#{Cursed Fables}: threads | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bedofthistles · 7 months ago

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For @incorrect-quotes-of-moonacre with Deep love and appreciation for all you've done and continue to do for the fandom

Fairytales are some of the most important works of fiction known to man. While commonly disregarded, overly saturated, and disney-fied, Fairy tales provide the basis for understanding human history. The examination of politics, religions, culture, and a singular thread that pulls nations together. For if one fairy tale was told in Europe, rest assured that many other cultures would have shared similar fables, even if they had never told their stories to the other. Warnings for children, for emperors and kings, the very basis for literature itself, the fairy tale is not something easily overlooked, but is the base of modern community. After all, what brings humanity closer together than rooting for the common goal? Of good rising above evil, true love, and a bit of magic to pull it all together.

Maria wove between the rows, holding a red apple in her hand. Perhaps a bit over dramatic, but she wanted it to serve her point. “We have many reasons to thank fairytales, for the symbolism they offer, the lessons. For this reason-” Maria paused before her desk, tossing the apple into the air before catching it. “I would like you to write your own fairy tale.” Que groans. Maria smiled. “I want this to include several things, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves and write everything. Some stories offer political critique, others warnings; I want something unique. You may borrow ideas, such as sleep curses, but please do your absolute best to be original. Grades will be based on creativity, the substances of the story itself, hidden themes, and of course grammar and other such English nonsense.”

There was a spatter of laughter from some of her favourite students.

“The assignment is due Friday and your time starts-” Maria shook her wrist until her watch faced up. “Now.”

There was the flutter of paper and hushed voices as ideas were spread around, or quiet worry at the idea of having to write something for English. The horror.

Maria tossed the apple one last time before rounding her desk and taking a seat.

At three on the dot, Maria opened the door to her class, unleashing her students upon the world, watching them run free as the school day came to an end. At the same time, across the hall, Mr. De Noir’s classroom door flung open, and his students made hers appear as well mannered and polite little angels.

Mr. De Noir leaned in the doorway, his arms crossed as he sent a smirk her way. “Miss Merryweather.”

Maria lifted a brow. Why her uncle had even hired him on the staff she would never understand. He was hardly a respectable teacher, half the time she had to send a student across the hall to tell his to settle down, and he was never dressed up to code.

Kitten heels, a pencil skirt that hit right above her knees, and a blouse, Maria at least appeared professional. She couldn’t remember the last time she had thought ‘oh yes, let me don jeans to go to work, that’s appropriate,’ and yet there he was. Rumpled denims, a wrinkled button up that wasn’t tucked in, even his sleeves were pushed up to his elbows.

The students adored him, and yes he had amazing recommendations, and credentials, but that did not mean he was Moonacre material. She just knew the old headmistress, Jane Heliotrope, would never have put up with his misconduct.

“Did you start them on their assignment today?” Maria asked cordially, because someone had to be looking out for the students.

“What? The fairy tale stuff?” He nearly scoffed. “Yeah, we’re saving that as a free write on Friday.”

Maria’s jaw dropped, “Wha- what do you mean by that? You’re completely disregarding the curriculum?”

He gave her a laugh, “Oh, c’mon, you know that’s a guide more than anything.”

“Right.” Maria crossed her arms, “And I bet you aren’t having any kind of lesson gearing up to Friday? About the cultural and historic importance fairytales have on society and literature?”

His smirk deepened, “Nope.”

“So what on earth did you teach them on? If you were able to teach them anything?” Maria asked.

“The importance of communal and oral traditions. Then we discussed.”

Maria rolled her eyes, because ‘discuss’ was just his excuse to let the class go wild. “That sounds more like a history lesson.”

He shrugged, “History and literature, unfortunately, overlap.”

Maria bit her tongue and glared, “Right. And you refused to teach on fairy tales because…?”

“Because, Princess, fairy tales have a different kind of connotation nowadays.”

Maria bristled at the nickname. It had started when he had learned the headmaster was her Uncle…

Well, it wasn’t particularly hard to guess that they were related, due to their last names being the same, but he assumed that she had been a legacy hire when that couldn’t be farther from the truth! In fact, she had been hired by Ms. Heliotrope a year before her retirement and Benjamin’s promotion.

“But that is the exact reason we're supposed to be teaching on them! To disrupt their previous notions!” Maria flung her arms out to further make her point, but she knew she was just getting more and more frustrated, while he kept smirking at her.

“And that’s why we slowly work up to calling them fairy tales, so by the end of the week, they have a full grasp and understanding of what a fairytale is beyond the Disneyfication.” He clapped his hands together, “Right, I have a long week ahead, and you, I’m guessing have some studying to do? Since you’re not doing any work to mould the curriculum to your class so they can reap the most of it.”

He turned, the door to his class shut before she could get another jab in. But she stood in the hall, slightly impressed, but mostly irritated. Her thoughts wandered to her Uncle, but telling on a fellow teacher was childish, and she could handle him herself.

“But I knew it was him! His thoughts and ideas getting into their heads.” Maria complained, her eyes narrowed and arms crossed, she hunched over herself on the garden bench sitting outside her Uncle’s home.

Benjamin had never bothered with the upkeep of his garden, he had simply just let it grow wild over the years, but that summer, he had taken an odd interest in it. Removing all the weeds and ploughing the dirt, he replanted the areas that had once been overgrown grass with growing thyme, and the garden beds with geraniums, of all colours, but primarily salmon pink.

It was better than his other hobbies: sulking or drinking.

“That’s not appropriate,” Benjamin said, removing a dirtied glove from his hand.

“No, it’s annoying.” Maria rolled her eyes. “And I have no idea when he did it! I mean, we were barely speaking yesterday about the curriculum, and today I hear my students talking about how the ideas of fairy tales have been corrupted by modern understanding and Disneyfied! Those are the exact words he used! Can you believe it? I mean, opening his office hours to my students in some lame attempt to contradict what I’ve already taught them.”

“Well, I can’t let him scalp your students.”

Maria rolled her eyes, “It doesn’t matter, I’ll tell him off tomorrow morning and we’ll just have to go from there.” Maria reached over and picked a globe of geraniums before tucking it behind her Uncle’s ear. “So pretty.”

He gave her a glare, but over the years it had lost any ferocity it once held.

Maria stood in front of the kettle, waiting for it to go off, her cup all but ready with her tea bag, when a dark presence slid next to her.

“I knew you just couldn’t resist.”

Maria breathed out deeply, calmly, as in the corner of her eye Mr. De Noir leaned against the counter next to her. “Resist what?”

“Using your nepo baby powers to get me in trouble, are you disappointed I didn’t get sacked?”

Maria sighed, lifting the kettle as the light went from green to red, and poured her steaming water into her cup. “Mr. De Noir, I have no idea-”

“My office hours got taken from me.”

Maria paused, but finished pouring and refilled the kettle. She stuck a fist on her hip and turned to look at him. “What? But I didn’t-”

“And I’ve been placed over the after school detention for the next two weeks-”

“But I didn’t-!”

“And Saturday!” He didn’t glare at her, no he would never, but where he was usually teasing and lighthearted, he seemed genuinely upset with her.

And then it hit her.

It was her fault.

She placed a hand over her mouth.

Benjamin.

“Oh, now she remembers.” He looked away from her, discontentedly, into the empty teacher’s lounge. “Y’know, my students make good use of those hours, and unlike you, I have plans on the weekends.”

“You don’t know what I do after school.” She muttered, her first reaction to defend herself. “Mr. De Noir, I- I didn’t- I’ll fix this, I promise, and until then, tell your students they may come to me during my office hours.”

Mr. De Noir gave her an odd look as he examined her face.

“What?”

“I- you seem genuinely concerned.” He said.

Maria rolled her eyes, “Yes, well when I was complaining to my Uncle I thought I was complaining to my Uncle, not Headmaster Merryweather.” She glared, crossing her arms. Goodness, how would she even broach this? She supposed she’d have to schedule a meeting, and go from there-

“Merryweather? Don’t go catatonic on me.”

Maria broke out of her thoughts and gazed up at Mr. De Noir, she reached out to touch his shoulder, and in all sincerity said, “I will fix this.”

He cracked a grin, “Don’t need to get all noble on me, Merryweather, it’s just two weeks. And technically I deserve it.”

“It isn’t bad for students to get multiple perspectives… sometimes.”

He shrugged, and Maria realised she still had her hand on her arm. She snatched it away, her cheeks suddenly feeling warm, before Mr. De Noir reached out and handed her cup to her.

“From my understanding, Merryweather’s are pretty stubborn, so good luck getting him to change his mind.” Then, he turned and left her alone in the teacher’s lounge, with a swiftly cooling cup of tea.

She added some sugar cubes, and sped walked her way to her Uncle’s secretary, demanding to speak with him during her open hour.

After an hour, Maria closed her office.

A few of her students, and a few of Mr. De Noir’s students, had come to speak briefly with her, but beyond a few simple questions about tropes and symbolism, there were no deep inquiries. She had on her coat, and her briefcase in her hand, but when she looked across the way into Mr. De Noir’s dark classroom, a twinge of remorse pinged in her heart.

With a singular and sudden determination, Maria made her way to the detention hall, which was actually just the meal hall, but was used for detention at set times.

When she walked in the hall, a bit too proudly, the door swung out and banged against the wall, the sound of it echoing across the empty room and eight heads turned her way. Even Mr. De Noir, who had been sitting on top of one of the tables, slouching as much as he could while not lying on it, popped up at her entrance.

Maria did her best not to let embarrassment wash over and kept her confidence as she came in, set her bag down on the floor, removed her coat, and joined Mr. De Noir on the table.

“What are you doing here?” He asked, looking up at her with a strange mix of reverence and bafflement.

Maria shrugged, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I couldn’t convince my Uncle to let you go.”

He huffed a laugh. “Told you.”

Maria nudged his knee with hers.

“Okay, so message received?”

“It’s a bit boring, isn’t it?”

Robin scoffed, finally pulling himself up off the table and leaning onto his knees. “Yes, for me, who's trapped here, but not for you.”

Maria checked her watch, “Only forty-five minutes left?”

He grabbed her elbow and pulled her arm towards his face. “Just about.”

“Well, I’d like to discuss our- differing takes on the curriculum with you.” She cleared her throat. “To give our students the best chance they have with their learning opportunities.”

He quirked a brow.

“Well, for example, you say Disneyfied like it's a bad thing.”

“Because it is.”

Maria shook her head, “But would you not agree that all fairytales and myths evolved with the times, the elements changing with what was needed?”

A slow smile breached his features. “One could say that.”

“And, well, perhaps what the children of our time need is something a bit more hopeful than what original fairy tales tend to offer?”

“Or, we need to stop babying children, and let them watch things that will actually be beneficial to their mental development.”

They continued on that way for a time, the argument never actually turning to be about their lesson plans, and even after Mr. De Noir dismissed the students, they continued on until they reached the parking lot.

“I’m sorry again,” Maria said, knowing it was time to part but not really wanting to. “About the whole detention business, I never intended that.”

Mr. De Noir shrugged nonchalance, “It’s alright, I’ll just get you back.”

Maria twisted her lips to avoid smiling. “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I’ll be the one across the hall.”

There was very little one could do about rumours, and once they did get started, there was not much one could do beyond fan the flames.

It was rather unfortunate for both Miss Merryweather and Mr. De Noir that one of the students in detention was a girl who had a friend in Ms. Merryweather’s class, who had often made the very keen observation that there was a certain chemistry underlying their quips and hallway fights.

So of course, as soon as Ms. Merryweather stormed detention, and stayed by Mr. De Noir’s side for the duration, it was only her right to text her friend the developing story.

The next morning, before class had even begun, all of Ms. Merryweather’s waiting class knew about the circumstances, and even without speaking a word, seemed to be in unilateral agreement.

“Mr. De Noir!”

Robin paused his instruction at the whiteboard, turning back to see one of Ms. Merryweather’s students hanging in the door.

“Yeah, do you need something?”

“Um-” The girl squeaked, “Ms. Merryweather needed your help in the supplies room. She said something about heavy boxes?”

Robin played with the marker in his hand. That wasn’t the Merryweather he knew. That woman would break her back before asking for his, or anyone’s, help. He put the cap on. “Lex, you’re in charge.”

There was some grumbling about that decision, but he ignored it as he came to the door, holding it open for the student before shutting it behind him. He watched, rather suspiciously, as she stood by Merryweather’s class but didn’t go inside. When she looked back over her shoulder, he lifted his brows, and she squeaked before ducking into class. Then, when he peered into the windows, each and every head, which had been turned to watch him, snapped back to the front.

Robin smirked, he could smell a plot a mile away, but who was he to foil their brilliant schemes?

He wasn’t too surprised to hear the door opening again once he reached the end of the hall, and he was careful not to look back at the sound. It almost made him giddy, and he wondered if this was just the distraction, to get him out of class so something could be done in the ten minutes he’d be gone? Or, if he was walking into the trap.

Ms. Merryweather, he had no doubt, hadn’t played any part of it, as she would never encourage this kind of behaviour.

As Robin walked into the supply room, he saw no sign of Merryweather, but then there was a sound of surprise, a fluttering sound like a flock of frightened pigeons taking flight, and a louder smacking that came from the paper closet. Robin turned, just in time to see Merryweather being clouded in stacks of paper as they fell to the ground.

“Mr. De Noir!” She choked.

He chuckled, moving in on her and kneeling to start collecting the papers on the ground.

“You don’t have to-”

“No, don’t worry, I know it was my fault-”

“No! No, I was being-”

And then the door slammed shut.

“Oh my god, what did you do?” Merryweahter asked, immediately turning on him to accuse him. “I had the door propped-”

“I didn’t do anything! It-” Then, Robin sighed. “It’s the students.” Robin stuck his hand in his pocket to pull his phone out, but his pocket was empty, in fact all of his pockets were empty, he would learn, as he uselessly patted at them. “Do you have your phone?”

“Um-” Merryweather made a vague gesture to the little table outside, where he had passed her keys and yes, now that he thought about it, her phone had been there as well.

“So we’re stuck.”

“Well- I-” Merryweather looked down at him. “Yes, I guess we are. Fuck.”

“Language, we’re at school.” Robin mocked as he went back to stacking the papers.

“Right, sorry.”Maria shook her head and knelt down next to him, gathering papers and replacing them in the box she had tipped over.

“You ever learn how to take a joke?”

Merryweather pursed her lips. “I can take a joke, when it's made between friends.”

“Oh, that smarts.”

Merryweather looked at him and scoffed.

“What?”

“Are you implying we’re friends?”

“Of course not, I’m your mortal enemy.”

Merryweather cocked a brow, “My mortal enemy? And I’m not yours?”

Robin smirked. “You don’t get under my skin the way I get under yours.”

“What am I then? If not your mortal enemy?” She said, with a slight challenging glare.

Robin pretended to give it great thought. “Academic rival?”

“Oh good, I didn’t think I’d be held in such high regard to be considered a rival.”

He snorted.

She smiled.

“So, when do you think they’ll let us out?” Robin whispered, after the papers were tidied, and they had taken to sitting on opposite sides of the closet, her legs stretched out before her, ankles crossed neatly.

“Who?” Merryweather asked, leaning forward as she whispered back. Her plan had been sending out a sheet of paper with a note written on it under the door, their only hope being another teacher would pass through and free them.

“Our students.” Robin cuffed his hand over his mouth. “They’re up to something.”

She stared at him blankly. “What do you mean?”

“One of your students came to my class saying you needed help.”

Merryweather scoffed, “Surely you knew that was a lie.”

Robin nodded, “Of course, as soon as she said you wanted my help.”

Merryweather fought a smile, crossing her arms as she looked out to the door. “So why did you come?”

“I encourage mischief every once in a while, besides I figured they had sent me away to do something to the classroom, not lock me in a closet with my academic rival.” He nudged his knee against her foot.

“You should give them all detention, they basically got a free period out of us.”

Robin shrugged, leaning his head back against the shelves. “Who knows? That might be a good thing.”

It wasn’t until a few minutes before the bell rang that good old Henry came to let them out, an odd and slightly suspicious look on his face.

“Now, I’m not mad, just disappointed.” Maria said, more or less quoting her Uncle.

She had only been lightly reprimanded for being locked in the closet and abandoning her students, but Robin seemed to, once again, take the full brunt of the punishment, as Benjamin assigned him another week of detention watch.

“However, as punishment, Mr. De Noir and I have decided to extend your projects.” Maria beamed as her students groaned, she knew just across the hall, Robin was giving the same speech, something they had planned together after Maria closed her office hours, and came to him with a proposition in detention. “We will no longer be only asking you for an original fairy tale, but would instead ask you to perform it in the amphitheatre before both classes.”

There was a devilish look on her face as her class got uproarious, and she let them settle before she spoke again. “The deadline is now extended to next Friday, however tomorrow I would like a first draft turned in. You may form groups of two to five, choose one fairy tale, and work out the logistics.”

“The fairy tale we wrote, or any fairy tale?”

“Your fairy tale, Marissa.” Maria smiled. “And since yesterday you all had a free period, today will be a lecture day-” More moaning, “-Please pull out your notebooks, and we’ll begin.”

Saturday, the parking lot was nearly empty save his car.

Maria parked not next to him, but close, as she popped out, her scarf wrapped warmly around her throat. This new plan was risky, but she felt she owed it to him.

He would protest of course, and he would tell her to go away, but it didn’t sit right in her heart. So of course, when she marched into the detention hall, Robin looked up and rolled his eyes. He slid off the table, leaving his book behind and met her half way.

“Here to plot against our students again?”

“Nope.” Maria said, removing her scarf and wrapping it around her hands, “I’m here to free you.”

Robin’s smirk softened, “You know I’m on the clock for this and you’re not?”

“I’m working on grading this morning.” Maria held up her briefcase. “It's just a change of location.”

Robin rolled his eyes, “You would work on a Saturday.”

“Yes, and you said you had plans, so go on, go.” Maria attempted to walk him around before he reached out and grabbed her arm.

“What are you doing, Maria?”

She smiled, “Rescuing the damsel.”

“Dam- Now hold on there, Merryweather, if anyone’s the damsel it’s you.”

“Oh?” Maria popped her hip, “How so?”

Robin opened his mouth to list off the countless examples that would mark him as the daring hero, but he rather came up empty.

“You’re the one trapped in the tallest tower, not me.”

“I am not trapped here.”

“Precisely, go on, I’m rescuing you, go on, leave. I have dragons to slay.”

He scoffed. “I can’t, I’ll get in more trouble.”

Maria shrugged, “I won’t tell Headmaster if you don’t.”

Robin struggled not to smile. “I can’t.”

“You can and you will.”

“Y’know, usually it's the other way around, the handsome young hero saving the princess.”

Maria shrugged, “I rather like Cupid and Psyche.”

Then, there was something about the way his eyes lit up at her words that made her heart flutter, her stomach pitch, and her mouth run dry. Had that been a mistake? To imply that they were- that she was doing this out of-

“This isn’t fair.”

“It’s perfectly fair.” Maria argued, “I was in your debt, now I’m not.”

He shook his head, “You’re going to get me in trouble.”

“I thought you liked mischief.”

Robin smiled, and before Maria could make another comment, he reached out and squeezed her arm. “I still feel like I owe you for this, but thank you.”

She almost thought he was going to lean down and kiss her, her cheek, ot temple, or her lips, but he turned and went back to get his book and jacket.

Maria watched him leave, the door shutting behind him, and then the empty air for a few seconds before she glanced at the students, who were doing their best to avoid her eye and trying to stifle grins.

She cleared her throat and got to work reading the fairy tales.

Monday morning, she attempted to speak with her Uncle again.

“Really, he doesn’t deserve any of it, and I know you said that you had to set standards, but this is ridiculous! Not even the students get this much detention!” She had started sitting down, but at some point she had gotten up to pace madly to and fro. “I mean it’s not just a detriment to him, but his students! Though not many of his students have taken me up on my offer, they may not feel comfortable with it! And beyond that, there’s usually a very fair rotation for the detention slots, and I think it’s been a while since it was my turn! And the closet thing wasn’t his fault! He only came in to help me, it’s not like he did it on purpose, that’s hardly worth another week of detention!”

“Maria-”

“I would understand if he had locked me in there, but he was trapped just as much as I was!”

“Maria-”

“And we both settled on how to discipline the students who, I already told you, were the real culprits!”

“Maria!”

Maria jumped, her hand on her heart the other grasping the back of the chair. “Yes?”

“If you would really like to, I can take over some of his detention-”

“Oh really? You will!” Maria raced around the desk, wrapping her arms around her Uncle’s head and neck. “Oh thank you! I felt so guilty about all of it!”

“Right.” Her Uncle muttered. “Guilt.”

Robin sat on his desk, laughing as one of the students shared a more or less irrelevant story with the class which kind of had to do with fairy tales, when Maria knocked on the door and came into class.

“Mr. De Noir, do you have a moment?” She asked, and some of the students had the audacity to laugh or gently ‘oooh!’ at his departure.

He followed Maria out into the hall, mindful to stand in front of her so his students couldn’t get a good look at her facial expressions through the window.

“I believe my debts are paid.” Maria beamed, “Mostly.”

Robin cocked his head to one said.

“I slayed the beast. Headmaster Merryweather said he would take over detention next week.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“What did you do- how did you-?” Robin cut himself off with a scoff, she was unbelievable. “Damn, I really was the damsel.”

“Language.” Maria’s eyes flashed to the window behind him, and when he took a look, the students ran away from the window and back to their seats.

“You didn’t- You really didn’t-” He clenched his hand at his side, tempted to touch her again, tempted to wrap her in his arms and pick her up off the floor and spin her around. Instead, he marvelled at her, his eyes wide, his mouth open like an idiot, and he couldn’t look away.

She blossomed under his gaze, her cheeks pinkening, her eyes glistening with pride.

“You’re amazing.”

Miss Merryweather kept Mr. De Noir company for the rest of his detention periods, the students noticed, and word spread very quickly. Some students, rather foolishly, got themselves in trouble so they would have to go to detention, so they could report back.

And it was very interesting how close they sat, and how often they gazed into each other's eyes without speaking, and how close they came to touching the other only to stop themselves before they got too close.

The reports from detention made their way around, from student to student, until even the teachers heard, and placed their bets.

“No, they’re both too stubborn,” Ms. Swann said, “Neither will admit to anything until it's unbearable.”

“Don’t underestimate Robin, he’s rather determined, and once he wants something that’s it.” Mr. Turner said.

“But Maria has much more class than that.” Mrs. Fitzwilliam said.

“That doesn’t mean she’ll deny herself the pleasure of a man’s company, especially one that looks like him.” Ms. Thomas suggested.

And, inevitably, word got back to Headmaster Merryweather who was not completely unsurprised by the developments, after all he saw too much of himself in his niece. Falling in love with a supposed enemy was practically a family trait.

Maria sat down in the amphitheatre, her students settled and the first group ready to go, her rubric out on her clipboard, while Robin leaned back on the bench behind them, his own rubric off to the side as her students went first. They had a box of props and costumes for the students to use, and yes the girls did fight over who got to wear the pearls, and there was a massive disagreement on who got the sword with each group that came up. Whether or not the story had anything to do with swords.

They watched each class file in, as they were instructed to come straight to the amphitheatre, and file out once they were done, though Robin and Maria hardly paid attention as they did.

There was many a giggling, many a stare, and a many whispering that made their way across the classes, but Maria didn’t particularly care to take notice.

She was too busy trying to ascertain if his knee pressed into her thigh was an accident or if he was doing it on purpose, and if his eyes were on her the whole day instead of any of the performances, and if he was arguing because he really disagreed with her or just for the sake of arguing. But when the final bell dismissed their last class, neither Robin nor Maria rose up to leave. They stayed, seated on the stone benches, her elbows on her knees, her chin in her hands as she stared up at him.

There was something so captivating about his eyes when he spoke, something pleasant when his mouth moved, something enigmatic about how he motioned with his hands.

“Tomorrow is your last day of detention.” Maria said, when an hour had passed and neither had moved.

“Yes, and you don’t have to storm the castle for me.” Robin looked up at her as she stood to gather her things. “Hermes doesn’t have to tell me all the work you’ve done to make up for it.”

She felt herself blush, because there it was again, this odd comparison. “Well, one could argue that my three dangerous tasks are complete.”

“Dangerous?” He grinned at the incredulous insinuation.

“Well, when one goes up against a man like my Uncle.” She twisted her face into one of horror and Robin laughed. “Though, I am afraid I will remain his servant forever.”

“Yes, I suppose going up against him is quite daunting.”

“Daunting indeed. But-” Maria bit her lip, turning away to look out at the amphitheatre. “Did I manage to fix the rift of my betrayal?”

Robin stood and took her hand, “There was never anything to fix.”

If any students had stayed behind, they would have seen Mr. De Noir lean down to kiss Ms. Merryweather, and if any teachers had walked by on their way to the parking lot, they would have seen the two running off hand in hand like teenagers, and if Headmaster Merryweather had looked out the window of his office, he would have seen Mr. De Noir press Ms. Merryweather against her car as he kissed her again and again, but no did, and no one saw them getting into their cars and following each other out of the parking lot, and on Saturday, despite his best attempts, Ms. Merryweather came again, but she did not come to rescue him a second time. Rather, she sat with him, and if the students noticed they were sitting too close to one another, or that they held hands under the table, they kept their thoughts to themselves.

Fairytales are some of the most important works of fiction known to man. They offer life lessons, human connection, magic, and some of our favourites: love.

Not every fairy tale has a happily ever after, not every fairy tale ends with true love’s kiss, but who could argue that the most captivating ones have just a touch of that special magic? Not fairy godmothers, trickster sprites, or devils, but a very human emotion, a lasting emotion, one that resonates and rings throughout the centuries.

@stabat-mater @theargopriestess @maybeamagpie @hotpotatoburn @lalla0019 @immergladsss

#woo!#moonacreweek2024 #robin de noir #maria merryweather #the secret of moonacre #tsom

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fate-magical-girls · 1 year ago

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Comparing fairy tales with their inspirations from legendary sagas produces a weird effect, because you can see where the stories have been simplified and the behavior of the protagonists sanitized.

The Goose Girl whose position was stolen by her handmaiden and was reduced to speaking to her beheaded horse Falada was a club-footed princess who originally agreed to switch places with her maid because she was self-conscious about her feet and feared her prince was short and ugly. She was also mother of Charlemagne.

The Goose Girl at the Well who was exiled for saying she loved her father like meat loves salt was a British queen who led an army to rescue her father who had been driven insane by her abusive sisters.

Sleeping Beauty, who was cursed to sleep for a hundred years, was a Valkyrie who masterminded the death of her prince when he was brainwashed into marrying another woman, and then threw herself onto his pyre so she could die with him.

The youngest brother of the Wild Swans, whose arm remained a swan wing because his sister ran out of thread to make the tunic that would break his curse, became a knight in a swan boat that avenged a noble maiden's honor and had children with her that would give rise to the royal line of Bouillon.

Cinderella was a successful courtesan and a self-made woman, who had no fairy god mother, but did have a fling with fable-teller Aesop as well as an epic rivalry with her sister-in-law, who happened to be one of the greatest poets of their age. Alternatively, she was a queen of Egypt to died before seeing her family enslaved by the mad Persian king Cambyses.

The mystical husbands of East of the Sun and West of the Moon, The Iron Stove, and the Feather of Finist the Falcon were originally the god Eros, and the Beauty that had to find her husband after losing him was his wife Psyche.

Often the animal husband takes the form of a snake. In certain myths among the indigenous Taiwanese, the animal husband is a snake and the ancestor of their people. In Baltic and Slavic stories, the snake husband is never accepted by his wife's family, who kill him through deceit. Meanwhile, a 9th century Chinese story makes the husband into a Yaksha, and the lovers are eventually parted because the wife cannot stay in the realm of the Yaksha.

Related to the animal husband theme, the Beast was a tragic man from Tenerife with hypertrichosis, and Beauty was a noblewoman who was married to him almost as a joke. Though they lived a long and happy life together, four of their seven children were stolen away and sent to live in foreign courts because they shared their father's condition.

The Girl Without Hands was a Mercian queen who ruled her nation with iron fists, and was involved in more than one assassination.

Maid Maleen's original name was Brangaine, the maid of Tristan and Iseult. In most variants of the tale, it is the guilty bride who substitutes her maid in the bridal procession to hide her loss of virginity that is the actual protagonist. When the prince questions her about the children she has born, she is forced to reveal the tokens that her lover left with her, and the prince realizes that he himself is the lover in question, and apologizes and proceeds with the wedding.

The speechless Little Mermaid's beloved prince was a Swedish duke, brother to the king, named Magnus Vasa. He was afflicted with psychotic episodes throughout his life, and had assistants assigned to look after him. He never married but had a longtime affair with a commoner woman who cared for him. During one of his episodes, he jumped into a moat, claiming to have seen a woman there. This became the basis for a class of ballads called Herr Magnus and the Mermaid, which describes how Magnus lost his heart and then his mind to the mermaid after initially rejecting her. This then became stories of the tragic mermaid's rejection and revenge.

#mythology #history #fairy tale #little mermaid #sleeping beauty #cinderella #beauty and the beast #the goose girl #king lear #brothers grimm #hans christian andersen

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oncemorewithqueering · 8 months ago

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lyrical breakdown of The Prophecy by Taylor Swift and why it’s basically buffy

the prophecy by Taylor Swift is so Buffy summers coded and here’s why:

Hand on the throttle Thought I caught lightning in a bottle Oh, but it's gone again

So, lightning in a bottle is like a metaphor for achieving something great, right? And here it’s “gone again,” like Buffy’s success. Because every time she accomplishes something, it’s on to the next tough thing. You killed the Master? Ok, your boyfriend goes evil and you have to kill him. She never gets a break.

And it was written I got cursed like Eve got bitten Oh, was it punishment?

I feel like this is about Angel, about how she was tempted by him, “got bitten” (had sex) and it’s punishment, because she blames herself for not being more careful.

Pad around when I get home

When I heard “pad around” I thought of tiptoeing, and how she keeps her Slaying a secret from Joyce, her own mother. This feels very early season Buffy to me.

I guess a lesser woman would've lost hope A greater woman wouldn't beg

Buffy is constantly in this limbo of being not quite human, or “lesser”, but feeling inadequate as a slayer because she doesn’t want it, she doesn’t fully own it. And she does beg during Prophecy Girl, for the prophecy to be changed.

But I looked to the sky and said

Please I've been on my knees Change the prophecy

I think this is fairly self explanatory. She’s sixteen years old and she doesn’t want to die, right?

Don't want money Just someone who wants my company Let it once be me Who do I have to speak to About if they can redo The prophecy?

Cards on the table Mine play out like fools in a fable, oh It was sinking in

I read this as being about the Gift, when Buffy realises that her fate, or her “fable” is to die for the sake of the world. Slow is the quicksand Poison blood from the wound of the pricked hand Oh, still I dream of him

I think this relates to Angel, and how she’s pining after that kind of romance that she doesn’t have with anyone, and why she turns to Spike. And her spiral into depression.

And I sound like an infant

Sixteen and doesn’t want to die, anyone?

Feeling like the very last drops of an ink pen A greater woman stays cool But I howl like a wolf at the moon And I look unstable

This is definitely season 6 buffy, who is holding on by a thread. She is unstable, she’s empty, she’s no longer able to be that greater woman. Gathered with a coven round a sorceress' table

I think this could be a nod to the Scoobies, with the “sorceress’ table” being the table in the library and then the Magic Box. That’s usually where she finds out about a life changing prophecy. A greater woman has faith But even statues crumble if they're made to wait I'm so afraid I sealed my fate No sign of soulmates

Definitely depressed Buffy, when she feels like nothing, being “made to wait” to be “normal” again, and afraid that she’ll never be as happy as she was with Angel.

I'm just a paperweight In shades of greige

Again, depression metaphor, being weighed down and being buried alive.

Spending my last coin so someone will tell me It'll be ok

Buffy constantly looks for reassurance from Giles and people around her who she trusts, so she needs someone to tell her it’ll be okay. Desperately.

anyway, this was long! And unhinged! I’m tired now, so I’ll go sleep.

#btvs #buffy #buffy the vampire slayer #angel #bangel #buffyverse #scooby #scooby gang #tay #taylor swift #taylornation #tor #the tortured poets department #ttp #ttpd #the prop

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boredhousewifex · 2 months ago

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MORNING AFTER READING EURIPIDES

it’s not the grief—it’s the torn string, the split tendon. a piano chord unravelling. tick—tock—snap. i tell myself i know better than to cry for a dead dog that wasn’t mine.

the neighbour’s hands, raw from pulling weeds, are no less shattered than achilles’s jaw crushing pomegranates between rotting teeth. we all swallow pits and hope they sprout into something like beauty.

what a lie. we worship ruined things. vases glued back to coherence, pills spilling from their plastic coffins. there’s nothing left to believe in except pills and pills and—

god. god i wanted to be different. to not feel like smoke caught under glass. like sugar dissolving in an unlit room.

where is it going? this flesh-bound feeling? i say it’s a curse, it’s a fable, it’s a drowned moth in milk. you say my god, like i’ve gone and bled on your best shirt.

& i’m not sorry anymore. i’d rather cut the thread than mend it when every stitch just makes another tear.

#poetry #poem #writing #things i wrote #original poem #spilled ink

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tiecladartist · 1 year ago

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GUYS MY BOOK COMES OUT ON DECEMBER 16th (2023)

It's available on the sites listed below in eBook and Paperback (for sites that allow print orders)

Amazon Link, Barnes & Noble Link, Apple Books Link, Booktopia Link, Kobo Books Link, Fable Link, Goodreads Link, Indigo.ca Link

Synopsis:

After hiding from his prophetic powers for years, a young Scribe must overcome the demons of his past to save the futures of the people he loves.

In a world of immortal angels, banished demons, deadly magic and endless war, how much of an impact can one human have?

Enoch Augnium, a Scribe working for the Church that rules over humanity, is content with a simple existence. For him, his solitary work in the Cathedral library is enough, and chasing after the future stolen from him isn't worth the risk.

But even a Seer, cursed with the ability to see the destinies of those around them, cannot escape the entangling threads of fate.

When an encounter with a kindhearted Pilgrim leads to a vision of death and devastation, Enoch realizes just how fragile his simple existence truly is. Demons lurk in the shadows of the capital. Deadly destinies plague his dreams. Unknown dangers threaten the lives of those he holds dear, and to save them he must choose between his peaceful way of life, and a responsibility too heavy to bear alone.

#writing #books #book promo #books of tumblr #book promotion #writing tumblr #reading tumblr #book recommendations #fantasy #fantasy books #new books #bookblr #reading #The Origin of Enoch #The Divine Trials #Divine Trials Series

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mercerislandbooks · 10 months ago

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Book Notes: Where the Dark Stands Still

The adult and young adult fantasy genre has seen so many iterations of fairytale retellings. And many of us are happy to discover our favorite fairytales in inventive new frameworks and settings again and again. I finally noticed the ones I always gravitate towards have a strong Beauty and the Beast theme. From Robin McKinley’s two Beauty and the Beast retellings (Beauty and Rose Daughter, both excellent) to Uprooted by Naomi Novik, to A Curse So Dark and Lonely by Brigid Kemmerer, there’s something about a girl and a sentient house and a curse just begging to be broken that I find immensely satisfying.

Enter the newest addition to my list, A. B. Poranek’s debut YA Fantasy, Where the Dark Stands Still. When Liska enters the Driada, a forest rumored to be infested with demons, it’s in search of the fabled fern flower. For Liska, the wish the flower grants is her only hope to rid herself of the magic she’s had all her life, magic considered demonic by her pious village. If she wants any chance to live a normal life, the magic must go. So Liska braves the tricksy forest and its dangerous inhabitants. But in discovering the fern flower, she also encounters its forbidding guardian, the powerful Leszy. His bargain for the flower is one year of service to him in his House Under the Rowan Tree, shrouded in decades of neglect. Liska reasons she can endure a year of servitude to be free of her magic, and makes the bargain. Of course, there’s more to the house, the Leszy, and the forest than Liska can know. A year of forced proximity brings to light many secrets, not the least of which is the true origins of the Driada itself.

As Where the Dark Stands Still draws significantly from Polish folklore, I found myself quickly out of my depth, both in pronunciation and in familiarity. I’d heard of rusalka and hearth spirits from other Slavic inspired fantasies, but the Leszy, the strzygon and many others were unknown to me. It was enjoyable to have a new-to-me framework paired with elements of Beauty and the Beast. And beyond that, Poranek’s writing was filled with delightful moments of wry humor and wisdom, not to mention a simmering romantic thread. It was a pleasure to watch Liska comes into deeper knowledge of herself and her inner strength. For those of you looking for a reading experience with no cliff hangers or loose ends, Where the Dark Stands Still is that rare thing in YA Fantasy these days: a standalone novel. It is the perfect read for fantasy lovers to curl up with during these rainy evenings!

— Lori

#island books #lori robinson #book notes #A. B. Poranek #Where the dark stands still #ya fantasy #dark fantasy

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rjalker · 1 year ago

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and her interesting infant, the first pledge of her pure and perfect love, had been precociously sucked, like an unripe orange, and nothing left but its beautiful and tender skin.

so they eat the bones too

what if I include the whole text on every post of my liveblog. Yes, I shall.

The Black Vampyre; A Legend of St. Domingo. By Uriah Derick D’arcy

So have I seen, upon another shore, Another Lion give a grievous roar; And the last Lion thought the first—A BOAR!

-Bombast. Furios

SECOND EDITION, WITH ADDITIONS. NEW -YORK: PRINTED FOR THE AUTHOR.

1819.

TO THE AUTHOR OF “WALL-STREET.”

MY DEAR SIR, CHARMED with the success of your anomalous drama, which, without aspiring even to the character of nonsense, has already seen three editions, I have been myself induced to venture on publishing; with the sanguine hope of also scraping together a few shillings, in these hard times. Permit me to inscribe this tale to you, with a fellow-feeling for your lack of genius; and a fervent hope, that our names may be encircled by the same evergreen in the temple of the Muses; and that we may long flourish together, on the same pedestal, embellishing and elevating the literature of the Auction Room.

I remain, My dear Sir, Your affectionate Friend, And obedient Servant, THE AUTHOR.

Introduction

If any person should have patience to read the following narrative, and can discover the Author’s drift, it is more than he can do himself. If it be thought exquisite nonsense, it is more than the writer dares hope: and if it be pronounced simple, stupid, and unadulterated absurdity, his own private opinion will perfectly coincide with that of the public. He began to write without any fable, and before he had found any had spun out the thread of his ideas.

This tangled skein of absurdities is now exposed to criticism, from the laudable motive of showing, of how much nonsense an individual may be delivered, in the short space of two afternoons; without any excuse but idleness, or any object but amusement.

The prominent descriptions, which it is here attempted to ridicule, are fresh in the memory of all who have read the “White Vampyre;” and to those who have not, the Superstition must be so familiar, that it is unnecessary to make useless extracts.

That the Author may not, however, be misunderstood, it may be necessary to state, that in the speech of the Vampyre, he had no design of descending to that meanest of all intellectual exercises, a travestie on authors who are justly admired: but meant, if any thing, simply to show how passages, which were fine in their original use, when garbelled by the ignorant and tasteless, become a melancholy rhapsody of nonsense.

“But first on earth, as Vampyre sent, Thy corse shall from its tomb be rent; Then ghastly haunt thy native place, And suck the blood of all thy race; There from thy daughter, sister, wife, At midnight drain the stream of life; Yet loathe the banquet, which perforce Must feed thy livid living corse. Thy victims, ere they yet expire, Shall know the demon for their sire; As cursing thee, thou cursing them, Thy flowers are withered on the stem. But one that for thy crime must fall, The youngest, best beloved of all, Shall bless thee with a father’s name— That word shall wrap thy heart in flame! Yet thou must end thy task and mark Her cheek’s last tinge—her eye’s last spark, And the last glassy glance must view Which freezes o’er its lifeless blue; Then with unhallowed hand shall tear The tresses of her yellow hair, Of which, in life a lock when shorn Affection’s fondest pledge was worn— But now is borne away by thee Memorial of thine agony! Yet with thine own best blood shall drip Thy gnashing tooth, and haggard lip; Then stalking to thy sullen grave, Go—and with Gouls and Afrits rave, Till these in horror shrink away From spectre more accursed than they.”

-BYRON.

The Black Vampyre

Mr. ANTHONY GIBBONS was a gentleman of African extraction. His ancestors emigrated from the eastern coast of GUINEA, in a French ship, and were sold in ST. DOMINGO remarkably cheap; as they were reduced to mere skeletons by the yaws on the passage; and all died shortly after their arrival, except one small negro, of a very slender constitution, and fit for no work whatever. The gentleman who purchased him, charitably knocked out his brains; and the body was thrown into the ocean. The tide returning in the night, it was washed upon the sands; and the moon then shining bright, the gentleman was taking a walk to enjoy the coolness of the evening; judge of his surprise, when the little corpse got up, and complaining of a pain in its bowels, begged for some bread and butter!

The PLANTER supposing his business to have been but half done, kicked him back in the water. The element seemed very familiar to him; and he swam back with much grace and agility; parting the sparkling waves with his jet black members, polished like ebony, but reflecting no single beam of light. His complexion was a dead black;—his eyes a pure white;—the iris was flame colour;—and the pupils of a clear, moonshiny lustre;—but so peculiarly constructed, that, though prominent, they seemed to look into his own head. His hair was neither curled nor straight; but feathery, like the plumage of a crow. Having paddled again on shore, he came crawling crab fashion, to the feet of Mr. PERSONNE. The latter gentleman, in considerable alarm, (not knowing whether it was Satan, Obi, or some other worthy, with whom he had to deal,) mustered up sufficient resolution, to tie a large stone round the boy’s middle: then, with a main exertion of strength, he hurled him into the sparkling ocean. He fell where the reflection of the moon was brightest, and sunk like lead; but immediately rose again like cork, perpendicularly, with the stone under his arm; while the radiant lustre of the planet retreated from his dark figure, exhibiting in its most striking contrast its utter blackness!

In this predicament, he came buoyant to land; surrounded, as he seemed, by a sphere of magic lustre. He now walked up to the Frenchman, with his arms a-kimbo, and looking remarkably fierce. Mr. PERSONNE’S particular hairs stood up on end, but being ashamed that a little negro of ten years old, should put him in bodily fear, he knocked him down. The Guinea-man rose again, without bending a joint; as fast as Mr. PERSONNE could upset him, he recovered his altitude; just like one of those small toys, fabricated from pith, tipt with lead, called witches and hobgoblins by the rising generation!

The PLANTER, in utter amazement and despair, took hold of the child by both his extremities; and pressing him to the earth, set down upon him! Then, halloing for his attendants, he ordered a tremendous fire to be kindled on the sand!! This was accordingly done. The GAUL congratulated himself on his perseverance and sagacity; and as he had never heard of ignaqueous animals, was confident that though the water fiend was so expert in his own element, he could not stand the fiery ordeal. The boy, meanwhile, lay perfectly passive, as if he had been a mere log; but presently, when the pile was all in a light blaze, with a sudden expansion, like that of a compressed Indian Rubber, he popped Mr. PERSONNE up into the air many yards, and he alighted head-foremost into the fire, where he had intended to have dedicated the sable brat, with his nine lives, to Moloch!!!

Whatever the negro was, it is notorious that Mr. PERSONNE was no salamander. He was rescued from the pyre, which, like Hercules, he had, (though unwittingly,) erected for himself; looking like a squizzed cat, and having apparently no life left in his body. The attention of the domestics was drawn entirely to their master; who soon betrayed signs of animation, though he exhibited a most awful spectacle: being one continual sore and blister. “His whole body was one wound,” as Virgil or some other poet has hyperbolically expressed himself.

Mr. PERSONNE, when he perfectly recovered his senses, found himself in his own bed, wrapt in greasy sheets, and smarting as if in a Cayenne bath. He called for a glass of brandy,—his dear wife EUPHEMIA,—and his infant son, who had not yet been christened. His lady, with streaming eyes, presented herself before him; and, after tenderly inquiring into the state of his health, told him, (with a voice interrupted with sobs and hiccups,) that when she went in the morning to see her baby, whom she had left in the cradle, there was nothing to be seen, but the skin, hair, and nails!!! She declared that there never was such another object; except, indeed, the exsiccation in Scudder’s Museum!

On the receipt of this horrid intelligence, Mr. PERSONNE was seized with a violent spasmodic affection; and shortly after expired, muttering something about sacre, and the Guinea-negro!

The amiable, but unfortunate Euphemia, was thrown into several hysterical convulsions; as well she might be, poor woman! when her husband had been made a holocaust, and served up like a broiled and peppered chicken, to feed the grim maw of death; and her interesting infant, the first pledge of her pure and perfect love, had been precociously sucked, like an unripe orange, and nothing left but its beautiful and tender skin. The disconsolate widow caused her husband to be embalmed; and he was buried amid the lamentations and tears of all the funeral; much regretted by all who had the honour of his acquaintance, particularly by his negroes; who could not soon forget him; as he had left too many sincere marks of his regard upon their backs, to be ever obliterated from their recollections.

Time, as all the Greek tragedians, Solomon, and others have remarked, is a benevolent deity. Mrs. PERSONNE’S grief yielded to the soothing hand of the consoling power; and her bloom and spirits returned with more lustre and elasticity than they had before exhibited: as the rose, that had drooped in the fury of the passing storm, erects its blushing honours, and shows more beautiful and vivid tints, when the squall is over!

Many years after these occurrences took place, while EUPHEMIA was in second mourning for her third husband, she was indulging in the luxury of solitary grief; and reading Burton’s Anatomy of Melancholy, and The Melancholy Poems of Dr. Farmer, in an orangerie. The refreshing breezes from the ocean, which now tempered the sultry heats of the declining day,—the soft perfume of the opening blossoms;—and the mellow tints of the evening sky, shedding that holy light, so dear to sensitive hearts, diffused a calm over her soul, wrapt in the contemplation of departed days. While lost in this pensive reverie, she perceived two strangers approaching her, in the extremity of the long vista of the grove. One of them was a coloured gentleman, of remarkable height, and deep jetty blackness; a perfect model of the CONGO Apollo. He was drest in the rich garb of a Moorish Prince; and led by the hand a pale European boy, in an Asiatic dress; whose languid countenance, slender form and tristful gait, were strongly contrasted with the portly appearance and majestic step of his conductor!

They both saluted the lovely widow, and after an interchange of compliments, accepted her polite invitation to set down, and take tea with her in the bower. She learned from the elder stranger, that he had brought out a cargo of slaves, whom his subjects had lately taken prisoners in war; and whom he had resolved to dispose of himself; as he was desirous of seeing the world. His Page, he said, was an orphan, left by a slave merchant in Africa.

The manners and conversation of the PRINCE had an irresistible charm. The regal port was manifest in his gigantic and well proportioned frame; and majesty was conspicuous on his brow, without its diadem. The turban and crescent had never graced a nobler front; but the win- ning condescension of his tones and language, while they could not banish the feeling of the presence of royalty, removed every restraint incident to that consciousness. He criticised the works, which EUPHEMIA had been perusing, with masterly precision; and displayed more knowledge than even the accomplished ideologist of Lady Morgan; with infinitely more discretion and good sense.

It is remarked by the Abbe Reynal, that there is a peculiar elegance and beauty in the complexion of the Africans, (when the eyes and nose are accustomed to their hue and odour.) This truth was realized by EUPHEMIA, as she gazed on the open visage of her illustrious guest. She thought surely that in him Nature might stand up and say “This was a man!” And certainly it is only the weakness and imperfection of our human senses, which, penetrating no further than the surface, is for ever deceived by superficial shadows. The empyrean is always blue, whatever vapours may float in our contracted atmosphere. And if we gaze on the rows of skulls, which festoon and garnish Surgeon’s Hall, we can apply no standard, to determine their relative beauty. They are all equally ugly; and the block of Helen might be mistaken for that of Medusa. Shakspeare, true to nature, has also remarked, “Black men are pearls in beauteous ladies’ eyes.”

The beauty then, the royalty, gentility, and various accomplishments of the BAMBUCK monarch, made captive the too sensible heart of the French widow. She forgot her ogles, graces, and even her loquacity; rooted to her seat, and fixed in immoveable contemplation of the AFRICAN’S face. What peculiar feature or lineament attracted her attention, she knew not: his eyes, though bright, did not sparkle; and the iris, though of a more vivid red than the roseate line in the rainbow, emitted no scintillations. In fact, his whole countenance seemed to look, and to perambulate her own.

The conversation gradually assumed a more empassioned and amorous complexion; and the little page, (who, though meagre and emaciated, evidently showed that he was no gump for his years,) taking certain broad hints, cast a mournful and intelligent look on the widow, said he would fetch a short walk in the plantation, and left the orangerie.

The PRINCE then spreading his glittering sash upon the grass, went down on his knees upon it; and broke out into the most ardent exclamations, of love and admiration; and professions of constant attachment. He said that the flat-nosed beauties of Zara; the scarred, squab figures of the golden coast; the well proportioned Zilias, Calypsos, and Zamas on the banks of the Niger; and even the great Hottentot Venus herself, had never for a moment made the least impression on his heart! His passion was a mystery to himself; its origin secret as the sources of the Nile ; but full and impetuous as its ample channel, when replenished from the celestial fountains of ABYSSINIA; while if Mrs. DUBOIS would shine upon its waves, its enlivened currents would fertilize his vast dominions, in the luxuriant realms of central Africa; making them to fructify yet more abundantly, with burning gold, and radiant diamonds!!!

What female heart could resist such pleadings, and the compliment implied in such a preference? When ZEMBO (the page) returned, the parties had agreed to be privately united on the same evening. The ceremony was accordingly performed, on the spot, by the family chaplain of Mrs. DUBOIS: not without many remonstrances on his part, as to the impropriety of marrying a negro. The PRINCE did not see to resent the affront; which, by the by, he had no right to do; as the priest got nothing for the job. ZEMBO, too, was extremely restless; till Mrs. DUBOIS gave him some sweetmeats, which seemed to quiet his conscience; after which he took some stiff punch, and fell asleep!

About midnight, the PRINCE came to him; and, shaking him by the ears, bad him rise and follow him. His bride was hanging on his arm, in an enchanting dishabille; and did not seem to be in perfect possession of her right senses. ZEMBO mournfully followed the new married pair.

They went silently out of the back door, with cautious steps, and proceeded through the orangerie. No breath of wind was stirring. The moon was on the zenith, surrounded by a pale halo of ghostly lustre. When they had crossed the plantation, they came to a place of sepulture; where the dark cypresses, and lugubrious mahogany, admitted but sparse and glimmering streaks of funereal light; which, falling on the rank foliage, the white monuments and broken ground beneath, presented a thousand dusky shapes, flitting in the dim uncertainty dear to superstition.

Vague terrors seized on the mind of the bride; and she began very naturally to inquire, what was the use of getting out of a comfortable bed, and trailing through the heavy dew, in her undress, to such an unusual spot for midnight recreation.

They now stood near the spot, where her three husbands, several children, and the skin, hair and nails of her first baby, were deposited in a row. At the foot of a tamarind, lay her third son; whose christian name was SPOONER, and who died, according to the tombstone, in a fit of intoxication, aged seven years and six months. On him she had bestowed a greater share of tenderness, than any of her other offspring; and his loss had caused her most affliction. The African, making observations on the grave, began to strip himself very expeditiously, assisted by ZEMBO; who seemed to recover from his blues; and by his activity and eagerness, manifested his expectation of soon seeing some fine sport.

Presently the two genii, or gentlemen, or whatever they were, turned towards the East, and performed certain antic prostrations; throwing handfuls of earth three times over their heads. Then returning to the tomb, they tore up the sods with ravenous fury; and soon drew out the last- mentioned son of the Lady, and threw him on the grass, beside the grave. ZEMBO fell as fiercely upon the corpse, as a hungry dog upon his dinner; but was arrested by the AFRICAN, who lent him a severe box on the ear, which sent him blubbering to a corner of the cemetery.

What added both to the mother’s horrors and admiration, was, that the body of her child was perfectly fresh, and the olfactory nerves experienced no unsavoury sensation from its proximity; while its cheeks were diffused with so deep a tinge of scarlet, that they shone like ruddy fireballs in the darkness of the spot. Her husband drew a golden goblet from beneath a large stone; then, bending over the corse, he scooped out the heart, with his long and polished nails; and, having pressed the blood into the chalice, mingled with it some dark particles, gathered from the newly turned up earth. From the pure and scanty lymph, which gushed near by and flickered like a streak of quicksilvery-light in the moonbeam, he added a third ingredient of the potion. Then seizing his passive and trembling spouse by the throat, and presenting the unnatural mixture to her lips; he cried in a hollow voice, whose very inflection thrilled through each fibre of its victim,—“Swear, or if that is against your principles, affirm, by this dirty blood,—and bloody dirt;—by this watery blood,—and bloody water;—by this watery dirt, and dirty water;—that you will never disclose in any manner, aught of what you have seen and shall see this night. Call them all to witness your wish, that in the moment when you even conceive the thought of perjury, your bowels may burst out, and your bones rot! Swear and drink!”

The affrighted woman murmured, (as articulately as the iron gripe of the monster would suffer her,) that she was not thirsty; and had not breath enough to aspirate such a terrible conjuration. “No trifling;” roared the fiend, “you have not a moment to deliberate.” But his bellowing and threats were vain; and he found to his mortification that he had gotten the wrong sow by the ear, or rather by the throat. She stuttered out, in the most pitiful accents, which would have softened any heart (but a Vampyre has none,) that though she was by no means partial to the delectable confectionary of the pharmacopeia, calomel and jalap, ipecacuanha, rhubarb, and tartar-emetic, she would rather take them all, collectively and individually, than the unchristian decoction he held against her teeth.

Foaming with madness, till the white slaver flowed down his sable limbs, the African hurled MRS. PERSONNE, DUBOIS, &c. &c. on the grave of her first husband, and stamping violently on the earth, it seemed to heave as with the throes of an earthquake. Immediately the tumuli yawned. The ponderous stones and slabs were shaken from their ancient sockets; and the ghastly dead, in uncouth attitudes, crawled from their nooks; with their hair curling in tortuous and serpent twinings; and their eyeballs of fire bursting from their heads; while, as they extended their withered arms, and tapering fingers, furnished with blood-hound claws, their gory shrouds fell in wild drapery around them, transiently revealing their forms, bloated as if to bursting, and often incarnadined with clotted blood, yet warm and dripping!!!

The Lady, (as those who have been in similar predicaments may suppose,) soon lost her recollection; not, however, before she had seen ZEMBO busily employed in tearing up the grave of her first husband; she saw herself surrounded by the spectres, and lost all consciousness.

When reason and sense returned, she found herself in the same place; and it was also the midnight hour. She was laying by the grave of Mr. PERSONNE, and her breast was stained with blood. A wide wound appeared to have been inflicted there, but was now cicatrized. Imagine if you can, her surprise; when, by a certain carniverous craving in her maw, and by putting this and that together, she found she was a—VAMPYRE!!! and gathered from her indistinct reminiscences, of the preceding night, that she had been then sucked; and that it was now her turn to eject the peaceful tenants of the grave!

With this delightful prospect of immortality before her, she began to examine the graves, for subject to a satisfy her furious appetite. When she had selected one to her mind, a new marvel arrested her attention. Her first husband got up out his coffin, and with all the grace so natural to his countrymen, made her a low bow in the last fashion, and opened his arms to receive her!

What were the emotions of this fond couple, when, after a lingering separation for sixteen years, they again embraced each other, with the ardour of an affection equal to their earliest transports, and which their long divorce served only to increase; tenderly inquiring into the state of each other’s health; and the accidents which had befallen them during their disjunction. They forgot even their hunger and thirst; and sitting down on a tombstone, made a thousand inquiries; which, however, they related to family concerns, might not be as interesting to the reader as they were to the parties concerned.

Mr. PERSONNE, however, looked rather glum, when he learned that his Lady had been thrice married, since his decease. But she assured him, that she would never more tolerate the addresses of another suitor: and as for the two husbands, they were rotten enough by this time; as she was confident they had not attended the Vampyre Ball, on the preceding night. As for her sable spouse, she trusted that he would never again appear to interrupt their happiness. But while she was expressing this hope, the gentleman in question, (like his relation below, according to the old proverb,) came upon the ground, with ZEMBO. Mr. PERSONNE, having neither sword nor pistols at hand, armed himself with a gigantic thigh-bone; and warned the BLACK PRINCE to stand upon his guard as he meant to punish him severely.

But ZEMBO, rushing between the parties, raised his hands in a supplicating posture; while the generous monarch, making a Salam to his antagonist, begged him, keep himself quiet, and look behind him. They both turned round on this intimation, when, to the utter confusion of the Lady, her second and third husbands, Messieurs MARQUAND and DUBOIS, arose from the graves, where they had been lovingly deposited by the side of each other. They both advanced to salute their wife; but Mr. PERSONNE, brandishing his thigh-bone, warned them to stand off, as he had the first title to the Lady. Much confusion would have ensued, had not the African Prince interfered. He told the gentlemen that so delicate a point could only be settled in an honourable way; and proposed that Mr. MARQUAND and Mr. DUBOIS should first settle their difference in a personal encounter; after which Mr. PERSONNE might give the survivor gentlemanly satisfaction. To this all parties assented.

As they were already stripped, the combatants shook hands, to show their mutual good-will; and proceeded to action, without further ceremony. Mr. DuBois soon brought claret from Mr. MARQUAND; who, in returning the compliment, fibbed Mr. DUBOIS so severely in the bowels, that he lost his wind; and gasping for breath, smote the air on all sides, without any of his blows telling. He came to the ground, and his bones rattled as he fell. But soon recovering his breath, he made a desperate attack on Mr. MARQUAND’S sconce; and favoured him with so terrible a facer under the gills, that he fell incontinently like a bull smitten in his front; but entangling his own heels with those of Mr. DUBOIS, they both came simultaneously to the ground; striking their heads against different tombstones; and knocking out their own brains.

They rose again, refreshed like the giant of old, by their grappling with the earth, and all the better for the loss of their wits, which, indeed, was a mere trifle. But the AFRICAN, who had no time to see more sport, fixed them to the sod by his superior strength; and ZEMBO dexterously pinned them fast, by driving stakes through their hearts, with a large sledge hammer, (which he carried about his person for such emergencies.) During the opera- tion, their roaring surpassed that which is performed by the Lioness, when bereft of her whelps; but as soon as they were fairly nailed to the counter, they lay motionless and breathless—a horrible pair of spectacles of sin and misery!

The AFRICAN assured the Lady, that she need never fear their second resurrection; and Mr. PERSONNE politely offered to settle their controversy, in any mode most agreeable to the PRINCE:—either to box with him on the spot, or appoint a meeting in future, with pistols, rifles, small or broad sword; or else they might toss up, who should set fire to a barrel of gunpowder. The PRINCE said that quarrelling was all nonsense, and offered his hand; but Mr. PERSONNE refused, saying, “Don’t be too familiar, Blackey;” and renewing his threats of cracking him over the noddle with the thigh-bone.

The generous monarch pocketed the affront. “You have been,” he said, “sufficiently rewarded, for the cruelties you practised upon my person, several years ago. I forgive you, my dear sir, what you performed, and intended to perform on me. Here is your son, who has grown considerably, as you may observe; and I assure you that his education has not been neglected. To his exertions last night you are indebted for your revivification. And as, you may remember, you were embalmed, you have kept quite sweet and fresh ever since your interment. Amiable and virtuous VAMPYRES! may you long enjoy that tranquillity and contentment, which your merit and accomplishments so eminently deserve! A vessel lies in the port, ready to sail for Europe in an hour. The Island is no longer a place for you. Here is money to pay your passages, and all I have to say, is, that the sooner you’re off the better.—Farewell!” So saying he departed, without waiting for the acknow- ledgments of the party.

Mr. PERSONNE and his Lady, whom we shall again call by her first marriage name, did not exactly comprehend what their dingy benefactor meant, by bidding them take French leave of the Island, like pickpockets and outlaws; but, as they were yet wondering at their own existence, like Adam and Eve, the first day of their creation, and as they had reason to believe the PRINCE a potent magician, who could rouse the dead from their searments, and turn the planets from their courses;—for these reasons, they concluded to follow his bidding, without any impertinent scruples. But as the keen edge of their hunger had been whetted by delay, they would fain have taken supper, and digested a little something wherewithal to strengthen them, before they set out.

ZEMBO, who had filled his own breadbasket very lately, and was in no such urgent necessity, protested with all the vehemence which filial reverence would permit, against the unseasonable gratification of their unnatural craving; and recited with just emphasis and good discretion, an extract from Counsellor Phillips’s harangue, about “the cannibal appetite of his rejected altar;” which his parents did not understand, and of course thought very sublime! But even this master-piece of mystical eloquence would have been delivered in vain; had not the boy given other reasons of such cogency, that they licked their lips—cast a longing, lingering look at the grave-yard,—and followed him without more opposition.

They prosecuted their nocturnal march, through closely woven and solemn groves; until they descended into a profound valley, where the light of the pale planet of magic adoration, streamed and quivered on serried files of bright armoury. The leader of the band seemed to have expected their arrival; and mutual tokens of recognition passed between him and ZEMBO. The whole company then set forward their array in silence;—

No cymbal clash’d, no clarion rang, Still were the pipe and drum; Save heavy tread, and armour’s clang, The sullen march was dumb.

By continual descent, they seemed to have penetrated the bowels of a cavern, whose ramifications ran under the sea; as they heard a murmuring roar, as of the ocean, above their heads. The party, by the instructions of ZEMBO, dispersed themselves in different directions; until they had enclosed the interior of the rock where its largest chamber was, to speak catachrestically, so artfully concealed by nature, that no one, not instructed by an adept in its subterranean topography, could ever have detected the secret of its existence. It had been, in former days, a place of deposit and asylum for the Buccaniers; and its situation had been since known only to the Professors of the OBEAH art, who held here their midnight orgies.

Mr. and Mrs. PERSONNE, guided by their son, were placed in a situation, where, through the crevices of the inner partition of the rock, they could observe what was passing in the interior.

It seemed, at first view, a vast hall of Arabian romance; supported by immense shafts, and studded with precious stones; so various and beautiful were the hues, which the different spars assumed, in the light of an hundred torches, blazing in every quarter, and illuminating the farthest recesses of the cave. The walls were decorated with other appendages, which added to the mystery, if not to the embellishment of the scene; being irregularly stained with blood; decorated with rude tapestry of many coloured plumage;—and stuccoed with the beaks of parrots;—the teeth of dogs, and alligators;—bones of cats;—broken glass and eggshells; plastered with a composition of rum and grave-dirt, the implements of NEGRO witchcraft!

At one extremity of the extensive apartment, on a kind of natural throne, sat several blackamoors in sumptuous Moorish apparel; whom, by their swollen forms, and remarkable eyes, Mrs. PERSONNE knew to be GOULS; and among whom she recognised her late husband. The whole range of this vast amphitheatre, sweeping from before the throne, was occupied by slaves, rudely attired, and imperfectly armed with clubs and missiles; a decent platoon of black-guards were posted be- fore the Vampyre monarchs; and, in the centre, a band of musicians performed an exquisite symphony. The soft strains of the MERRIWANG;—the lively notes of the DUNDO;—and the martial accompaniment of the GOOMBAY, made, with their united noises, a discordant harmony, whose powers the lyre of Orpheus could not equal; and which would certainly be enough to frighten all the hosts of Pandemonium.

The oratorio being finished, the AFRICAN PRINCE arose, and making an obeisance to the company,—cleared his throat, and began to address them as follows:—“Gentlemen and Vampyres!”—but the VAMPYRES expressing their resentment against this breach of etiquette, he corrected himself: —“Vampyres and Gentlemen!”—but the NEGROES were no more willing to come last, than the Vampyres, and a loud growl accompanied by a slight hiss, again interrupted the orator. He was not, however, disconcerted, but like Mr. Burke, thundered out an iteration of the offensive sentence.

“Yes,” said he, “I repeat it, Vampyres and Gentlemen? Shall not the immortal precede the mortal?— Shall not those whose diet surpasses the nectar and ambrosia of celestials, precede the ephemeral race, who fatten on the unclean juice of brutes,—the rank essence of esculent productions,—or the nauseous liquor of the distillery? (applause—hear! hear! and see-boy! from the Vampyres—groans from the negroes!) Gentlemen of colour! I appeal to yourselves; shall not the descendants of the Gods be named before the offspring of the earth-born image, whom Titan impregnated with celestial fire?—For Prometheus was the first Vampyre. You must all know, as you have undoubtedly read Æschylus, that the vulture, who preyed on his liver, was neither fish, flesh, nor fowl. He is called a dog, which makes him a quadruped;—he is represented as ερπωυ, creeping, which proves him an insect; and is said to have wings, which shows that he was a bird. Now, from this amphibious monster have descended the Crows,—the Jackalls,—and the Bloodhounds;—the pirate Bat of Madagascar,—and the man-killing Ivunches of Chili;—the Sharks;—the Crocodiles;—the Krakens;—the Horse-leeches;—the Cape-cod Sea Serpents;—the Mermaids;—the Incubi;—and the Succubi!!! (loud cheering from the Vampyres.) From Titan himself, descended the Cy- clopes, and all other ancient and modern Anthropophagi; and, in lineal descent, the Moco tribe of our own EBOES, to whom I have the honour of being related. Those of you, too, are his posterity, who, after your deaths, return to your native land—the true Elysium; where the balmy bowl of the Coco, the soft bloom of the ANANA, and the coal-black beauties of the clime of love, shall for ever reward your fortitude, and steep in forgetfulness the memory of your wrongs. (hear! hear! from the negroes.) But none of these genera or species of our order, must longer engage your dignified and charitable attention. I come to ourselves, full- blooded—unadulterated—immortal bloodsuckers!—To ourselves—whether Gouls,—or Afrits,—or Vampyres;— Vroucolochas,—Vardoulachos,—or Broucolokas—To ourselves—the terror of the living and of the dead, and the participants of the nature of both;—To ourselves—the emblems at once of corruption and of vitality;—blotted from the records of existence, and replenished to repletion with circulating life;—abandoned by the quick, and unrecognised by the dead:—‘at once relics and relicts;— rocked on the bases of our own eternities;—the chronicles of what was—the solemn and sublime mementoes of what must be!’ unqualified approbation from both sides of the house.)

“The estate of Vampyrism is a fee-tail, and may be docked in two different ways. The first mode is the sanguinary practice of perforating the subject with a stake; and this is final. The other is produced by the gentler operation of the narcotic potion you behold in this phial; by whose lenient and opiate influence, the individual is restored to the plight, in which he was previous to his death, or his becoming a Vampyre, and belongs to the OBEAH mysteries.

“But to come to the object of our present meeting. Sublime and soul-elevating theme!—The emancipation of the Negroes!—The consecration of the soil of ST. DOMINGO to the manes of murdered patriots in all ages!—No matter whether the bill of sale was scrawled in French or in English;—No matter whether we were taken prisoners, in a battle between the LEOPHARES and the JAKOFFS, or in a skirmish between the SAMBOES and the SAWPITS;—No matter whether we were bought for calico and cotton, or for gunpowder or for shot;—No matter whether we were transported in chains or in ropes—in a brig, or a schooner, or a seventy-four—the first moment we come ashore on ST. DOMINGO, our souls shall swell like a sponge in the liquid element;—our bodies shall burst from their fetters, glorious as a curculio from its shell;—our minds shall soar like the car of the æronaut, when its ligaments are cut; in a word, O my brethren, we shall be free!—Our fetters discandied, and our chains dissolved, we shall stand liberated,—redeemed,— emancipated,—and disenthralled by the irresistible genius of UNIVERSAL EMANCIPATION!!!” (Unparalleled bursts of unprecedented applause!!!)

Such was the report of this oration, taken down in short hand by ZEMBO; of whose extraordinary sagacity so many proofs have been exhibited; and who was never unprovided with materials for any emergency. The fiery oratory of the Prince communicated such inspiration to the auditors, that the whole mass of their thick blood leaped up with the quickening pulse of anticipated freedom; they danced and sung, with violent gesticulations, like perfect Corybantes; but unfortunately, their Phyrricks were interrupted by the glittering bayonets of the soldiery; who poured in upon them from every quarter, and hemmed them in, with a bristling chevaux-de-frise of steel. The Vampyres, surprised but undaunted, unsheathed their sabres, and drew up in a gallant style, as if determined to die game; being, indeed, assured, that like so many Phœnixes, they would rise from their own ashes, as often as they might be cut down.

A desperate conflict ensued, during which Mrs. PERSONNE observed the phial, mentioned by the Prince, lying on the ground; and very thoughtfully put it in her ridicule. The slaves, seeing how the business was likely to terminate, prudently sneaked off, while the attention of the military was occupied by the Vampyres. The former were violently exasperated to find all their labour so unprofitable; since while they themselves were wounded by every blow of their opponents, the latter, like so many ninepins, were set up, as fast as they were bowled down; bending to the storm, like masts on a tempestuous ocean, and rising again upon the billow in perpendicular triumph.

But, being instructed by ZEMBO, the soldiers pinioned them as fast as they fell; and prevented their rising, by sitting in great numbers on their bodies; though the task was somewhat like that of detaining quicksilver beneath the fingers. The PRINCE, however, still fought desperately. Brandishing a huge scimitar in either hand, he swayed his arms like the sails of a windmill; while limbs, heads, and bodies flew about him, curvetting and dancing in the air; as when the ingenious Mr. MAFFEY pulls to pieces a coach, or an old woman, children, chickens, friars, and petticoats dance about in wild confusion, till the artist’s hand again brings order out of chaos:—Or, as when the renowned knight of the BED-CHAMBER, whose name eternal vases shall record, saw the ungenerous caricature on the wall, wielding a ponderous jug, he smote the innocent tables, chairs, and bed-posts, and strode victorious over the gory field: So fought the PRINCE; till being neatly pricked in the spine, unexpectedly, he soused (as Johannes Porco Latinus remarks) “in principia fundimentalia,” and was immediately set upon by a host. So when a Gœtulian lion is pierced by the light bamboo, overpowered by the hunters, he struggles in his thrall like an Enceladus under Ætna, and dies at last with heart-wrung tears of anguish, and re- verberating roars of hatred!!!

Stakes were immediately procured, and the whole infernal fraternity securely disposed of: as their compeers, described by Homer,

With burning chains fixed to the brazen floors And lock’d by hell’s inexorable doors.

With their bellowings, the vast chambers of the subterranean rung like the caverns of Delphos, when the inflammable air was fired by the crafty priests. The Inhabi- tants of the Island started up from their slumbers in shuddering terror, and believed that an earthquake was rumbling beneath their feet.

Mr. and Mrs. PERSONNE and ZEMBO lost no time in trying the effects of the African’s stolen prescription. Being thrown into a tranquil slumber they were conveyed to their plantation; and awoke the next morning, perfectly well, excepting slight colds in the head. Mr. PERSONNE, having been in statu quo, for sixteen years, was now much younger than his lady; a circumstance, for which she was not at all sorry; and which he himself declared by no means displeased him. The remainder of their life was serene as a tropic night; —illumined by the mild effulgence of domestic love;—fanned by the soft aspirations of peaceful bosoms;—and enlivened by the fire- fly scintillations of rapture!!!

ZEMBO, to whose taste and ingenuity they were indebted for their happiness, and who was baptized with the Christian name of BARABBAS, after an uncle of his mother’s, recorded what the reader has perused. One only circumstance, like one of those claps of thunder, frequently heard in the unclouded sky, passed over the tranquillity of their bosoms. Mrs. PERSONNE’S fourth husband’s child was a mulatto, and of Vampyrish propensities; of which his mother and Mr. PERSONNE were never able entirely to cure him, having used up all the African’s preparation.

The intelligent reader, (if any such there be,) will remember that this narrative commenced with the name of Mr. ANTHONY GIBBONS, of whom nothing has since been said; and whose adventures (to use a FORUM trope) “must remain buried in the bowels of futurity,” until a more convenient opportunity. He is a lineal descendant from the last-mentioned mulatto; and the manuscript, which is now given to the public, was transmitted to him from his ancestors. He is a resident in Essex county, New- Jersey; and candour requires us to state, that he is no relation to his celebrated namesake at ELIZABETH- TOWN; as it is notorious to all who have had the pleasure of witnessing the size of the latter gentleman’s waist, that he has too much bowels for so diabolical a profession; and it is to be hoped in charity, that though he is such a delicate morsel, when he is laid in the sepulchre of his fathers, he may not prove a titbit, to GLUT THE THIRST OF A VAMPYRE!!!

Moral.

In this happy land of liberty and equality, we are free from all traditional superstitions, whether political, religious, or otherwise. Fiction has no materials for machinery;—Romance no horrors for a tale of mystery. Yet in a figurative sense, and in the moral world, our climate is perhaps more prolific than any other, in enchanters,—Vampyres,—and the whole infernal brood of sorcery and witchcraft.

The accomplished dandy, who in maintaining his horses,—his taylor, &c.—absorbs in the forced and unnatural excitement of his senseless orgies, the life-blood of that wealth which his prudent Sire had accumulated by a long devotion to the counter,—What is he but a Vampyre?

The fraudulent trafficker in stock and merchandize, who, having sucked the whole substance of an hundred honest men, is consigned for a few weeks to the sepulchre of the jail; and then, by the potent magic of an insolvent law, stalks forth, triumphant with bloated villany, more elated in his shameless resurrection to renew his career of iniquity and of disgrace,—what is he but a Vampyre?

The corrupted and senseless Clerk, who being placed near the vitals of a moneyed institution, himself exhausted to feed the appetite of sharpers, drains, in his turn, the coffers he was appointed to guard,—is he not, I appeal to the Stockholders,—is he not a Vampyre?

Brokers, Country Bank Directors, and their disciples—all whose hunger and thirst for money, unsatisfied with the tardy progression of honest industry, by creating fictitious and delusive credit, has preyed on the heart and liver of public confidence, and poisoned the currents of public morals, are they not all Vampyres?

The whole tribe of Plagiarists, under every denomination;—The Critic, who. by eviscerating authors, and stuffing his own meagre show of learning with the pilfered entrails, ekes out his periodical fulmination against public taste;—the Forum Orator, who, without compunction, barbarously exenterates Burke, and Curran, and Phillips,—the Second- handed Lawyer,—Scholar,—Theologue,—who quote from quotations, and steal stolen property:—the Divine, who preaches Tillotson and Toplady;—what are they all but Vampyres?

The Empiric, who fills his own stomach, while he empties his shop into the bowels of the hypochondriac;—the Bibliopolist, “who guts the fobs” of the whole reading community, by ascribing to Lord Byron works which that author never saw; the philanthropic Contractor for the Army, who charges more for lime and horse-beef, than his quantum- meruit for the best provisions; who sets up his carriage and his palace, by blistering the mouths and destroying the intestines of thousands,— what are these but Vampyres?

The Professors and Disciples of Surgeon’s Hall, who, when a fine fat corse is rolled out of the resurrectionist’s budget, set up a howl of horrible transport, like he anthropophagous Caribs in Robinson Crusoe;—glut their gloating eyes with the pinguidity and unctuousness of the subject; and whet their blades like Shylock, impatient to attack the ilia,—what are they but Vampyres?

And I, who, as Johnson said of an hypochondriac Lady, “have spun this discourse out of my own bowels,” and made as free with those of others—I am a VAMPYRE!

Vampyrism; a poem

Utrum horum mavis accipe.

SOLOMON LANG & LAUNCELOT LANG - STAFF, Esquires.

GENTLEMEN, FROM the Gazette of August 17th, I am happy to learn, that you have entered into an alliance, offensive and defensive. The ties of kindred and the attraction of sympathy, one would think, ought to have brought about this union much sooner. You are, I believe, of one family;—although I am ignorant from whence LAUNCELOT has taken the Agnomen of STAFF: and I am equally unable to divine, why you have both docked the Nomen of your ancestors, which hath been written LANGEARS from time immemorial. Whatever may be your reasons for disowning your consanguinity to the great GENTILE family, the literary and political worlds rejoice, at least, in this consolidation of the talents of their two most distinguished members. The parity of intellect,—the similarity of taste,—the pungency of sarcasm possessed by both parties, justify the expectations formed by the public, from this conjunction of two such great luminaries. Both are imbued with that modest confidence, connected with the consciousness of superior talent. SOLOMON is formed, perhaps, of more impenetrable stuff: LAUNCELOT has more of the irritability and exquisite sensibility of genius.—Ira quidem communiter urit utrumque; but SOLOMON taketh the driest knocks with a good grace; LAUNCELOT is sooner thrown into a fever, and frets, to use a classic quotation of his own, “like a bear, with a sore head.”—SOLOMON is the better grammarian: LAUNCELOT hath, occasionally, greater command of language. Solomon, as he states, composes ideas and types simultaneously, a la mode de Wooler; Launcelot has the advantage of seeing his ideas embodied in black and white, in their flight from his brains to the printing office.— LAUNCELOT the FIERY, may be likened to the mad ORESTES: SOLOMON the PATIENT, to the faithful PYLADES.— SOLOMON is original in his own way: LAUNCELOT purloins from Swift, and Rabelais and others.—SOLOMON, pilloried in his own press, with no ally but the gray mare, bravely receives the missiles of the whole legion of editors; LAUNCELOT has only to open his mouth, or saw the air, or make a leg, on the literary stage; and all the gods of the Philadelphia gallery, pipe their shrill catcalls in discordant unison.—The castigation of both is equally dreadful. SOLOMON, with his “Good morning, Mr. Coleman,” and “Rot the sarpent,” condenses all his wrath into a laconic sarcasm: LAUNCELOT elaborates books, to the great terror and discomfiture of Gifford, Southey, and Scott. The Quarterly Reviewers received a death blow, because they could not find out the wit of the Scottish Fiddle; and the translator of Juvenal has never dared to show his face, since Mr. LANGSTAFF promulgated to the world, the secret of his origin. Poor Mr. Hall, the editor of the Port Folio,— because he criticised that Poem, (than which, in the language of Croaker, “nothing can be flatter or funnier;”) according to the canons of Martinus Scriblerus,—said Hall has been severely bemauled for his temerity. Many a heart-burning hath he experienced, from the caustic of Salmagundi Redivivus—Godwot!—magni nominis umbra!—On the whole, “none but yourselves can be your parallels.”

Allow me to dedicate the following rhymes to your firm; which will, I have no doubt, stand secure, amid all the present wreck of matters, and crashes of credit. Profound ignorance, bolstered by vanity, sits firmly on it own fundamental principles. Farewell, Gentlemen, accept the considerations of my high esteem—

Fortunati ambo—si quid mea carmina possunt, Nulla dies unquam memori vos eximet aevo!

-URIAH DERICK D’ARCY.

VAMPYRISM;

A POEM,

IN this blest land, where valour burst The links which bound his children erst, And rent the vail whose darkness hid Legitimacy’s monstrous creed;— Where all that since the world began Had sway’d the sacred rights of man, With ancient dreams had past away, And bare in all its weakness lay;— Here reason, in triumphal hour, Asserted too her conquering power: From mountain, valley, plain and flood, She exorcised the shadowy brood

II.

When freshening gales had swept the mists, That wildly wreath’d the mountain crests, No cloudy spectre o’er the storm Reveal’d the terrors of his form;— When evening breezes curl’d the wave No wraiths disturb’d the wandering brave,— When lost in darkness, down the side Of craggy mount their path they tried, And stunn’d by torrents deafening roar, Downward were hurl’d, to rise no more; Men said their balance they had lost, But never laid it to a ghost.

III.

No more, around the guarded gold, Their wake were pirates seen to hold;— No elves the midnight circle tript; No fairies lunar vigils kept; Genii nor devils rose—except, Indeed, that once in godly Salem, Blue laws and preachings seem’d to fail ’em; Bed bugs and rats their slumbers broke, On Beelzebub they laid the joke; Took brandy to expel the fiend, Which answered quite another end! Old ladies then to swim were taught, In amorous league with Satan caught;— And some were hang’d:—but now no more ’Tis fit to rake up that old sore.

IV.

Of late the pole its fiends has sent, The ‘tarnal Yankees to torment; By water witchcraft long distrest, In vain with all their might they guest; Till when their gumption seem’d to fail One captain got him by the tail; But metamorphos’d, (such their story,) The wizard gave the man the go-by Turn’d out a tunny fish to be, The “shallowest monster” of the sea.

And now they swear with might and main, That Monsieur Tonson’s come again: And Marshal Prince, his wife and daughters, Off Nahant, saw him walk the waters. The coachman there and Mrs. Prince Got at the odd fish several squints; But Mr. Prince, for weak his eye was, Look’d at him through a mast-head spy-glass; And took, lest men his word should doubt, An ugly likeness of his snout, With all the bumps the monster bore— He says, thirteen—his wife, two more.

VI.

In Morristown we’ve heard a ghost Wrought wonders to the people’s cost. ’Tis not long since, on New Year’s night, The devil gave three bad boys a fright; Who o’er their whiskey took to cursing, Spoke disrespectfully of his person, His government began to libel, And on the back-log put the bible.— But these things are of little moment, Unworthy of a further comment.

VII.

Yet SUPERSTITION! though thy throne Be rear’d in wilds and woods alone, Where the rude wanderer of the glen Invokes the souls of martial men;— Adores the torrent thundering loud; Calls on the spirits of the cloud;— And o’er the black and bursting heaven, Sees Ariouski’s chariot driven;— Yet, queen of terror’s sheetedband! Fiends worse than thine affright our land, While, stalking from their ghastly homes, The VAMPYRE host infuriate roams!

VIII.

Behold that EXQUISITE divine, Fit to hang up for fashion’s sign. In classic mould his wig is shear’d— SO SAUNDERS says—by all rever’d— (Yet much, with deference, due I doubt If Saunders’ science could make out Apollo’s nob, if slic’d off well, From J—n G. B—t’s bust to tell— Both are stuck up in the Academy— Yet for this query think not bad o’ me.) But to the Dandy—’neath his chin Hog’s bristles fiercely fence him in; One corset back his shoulders throws; His bowels other bones enclose; His ample chest is bullet proof, With cotton cram’d and such like stuff; And for his clothes—but here’s enough. For ere the printer’s tardy imp, Shall bid in type this doggrel limp, The swifter ninth part of a man Shall change the passing mode again; And waists now short shall then be long. All that’s now right shall then be wrong!

IX.

How came that puppy by his gig? What taught him how to look so big? For this behind the measur’d board His father scrap’d the growing hoard— Like him the pyramids who rear’d, To leave behind no name rever’d For, on the bowels of the heap, His revels shall this Vampyre keep; Till vigils late—and generous wine, And—things that suit no lay of mine; Have left him soon to die and rot, Be laugh’d at, pitied, and forgot! His species and his line to trace, And count the honours of his race, Let Mr. Wynkoop soar as high, As Scythia’s Cynocephali, And Mr. Langstaff dive as low As he, and he alone, can go;” Let this quote Greek—that crack stale jokes, The theme is worthy of such folks.

Lo! thro’ the bustling world of trade, What monsters march in long parade; Gorg’d with the substance of a host, Swelling they strut with empty boast; The bubble burst, and credit fled, The money’d quack proclaims them dead;— Bailiffs in haste the corpse escort;— The turnkey says his service short;— Awhile in jail their bones repose, Till lo! the dungeon doors unclose! Insolvent laws, with potent spell, Have wrought the wondrous miracle; Their words of might the dead restore; And even more bloated than before, From that deep sepulchre, to prey On all the gudgeons in his way, Of shameless resurrection vain, The VAMPYRE BANKRUPT stalks again!

XI.

Temples of Mammon! O beware What priests the golden chalice bear! And let not hands profane approach The tempting, costly shrines to touch! Have we not seen what secret stealth Has suck’d the vitals of your wealth, When the weak dupe, quite drain’d himself, Grew hungry for the luscious pelf; Nor did his secret orgies end, Till fail’d a whole year’s dividend. And now once more in open air, Have we not seen the Vampyre pair, Stalk forth, from jails and juries free, In all the pride of infamy?

XII.

O HERMES of these latter times, I hail thee in unworthy rhymes! Great ALCHYMIST, whose art alone Has found the philosophic stone! Thou arch magician! to whose hand Alone is given the hazel wand, That finds the veins of glittering ores, Great DOUSTERSWIVEL of conjurors! What though thine art itself despair, And all the pageant fade in air? While harmless mobs thy doors assail, And blustering butchers curse and rail, Above thine own Flaminian roll’d, Shall thy triumphal chariot hold Its course majestical along, Before the whole admiring throng!

XIII.

O JACOB! JACOB! thou art keen, As thy great namesake;—him, I mean. Who manag’d for himself to keep The best of crafty Laban’s sheep. Immortal VAMPYRE of our age! O might this unassuming page Be read by all, whose fobs must bleed, Thy ravenous appetite to feed Behind thy coach and four might I Roll in an humbler tilbury; Beneath thy wings might D’ARCY’s name Soar to the solar blaze of fame!

XIV.

Plumb from the giddy height I fall, Amid whole herds of Vampyres small, CRITICS, who worn out common place With Author’s pilfer’d entrails grace; The FORUM spouter—barbarous Turk! Who rips up Curran, Phillips, Burke, And thunders forth bombastic centos, Of wasted time the sad mementoes; All those who QUOTE at second hand, And what they quote don’t understand; The PARSON who in sleepy tone Evangelizes Tillotson; All PLAGIARISTS,—concise to be,— Are GOULs of high or low degree.

XV.

The QUACK with brick dust who provides, Wherewith to line his own insides; Who fills up all his hungry chinks, While to a ghost his patient shrinks; THOMAS who vends as Byron’s own The works of doggrelists unknown; Honest CONTRACTORS, who are able To cheat both government and rabble; Who, worthy of the scourge and gallows, Set up their equipage and palace; While blister’d mouths deep curses pour And tortur’d soldiers writhe and roar, Who eat the beef of horses dead, And craunch corroding lime for bread— These, as the sufferers all agree, Are of the GOULE fraternity.

XVI. There are whose tongues around them throw The gall with which their hearts o’erflow, Like those from old Medusa’s head, Where’er its venom’d drops are shed, Earth’s verdure fades;—rank poison springs; Snakes hiss, and dragons spread their wings. Pale Dian’s hopeless votary old, Crabb’d, ancient dames, and bachelors cold, Nay e’en the blooming maid—will hie To the foul feast of calumny; On wisdom, worth, and reverend age, Beauty and wit, they glut their rage; And fondly hope, that as they tear The limbs of murder’d character, Their own fair fame shall prouder swell, Fatten’d upon the feast of hell!

XV.

There is a spot, unknown to fame, Where Vampyres haunt their hold of shame When ENVY left her noxious cave, Along Passaic’s winding wave, (Though Ovid has this fact forgot,) She linger’d by one cherish’d spot; She left her benediction here, The ground became for ever sere; Infected by her scatter’d slime And tainted to all after time; Whoever tastes its baleful food, A Vampyre longs to feed on blood— The blood of honour, virtue free, Fame, confidence and chastity!

XVIII.

But wouldst thou, in thy purpose bold The demon orgies foul behold— Mark where the SONS of SURGEON’S HALL, Upon their foul purveyor call; And lo, the plunderer of the tomb Brings up his budget in the room; Rolls out, their ardent gaze before, A huge, fat negress on the floor; Then with a savage howl they roar! Like cannibals, prepar’d to roast Their pris’ners on some barbarous coast; Like Shakspeare’s Jew, the joyous band Whet their keen blades with eager band; While all the putrid limbs excite Their foul and Vampyre appetite.—

XIX.

And what am I, whose spider skill Has thus contrived this sheet to fill; From my own bowels spun the lay, Until I find no more to say? Before to all I bid adieu, Confess,—I AM A VAMPYRE TOO!

NOTE.

The following lines appeared in the Evening Post of August 14th:

FOR THE EVENING POST. To the anonymous Gentleman, who says he is the author of the “Black Vampyre.”

“Ubi dolor, ibi digitus—one must needs scratch where it itches.” --Burton’s Anat. of Mel.

Dear sir, since jackall-like you prowl, Preying on carrion in the dark, Unseen, I only hear you howl, And know you only by your bark;

I send my shot thus in the air, Aimless, and eke uncharg’d by wit; Yet knowing, it must fall somewhere, And where it happens, it must hit.

Though thus like rotten-wood to shine, Only through night’s uncertain cloak, With sickly lustre—I opine. Is “Low Ambition’s” stalest joke—

Yet men have always had strange ways, Like thee, of picking up stray laurels, When e’en like mine, the wither’d bays Unworthy were of serious quarrels.

And from Vespusius’ mighty theft Even to thy lowest pitch of pride, Thousands from other brows have rest The wreaths, fate to their own denied.

So P—g’s Muse, by Irving boosted, Above the brush-wood scrambled soon; High in the upper branches roosted, And chanted something like a tune.

Now floundering in the bogs alone, With sullen scream she frights our ears; And all, with sympathetic groan, Lament the boast of former years.

So at Commencement have I seen Full many in borrow’d plumes array’d; While but a scurvy show, I ween, The motley mimickry display’d.

Shade of a shadow! now good night! Ghost of a lie! invok’d in vain! Flit through the dim uncertain light, Be nothing—and thyself again!

-URIAH DERICK D’ARCY.

LAUNCELOT, it appears, not relishing the great moral truth alluded to in the above lines, inserted the following low-lived scurrility, in the New- York Gazette of August 17th:

COMMUNICATION.

Fortunate Escape!—The absence of the worthy editor of that “excellent journal” the Evening Post, already begins to be felt in the city. Several small dogs, supposed to be mad, taking advantage of their old enemy’s back being turned, have lately ventured out, in spite of the vigilance of the police, and molested several citizens of good credit and reputation. We understand, that last Saturday afternoon, a small puppy, either mad or very angry, sallied out of the office of that “excellent journal” the New-York Evening Post, and snapped at a peaceable gentleman who was going about on his lawful occasions, but who, for reasons best known to themselves, is very much disliked by the little dogs. Luckily, being an exceeding small pug, he only reached the heel of the gentleman’s boot, the which he gave a fearful wound, which obliged him to go immediately, not to a surgeon, but a cobbler. It is not ascertained whether the gentleman took occasion to kick him or not, but it is said the little animal ran back in the office, howling very much, and took shelter between Mr. B—’s legs.

P. S. The angry little dog wore a brass collar, on which was engraved the name of URIAH DERICK D’ARCY in large capitals.— The public is warned not to beware of him.

#Rjalker reads The Black-Vampyre

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crazydoughnutlady · 2 years ago

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Here, an AU for fable SMP

What if Rae grew up in the end instead of the overworld?

(TW for torture and cult activity)

Soon after Orchid left Rae had been wondering about looking for his sibling when they happened across a manor, owned by a wealthy family. The Mistvales a large group of people who enjoyed farming. Who happened to have a young son around Rae’s age. Rae, who was lost and turned around, looking for his sibling. He decided to stay the night.

That night he was taken to a secret basement, where they decided to try a ritual on him. He survived the first of the nonmembers to survive the first infusion. they then began to keep him below the house, scared that they lose him. He began to gain scars. Wherever he had been hurt and damaged, thanks to the infusion, it would scar over with Enderman skin. On the third and final infusion, one of the members forgot to close the cellar door. Young Centross curious about what was happening in the seller snuck down to watch them do the third and final infusion.

They finished the final ritual, Centross watched as Enderian spoke to all of them. Shocked by the fact that they not only sacrificed a child to her, but the child sacrifice had worked. taking Rae to the end, she realized that he would probably be lonely and the Mistvales, helpfully offered up Centross as a bonus.

Both children were brought to the end, where Enderian gave them a large house with a lot of land to play with. On each of their birthdays, the children could ask for one gift of any kind.

The first gift Centross asked for was one of every plant Enderian allowed him to get the dirt and materials necessary to grow everything. the young boy instantly fell in love with glow berries and filled his entire bedroom with them.

The first gift Rae asked for was an entire library filled with books on other dimensions, the gods, curses, and empty notebooks for him to write in. Enderian also included dictionaries in all known languages including Ender, Telchin, and Vo’lète.

Centross next asked for a single dog. He was given a small dog that he named Hope. She always follows him around while he works in his garden.

Rae asked for an abundance of fabric and thread. He began to make his and Centross’ clothes.

Centrist asked for a clock that responded to the time in the overworld so he could finally nag Rae about a proper sleep schedule.

Rae asked for an animal that would be his companion. Enderian gave him a white cat with dual-colored eyes. He named it Bucket.

This went on for several more years-resets. Rae eventually began to forget the overworld and how he got to the End. Centross didn’t forget how his family gave him up to a random goddess. He didn’t forget how they tortured and sacrificed Rae. He promised himself he never would.

One day Ray, in his curiosity, decided he wanted to go see what was in Perix’s prison he discovered that there was an overworlder in there. And although the overworlder was asleep, he could easily tell that that person had been seriously injured and abused. Making up his mind to do something, he snuck into the alchemy room with the help of Epros.

He found the warden’s journals and how they didn’t match up with the reports and how Perix has been going behind Enderian‘s back and trying to take her place as leader. he instantly delivered this information to Enderian. He also found the love letter however, he decided to keep that bit of information to himself.

Enderian furious puts Perix into the mirror and keeps it as a personal trinket on herself at all times. Rae then advocates for the release, and to apologize to the overworlder, for the unjust treatment as a prisoner. Enderian agrees to his release from prison however, he is not to leave the dimension and will stay with Rae and Centross.

Ghosty who had grown used to the constant abuse and torture wakes up in a very different place with two people he’s never met before.

The more Endermen-like one introduces himself as Rae, he’s taller than Ghosty, but not as tall as the purple-eyed overworlder, he wears nice fancy clothes and has long dark hair and piercing green Eyes Of Ender with round glasses.

The purple-eyed overworlder introduces himself as Centross, he’s easily taller than Ghosty, and a few inches taller than Rae He wears simple clothes, but there’s still very nice. There’s dirt and mud caked on hands that are calloused with work. Obviously, he is someone who is used to working outside though he doubts the soil, in the end is similar to that of the overworld.

As for himself, Ghosty has a ripped and torn jacket. His memories of the overworld are foggy and hazy much to Rae’s disappointment. The ender-hybrid seems to be fascinated with the overworld. Not that he’s complaining these two make far better company than the warden.

#fable smp #short story #rae morningstar #caspian solcrest #Enderian fable smp #AU #end duo #uncle duo #fanfic

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slrsunfire · 2 years ago

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WIP Wednesday: Sneak Peek of Chapter 7 of Like The Dawn

Things have been busy at work and I’m in the midst of trying to apply for a new job, but I promise I’m chipping away at this! I’m hoping to make more progress this weekend and maybe even finish the chapter by then, so keep your eyes peeled.

Have some poor, tortured Hikaku in the meantime. ♥️♥️♥️

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Hikaku found that the closer they got to the fabled Hatake lands, the more restless he felt.

He hadn’t slept well since Kagami and Kei had been taken, and the only thing driving him forward currently was the need to have his son back in his arms once more. For as long as he lived, Hikaku would never forget the terror he’d felt when Izuna had burst into his house to tell him that Kei’s parents had been murdered and that he and Kagami had been taken by the Hagoromo.

Since then, all Hikaku had done was question what he could have done differently to prevent their abduction. He knew there had been nothing to suggest Kagami would be less than safe with Kei’s parents, but he still found himself thinking he should have somehow known better.

The boys had been playing at the edge of a modestly sized lake that fed into the Naka, well within Uchiha territory when the Hagoromo had ambushed the group, killing Kei’s parents in the process. Hikaku still burned with rage over the fact their sentries had somehow failed to miss the incursion upon their territory and had only caught on to the Hagoromo’s presence as the foreign shinobi had been driving the fleeing boys off of their land. The only reason he wasn’t about to hunt down the unit that had been on duty and skin them alive was that Madara was bound to make his displeasure known upon his return, as was his right as the head of the clan’s Outguard Patrol Forces.

That it was Madara’s own men that had allowed the son of his cousin to be abducted, the boy fourth in line to assume leadership of the clan should anything happen to Tajima’s sons or Hikaku himself, only deepened the ire they were likely to face. Hikaku felt no sympathy for any of them, kin or not.

His only consolation the entire time Kagami had been missing was that it had been Madara who had gone after the boys. Hikaku knew there was no one better suited to retrieving the pups, not when Madara was the strongest of their generation and his younger cousin knew just how much it would destroy Hikaku to lose Kagami.

Kagami was his first and only child and all that he had remaining of Seiji, his late mate. Hikaku would not survive it if he lost his son as well. He’d woven every strand of his life to revolve around Kagami in the aftermath of Seiji’s passing, and the binding threads of his all-encompassing love for his pup had inevitably become his salvation amidst the dark depths of his grief.

His son had been the only thing keeping him sane in the days following his mate’s death when little else had mattered to him. It had taken time, but slowly Hikaku had healed, their clan’s curse held at bay a little longer as the days turned into weeks, and then months without incident.

He couldn’t bear the thought of once again walking through too silent corridors, of seeing Kagami’s small futon forever folded up and tucked away, never to be used again. Hikaku did not want his son’s existence to be relegated to mere Sharingan memories and physical mementos like was the case with Seiji. The thought that such a thing could become possible physically hurt in a way that very little else could.

Hikaku just wanted his pup back, alive and whole. And until he could have that, until he knew for certain Kagami was alright, then he’d—

“I believe it’s safest to stop here and make camp for the night,” Takeshi abruptly announced.

Jarred from his thoughts, Hikaku nearly stumbled over his own feet as the large wolf in front of them began to slow down from the run the giant summons had been maintaining for the last three hours.

Tajima came to a gradual halt beside him, along with old Ikuko who had been bringing up their rear. The middle-aged omega glanced out and over the clearing they’d stopped in, already assessing potential threats before she met Hikaku’s eyes and gave a brusque, short nod.

“There isn’t anyone around us for at least three hundred and sixty shaku,” Ikuko reassured their small group. “At least not that I can sense. If we stop, it’s safe for the moment as he said.”

#Like The Dawn bs #momo writing update #uchiha hikaku #uchiha tajima #uchiha kagami #mdtb #a/b/o fanfic #madatobi

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soranihimawari · 2 years ago

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Here in the Neverafter…

A Faery Court AU! & JJK story

Pairing: royal!megumi x f!reader

Word Count: 8.6k

Warnings: 🔞—smut scenes are included in this work

Rating: FMF (fushiguro Megumi fluff)

Neverafter, much like Neverland, is a forest filled with wounderous creatures like fae, fauna, elves, goblins, and even…sorcerers. Time moves slowly here, a half day spent in the forest adds three hours to the material plane. It is sealed away by invisible spells and only those with the blood borne can travel freely between realms until they turn eighteen years of age; afterwards their memories of being in the forest will fade almost immediately once crossing the threshold to return to the villages of mortals and men.

Like tales of old, your story of intrigue, mystery, and love is detailed with the ornate words of

Once Upon a Time:

There was a fair young lady born within the walls of a village. Her parents were charming and full of joy for their first born was graced with hair as light as the silver of the stars and eyes the deepest shade of the midnight sapphire skies. A neighbor had come over to grace the family with a blessing of the fey around their meadow of wildflowers in the easternmost field outside of the communal farm lands. It was a week since your birth as the party for a name-sake day would be held as is customary for this part of the kingdom.

“Glad tidings to the Mino-family,” the neighbor said. Their arms draped in long haori fabrics made from the threads of love and life.

“Keisuke-san?” your father is perplexed, yet your mother, whose breast you still are suckling on, bows in reverence. “Yer a fae?”

“Hai, that I am,” the neighbor smiles as your mother allows the person to come forth. “You had invited me and my kin, so a blessing we shall bestow upon the fruits of your union.”

An infant you coos as your mother tucks her breast away.

“Gentle kid will you be, kind hearted and true to your virtues,” Keisuke says, the swaddle blanket shimmers as you stare with large infantile eyes with a smile. “May you find love and friends early in your adult mortal life.”

Your mother thanks Keisuke as your father answers the door once more for one final late court member’s arrival. A dark crowlike raven man crosses the threshold of your parents’ home. He was the local elven raced butcher who had assisted in making sure your mother had enough meat while you grew in her womb; his mistress was known as the empress of corruption in the court of fey–his gift was a sword and bow.

“Both noble weapons for a young tactician from this humble human village to take up when the time calls for it,” the elf begins. Keisuke acknowledges his gifts, though perplexed more so than your father who is excited to teach you the tricks of raising your own cattle, yet hunting is a skill you will need when you first leave home for celebrations (in case of emergencies).

“Ah, and my lady sends her regards as she is too busy cursing a princess’ family for not inviting her to the royal christening,” the elf continues. “However, when the girl should marry, her lover will be a fair ruler, that is my lady’s gift–a love pure, true, and fated in the heavens.”

Your parents stare at their two neighbors who bestow gifts of virtues on you, which if any other mortals would have realized the lesson the fable would have told. Of course aside from your eternal living godfathers, your parents and grandparents were in attendance as well. Your beauty is natural as another kind fairy of lost things, a white haired raven familiar, Karasu, waits outside for an adult to invite her inside. Your grandmother greets the tailor with an auspicious missing-canine smile. (over the years, you are thankful for your parents observing and believing of the fey court in your small village), Karasu shakes her shoulders. Her mole by her lips is more pronounced as your mother presents the sleeping babe to her.

“My, my,” she peers into the blanket to see the softened babe asleep. “What a gorgeous little human. You did well, YLN-sama…Ah!” With a snap of her fingers, Karasu pinches the cloth and your small humble rag-dress.

“Do we have a name yet?” she inquires.

“Makoto…Mako,” your father looks at his wife with a proud smile. “Right?”

“Mm,” your grandparents and mother concur.

“Well, I, Karasu, of the fey aviary court, bestow the gift of everlasting beauty upon your daughter. May our gifts protect and guide her until the end of her days.”

Together the magics they are familiar with cause your family home to become aglow with mystic light and even bioluminous fauna.

Nineteen years later, you are grown. You have been sent with your father on an outing to the now better-developed city center. The village over the years, more so in the past decade, had been absorbed by the kingdom of the southern isles in the outcomes of a near civil war.

Regardless, your outing to the town square has your father giving you some extra pocket money to buy a small pastry. Your mother may have been a bit more forgiving, your gather your father will give you anything so long as you wish. Their neighbors, who stop by every year on the eve of your birthday, has also filled your head with a little more fascinating stories filled with myths of witches and perhaps in your mind’s eye you’d love to be considered a champion of the enchanted forests from which they were born. Even Karasu, who with your parents’ blessings, had gone out with you to the forest to enjoy your first stag hunting trip solo. You were seventeen.

Alas, that was two years ago, so flash forward, you are now in front of the library and cafe with a wide smile. Your friend, a newer mature face since childhood, has his back toward the glass door. You fix your hair behind your ears, straighten your posture and as you smooth out the wrinkles in the sleeve of your own form flattering haori, you inhale deeply. Upon your exhale, you reach to open the door. It chimes in the wind as you gracefully glide across the floor as your skirt swishes quietly grazing the floor where your flat shoes creep up toward the left of your most trusted companion–young Megumi had, in the earliest years of his life, had been kidnapped by a mercenary hired by the crown. His features seemed familiar of the aging queen who rules the south. She was too old to bear children safely, yet Megumi was raised as a royal though he was received in loving arms at the ripe age of two on the palace doors. The mercenary for hire had made an unworldly deal with a sorcerer of darkness and in that time, an infant of the crown was maimed in a carriage accident.

Megumi, lovely babe he was, had enchanted blood in his veins. He was borne of fae and magical parents, yet to survive in the human world, his mercenary and now most respected teacher was loyal to the Yaga family whose eldest daughter was between realms, fast asleep for the proximity of the years Megumi has been alive. His powers of shadows and darkness manifest as young as six, yet now, thirteen years later, he finds his acquaintanceship with you quite endearing. You are fearless, outspoken in times of injustice in a town shaming a half-ling, your voice, hoarse with outrage, roars for the townspeople to stop the throwing of rotting food to your sweet bosom buddy, Junpei, cursed with body shifting blood, you free him from the contraption. The townspeople, Megumi included, curious with instantaneous disgust as you help Junpei stand make way for you to pass. From then on, Megumi tries to escape the sight of the mercenaries Gojo and Nanami as his personal guard, Itadori heads to training grounds, to hang out in the village furthest away from the castle. He could have done without Yaga’s intimidating presence nor his masterclass of magic and trickery. The unfortunate truth was discovered by him on a whim in the hall of records when trying to cure his sister, it was a druken Gojo who spills the truth when he went to check on the ‘sleeping’ prince’s room. Regardless, as you steady Junpei to lean against you, you stare through Megumi with a stern look, hobbling away into the flower field. That day forward, the young prince learns to classify his emotions as love, purity of such a thing is questioned by Nanami who begin to notice his changed behavior as another suitor is sent away at the door where megumi begins to research the history of the awful curses and faes of darkness. He doesn’t know how close you are to the fae and elven witches of old, it’s not like he needed to know blessings of luck and good fortune that rest in your semi-enchanted features. Your natural brightness as you befriend him one day at Karasu’s tailor shop cements Megumi’s needs to know you more intimately.

“Ya should really try the blueberry tart,” you say when you announce your presence. The baker’s assistant, Nobara, nods while she asks you which tea you prefer this afternoon. “Friendship brew please with another cup for my dearest Megumi-chan.”

You smile and when you’re about to drop some silver coin, Megumi has a minute pouch in his hands he places on the counter.

“I got it, go find a seat,” Megumi whispers to you, ensuring you do not see how harsh the sun dyes his cheeks. The baker’s assistant as you walk away, starts to look from you to him back to you again. Then, she takes an opportunity to tease the strapping young man who comes to wear the same shades of plush blue as your eyes. You sit in the solarium as Megumi is heard stoically saying, “not a word to YLN-san.”

You want to pry as he sits across from you after pulling out a chair in the solarium, yet you don’t. Maybe it’s because you’d confirm his heart wants you two to be as one, so you save the question for another date. An innocent snack date commences as two friends subtly flirt back and forth. Your father, with satchels filled of fruit and vegetables in his hands, passes the cafe with a twinge of a smirk on their face. He leaves his child behind with a sweet thought of the young man coming over to formerly ask for your hand; its been far too long since your dear friend from girlhood, Junpei, had he himself disappeared into the forest all those years ago. You had retrieved a note with your name on it the eve after Junpei’s immediate disappearance made you stay up late at night, crying of joy for learning that he was alive and well with shifters who took him in.

Of course, loneliness had taken its toll on you when none other than Megumi had accidentally ripped your daily garb as he begrudgingly perused the village. It was his first outing after losing Itadori Yuuji in the crowd of travelers. So many horses and carriages for hire blocked the young knight’s line of sight, yet Megumi jogs between families yelling a triumphant, “Four hours! Be here and we can return home, Itadori.”

In such a time, your dress was torn by a quite rude nobleman who seemed to have steady your off balance figure back to a straightened one in a smooth fluid motion. Not very many people had used archaic words of love until Megumi laid hands on your silken hair and the way you’re chest to chest with him as your hands gripped his tunic; your developed chest breathes rapidly out of shock of this bold stranger, yet when you refocus, you’re dangerously closer, almost a hair’s breadth from being nose to nose with the young man, whose breath is uneven. Megumi introduces himself as you clear your throat when you push him off of you–”I’ll pay for the skirt’s repair lady…”

“You better,” you sound bitterly annoyed then. Of course, you both were on the cusp of turning sixteen then. Now, with you both about to be twenty years young, you sit across from each other as the afternoon drolls on. You fill his head with stories about your time with your three godparents in the realms of the Neverafter; there was wonder and terror as the faeries begin to ring in the summer breezes. You’re quite an honorary distinguished guest as you are considered a rare bloom this festive season. As you explain, Megumi is enthralled by your tale of how you become the child chosen to represent the magical realm to the mortals. It was a longshot, as one might have guessed, but Megumi had begun to feed you gaps in his childhood as you peruse the book of names seeking some peace for the noble lod.

“Our tea is almost done,” he says as you pour the last bit of the warm liquid in his cup.

“So it seems,” the tart is now only pastry crumbs. Leaning back in your chair, you seem to relax your shoulders. Megumi’s eyes are dilating in wanton lust as the long rose gold chain with rare gemstone flowers he had sent Nanami to the pearl jeweler fashion a necklace for your previous nineteenth year, decorates your decolletage. The pendant disappears in between the valley of your breasts.

“Oh my gods,” he mumbles to himself. “I want to make you mine.”

You arch your brows at him, sort of cheekily amused by his thoughts being said aloud.

“Bold of you to assume I would refuse, Fushiguro Megumi,” you reply. The blood drains from his flustered face and it rushes southward. You stifle a yawn before you rise out of your seat. You gave him his original name now, it was the only hint the young prince would have when he returns to his home, a bit embarrassed by how his body reacts to your womanly form. Your silhouette, after you press a parting kiss atop his head when you part, livens his heart a bit. Megumi had enough ammunition to grill his adoptive guardians as to why they took him away from his birth family. Gojo steps into the court one day to ease the blow of the pride jewel of the fabled lost fae prince. Familiar hounds had been summoned from shadows.

“It is a tale of a prince and the pauper,” Megumi’s mother-figure says. “Our daughter, your sister is ill with an affliction caused by an aunt of yours. Malediction causes her to sleep for a century, boy, so we did what any selfish humans would do: take a bewitched child of the forest and raise him once we made sure his loose duke father had his mother unbeknownst killed after birthing you.”

“Lies! We are nothing more than strangers thanks to you,” Megumi is equally appalled and disgusted. His brow furrows in woeful melancholy as Gojo suggests pause and a breath as he adds his side of responsibility in causing the lad grief. “What made you even think of taking me of all people?”

“...we needed royal blood boy to take our place when we leave the realm of the living,” the old king strokes his beard.

The dogs bark and whine, confused why their master looked a bit more…feral.

“I need to leave. Do not send anyone after me,” Megumi exhales as his voice returns to a less volatile state. “Itadori! Ready my horse.”

“Yes, your grace.”

Megumi bows, excusing himself from the court, mentioning he will return with a level head when he feels ready or has come with a lover seeking marriage blessing. Gojo moves aside as he watches the young royal, whom he and Nanami helped raise on the training grounds, when Yaga nods, defeated for this day was when the old king loses his once treasured son.

Only in Megumi’s mind and body wishes to know and see is you–the first and only human at this point he trusts. Your kinfolk are by extension the ones he knew he could rest comfortably with for a while. Imagine your surprise when as the moon rises, you are still awake, reading a new copy of Master Herr Dosselmeyer’s copy of a nutcracker tale. You had come home with a flustered appearance just before supper explaining to both Karasu and your mother what your father had gossiped about earlier. Keisuke and his contemporary as well seemed to have sent shockwaves to your father’s heart when they confirmed how a noble youth may have crossed paths with his only daughter. Karasu and your mother giggles over tea, sharing knowing womanly looks when your torn dress was mended by a stranger. However, that is neither here nor there when a horse whinnies not too far from your family cottage. Your parents are already fast asleep when you pause your reading. Instinctively, you grab your saber by the door when a firm deft knock raps at your door.

Ever so quietly, you can barely hear Megumi’s voice sounding so forlorn and to you…he seemed a bit shaken and lost. You open the door, inviting him inside. He greets you with a hug, surprisingly different from the first trip and catch embrace he did at the town transit center, there is a desperation in the way he clutches your dressing gown. There is an underbust vest with a whalebone you wear that his slender fingers desperately hold on to. He’s so distraught to you, even as you maneuver your arms to comfort him, passing a hand over the back of his softened hair. His breathing slows as he listens to your voice reminding him to breathe slowly, in time with you.

“Megumi,” you nudge him away from your shoulder for a moment. “I’m going to make you some warmed milk, ok? You can sleep here and we can figure this all out in the morning.”

Morning comes, you left a note for your parents to explain why Megumi had left a dog of his with them for a little bit. You explain in curt detail where you had gone and when you return, you may be a bit older.

‘No, not eloping,’ you pen. ‘On a quest to return Megumi back to the fae court.’

“Honey! Get Keisuke and the butcher!” Your mother runs out the door, in the distance she sees your riding cloak flutter in the horizon by the border of the faery forest.

“What?! Wh—” he reads the letter and grips hours wife’s shoulders.

“Our daughter challenges the trials of love,” he presses a kiss on your mothers trembling brow. “Remember it wasn’t long before you gave up wings for a mortal man before,” she relaxes as she awaits her child’s safe return. “I suppose you’re right dear. She is more capable than we give her credit for.”

The guard dog whines before your father gives him a head pat.

“Your master will return, believe in him and her.”

Meanwhile you’re seated behind Megumi; a bow and quiver strapped to your back. The horse is a night-mare smoked gray agile in galloping has your arms around Megumi’s natural waist as you gasp, before regaining your breathing. Horse riding is something you haven’t done recently, but you do it for festival competitions, but when your old crush-friend shows up distraught at your doorstep, you do what you think is right.

Hours go by as the sun rises higher in the sky, you calmly pull the reins to slow the horse to a gentle trot.

“Megumi, calm yourself.”

Leaning back into your figure, a defeated sigh escapes his lips.

“We could get lost,” you for warn.

“Wouldn’t be the worst thing,” he shrugs with a lip jutting out.

You chuckle, poking his cheek.

“I know, but we’re in mystical lands now,” your voice reaches a vibrato that pulls him to a dreamlike rest. You hum a lullaby your mother sang when you learned of your parent’s connection to the lands you traverse with.

It’s a few miles later, a curious rabbit in a petticoat bows to you. He seems to be later off a coronation of a young miss, but he offers you a sweet flower crown to the beautiful boy making in your arms. The reins now held by you in one hand and with the flower crown resting upon Megumi‘s head. You smile at the regality it gives him.

Next, upon your travels after you wave off the rabbit down the mushroom kingdom signage, you see a rather tall pearly-ivy skinned woman; sharp features and wide neutral smile waves to the mare. You pause for a moment to converse the fae queen of dark magic.

“Godmother,” your voice is sickeningly poise and rigid as you bow your head.

“Daring child,” she has a predictive orb for her eyes only. “You love him, don’t you?”

“Love? Hmm…” you glance down at the askewd crown and the sleeping prince. His striking features bring a warmth to where he lays exhausted from the night’s antics when the truth he spills last night. “I suppose so, godmother. Who else would leave their home to return their friends to where they’re original families originated?”

Your voice lowers to a whisper, while you raise a free hand to caress his jaw.

“Love, my dear,” your godmother sees the vision of your life with the man here sleeping. “Can be a curse if it proves capricious, but with what you feel for His Highness it’s written in the stars.”

You nod, mouthing a thank you. The lady-like fae entity ruffles your hair.

“Come this way again little bird, I’ll give you a just reward for returning the princeling home.”

You agree out of obligation to the butcher’s mistress. However, as the afternoon continues, Megumi wakes as you guide his steed toward a well traversed path. Groaning, he sits up, half turning to you.

“Where-where are we?” His voice is groggy with fatigue.

“Deeper in the woods where I spent my youth,” you provide comfort he needs to hear. “I learned a lot about my mom’s realm.”

Another hour or so of riding along the path, you find yourself nodding off as you transfer the reins back to Megumi. Megumi doesn’t question the flowers on his head, he just presumed you paused to pick a few to strewn across his dome. You doze off comfortably like a child against his shoulder, humming a short lived, “wake me up when you want to break for camp. Grandfather’s home is a few minutes west…”

Megumi heeds your words until he does see the tailor in their fae creature form flutter about on the lawn of a posh mansion. Ostrich carriages waiting for use line the driveway. Here, your grandfather waves to signal Megumi to come forth. Elvish features and gaunt healthy elderly skin adorn the man, who for lack of better words seems to have passed on the silverly essence of your hair to you.

“Welcome to our family chateau,” your grandfather’s voice wakes you. “You must be that princeling the birds have been speaking about since my granddaughter here bright you into our threshold.”

By this point, the night-mare had been dismounted and you along with Megumi sit across a tired old man. You hold his hand firmly before you recount the night before.

“Fushiguro’s boy? Well that changes things,” your grandfather suddenly seems more lively than before.

“You know my father? Yaga tells me my mother is dead,” your eyes dart between the man to your right and your grandfather who hums.

“She was as pretty as she was wicked smart,” your grandfather muses. “She and i were classmates once in the school of magic and thievery…”

And so the afternoon and evening spent here in your grandparents’ abode appeased the prince who learned the stories of his mother’s love, though ill fated, and of his father who gave him to Gojo to help teach the boy to be a man of his word.

“Exorcisms done by a clan member as talented as the man of shadows is a hefty price,” your grandfather explains. “But Toji was the best in your father’s class dear. The mortals are a twisted group, turning to us for answers i. The realm of sorcery. Your fathers were once close friends, yet in a time of great divide, some darkness seemed to slip into the material mortal plane, Toji fell through the realm cracks sealing his fate and memory here amongst those that survive. The curses, as they are known in our tongue, are the very ones that keep you safe—the mare, the shadow dogs—you being entrusted with care under Gojo’s tutelage and King Yaga’s advice to your single father, Megumi-kun, was ironclad. A deal written in gold ink with all the six eyes Gojo’s technique can create, it cannot bend nor break. Only in unnatural death can you return here fully prepared to walk the line between cursed mortal and immortal.”

Your grandmother returns from the gardens with Karasu’s cousin. You move to greet her as you explain your sudden visit to which the instantaneous reply was as follows:

“Stay as long as you need. We have the records in the library if you wish to see them, Highness.”

“Mm,” Megumi nods before exuding himself from the parlor where you were seated to greet the lady of the house.

“My my, I can see why our dear grandchild loves you,” the woman smiles. “Believe it or not, Mako is a part of this world too.”

You nod when Megumi quirks a brow at you.

“Mother gave up her wings to stay with my father in the material plane.”

Megumi mumbles, “I see.”

“…don’t look so forlorn,” you continue. “I’ll be by your side whichever realm you choose to reside in.”

You smile wide as your grandmother begins to introduce and instruct the staff at the chateau to prepare the guest rooms on the second floor.

“AND MAKE SURE THEY ARE ADJOINING ONES AT THAT!”

You blush furiously as you declare you’ll wash up first seeing as the early dusk is upon you. You had been snacking along the way here after you had dug into your bag to find the sandwiches you packed for Megumi and you enjoyed earlier in the day. Yet here you are, delightfully soaking in a rose water infused bath. The maids wait to scrub you clean all except for one who manages to rub lemon citrus oil over your hair.

“The rogue with you is quite handsome miss,” seems to be the general consensus as they try and dress you for supper.

Megumi on the other hand removed his coat and is delightful to find loose tunics that fit him. The initials on some of the patched cloaks and other shirts have a script of the previous owner—his father stayed here free of charge—it makes sense the old man and crazy bird woman would have you in separate, yet adjoined rooms because lords above, when you open the door to his side of the room, you see a half dressed Megumi next to the bedpost. You don’t make a sound, instead you very, unconsciously, stare at his broadened features, a few scars here and there from rampant training on the grounds of the castle run deep up and down his shoulder blades.

“Perhaps you should say something,” Megumi teases you; he heard the door open right before slowly pulling the shirt overhead.

You say something smart only to suddenly be met with Megumi’s bold lips reaching yours in mere moments. His hands steady your neck as he tilts your face higher and in one movement, his lips part the instant you gasp out of surprise; his left hand slides past your ear and firmly holds a your hair as long you let him; your arms hold the side of his shirt the more you let him guide your back to a wall. You’re about to return his kiss when he reminds you to breathe, nose brushing against your jaw, his lips soft and captivating press against the juncture where your ear and neck meet.

You tilt your head to one side, a hand of yours slips under the tunic and grazes his cool skin. There does your fingertips surpass his abdominals feeling the defined bones of his hips were when he growls a low, “patience morning star,” you know where the coarse hairline leads. You meekly agree with him to continue wherever you left off, his sweet mouth a bit kiss swollen by you nipping his mouth shut when a butler announces dinner is served.

Megumi affirms his thanks while placing a finger to your lips; you automatically pursed said lips of yours, almost gently nibbling on it.

“What happened later?” Megumi caress your face with a haphazard curled finger.

You brush past him, shaking your head, “if you and I expect to keep each other’s bed warm, we’re going to need good food at some point.”

You bow most graciously, humming a tune as you comb a hand through your hair. Megumi follows you out sooner than later, almost bumping into an end table with a tethering vase. He catches up to you, a bit annoyed you left him wanting more of your touch; he compliments your attire as the dining hall is set for four guests. Your grandparents had arrived and taken their place first prior to inviting you both to join them. Over the course of the meal, you mention you might stay a week or so waiting to see what the apparent friend-lover-prince wishes to do.

“Visit my mother’s home. Perhaps explore the fae realms and see elven towns before departing,” your hear Megumi quietly speak in thoughtful sentences. You agree it seemed a bit short of a list until you recall a festival happening then:

“The night parade happens this week, perhaps we should outrun the trickster court? I hear lord Geto will be making an appearance.”

Your grandfather looks uneasy while your grandmother silently looks at him with a bereft smile.

“What a wonderful plan. Take some to rest and relax all you wish. Don’t worry about your parents. We’ll send word in the morning of your safe arrival.”

Dessert and coffees were brought to the table almost immediately after the sixth course (it was a prefix welcoming dinner comprised of smaller traditional fae plates). When dinner was over, your grandfather and grandmother bid both of you goodnight. They mention something about planning for the parade with masks and whatnot.

Megumi rises up from his seat first before extending a hand to you. The moonlight spills from the rather large stained glass windows of the dining hall as you take his hand suggesting a walk in not much smaller when compared to the rest, eastern garden.

There, you wander side by side, a hand never leaving yours alone, conversing about everything, then nothing again.

In between the garden doors and labyrinth style path, Megumi presses short kisses along your temple before you subtly take the hint. You wonder if loving him, body and soul, is the right thing to do. You heard about how dangerous time suspends in the never after realms, and though you’re both in your prime, you can’t help but ask if this is your fate—sweetly caring for a fae with sweeter demon dogs who try as he might to be intimidating, is quite reserved in movements. Even now, when you’re escorted back to his room, with a soft nudge from him, you twist the ornate knob.

Lazily languid and painfully slow kisses pick up the night’s activities. You’re young enough to understand where this leads, old enough to make sure your partner is satisfied in more ways than one. Megumi silently raises you in his arms, once you give him the ok to proceed. He’s stronger than you realize as your skirt bunches around behind your knees.

“What?” Megumi’s breath tickles your exposed collarbone. His lips trace a love line there before you bury your head against his shoulder for a moment. Your hands card through his hair as he feels your teeth graze his pulse point. His hands stiffen as you sink your teeth leaving a lover's bite there. His breathing changes as a groan and curse leaves his mouth.

An exasperated, “careful there,” warns you to keep soothing the ache as you adjust your posture to sit comfortably in his arms. You’re hovering slightly above him, agreeing to be careful as he says. You sheepishly lie as you bite into him a little more aggressively than before and for what it’s worth, his hands clutch the underbust you wear almost tearing the threads apart in an unwarranted yet eager lust. His lips when they find yours, violently kiss you hurriedly; his heart unwavering beyond repair as your hands remove his tunic from his body—it is tossed to the ground as words of “can’t get ‘nough,” and “cut this off me~hah~now,” (in reference to your underbust vest). Megumi practically rips off the piece, freeing you a little more.

Softly sucking on his tongue, you nearly bump foreheads to signal where the ottoman or couch was. Instead, taking a minute to appreciate the wet spot in between your legs, your lovers hand disappears under the side where your leg is most exposed. Rough, yet sturdy, fingers glide higher. High enough to make your breath stutter as his eyes remain open to watching how you react with pinched brows, sighing his name as he lets you roll your hips a second time, this time his hand cups your sex and you chew your bottom lip. An embarrassing whimper of a command makes him wish to sit down with his hands so willingly ready to give in to a desire mostly dreamed of. You feel your essence nearly coating the fabric of your undergarments where a warm hand waits to play with you, yet in your reviere of being teased with, do you notice how Megumi bends to sit with your knees touching the plush mattress of his bed.

You’re straddling the man as he tells you to breathe slow and deep as his fingers, curious and true, slip into your sex with ease. “Come hither” motions and annoyingly wonderful noises has you rutting into his hand the more you ride his hand as they say. You open your eyes just a crack to see how amused the dog beneath your body is and he has sunken flustered cheeks. Megumi says nothing as the tension builds and you silently scream into his collarbone as he makes you fall apart, nails scratching his shoulder as you cry from the way he has obliterated your virtuous need to be fucked thoroughly by a hand.

“Shh,” he whispers. His glossy hand presses against your abdomen. “You did me proud. You’re gorgeous like this, you know that?”

You meekly nod, catching your breath. In that subtle movement, you feel something else protrude beneath you. He wants to continue, or at least his body does, so you tell him when you’re mentally ready to move on, to lay on his back.

“My turn to make you writhe beneath me,” Megumi chuckles at that, the belt and sliding off of fabrics is heard as you take in his beautifully sculpted nude form. You’re no better, removing an outer skirt to reveal the nightly sleepwear and corset work to keep you upright in your sleep, the figure of your body is one to behold—at least the Venus statues abroad were true to form in terms of thickness. You see how defined and constricted the royal is and as you are given the go-ahead to pleasure both him and you, you begin to let your hands become familiar with this terrain. Scars from the past and bruises from training earlier that week are kissed and traced over delicately with affection; Megumi reaches up to steady you by your throat before reiterating a silent, “I trust you,” as you raise your skirt a little higher when you align yourself with his member, slightly raised and leaking to one side.

At first contact, you see him devour your contorted face, “it’s just the t-ip for now, have t’get used to it first,” is all you say the last word having you half-sheath his length in you. His other hand steadies your shoulders until he realizes you’re a bit closer to his thighs now than earlier. Gods you’re warmer and gummier than he thought; when reading books on science and sex, Megumi knew the mechanics of love making thanks to Gojo being a ladies man, yet when it came to you—seeing you, heading your advice to move with your hips rather than against, he picks himself up off the mattress to hold you flush against him. You’re driving him mad. And as he shakes with vitality to find his high, he decides to look you in the eyes so you remember what you do to him. He breaks, almost begging you to climax with him, but alas you too, it seems will wake with the need to fall even further together.

Sheets ruined still basking in post coital bliss, you caress his face. He has this wicked smile as do you; his cheek is regaining color and though you’re still loosely conjoined still, you mention he should remove himself from you.

“Already?” he feins annoyance.

“I’m sure the maids outside my door are waiting to hear about how well you fucked me,” You smirk. He pinches the fat of your bottom, before removing himself from your core, you turn over on your back with a satisfied smile on your face.

Megumi, though, loosely drapes himself with a sheet as you settle beneath the sheets. The soiled ones are not as ruined as you think, yet Megumi returns with a sort of bath towel. The night’s activities with him had worn you out, so much so that you’re already asleep when he calls your name. Caring afterward can be done in the morning, Megumi thinks. For now, he settles beside you, sort of lifting you up and resting your head against his exposed chest; an arm of his shields you from the worries of the dawn.

It takes ten days of staying at your grandparents' chateau before Megumi makes a choice. Of course, coitus happened but only that night, but the morning thereafter and the following night, etc., yet you asked Megumi in the quiet setting sun what his plans are now that he knows his parents, true parents. You sit atop the ottoman in your room this day, Megumi sits across you, holding a biscuit cookie while contemplating his answer:

“… I think I’ll stay here,” you almost drop your saucer, you reflexive movement causes you to catch it in your hand.

“I-I see,” you aren’t angry. No, your shoulders sort of slump. Megumi asks if you’re ok and you try not to look at him directly, afraid of what offensive thing you could say to him.

“Of course ‘m not. You’re choosing to stay here,” your voice wavers like you’re about to break into tears at any moment and for someone who has yet to experience love pure and true, Megumi doesn’t understand how uneasy you’re making him right now.

“We can still be together; it’s not like I’m going to stray from you,” he tries to soothe the ache with words, yet it makes you brush away an embarrassed tear.

This time you look at him and with glass eyes, Megumi truly understands what it means when someone says, ‘’my soul cries.” So, he moves to kneel in front of you to calm you, holding your hands as you explain that by choosing to remain here in this realm, he cannot explicitly return to the material mortal plain.

“But you can,” he is hopeful when he says this.

“Megumi, dear sweet prince of the people,” you lean down to rest your forehead against his. “It’s not that simple. I came with you to provide answers for your questions about your true lineage. You received your answers, yet this visit would be my last until I depart from the land of living,” you go on to explain that mortals don’t do well in the forest. Even if your maternal parent was to hail from here. There are stipulations to fae magic and the courts that comprised the forest of magical entities such as pixies, elves, goblins, etc.

“Sorcerers?” He adds.

You hum. “So I have to leave. I cannot return unless invited back by a caregiver whether it be you or otherwise.”

Your life is in the village; your parents, other friends, even young Itadori and Nobara have become lovely acquaintances too. “I can’t stay because I’m not from here. I smell of mortal plane-ness. I have no claim here.”

Megumi reiterates why he wants to stay; it’s because he is born here does his magic with shadows truly shine.

“I-I know,” you smile, backing away a smidge to press a kiss on his temple. “But when I depart for home tomorrow, I won’t have my memories of my time here with you. That’s all the more tragic, no?”

At this Megumi stands abruptly. He begins pacing and you, you sit there sighing because though you don’t have any claim to the lands here, the magic surrounding the barrier separating the worlds via the entrance borders of the forests instills a memory block motif. You’ll only be able to recall someone helping you out of the forest, not the passionate nights spent with him; the discoveries you help him find about his parents in the records of your grandfather’s library study; the flower crown now wilted on the end table there by the door.

None of the shared intimate moments in the garden, just a warm light as you stare at the forest fills you with confusion and heart break most foul.

“Will I forget you too?” Megumi, pauses his pacing as you rise off the ottoman to face him. You hold his shoulders steady when you shake your head. “Unfortunately the curse works only on the mortal, you’re the sorcerer that belongs here, ‘m not.”

Silence, for the stunning effect it has washed over you both. A sudden reality that you are to leave at dawn and he chooses to stay here to not only hone his craft, visit relatives here while he sets up his abode (according to the deed his mother had left him), forces the following words to be said out of the frowning features of a prince who wished to keep you close to him.

“What do we do?”

“…you let me go.”

“And if I don’t want to?”

“Come find me in the village. Tell me all about your adventures, no matter how much older I become.”

“…time moves differently here…”

You both say that together, bitter sweet laughter escaping your ears.

And so, a year transpired. Megumi leaves the forest in search of someone near and dear to him. It’s not that long of a ride to head to the village where you grew up—he received help from Karasu and your godmother to locate where you are now. He’s ever the more regal in the black and moss green attire when he passes the café that sort of sealed his love for you. Only does he take a deep breath as you’re in the queue for a rose tea and a pastry with a large looking dog—his hound—at your side.

Megumi is behind you and as miss Nobara quirks her brow at the man behind you, she warns you: “mako-chan the man behind you is quite handsome.”

“Nobara, stop it,” you whisper back.

It is then when your acquaintance in the case realizes your don’t recall who he is—your time in the forest had wiped your most recent memories of him. Nobara just nods over your shoulder, encouraging you to play nice and make small talk.

You turn slightly, curious to see who your friend is talking about and for whatever reason you have to look, you feel your heart nervously waver.

“You really are handsome,” you smile effortlessly and kind. The hound at your side barks before nudging his original owner’s hand for a good scratch begins the ears.

“So, mister,” you tilt your head to one side. “Are you just going to stand there and admire a pretty lady like me or are you going to tell me about your adventures in the forest?”

Megumi, as you stand there not remembering who he of or what he means to you, decides capturing your heart all over again will be more worth the trials of the heart. He introduces himself as the prince to these lands, yet being a child of certain shadowy sorcerers, he spent a good time in the forest you lead him to.

“I-I did that?” you are perplexed as you walk to a table. Though Megumi reassured you with a nod, he speaks like he knows the most intimate parts of you: your godmother who is as tall as a building guided you to put grandparents chateau; he explains hope he initiated making hoops intentions known right before and after supper. The details make you blush and flustered as you nervously ring the tea cup to your lips.

“You chose to stay?” your lips are downturned a bit heartbroken about the circumstances of your strained relationship.

Megumi offers a hand to you.

“All the more reason why I sought you out here,” he holds your hands gently caressing the skin of the back of your palm. “I’m stronger now, I can preserve your memories… if you’ll have me?”

His small hopeful smile seeks the tall tale to you; you don’t make a of it, but your head starts to ache just a tad—you ride a night-mare in the forest, a person whom you thought was the butcher passed out infringe of you was not indeed the butcher, but the very young man in front of you.

“Suppose I believe you,” you lace your fingers with his. “Will you make me fall in love again?”

“Mmhm.”

You such as you close your eyes and retract your hand. “Very well then Your Highness. Make an honest woman out of the love you claim you have for me.”

Time pushes forward; your love life had some enchantment filled with ups and downs, yet upon a true coronation for this realm, Megumi finds you asleep in his old bedchamber. Your hair is a bit shorter, the navy silk of your sleep attire consisting of a good old tunic keeps up warm this season. Tonight would be the last time your back will be made of mortal skin. Megumi has been over your house countless times trying to think of a small secure loophole to ensure you’ll always remember your time with him. Your father sighs as he tells your lover of the contracting spell—“when a fae gives up their wings for love boy, it is clipped with the harshest of broadswords.”

Megumi is horrified, yet he doesn’t let it bubble to the surface of his stormy eyes.

“Is there a way to…?”

“Yes, but for that I suggest you let me talk to my wife before you do something wreckless as well.”

That was early this afternoon, yet as you sit in your slumber, you call out his name. He tells you he’s right beside you, scooping you into his arms before he feels the warmth of your body spread. At first he breathed deeply before you make yourself comfortable in his embrace. You kiss him drowsily nodding that there will be time for that too as his hands slip up and under where your breasts lie. Cold fingers and his mouth entertains the back of your neck and between the shoulder blades makes you wake up a bit more.

State duties were always less fun than sorcerer training, but when megumi takes you to the palace to be more familiar with the likes of Gojo, Nanami, and Itadiri, you soak up your incredible fortune. Here, your grandparents’ guardian mirror to their library as a pocket universe within this study causes you to always make a list of spell books for your love to return.

Over the course of your courtship, your memories are returned little by little until one day your parents and immortal kin are asked to celebrate a proposal. The chateau in the woods of the divine Neverafter has a stronger memory preservation spell: a gift from the aging fae. As the announcement commences of your upcoming union seeing as your reality of being unnaturally beautiful forced time to stop for Megumi; an unconscious prank by his personal guards three. It is then your god mother and your own parents nod. You’re confused and elated by all this.

The faerie of shadow and dark makes a short speech about summarizing the trials your love had been through: “when you truly make the conscious decision to leave him a princeling where he belongs, love takes sight, dear one.” Her staff sends ripples of burgundy and deep violet patterns, you are invited into the circle as Megumi presses a confident kiss to your lips.

“Our gift to thee little gem,” your mother hugs as your father looks on proudly. As you watch her back away, you feel the festering slow growth of a cocoon. It is a powerful lightning opal case, but as wings as dark and as translucent as a giant moth’s protrude from the space between your shoulder blades, the cocoon shatters. Your wings outstretch to dry a while, a powerful test flutter makes your parents cry of joy. The wings bestowed upon you were a just reward from the patron of lost things being returned—the wings close on your thought, tucked behind your exposed back like a shawl.

Megumi holds your hands then as the pain of them growing out burns a bit. Yet when the pain subsides when you peer into his sapphire orbs bright eyed and full of joyous tears. He picks you up by the waist hearing you laugh before your wings suspends you in midair; you calm down giggling saying how his love makes you want to be wings.

“I’ll take you far beyond the stars,” you promise him as he leans down to lose himself in your love.

“For all of time and space,” he replies as you bow swearing unyielding fealty to the crown he wears.

Turning to your mystical family members and your mortal parents, you thank them profusely, promising to never forget who they were.

Amongst the shadows of your godmother’s gown, there were her pixies in waiting, shimmering with their moonlit wings outside of your residence as they depart.

Megumi stealthily walks toward you and hugs your waist, pressing a tender kiss by your ear. You turn around, holding his hands to your waist still, smiling up as you tilt your head to one side.

“Care to remind me how much you love me?” You enjoy watching his surprised expression because as he drags you to the bedchambers in the eastern hall practically yelling to Gojo, “don’t you dare interrupt us under any circumstances!”

“Care to remind me how much you love me?” You enjoy watching his surprised expression bc as he drags you to the bedchambers in the eastern hall practically yelling to Gojo, “don’t you dare interrupt us under any circumstances!”

Gojo just laughs as Nanami frowns a bit before asking Itadori if he wanted to go hang out at the pub.

Fin

#🌻— flying around collecting pollen—queue #sora after hours #sora scrbbles 2023 #🔞—nsfw megumi #faery court au x 🎋jjk🎋#sora things: 🎋jjk🎋

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starwrittenfates · 2 months ago

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❝ I learned something then - knights are not so chivalrous when no one's watching.❞

↳ 𝙿𝙾𝚃𝙴𝙽𝚃𝙸𝙰𝙻 𝚂𝙷𝙸𝙿𝚂 — Syanna/Dettlaff, Syanna/OC, etc.

↳ 𝚆𝙰𝙽𝚃𝙴𝙳 𝙲𝙾𝙽𝙽𝙴𝙲𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽𝚂 — Dettlaff, Geralt, Yennefer, Dandelion, etc.

THREADS || NAVIGATION || STUDY ||

BASICS.

FULL NAME: Sylvia Anna

NAME MEANING: Syanna = Spirit of the Wood & Rhenawedd = Queen's Child

NICKNAMES/TITLES: Syanna, Rhenawedd, Rhena, Red Riding Hood

AGE + DOB: Unknown

GENDER/PRONOUNS: Female - She/Her

ORIENTATION: Hetrosexual Romantic

SPECIES: Human

OCCUPATION: Gang Leader, Exiled Princess of Toussaint

APPEARANCE.

FACECLAIM: Katie McGrath & Game

HAIR COLOR: Black

EYE COLOR: Blue

SCARS:

OTHER REMARKABLE FEATURES:

BACKGROUND.

BIRTHPLACE: Beauclair Palace, Beauclair, Toussaint

CURRENT HOME: Verse Dependent

NATIONALITY/ETHNICITY: Toussaint

LANGUAGES: Common

PARENTS: Unnamed Mother (Deceased), Unnamed Father (Deceased)

SIBLINGS: Anna Henrietta (Younger Sister)

SIGNIFICANT OTHER: Dettlaff van der Eretein (Lover, formerly)

CHILDREN: N/A

OTHER FAMILY MEMBERS: Emhyr van Emreis (Cousin), Cirilla (Cousin),

NOTABLE RELATIONSHIPS: Dettlaff Van Der Eretein (Former Lover), Anna Henrietta (Younger Sister)

PSYCHOLOGY/MIND.

MYERS-BRIGGS: TBA

ENNEAGRAM TYPE: Type 8 - The Challenger

MORAL ALIGNMENT: Chaotic Neutral

CHARACTER TRAITS: Manipulative, Bitter, Passionate, Emotional, Sentimental,

LIKES: Sangreal Wine,

DISLIKES: Knights, Fairytale's about princesses,

FEARS & PHOBIAS: Of being harmed or controlled by others

WISHES & DREAMS: To protect themselves (to be in control of their own life and destiny), to get Revenge on the four Knights who wronged her (achieved), Kill her sister (succeeded, failed or abandoned; dependent upon player choice).

CHARACTER TROPES: Action Girl, All Girls Want Bad Boys, The Bad Guy Win, Because You Were Nice to Me, Big Bad, Big Bad Wannabe, Black Sheep, Cain and Abel, Character Tics, Chekhov's Gunman, Covered with Scars, Dark Action Girl,

SKILLS & ABILITIES.

Swordsmanship

Horsemanship

Determination

Manipulation

Charisma

Seduction

Leadership

Skilled fighter

BIOGRAPHY.

From a young age, Syanna was plagued by nightmares so badly that she'd wake up screaming every night and create drawings of what she saw in them. However, she was close with her younger sister, Anarietta, and the family soon learned that as long as she slept nearby, the nightmares didn't happen.

She loved to spend time in the magical Land of a Thousand Fables world, an illusion Artorius Vigo created for the young princesses. After awhile though, having tea all the time with the characters in the illusion grew to be dull and so Syanna would play a few tricks to liven things up in it. However, sometimes her pranks would go too far. When she was young, she knew Cedric de Coulbert's brother had a crush on Anarietta, and thus she convinced Cedric that she could see the future in her dreams and one of them showed that he would die at his brother's hands. With this, Cedric stole his father's sword and killed his brother, hurting both families.

Syanna and Anarietta weren't free from typical sibling arguments either and, at one point during a fight, Anarietta punched Syanna and the two fought so badly that before the governess could break them apart, Syanna had knocked two of Anarietta's teeth out, who then went crying to their parents to tell them what happened. Their parents, despite the governess trying to tell them Anarietta had thrown the first punch and Anarietta herself also trying to mitigate the situation, only punished Syanna, being believers in the Black Sun curse.

Sometime later, her father had mages from the Chapter come in and run tests on her but the duke remained silent on what was said concerning Syanna and the future. To Syanna though, it soon felt like the only thing her parents praised her for was the fact that she liked to keep things neat and tidy, like always making her bed in the morning and cleaning her room.

When she was in her teens, one prank got out of control where she and Anarietta decided to throw fish bladders filled with suet at the Nilfgaardian envoy's bald patch. Anarietta even thought of the idea to light them on fire, to impress Syanna, and they hit right on target, much to the girls' amusement. However, the council was not amused and this time Anarietta kept quiet as they blamed and punished Syanna, listing every single possible "offense" - from her flights from the palace to supposed acts of cruelty and even "inappropriate" friendships - and used it to officially cast Syanna out of the duchy. Her title and birthright was stripped away, then a group of knights escorted her to the edges of Toussaint. This group, comprised of Louis de la Croix, Vladimir Crespi, Milton de Peyrac-Peyran, and Ramon du Lac, just had orders to take Syanna to the edges of Caed Dhu. However, they took it upon themselves to insult and mock the former princess, denying her food, abusing her, and Crespi going as far as beating her unconscious when she first tried to escape them, with none of them trying to stop the others. When they finally got to Caed Dhu, they left her in a ragged dress, penniless, and in the cold, hoping she'd soon die. Instead, she swore she wouldn't forget them or what they did.

She then proceeded to wander the woods for a week, nearly freezing to death and trying to eat twigs to survive, before she came across a bandit campsite. However, instead of hurting or raping her, the group took her in and set off for Nazair, where she joined their band and quickly rose in their ranks before becoming their leader. During this time she also met the vampire Dettlaff van der Eretein in Metinna when she was visiting a fence there and immediately had her suspicions on what he was and followed him. However, knowing she was following him, Dettlaff went down an alley then jumped out at her, baring his fangs. This didn't scare her though and intrigued, the two met up several times before she and Dettlaff became romantically involved. While initially exciting to Syanna, she quickly realized it was too much, as Dettlaff, not being human, was too intense. Knowing he wouldn't understand her wanting to just go back to being friends, Syanna simply disappeared one day instead.

However, around 1275 her thoughts eventually returned back home, to Toussaint, and she decided it was time to re-claim her birthright while also taking out all those who did her wrong. Thus, knowing Dettlaff would do anything for her, she wrote up letters pretending to be an abductor and holding Syanna hostage and the only way to save her would be for Dettlaff to do as they said, which was to kill 5 people whose names would be delivered to him.

As she had Dettlaff kill the four knights that had escorted and abused her so long ago, she also had a man from Cintra help her carry out a deal to get a hold of several barrels of Sangreal, a wine made exclusively for Toussaint's royal family, and then to try and steal back a family heirloom that'd once been hers but was currently in Orianna's possession. However, this last job proved to be her undoing as Dun Tynne Castle, the place she'd been holding out in, soon came under attack by both the Ducal Guard and Dettlaff, who intended to "rescue" her.

Up in her tower, Geralt met her and quickly realized she was the mastermind behind all the killings and as soon as Dettlaff caught on, he became enraged and left, but not before threatening that he'd attack the whole city if she didn't meet him again in a few days time to explain herself. While she was set on meeting Dettlaff then, knowing he'd keep to his word, she was arrested immediately after and taken to Beauclair to face sentencing, despite Anarietta being relieved to see her sister after so long.

However, not wishing to lose her sister again as Dettlaff would almost certainly kill Syanna at the intended meeting, Anarietta took Syanna back into the fablesphere and blocked the exits out of it until her trial. Syanna, who'd already been working on recovering the way out of the fablesphere, was soon joined by Geralt, who wished to bring her to meet Dettlaff as he was currently causing havoc on Beauclair in retaliation for her not appearing at their meeting. With that, Syanna joined forces with Geralt and, as they worked together, she eventually revealed her past to the witcher and how she and Dettlaff became involved. The two then managed to escape the fablesphere and return to Beauclair. At the meeting point, Dettlaff appeared but, still angry over the betrayal, made to kill her. However, Syanna's ribbon from her childhood activated and teleported her straight back to the fablesphere, saving her from certain death. Despite being caught, Syanna was still set on killing her 5th and final target: her own sister, Anarietta, as she saw her betrayal as the worst for not saying anything when Syanna was cast out. Geralt, having discovered that Anarietta was to be the final target, approached and pointed out that Anarietta had only been a child at the time and had no power to do anything to prevent Syanna's banishment and if she ever thought about forgiveness. While she didn't show any reaction to this, Syanna nonetheless pondered over the witcher's remarks. When she was then brought before the court and her sister to be tried, Syanna let out all her pent up frustration and how hurt she'd been at feeling Anarietta turned her back on her all those years ago. The two eventually came to terms and Syanna forgave her sister.

#starwrittenfates muse bios #𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐓𝐔𝐃𝐘 ⟫ Curse of the Black Sun (𝐒𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐀)

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thequeendomhq · 8 months ago

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THE FEAR ~

NAME. UTP AGE & BIRTH DATE. UTP SPECIES. Cubi FACTION. Merchant's Guild OCCUPATION. UTP

Hand over hand, that’s what they always said. The needle pulls the thread, the staystich holds it all together, and then you begin again. They were always more patient than you, pricked fingers and shaky hands, you didn’t know how they did it but they always seemed to manage it in the end. A taxing process that procured immaculate results, simple threads pulled into intricate designs; this was the way the world worked. This was the way the fates tied everyone together, you grew up on those stories, you grew up learning about Gods and men, about the Blight and the heroes of old. You used to get lost in these tales as you stitched away and tried to breath life into the embroidered fables you knit and wove. Somehow, someway, you crossed the threshold between that novice sitting on another knee, and someone who was taking over the shop after they were gone. If you had one wish, no, not a wish, if you had one prayer it was that you’d be recognized for all that you had done. You wanted to be seen, to be respected, and to be pulled into one of these adventures of your own. Minerva whispered across the veil, your tale had begun, that you could spin straw into gold, you had no magic to speak of and you dismissed the dream as nothing but a work of an active imagination. You knew better, you knew in your heart that it was true, but if you believed that Minerva had chosen you, then that meant your simple life had drawn to an end. You were afraid, and for that, you were cursed.

CONNECTS

N/A

NOTES

N/A

this skeleton is currently open

#cubi #the fear

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rjalker · 1 year ago

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Here is the text to read on tumblr. Copy and paste and download it wherever you want. Share it on a completely separate reblog so people I have blocked can also get it.

I have not actually read it while editing (it's a skill), so I can't offer any warnings for it. I will actually read it tomorrow, which is when I'll also upload it to the web archive. You can also upload it to the web archive, and other sites, literally whatever you want. It's public domain. Because I just sat here and fixed it and I fucking said so.

If you see any errors that are Obviously My Fault and not the original text, let me know.

(Archived read-more link that anyone, including people I have blocked, can click to read the story.)

The Black Vampyre;

A Legend of St. Domingo.

By Uriah Derick D’arcy

So have I seen, upon another shore, Another Lion give a grievous roar; And the last Lion thought the first—A BOAR!

-Bombast. Furios

_______

SECOND EDITION, WITH ADDITIONS. NEW -YORK: PRINTED FOR THE AUTHOR.

1819.

TO THE

AUTHOR OF “WALL-STREET.”

MY DEAR SIR,

CHARMED with the success of your anomalous drama, which, without aspiring even to the character of nonsense, has already seen three editions, I have been myself induced to venture on publishing; with the sanguine hope of also scraping together a few shillings, in these hard times. Permit me to inscribe this tale to you, with a fellow-feeling for your lack of genius; and a fervent hope, that our names may be encircled by the same evergreen in the temple of the Muses; and that we may long flourish together, on the same pedestal, embellishing and elevating the literature of the Auction Room.

I remain, My dear Sir, Your affectionate Friend, And obedient Servant, THE AUTHOR.

Introduction

-BYRON.

The Black Vampyre

The PLANTER supposing his business to have been but half done, kicked him back in the water. The element seemed very familiar to him; and he swam back with much grace and agility; parting the sparkling waves with his jet black members, polished like ebony, but reflecting no sin- gle beam of light. His complexion was a dead black;—his eyes a pure white;—the iris was flame colour;—and the pupils of a clear, moonshiny lustre;—but so peculiarly constructed, that, though prominent, they seemed to look into his own head. His hair was neither curled nor straight; but feathery, like the plumage of a crow. Having paddled again on shore, he came crawling crab fashion, to the feet of Mr. PERSONNE.The latter gentleman, in considerable alarm, (not knowing whether it was Satan, Obi, or some other worthy, with whom he had to deal,) mustered up sufficient resolution, to tie a large stone round the boy’s middle: then, with a main exertion of strength, he hurled him into the sparkling ocean. He fell where the reflection of the moon was brightest, and sunk like lead; but immediately rose again like cork, perpendicularly, with the stone under his arm; while the radiant lustre of the planet retreated from his dark figure, exhibiting in its most striking contrast its utter blackness!

In this predicament, he came buoyant to land; surrounded, as he seemed, by a sphere of magic lustre. He now walked up to the Frenchman, with his arms a-kimbo, and looking remarkably fierce. Mr. PERSONNE’S particular hairs stood up on end,but being ashamed that a little negro of ten years old, should put him in bodily fear, he knocked him down. The Guinea-man rose again, without bending a joint; as fast as Mr. PERSONNE could upset him, he recovered his altitude; just like one of those small toys, fabricated from pith, tipt with lead, called witches and hobgoblins by the rising generation!

The PLANTER, in utter amazement and despair, took hold of the child by both his extremities; and pressing him to the earth, set down upon him! Then, halloing for is attendants, he ordered a tremendous fire to be kindled on the sand!! This was accordingly done. The GAUL congratulated himself on his perseverance and sagacity; and as he had never heard of ignaqueous animals, was confident that though the water fiend was so expert in his own element, he could not stand the fiery ordeal. The boy, meanwhile, lay perfectly passive, as if he had been a mere log; but presently, when the pile was all in a light blaze, with a sudden expansion, like that of a compressed Indian Rubber, he popped Mr. PERSONNE up into the air many yards, and he alighted head-foremost into the fire, where he had intended to have dedicated the sable brat, with his nine lives, to Moloch!!!

Whatever the negro was, it is notorious that Mr. PERSONNE was no salamander. He was rescued from the pyre, which, like Hercules, he had, (though unwittingly,) erected for himself; looking like a squizzed cat, and having apparently no life left in his body. The attention of the domestics was drawn entirely to their master; who soon betrayed signs of animation, though he exhibited a most awful. spectacle: being one continual sore and blister. “His whole body was one wound,” as Virgil or some other poet has hyperbolically expressed himself.

On the receipt of this horrid intelligence, Mr. PERSONNE was seized with a violent spasmodic affection; and shortly after expired, muttering something about sacre, and the Guinea-negro!

No cymbal clash’d, no clarion rang, Still were the pipe and drum; Save heavy tread, and armour’s clang, The sullen march was dumb.

Mr. and Mrs. PERSONNE, guided by their son, were placed in a situation, where, through the crevices of the inner partition of the rock, they could observe what was passing in the interior.

Stakes were immediately procured, and the whole infernal fraternity securely disposed of: as their compeers, described by Homer,

With burning chains fixed to the brazen floors And lock’d by hell’s inexorable doors.

Moral.

N this happy land of liberty and equality, we are free from all traditional superstitions, whether political, religious, or otherwise. Fiction has no materials for machinery;—Romance no horrors for a tale of mystery. Yet in a figurative sense, and in the moral world, our climate is perhaps more prolific than any other, in enchanters,—Vampyres,—and the whole infernal brood of sorcery and witchcraft.

And I, who, as Johnson said of an hypochondriac Lady, “have spun this discourse out of my own bowels,” and made as free with those of others—I am a VAMPYRE!

Vampyrism; a poem

Utrum horum mavis accipe.

SOLOMON LANG & LAUNCELOT LANG - STAFF, Esquires.

Fortunati ambo—si quid mea carmina possunt, Nulla dies unquam memori vos eximet aevo!

-URIAH DERICK D’ARCY.

VAMPYRISM;

A POEM,

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

XI.

XII.

XIII.

XIV.

XV.

XVIII.

XIX.

And what am I, whose spider skill Has thus contrived this sheet to fill; From my own bowels spun the lay, Until I find no more to say? Before to all I bid adieu, Confess,—I AM A VAMPYRE TOO!

If anyones interested in learning about the first black vampire short story, published in 1819, heres a link to the wiki, its called The Black Vampyre, and its about a former slave turned vampire who seeks revenge on his slave master. Its actually a first in many categories!

#The Black-Vampyre #god I have never fucking fixed text so quickly #I AM NOT working this hard for Astounding Stories of Super-Science #I just wanted to save peopel from that headache of a PDF

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