available seats, he's joined by a figure in the next seat, masked in a oblate shroud painted with hypnotic swirls painted across the material, shimmering in the dim light.

"Leaves one rather exhausted, doesn't it?" The hypnotic being wonders, more in Alistair's direction than to the man himself.

"Alcohol? I suppose eventually it would."

"Astute observation, although I more meant the festivities as a whole rather than the best part of them." He punctuates his emphasized words with a prolonged draught from his own glass.

"I suppose they're much the same; eventually exhausting."

"It all feels so trite, doesn't it? Nothing of real import happens here; they've lulled themselves into a false impression of security. None have any desire to push themselves, to gain real control, real influence."

Alistair's intrigued already. "Have you sought me out specifically, or has the alcohol just loosened your tongue?"

"Well now, how would I manage the feat of deducing exactly who you are under that mask?Why, you could be that feckless rag publisher Oxton, in which case you'd have quite the headline for tomorrow's paper: Hypocrisies of the Wealthy and Influential; Lavish Parties An Evergreen Hardship.

"I can assure you I've nothing to do with that embarrassment to the printed word."

"Surely not; he'd be strutting like a pampered cock, probably on the lookout for Zeriah himself, hoping to find himself in the graces of old money."

"So we understand each other, then."

"Do we? What an honor that would be. I confess I have little expertise in courtly matters; my fortune and status is not nearly as established as some of the other families."

"It means precious little; it seems to me you could do far more with your outlook than any of these could with their vaster riches and further-reaching influence."

"I hope your praise is genuine, my good man."

"I'm not in the habit of purveying falsehoods." Alistair takes another pull from his glass, sneaking better looks at the man out of the corner of his eye. He's tall, lanky, dark trousers, white undershirt, and a blue riding coat. He's got a top hat with an emblem of an eye stitched into it, ironically the only eye-catching feature of his ensemble.

"Might I inquire as to your name?" Alistair asks the masked stranger. The stranger wags a finger at him in response.

"Come now, my good man, the entire purpose of these gatherings is an air of mystery. Grant me the small favor of maintaining such a fleeting fancy for myself. It is ever so entertaining."

Alistair is already enthralled. So often conversations with his so-called peers devolve into dry discussions of politics that will do nothing to affect their wealth, social matters that only shake their particular sector of the web of relationships that bind them, or else contrivances that simply aren't worth his attentions. Finally, a man that operates on his wavelength. Perhaps a bit of bait to lure in this sporting catch.

"I cannot help but feel that we are developing quite a bond already. It would help me to know to whom I am speaking with, should obligation sow a divide between us over the course of the evening."

"A noble attempt, but you forget the novelty of my mask; I have no doubt that no other attendee has hidden their face under something precisely like it. Should we be separated by fate, you need only seek out my enamoring facsimile once more."

Alistair balls up the fist that isn't clutching the last few sips of his rye. It isn't often that he doesn't get what he wants. However, he isn't dealing with the type that is meant to take his wrath on the cheek and soldier on. He recognizes the need to stay his temper.

"Too true. A shame, it isn't often that providence grants me a meeting with one whose outlook did not chafe with my own."

"The night is still young. Tell me, would you care to dance?"

Alistair's heart catches, his unconscious actions interrupted by the reaction of his synapses. It is an unwelcome and unfamiliar sensation; he has never thought anything about that particular diversion. In his mind, it has only ever held the pitiful station of being the truest form of going through the motions. It brings him no revelry, no reckless abandon, nor the apparent desire it is meant to leave swelling in the performer's chest. It is merely a recitation memorized by the legs and arms. Yet now, the idea intrigues him. But he must not make it so easy for this gentleman. He knows exactly what he meant, but he will play coy, just to be sure. "I see no maidens with whom to do such a thing with."

"I can see why you'd be confused. My intention, however, was to ask if you would dance with me."

The certainty, spoken without hesitation or shame, sends him into fresh fits. Just who does this man think he is? It could be anyone, without so much as a name, and yet Alistair is letting himself be lured in by some ethereal pull. "Surely you can't expect me to dance with another man?"

"You'd be correct, I cannot expect such a betrayal of our customs, which you hold in such esteem. It would be far more accurate to say that I can only hope you would choose to dance with another man."

Alistair ponders for a moment, then drains the remainder of the spirit in his glass. "I suppose the drink has made cooler heads do more foolish things."

"Too true, sir, good chance this exchange could be entirely blamed on the whisky."

Leaving his seat, Alistair walks nearly arm-in-arm with this strange companion he's found. It is too early in the evening for the group to revert to the Country dances that have remained so popular. This dance is far more intimate, compact, reserved. It is a moment meant for two that happens to have an audience; there is no pretense of required participation. This is entirely a statement of intent. And the stranger's invitations are quite intentional indeed; the way he guides Alistair's arm around his waist, grants him the privilege of the masculine role in the dance, allowing Alistair to treat him much the way the prescriptions of his upbringing would demand he treat a more typical dancing partner. In fact, although Alistair is unable to gauge his reactions, the feeling of his body against him when the steps require closeness tell him that yes, the hypnotic stranger is enjoying this very much. In a hushed whisper, he asks him "what do you gain from this?"

"Can a man not enjoy a dance now and then?"

"Do you not fear the consequences of this?"

"Not as much as I fear the consequences of allowing you to slip between my fingers."

"You know nothing about me that would spur such possessiveness."

"A picture is worth one thousand words, and the way you were huddled over the bar was a work of art all its own."

Another stir from his restless heart. Alistair wants to throw off this stranger, leave this senseless, empty assessment of how well they remember the arbitrary rules written by those long dead, abandon this embodiment of pretense. Greater still, however, he wants to do just such a thing with this mysterious accomplice alongside him.

"I see no reason to remain here; I shan't be missed, and none will be able to even confirm I was or was not here. We needn't an audience for whatever you would call this peculiarity between us. Won't you accompany to my estate?"

The stranger laughs, bringing Alastor's hand to where his mouth would be but for the barrier put up by the mesmerizing covering against his face. "I had hoped you would ask me just such a thing."

Collecting Husker from the other end of the bar, he makes haste for his carriage. They spend the journey back to the Ardoin estate discussing all manner of things; their exhaustion with tradition, their aspirations, their careers, their desires. There is much more overlap than anticipated, and Alistair can hardly wait to get him through the door.

***

The two men make merry, sharing the better portion of a bottle of scotch far in the depths of Alistair's cellar. Their masks come off, and the stranger is a vision even still; piercing blue eyes, cropped black hair, a wicked trickster grin. They've sprawled across the sofa in the drawing room, Alistair humming a minuet he once heard. Vance is draped over the back of it next to him.

"Do you know what would soothe me, truly?"

"I truly pray that it is not more alcohol yet, I do believe if I were to attempt to fetch it, I would fall to my death down those stairs for want of sobriety's stability."

"No, no, I am quite drunk enough. I was thinking of where I might like to retire. A cottage near the cliffs of Dover, by the shoreline, where I could have reign over myself and myself alone. The only kind of power that is absolute."

"Perhaps you needn't live there alone."

The stranger smiles, and lays his head down across Alistair's lap. After a night of defying conventions, coupled with his stifled inhibitions, Alistair welcomes this, absentmindedly stroking the stranger's hair.

The stranger.

"Something occurs to me."

"Best seize it, then, before the occurrence is mere past tense."

"Our agreement was a dance for your name. Are you a man that doesn't keep your promises?"

"Come now, I'm many things, but scoundrels shan't count me among their numbers. I will give it to you. Though I dread how it might affect the evening that's been shared between us."

"How could it?"

"Because my name is Vance Oxton."

Alistair's hand moves away from his hair, his body to the edge of the sofa, leaving Vance's head against the cushion. "I suppose you've got quite a story for your paper then, you fiend. Trying to ruin me, is that it?"

"Hardly. As a matter of fact, I believe that you and I could have quite a fruitful business partnership."

"Was such a meeting as this your intention from the beginning? How did you know that it was me there, then?"

"You flatter yourself; I would consider this fate more than an orchestrated occurrence. I wasn't at all sure of the identity beneath the mask, but as I see it, I've found a new friend and potential equal in the field."

Alistair rakes his fingers across the fabric of the furniture, gritting his teeth. "You speak of friendship as though that word functions without an acknowledgement from both parties. I have no respect for your methods and lesser still for your willingness to deceive."

"Alistair, please," Vance begins, bring himself upright with unsteady arms.

"I demand you see yourself out with haste, Mr. Oxton."

Vance's face, twisted with grief, does as is requested of him.

For a time, none save for myself were aware of this occurrence. The master always endured periods of ennui and solitary reflection, but none were so profound as the time after the masquerade. What made it most perturbing was the fact that his smile had faded like the last vestige of an ember dancing across a melted candle. He began taking deliveries of the Oxton Observer, as though waiting for the inevitable tarnishing of his reputation at the hands of the magnate. To his surprise and increasing worry, the news never broke. In place of that severance was his heart, torn by his unwillingness to tug at the rusted chain that bound him. I wasn't certain that he would ever unburden himself of his bondage, until I awoke to him completely absent the estate. It was the same evening as when the Masquerade had take place a year prior, May 11th. As was customary, a copy of his own newspaper made its way to our step, and as was a routine so ingrained in me that my own concern and barely-repressed grief were not enough to stay it, I read the headline. And I knew I needn't search for him after I read the rest.

Elsewhere, at that same moment, Vance Oxton was seen for the final time, departing the offices of the Oxton Observer, a carriage bound down an easternly road. It was considered crass to consider the two connected. But I knew better; I have always known better. I remain faithful as I ever was.

****

"To the one that wore the hypnotic mask one year ago,"

I have not always been too proud to admit when I was wrong. In this instance, I find my pride too wounded by an emotion yet more powerful; regret. To say that I live in regret of the progression of the evening we shared is to understate the torment I've endured to the same degree as summarizing the Odyssey as a journey across the sea. I live in pronounced fear that my haste to send you away has forever spoiled the banquet of life we were meant to take our fill of. If by some divine miracle my folly would be a lesson in humility rather than the decisive blow that renders me meant to endure my foolishness in isolation, I pray you join me in that place you confessed that you would retire to, if such a chance arose. Such a chance presents itself to you now, if you would only seize it. Let the silence I cause to descend around us be lifted.

Yours,

Alistair Ardoin."

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miz-blue · 4 months

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Hazbin Hotel fanfic/fanart: Desperate Maneuvers (part 1 of 4?)

Title: Desperate Maneuvers (part 1 of 4?)

Fandom: Hazbin Hotel

Rating: PG-13

Pairing(s): Alastor/Vox

Summary: (Regency AU) The once prestigious LeClaire family has of late fallen on trying times. So trying, as it happens, that the family's eldest son, Lord Alastor, begrudgingly agrees to enter into an arranged marriage with a wealthy commoner, a Mr. Voxley Smythe.

Notes: Part 1 of this fic was written for the Bapple's Orchard discord server's regency era AU collab, Pride Ring and Prejudice. (Server run by @bapple117.) This was originally supposed to be a contained scene, but I think it'll have two more parts plus an epilogue. If you find this post through a reblog, then check back to the original post which I will update with links as the other parts are finished. The story is also on AO3 too if you'd rather follow there.

This fic is a Regency AU, more or less. However, my regency knowledge is rather rusty, and also the setting is like some weird mash-up of canon and regency England. i.e. All the characters are still demons, and there's at least a little magic. And yes, Vox still has a TV head; it is what it is. Also, also same-sex marriage is totally fine, lol; the drama and angst come from classism and the characters being emotionally constipated.

A brief note on ages, Alastor is 30, and Vox is 28.

Fic is under the cut, and I also drew the end scene of part 1.

.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.

"Aunt Rosie, this is degrading," Alastor protested softly, still seated on the padded leather bench of the coach. "I have no wish to be a public spectacle." He could hear the distant sounds of people as well as the faintest strains of music, and Alastor, previously inured to his fate, now found himself possessed of a certain anxiety, fluffy ears pinned back against his head.

His aunt sighed, expression sympathetic but strained. "Alastor, dearest, I need you to step down from this carriage. Right now." Rosie was already on the ground having been assisted by a footman. "The other coaches need to come through, and you are holding up the line."

Alastor took a shaky breath to steady his nerves before sliding closer to the door, but he showed no sign of exiting. Ever a font of patience, his long suffering aunt gentled her tone. "Alastor, for me, please, come out. Why, I hardly recognize anyone here so I doubt they'll recognize us!" It was such a baldfaced lie, unbefitting of any lady but especially one of Rosie's status. However, the falsehood did give Alastor enough momentary hope that when Rosie extended her hand to her only nephew's elbow, he permitted her to carefully but insistently tug him from the coach.

In the next moment, Alastor had set foot on the carefully tended gravel pathway to Battlehill Manor. "Good luck, sir," Husk called from the driver's seat, and Alastor spared him a tight nod before the cat demon was obliged to drive on. Husk was also Alastor's valet and sometimes butler--the LeClaires struggled to keep staff ever since the incident seven years ago.

Now truly abandoned to the capricious whims of fate, Alastor squared his shoulders and faced the stately manor ahead of them. It would seem there was no way out but through. Composing himself as best he could, Alastor offered his arm to his aunt who graciously accepted, allowing him to lead them to the manor entrance even though they both knew the way. The Carmines were distant cousins so Alastor had visited their estate several times as a child, though no invitation had been extended for some time. No, even tonight's festive occasion had less to do with Alastor and more to do with his intended husband, a certain Mr. Voxley Smythe. The two men were to meet tonight and announce their engagement. Lady Carmine was graciously hosting the ball on Voxley's behalf since he had no land or title of his own. What he did have, apparently, was a very lucrative business deal with the Carmines.

Lady Carmilla herself was there to greet them in the foyer. "Lord Alastor, Lady Rosie," she nodded respectfully to them both. "A pleasure to see you as always."

Another unnecessary falsehood. Alastor smiled through it, greeting her in kind. "We must kindly thank you again for your assistance in this matter and apologize for any trouble it may have caused."

She smiled politely back. "No trouble at all, Lord Alastor. Indeed, all the guests seem to be in high spirits."

The three demons made pleasant enough small talk for a few minutes before Rosie inquired after Alastor's betrothed. "Has Mr. Smythe arrive yet by chance?"

"No, alas, he is late," Carmilla replied with the faintest whiff of irritation. "Some important business or other. He is often engaged in work."

"Ah, that is quite alright then," Rosie said sweetly. "We'll go in, shall we? We ought not keep you from your other guests."

Carmilla stepped aside so that the two aristocrats might step past her. "Yes, please enjoy yourselves. I believe the dancing has already begun."

Alastor and Rosie both expressed their delight again before stepping into the hall proper. As soon as Carmilla was sufficiently far away, Alastor immediately set his sights to criticisms.

"He isn't even here yet? I cannot believe my situation has come to this," Alastor whispered, sotto voce. He almost needn't have bothered. Every soul around the two LeClaires was giving them a wide berth as if they were stricken with some loathsome contagion.

"Now Alastor, try to seek out a happy moment or two--for Nifty's sake if not your own. A dance even! Your dear little sister would love to be here. Ah, if she had her way, she'd debut tomorrow, the scamp."

Alastor scowled for only a second before schooling his face back to its proper smile. "Then let Nifty marry; she's the poor soul who actually desires such a union." If Alastor had his way, he would have chosen to never marry at all. After the deaths of his parents, his dowager aunt had resumed the mantle of family head while Alastor had been preoccupied with his school studies. At present, the two demons shared the load--meager as it was now--until such a time as it could be passed to Nifty or her future children.

Regardless of the gravity of their words, Rosie's serene countenance never wavered as the two LeClaires meandered around the outskirts of the party. "Nifty's enthusiasm for matrimony is commendable, but she's yet several years too young, and we are facing financial destitution now. And since that's your fault, dear, I am going to need your help fixing it." Her voice was a calm but ironclad murmur that only Alastor could hear. "Furthermore, Nifty's prospects are hardly ideal. Your present sacrifice may yet wipe some of the stain off our family name."

"How noble of spirit I must be," Alastor quipped dryly.

"Please, Alastor."

Lord, how it pained him to disappoint her. "You actually liked Uncle Franklin," he said sullenly nonetheless.

She laughed with genuine mirth at that. "Your late uncle and I were lucky, dear. Mayhaps you might be too. Stranger things have come to pass."

"Hmm, perhaps." Luck had thus far evaded Alastor, and he rather much doubted that he ought to find it in the arms of some crass lout, but he would soldier on regardless. He did not wish to ruin his aunt's night with needless quarrels.

Rosie walked with him until they had reached a long row of chairs set against the main hall's far wall. A number of guests sat at varying intervals, some catching their breath from dancing and others waiting earnestly to be asked. "Will you be alright here for a bit, Alastor?" Rosie inquired as he took a seat. "Since Mr. Smythe is not yet arrived, I was hoping to catch up with Earl Zestial..."

Ever the dutiful nephew, Alastor kept his forced smile in place and waved her on. "No need to concern yourself with my moods, Aunt Rosie. I suspect none shall endeavor to move me from my seat."

She offered one last rueful smile before disappearing into the slowly growing crowd. Alastor was left to lean against the wall, listen to the music, and try to remain calm. As he suspected, while some in attendance shot him curious or apprehensive looks, no one dared approach him. Alastor cast his eye about too, wondering if he might find his intended before Rosie did--or rather that the other demon would find him. Uncaring of the engagement proceedings, Alastor had no idea what this Voxley looked like and only knew a little of his exploits.

Yes, his soon-to-be husband, Voxley Smythe, some upstart commoner who had made a fortune for himself expanding trade routes for the East India Company before returning to England and making his fortune twice-over in various newfangled factories. And now—like some bloated carrion bird—he had come seeking a nest to roost in and a title to go with it. Of course, what better way to secure said estate and title than to marry for it?

In this rapidly churning industrial age, destabilized aristocrats teetering on the edge of financial insolvency were hardly scarce. Alastor had merely thought his infamous reputation would've kept him off the bargaining table. Either this Voxley didn't know about the rumors concerning Alastor's involvement with the royal family, or more likely, he didn't care. Surely the man could not be so unseemly that only Alastor would have him? In truth, the deer demon did not know. After initially consenting to the written proposal, Alastor had left the matter of negotiations entirely to Rosie.

Fortunately for the LeClaire family, Voxley had no children of his own, and his and Alastor's union would not produce any; thus Nifty would still remain the next in line to inherit what was left of the family's property and good name. Voxley's monetary contributions would keep the LeClaires afloat and replenish their coffers, and in return the man could leverage all the political and social benefits that came with a noble rank. In some manner, it was a relief that Alastor was simply a means to an end, not a desirable aspect himself. A prickly and solitary composer, the young aristocrat had hardly been overburdened with social ties even before his fall from grace. With any luck, Voxley would spend most of his time in London overseeing his various business enterprises and leave Alastor in peace at his ancestral home in the countryside.

Alastor cast a wary look about the large room once more. Zounds, what was taking the man so long? Imagine being late to a party in one's honor; Alastor found it rude and ungentlemanly.

Although…allowing himself a little ungentlemanly moment as well, Alastor at last gave into the desire to be elsewhere. No one stopped him as he slipped out of the spacious drawing room, up a small staircase, and down a side hall towards where he knew a veranda should still be, assuming Carmilla hadn't made any recent renovations to the manor. But no, it was still there.

Alastor sighed, leaning on the thick balcony railing and glancing out over the dark countryside. Every so often the moon would peek out from behind the clouds, bathing well-maintained gardens and the distant woods in a silvery glow. Crickets chirped faintly, and Alastor could hear the dance music from downstairs, the windows having been opened to the cool, spring night air. The young aristocrat drummed his fingers to the beat of a violin solo, feeling the distant echo of his own magical powers but as ever, he was unable to summon them. So lost in thought was Alastor that he scarcely noticed an interloper on his solitude.

"Hey."

Red ears perked up and swiveled, and Alastor's eyes widened at the familiar voice. Turning around, his gaze beheld some strange amalgamation--a ghost of his past decked out like an omen from the future. The Victor Owens now before him was a far cry from the timid, obsequious clockmaker's apprentice that Alastor had for some time befriended whilst studying at Eton. Now Victor moved with easy confidence, walking towards Alastor as if he had every right to do so. More surprisingly was the other demon's clothing. He looked like a proper gentleman now, smartly tailored in the latest fashion of London. Alastor felt vaguely embarrassed for his own expensive but now threadbare suit, but something new had been a bit out of his means at the moment.

Alastor forced himself to incline his head politely which Victor did in kind. "My, but it has been some time since last we spoke." Since last we fought, Alastor thought, remembering their messy parting of ways nearly a decade ago. Though he had seen Victor about town after that day, the two of them had pointedly ignored each other. Then when Alastor had gone from Eton, he had scarcely thought of Victor at all. University studies of music and sorcery at Oxford and later a more...specialized tutelage in Windsor had kept him busy. At least until everything had fallen apart.

"It has been some years, yes." The slightly younger demon came over to the balcony, leaning against it too.

Alastor nodded in acknowledgment, but otherwise he had nothing to say to his former 'friend' and thus allowed the brief conversation to lapse into awkward silence. However, Victor did not quit his presence, and so the two demons stared out into the dark countryside together.

"Are you alright?" Victor inquired after a moment, politely neutral. "You seem a bit...harrowed."

Alastor managed a thin smile. So they would be playing the part of amiable old acquaintances then? Very well. "Alas, I've been better. I am to be engaged, you see." If Victor was moving in more prestigious circles nowadays, then no doubt he was already aware of the general outline of Alastor's situation if not its full extent.

"Usually engagements are happy occurrences…" the other demon prompted, a subtle invitation for Alastor to elaborate.

"Not this one," Alastor obliged, voice laced with an undercurrent of misery. And yet it was perversely satisfying to air his grievances so freely to someone, especially someone like Victor who did not require Alastor to put on airs. "The situation is utterly not of my choosing. Sold off like so much livestock to some repellent stranger."

"Aren't arranged marriages par for the course for your sort?" Victor apparently couldn't help but jibe. "I'm sure he can't be that bad, especially when you don't even know him."

"Oh please, what's to know?" Alastor's clawed fingertips tapped irritably on the glossy marble. "He's a boorish, vulgar social climber. You'd know the sort."

Victor glared at him, gentlemanly facade starting to slip--as Alastor had hoped it might. "Would I now? And is that what you'd say about me too? A disgrace too poor in breeding to be considered for an aristocrat's hand?" Victor glanced shyly away. "For your hand?"

Alastor laughed, finally in better spirits now that he had been presented with such easy prey. "Yes, I see you've come up in the world a bit yourself. Still not over your little flight of fancy for me though, hmm? Well, I certainly wouldn't have married you either way, old pal."

Victor's face flushed angrily. "No, you wouldn't have. You're more the type who keeps his lower class friends like a dirty secret and then discards them to save face."

Alastor felt a twinge of guilt at that but hid it well. "It's not my fault you insisted on reaching above your station, my dear."

The other demon composed himself with some effort. "I have a station now myself," he retorted tersely.

"And money, I'm sure, if your gaudy attire is any indication. All of which is merely like gilding brass. Simply scratch the surface and the cheap base material shows through." Alastor smiled meanly at Victor's hurt expression. Yes, this was why they couldn't be friends--why it didn't pay to befriend anyone from the lower class. Alastor had always wondered if Victor liked him or merely wished to be close to someone of his rank. "Regardless you're too late anyway. As I stated earlier, I am spoken for. Though even if I wasn't, I still wouldn't take up with you."

"Fine, fuck you, Alastor. I see you haven't changed at all in your last seven years as a hermit. Still just a prick with an overinflated ego."

Alastor feigned an offended gasp. "You really are a vile and insignificant little man," he replied with a pitying laugh. "Now leave me be. A proper gentleman should know when his presence is undesirable." The aristocrat made a vague shooing gesture to which Victor offered a far more vulgar gesture of his own before storming off back into the manor.

Once his former companion had departed, Alastor slumped back against the balcony railing with a sigh. Where he should have felt satisfied amusement, there was only cloying melancholy. The crickets and the violins no longer offered any solace, but returning to the party would be far worse. In truth, Alastor had been so long out of public that the presence of so many people now unexpectedly grated upon his nerves, and he wished only to return home to sweet sepulchral silence or perhaps the playing of his own hands upon his piano. Alas, like many things Alastor desired, it was not to be. At least sequestered here on the veranda he would not need to endure so many eyes upon his person.

However, Alastor was scarcely left alone for another ten minutes before Rosie came looking for him, heels clicking smartly on the tiled floor. "Alastor! There you are! Honestly now, I had to ask several servants before one knew where you'd gone." She began smoothing out his cravat and jacket, clucking at him like a mother hen.

"I was just taking some air," Alastor said with a sigh, letting her fuss over him. He would never admit it, but the motherly attention was very soothing.

"Avoiding the party, yes, I'm aware," Rosie replied, not fooled in the slightest. "Mr. Smythe has presently arrived though so if you would please come back to the main hall, you may meet him properly."

Alastor's stomached flipped unpleasantly, but he kept his smile affixed to his face. "Oh? Has his highness finally deigned to grace us with his presence?"

Rosie hustled them both back towards the ball as quickly as she could without appearing improper. "Now, Alastor, you've agreed to this matter already. Please try not to immediately offend the poor man."

"Emphasis on 'poor'," Alastor replied caustically, making his aunt sigh in exasperation.

The two aristocrats rejoined the main event, Alastor obligingly offering Rosie his arm again as she led them through the room. There were a number of faces about them that Alastor did not recognize, and he couldn't help but wonder which unfortunate soul he was to be fobbed off to.

They were near the curving, elegant main staircase when Rosie finally appeared to set eyes on the man she was looking for. "Ah, here we are." She turned Alastor around before stepping to the side. Gesturing to the demon coming down the stairs towards them, she said, "Alastor, this is Voxley Smythe."

Victor stopped on the second step from the bottom, smiling down at them. "Just 'Vox' is fine," he said.

Alastor felt his own smile grow painfully tight. Fuck him indeed, apparently.

tbc...

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