#(we are now at windy castle. there is a new table)

[callibones]

better call ibones

better date a fag

[ccohanlon]

how i live

I woke at midnight, last night, to a hard sou’westerly and the floor moving in three directions at once — pitching, rolling, rising-and-falling. Now, six hours later, the wind has moderated. Everything is still. The rest of the world is obscured by grey mist and sporadic showers, as if the sky has fallen across the shore.

I climb up a short ladder to the companionway to check that all is well on deck — it’s the first thing I do every morning — then I return to my bunk to download email and read a couple of news sites on a laptop before my wife wakes and we have a cup of coffee together across the varnished teak table that separates our bunks.

We talk about what we want to do today and waste a minute or two trying to agree a time-table before giving up. For half a decade, we have scraped by with a minimum of routine or planning. We are singularly unadept at making lists or coordinating diaries. We end up doing most things together. Today, we will pick up some paint and shackles at a chandlery and find a local metal fabricator to repair or replicate a damaged stainless steel stanchion. We also have to buy some groceries. But first I want to repair our rubber dinghy.

My wife and I live on a 32-foot sailboat. It is a life-raft of sorts. It is also an island on which we are trying to regain an unsettled but sheltered freedom after several years of being homeless. Most days, we feel like castaways, with no hope of ever being rescued.

It’s hard to explain how we ended up here. Moving aboard was not a ‘lifestyle choice’ but an act of quiet desperation. We had dropped out of a life in which I had somehow ended up running two well-known, medium-sized companies, one of them publicly listed — before those roles, I had been a musician, gambler, seaman, smuggler, photographer, magazine editor, and governmental adviser — and we had taken to wandering slowly across Europe, the UK, and North Africa. After a year holed up on the southern coast of Spain, a few miles east of Gibraltar, riding out the worst of the pandemic, we moved to southern Italy, where we acquired, and set about restoring, a small ruin, part of servants’ quarters attached to a 16th century Spanish castle, in a village not far from Lecce, in Puglia. We had just completed the work, two years later, when the local Questura, the office of the Carabinieri that oversees Italian immigration, rejected our third application for temporary residence and issued a formal instruction to us to leave Italy — and Europe’s Schengen zone.

The boat was not something we thought through in any detail. I had spent a lot of time at sea in my youth and had lived on sailing boats of various sizes on the Channel coasts of England and France, as well as in the Mediterranean. Which is to say, I had an understanding of their discomforts. But the prospect of resuming a life that, before we ended up in southern Italy, involved moving every three months — not just from one temporary accommodation to another but from one country to another, so as not to contravene the terms of our largely visa-less travel — had exhausted us. I made an offer on a cheap, neglected, 45-year-old, fibreglass sloop I had come across online and organised a marine surveyor to look it over for me. He gave it a cautious thumbs up.

I won’t forget my wife’s dolorous expression, a month later, when she saw the boat for the first time. It was in an industrial area of Southampton, on a dreich morning in early spring — bitterly cold, windy, and raining. Around us, the Itchen River’s ebb had revealed swathes of black, foul-smelling mud. Raised far from the sea, on the plains of north-eastern Oklahoma, my wife told me later she had been praying that our journey to this glum backwater was part of some elaborate practical joke.

There is a whole genre of YouTube videos created by those who live on sailboats full-time and voyage all over the world. The most popular, the so-called ‘influencers’, are young(ish) couples or families with capacious, often European-built, plastic catamarans or monohulls. Their videos focus less on the gritty, day-to-day grind of boat maintenance and passage-making and more on sojourns in ancient, stone-built harbours in the Mediterranean, white, sandy beaches and palm-fringed cays in the Caribbean, or improbably blue lagoons and solitary atolls in the South Pacific, where they barbecue fresh fish, paddle-board, kite-surf and practice yoga and aerial silks for the envy of hundreds of thousands of followers. My wife’s and my life aboard together is nothing like any of this.

We are both in our sixties — I am just a year away from seventy — and we have spent more than a decade on the move around the world, at first following eclectic opportunities for employment then, when those opportunities receded, in search of somewhere we might be able to settle with very little money. Four months after moving aboard our boat, we still think of ourselves as vagabond travellers, our boat a shambolic, floating vardo that we haven’t yet managed to turn into a home. We’re not really ‘cruisers’, despite the sense of community we sometimes find among them, but we are seafarers — historically, a marginal existence driven by necessity. A recent, 150-nautical-mile passage westward along the south coast of England was a shakedown during which we learned how to make our aged, shabby vessel more comfortable and easier to handle and to trust her capacity to keep us safe at sea.

She bore the name Endymion when we bought her — after my least favourite poem by John Keats (“A thing of beauty is a joy forever…”) — but we re-named her Wrack. Depending on the source, ‘wrack’ describes seaweeds or seagrasses that wash up along a shore or the scattered traces of a shipwreck, either of which might be metaphors for my wife and me in old age. It is certainly how we feel when we’re not at sea. Life aboard Wrack is spartan — fresh water stored in a dozen polyethylene jerry cans, no hot or cold running water, no refrigeration and when the temperature drops, no heating either — so, from time to time, we concede the cost of berthing in marinas to gain access to on-site laundries, showers, flushing toilets, and wi-fi. Whether we’re berthed or anchored somewhere, we shop for food once a week — mainly vegetables, fruit, bread, pasta, and rice but little dairy and no meat — and eat one meal a day, cooked in the mid-afternoon on a two-burner gas stove.

The days we spend in close proximity to others’ lives ashore remind us how disenfranchised ours have become. We were homeless before we acquired Wrack, but now we are without a legal residence anywhere, even in our ‘home’ countries. We enter and exit borders uneasily as ‘visitors’, our stays limited to 90 or 180 days, depending on where we are. We have no access to banking, insurance, social services or, with a few exceptions, emergency health care. Even the modest Australian pensions we have a right to can only be received if we have been granted residence in countries with which Australia has reciprocal arrangements — and we haven’t. It’s hard even for other live-aboards to understand how deeply we are enmired in this peculiar bureaucratic statelessness. It’s harder for us to deal with it every day.

But life afloat provides consolations. We are ceaselessly attuned to the weather and our boat’s responses to subtle shifts in the sea state, tide and wind even when we are tethered to a dock. We appreciate the shelter — and surprising cosiness — the limited space below decks affords us but the impulse to surrender to the elements and let them propel us elsewhere is insistent. Our best days are offshore, even when the conditions are testing; the world shrinks to just the two of us, our boat and the implacable, mutable sea around us. Whatever problems we face ashore become, at least for the duration of a passage, abstract and insignificant. We sail without a specific destination — ‘towards’ rather than ‘to’, as traditional navigators would have it — and without purpose. Time drifts.

At least half of every day is spent maintaining, repairing, or re-organising the boat, an unavoidable and time-consuming part of our days, especially at sea. When we’re at anchor or berthed in a marina, we do what we can to sustain ourselves. Most afternoons are spent prospecting for drips of income from journalism and crowd-funding — a source inspired by those younger YouTube adventurers — or adding a few hundred words to a manuscript for a non-fiction book commissioned by a Dutch publisher, whose patience has been stretched to breaking point. Because of our visitor visa status, we can’t seek gainful employment ashore, and we have long since lost contact with any of the networks that once provided us with a higher-than-average income as freelancers. Our existence, by any definition, is impoverished and perilously marginal, we have little social life, yet we make the effort to appreciate our circumstances, even if it’s just to sit together in silence and absorb the elemental white noise of wind and sea, to do nothing, to not think.

Our precariousness burdens our four adult children, who have scattered to San Diego, Sydney, Berlin and Rome: “Where are you now?” our youngest asks. “How long will you be there?” We speak to each at least once a week. Not all of them long for fixedness but they do want desperately for us to have a ‘real home’, somewhere we can assemble occasionally as a family. We will be grandparents for the first time, soon. Like our few friends, our children worry that we might become lost — in every sense.

My wife and I are uncomfortably aware of our financial and physical vulnerability but at our ages, we can no longer cling to the faint hope that there’s an end to it. We have committed to an unlikely, reckless voyage. All we can do is maintain a rough dead reckoning of its course and embrace the uncharted and the relentless unexpected.

First published in The Idler, UK, 2023.

[spartacus80]

Eastern European Escapade Part 3

Back in the car, and on our way to another country, as we get ready for an unforgettable adventure we are back on the road for our continuation of our trip. We are saying goodbye to Hungary and preparing to make our way to Slovakia! Our journey will hopefully take us through picturesque landscapes, and charming towns. We leave now from the bustling streets of Budapest to the historic sites of Bratislava, each mile promises new discoveries and unforgettable experiences. Buckle up and let’s explore the beauty and history of Central Europe together!

As we wondered the streets on this very wet, cold, and windy day in Bratislava, we strolled past St. Michaels Gate and decided that we needed to have a bite to eat. We came across Kola Kamzik, and holy cow it did not disappoint!

As we walked, we got closer and closer to the smells of the restaurants, and when we saw Kola Kamzik we knew this was the place.

When the food arrived at the table I knew I was about to have an incredible dining experience at Kola Kamzik in Bratislava! The food was absolutely fantastic, with each dish beautifully crafted and bursting with flavor. The blend of traditional and modern elements in their menu was impressive, and the presentation was top-notch. If you’re ever in Bratislava, don’t miss out on this restaurant – it's a culinary fusion that you won't forget! I certainly won't anytime soon!

Wondering around in Bratislava, taking it all in, and I must say, it exceeded all my expectations! Nestled along the banks of the Danube River, this charming city has rich history with vibrant modern culture. From the stunning Bratislava Castle overlooking the city to the delightful streets of the Old Town filled with cozy cafés and colorful buildings, there's so much to explore. The local cuisine (can't say enough about Kola Kamzik), the warm and welcoming people, and the city's relaxed vibe made it an unforgettable experience. If you ever get the chance to visit, don’t miss out on Bratislava and see for yourself what it has to offer—it's truly a pleasant surprise!

Bratislava Castle has a history that stretches back over a millennium. Originally built in the 9th century, it was strategically positioned on a hill overlooking the Danube River. The castle served as a key fortification and royal residence throughout various periods.

During the Middle Ages, it was an important center of trade and politics. In the 16th century, when the Hungarian kingdom’s capital moved from Buda to Vienna, Bratislava became the new capital, and the castle was renovated to reflect its prominent status.

In the 18th century, the castle fell into disrepair, but in the 20th century, it underwent significant restoration. Today, it stands as a symbol of Bratislava's rich heritage, offering visitors a glimpse into its storied past through its preserved architecture and museum exhibits.

[butterflies-dragons]

SANSA STARK & TARGARYEN IMAGERY

A list of Targaryen Imagery around Sansa Stark in A Song of Ice and Fire

Fire and Blood

Black and Red

Silver and Purple

Dragon's Tail

Dragon Wings

Dragon Eggs

Dragon Skulls

Golden Dragons

Dragon Knights

Valyrian Steel

Dance of the Dragons

Maegor the Cruel

Baelor the Blessed

Aegon the Unworthy

Prince Aemon the Dragonknight

Aerys the Mad King

Rhaegar the ast dragon

Bonus: Fiery Hair

1. FIRE AND BLOOD

Sansa slid off her mare, but she was too slow. Arya swung with both hands. There was a loud crack as the wood split against the back of the prince's head, and then everything happened at once before Sansa's horrified eyes. Joffrey staggered and whirled around, roaring curses. Mycah ran for the trees as fast as his legs would take him. Arya swung at the prince again, but this time Joffrey caught the blow on Lion's Tooth and sent her broken stick flying from her hands. The back of his head was all bloody and his eyes were on fire.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa I

The point of Ser Gregor's lance had snapped off in his neck, and his life's blood flowed out in slow pulses, each weaker than the one before. His armor was shiny new; a bright streak of fire ran down his outstretched arm, as the steel caught the light. Then the sun went behind a cloud, and it was gone. His cloak was blue, the color of the sky on a clear summer's day, trimmed with a border of crescent moons, but as his blood seeped into it, the cloth darkened and the moons turned red, one by one.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa II

The blood orange had left a blotchy red stain on the silk. "I hate her!" she screamed. She balled up the dress and flung it into the cold hearth, on top of the ashes of last night's fire. When she saw that the stain had bled through onto her underskirt, she began to sob despite herself. She ripped off the rest of her clothes wildly, threw herself into bed, and cried herself back to sleep.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa III

When the king's herald moved forward, Sansa realized the moment was almost at hand. She smoothed down the cloth of her skirt nervously. She was dressed in mourning, as a sign of respect for the dead king, but she had taken special care to make herself beautiful. Her gown was the ivory silk that the queen had given her, the one Arya had ruined, but she'd had them dye it black and you couldn't see the stain at all. She had fretted over her jewelry for hours and finally decided upon the elegant simplicity of a plain silver chain.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa V

Then she realized that the blood had soaked through the sheet into the featherbed, so she bundled that up as well, but it was big and cumbersome, hard to move. Sansa could get only half of it into the fire. She was on her knees, struggling to shove the mattress into the flames as thick grey smoke eddied around her and filled the room, when the door burst open and she heard her maid gasp.

—A Clash of Kings - Sansa IV

When she crawled out of bed, long moments later, she was alone. She found his cloak on the floor, twisted up tight, the white wool stained by blood and fire.

—A Clash of Kings - Sansa VII

"The dwarf's wife did the murder with him," swore an archer in Lord Rowan's livery. "Afterward, she vanished from the hall in a puff of brimstone, and a ghostly direwolf was seen prowling the Red Keep, blood dripping from his jaws."

—A Storm of Swords - Jaime VII

As the boy's lips touched her own she found herself thinking of another kiss. She could still remember how it felt, when his cruel mouth pressed down on her own. He had come to Sansa in the darkness as green fire filled the sky. He took a song and a kiss, and left me nothing but a bloody cloak.

—A Feast for Crows - Alayne II

2. BLACK AND RED

The queen wore a high-collared black silk gown, with a hundred dark red rubies sewn into her bodice, covering her from neck to bosom. They were cut in the shape of teardrops, as if the queen were weeping blood.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa IV

Tyrion wore a doublet of black velvet covered with golden scrollwork, thigh-high boots that added three inches to his height, a chain of rubies and lions’ heads. But the gash across his face was raw and red, and his nose was a hideous scab. “You are very beautiful, Sansa,” he told her.

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa III

3. SILVER AND PURPLE

Sansa closed the shutters and turned sharply away from the window. "You look very lovely today, my lady," Ser Arys said.

"Thank you, ser." Knowing that Joffrey would require her to attend the tourney in his honor, Sansa had taken special care with her face and clothes. She wore a gown of pale purple silk and a moonstone hair net that had been a gift from Joffrey. The gown had long sleeves to hide the bruises on her arms. Those were Joffrey's gifts as well. When they told him that Robb had been proclaimed King in the North, his rage had been a fearsome thing, and he had sent Ser Boros to beat her.

—A Clash of Kings - Sansa I

"You've waited so long, be patient awhile longer. Here, I have something for you." Ser Dontos fumbled in his pouch and drew out a silvery spiderweb, dangling it between his thick fingers.

It was a hair net of fine-spun silver, the strands so thin and delicate the net seemed to weigh no more than a breath of air when Sansa took it in her fingers. Small gems were set wherever two strands crossed, so dark they drank the moonlight. "What stones are these?"

"Black amethysts from Asshai. The rarest kind, a deep true purple by daylight."

—A Clash of Kings - Sansa VIII

Sansa wore a gown of silvery satin trimmed in vair, with dagged sleeves that almost touched the floor, lined in soft purple felt. Shae had arranged her hair artfully in a delicate silver net winking with dark purple gemstones. Tyrion had never seen her look more lovely, yet she wore sorrow on those long satin sleeves. "Lady Sansa," he told her, "you shall be the most beautiful woman in the hall tonight."

—A Storm of Swords - Tyrion VIII

4. DRAGON WINGS

Tyrion scarce touched his food, Sansa noticed, though he drank several cups of the wine. For herself, she tried a little of the Dornish eggs, but the peppers burned her mouth. Otherwise she only nibbled at the fruit and fish and honeycakes. Every time Joffrey looked at her, her tummy got so fluttery that she felt as though she'd swallowed a bat.

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa IV

"What wife?"

"I forgot, you've been hiding under a rock. The northern girl. Winterfell's daughter. We heard she killed the king with a spell, and afterward changed into a wolf with big leather wings like a bat, and flew out a tower window. But she left the dwarf behind and Cersei means to have his head."

—A Storm of Swords - Arya XIII

5. DRAGON EGGS

Butterbumps arrived before the food, dressed in a jester’s suit of green and yellow feathers with a floppy coxcomb. An immense round fat man, as big as three Moon Boys, he came cartwheeling into the hall, vaulted onto the table, and laid a gigantic egg right in front of Sansa. “Break it, my lady,” he commanded. When she did, a dozen yellow chicks escaped and began running in all directions. “Catch them!” Butterbumps exclaimed. Little Lady Bulwer snagged one and handed it to him, whereby he tilted back his head, popped it into his huge rubbery mouth, and seemed to swallow it whole. When he belched, tiny yellow feathers flew out his nose. Lady Bulwer began to wail in distress, but her tears turned into a sudden squeal of delight when the chick came squirming out of the sleeve of her gown and ran down her arm.

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa I

In the Queen's Ballroom they broke their fast on honeycakes baked with blackberries and nuts, gammon steaks, bacon, fingerfish crisped in breadcrumbs, autumn pears, and a Dornish dish of onions, cheese, and chopped eggs cooked up with fiery peppers.

[…] Tyrion scarce touched his food, Sansa noticed, though he drank several cups of the wine. For herself, she tried a little of the Dornish eggs, but the peppers burned her mouth.

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa IV

6. DRAGON’S TAIL

The morning of King Joffrey's name day dawned bright and windy, with the long tail of the great comet visible through the high scuttling clouds. Sansa was watching it from her tower window when Ser Arys Oakheart arrived to escort her down to the tourney grounds. "What do you think it means?" she asked him.

"Glory to your betrothed," Ser Arys answered at once. "See how it flames across the sky today on His Grace's name day, as if the gods themselves had raised a banner in his honor. The smallfolk have named it King Joffrey's Comet."

Doubtless that was what they told Joffrey; Sansa was not so sure. "I've heard servants calling it the Dragon's Tail."

"King Joffrey sits where Aegon the Dragon once sat, in the castle built by his son," Ser Arys said. "He is the dragon's heir—and crimson is the color of House Lannister, another sign. This comet is sent to herald Joffrey's ascent to the throne, I have no doubt. It means that he will triumph over his enemies."

Is it true? she wondered. Would the gods be so cruel? Her mother was one of Joffrey's enemies now, her brother Robb another. Her father had died by the king's command. Must Robb and her lady mother die next? The comet was red, but Joffrey was Baratheon as much as Lannister, and their sigil was a black stag on a golden field. Shouldn't the gods have sent Joff a golden comet?

—A Clash of Kings - Sansa I

7. DRAGON SKULLS

Within, the dragon skulls were waiting, and so was Shae. “I thought m’lord had forgotten me.” Her dress was draped over a black tooth near as tall as she was, and she stood within the dragon’s jaws, nude. Balerion, he thought. Or was it Vhagar? One dragon skull looked much like another.

[...] After, as they lay entwined amongst the dragon skulls, he rested his head against her, inhaling the smooth clean smell of her hair. “We should go back,” he said reluctantly. “It must be near dawn. Sansa will be waking.

[...] The Others can take my guilt, he thought as he slipped his tunic over his head. Why should I be guilty? My wife wants no part of me, and most especially not the part that seems to want her. Perhaps he ought to tell her about Shae. It was not as though he was the first man ever to keep a concubine. Sansa’s own oh-so-honorable father had given her a bastard brother. For all he knew, his wife might be thrilled to learn that he was fucking Shae, so long as it spared her his unwelcome touch.

—A Storm of Swords - Tyrion VII

8. GOLDEN DRAGONS

"The queen raised her voice. "A hundred golden dragons to the man who brings me its skin!”

“A costly pelt,” Robert grumbled. “I want no part of this, woman. You can damn well buy your furs with Lannister gold.”

[...] Shortly, Jory brought him Ice.

When it was over, he said, “Choose four men and have them take the body north. Bury her at Winterfell.”

“All that way?” Jory said, astonished.

“All that way,” Ned affirmed. “The Lannister woman shall never have this skin.”

—A Game of Thrones - Eddard III

"Petyr Baelish put a hand on the rail. "But first you’ll want your payment. Ten thousand dragons, was it?”

“Ten thousand.” Dontos rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. “As you promised, my lord.”

[...] “But he saved me.”

“He sold you for a promise of ten thousand dragons.

[...]“Sansa felt sick. "He said he was my Florian.”

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa V

“Your sister’s had no difficulty finding witnesses to your guilt.” Ser Kevan rolled up the parchment. “Ser Addam has men hunting for your wife. Varys has offered a hundred stags for word of her whereabouts, and a hundred dragons for the girl herself. If the girl can be found she will be found, and I shall bring her to you. I see no harm in husband and wife sharing the same cell and giving comfort to one another.”

—A Storm of Swords - Tyrion IX

Someplace no stag ever found … though a dragon might.

—A Feast for Crows - Brienne III

"A good melee is all a hedge knight can hope for, unless he stumbles on a bag of dragons. And that's not likely, is it?"

—The Winds of Winter - Alayne I

9. DRAGON KNIGHTS

She shouted for Ser Dontos, for her brothers, for her dead father and her dead wolf, for gallant Ser Loras who had given her a red rose once, but none of them came. She called for the heroes from the songs, for Florian and Ser Ryam Redwyne and Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, but no one heard.

—A Clash of Kings - Sansa IV

"True knights would never harm women and children." The words rang hollow in her ears even as she said them.

"True knights." The queen seemed to find that wonderfully amusing. "No doubt you're right. So why don't you just eat your broth like a good girl and wait for Symeon Star-Eyes and Prince Aemon the Dragonknight to come rescue you, sweetling. I'm sure it won't be very long now."

—A Clash of Kings - Sansa V

They continued down the serpentine and across a small sunken courtyard. Ser Dontos shoved open a heavy door and lit a taper. They were inside a long gallery. Along the walls stood empty suits of armor, dark and dusty, their helms crested with rows of scales that continued down their backs. As they hurried past, the taper's light made the shadows of each scale stretch and twist. The hollow knights are turning into dragons, she thought.

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa V

10. VALYRIAN STEEL

Lord Tywin waited until last to present the king with his own gift: a longsword. Its scabbard was made of cherrywood, gold, and oiled red leather, studded with golden lions' heads. The lions had ruby eyes, she saw. The ballroom fell silent as Joffrey unsheathed the blade and thrust the sword above his head. Red and black ripples in the steel shimmered in the morning light.

[…] "A great sword must have a great name, my lords! What shall I call it?"

[…] The guests were shouting out names for the new blade. Joff dismissed a dozen before he heard one he liked. "Widow's Wail!" he cried.

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa IV

But she had another longsword hidden in her bedroll. She sat on the bed and took it out. Gold glimmered yellow in the candlelight and rubies smoldered red. When she slid Oathkeeper from the ornate scabbard, Brienne's breath caught in her throat. Black and red the ripples ran, deep within the steel. Valyrian steel, spell-forged. It was a sword fit for a hero. When she was small, her nurse had filled her ears with tales of valor, regaling her with the noble exploits of Ser Galladon of Morne, Florian the Fool, Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, and other champions. Each man bore a famous sword, and surely Oathkeeper belonged in their company, even if she herself did not. "You'll be defending Ned Stark's daughter with Ned Stark's own steel," Jaime had promised.

—A Feast for Crows - Brienne I

11. DANCE OF THE DRAGONS

Later, while Sansa was off listening to a troupe of singers perform the complex round of interwoven ballads called the "Dance of the Dragons," Ned inspected the bruise himself. "I hope Forel is not being too hard on you," he said.

—A Game of Thrones - Eddard VII

He sang of the Dance of the Dragons, of fair Jonquil and her fool, of Jenny of Oldstones and the Prince of Dragonflies. He sang of betrayals, and murders most foul, of hanged men and bloody vengeance. He sang of grief and sadness.

—A Feast for Crows - Sansa I

12. MAEGOR THE CRUEL

The room where Sansa had been confined was at the top of the highest tower of Maegor's Holdfast.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa IV

In the tower room at the heart of Maegor's Holdfast, Sansa gave herself to the darkness.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa VI

13. BAELOR THE BLESSED

"Baelor starved himself to death, fasting," said Tyrion. "His uncle served him loyally as Hand, as he had served the Young Dragon before him. Viserys might only have reigned a year, but he ruled for fifteen, while Daeron warred and Baelor prayed." He made a sour face. "And if he did remove his nephew, can you blame him? Someone had to save the realm from Baelor's follies."

Sansa was shocked. "But Baelor the Blessed was a great king. He walked the Boneway barefoot to make peace with Dorne, and rescued the Dragonknight from a snakepit. The vipers refused to strike him because he was so pure and holy."

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa IV

14. AEGON THE UNWORTHY

Aegon the Unworthy had never harmed Queen Naerys, perhaps for fear of their brother the Dragonknight . . . but when another of his Kingsguard fell in love with one of his mistresses, the king had taken both their heads.

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa II

"A king can have other women. Whores. My father did. One of the Aegons did too. The third one, or the fourth. He had lots of whores and lots of bastards." As they whirled to the music, Joff gave her a moist kiss. "My uncle will bring you to my bed whenever I command it."

Sansa shook her head. "He won't."

"He will, or I'll have his head. That King Aegon, he had any woman he wanted, whether they were married or no."

—A Storm of Swords - Sansa III

15. PRINCE AEMON THE DRAGONKNIGHT

He took her by the arm and led her away from the wheelhouse, and Sansa's spirits took flight. A whole day with her prince! She gazed at Joffrey worshipfully. He was so gallant, she thought. The way he had rescued her from Ser Ilyn and the Hound, why, it was almost like the songs, like the time Serwyn of the Mirror Shield saved the Princess Daeryssa from the giants, or Prince Aemon the Dragonknight championing Queen Naerys's honor against evil Ser Morgil's slanders.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa I

"Father, I only just now remembered, I can't go away, I'm to marry Prince Joffrey." She tried to smile bravely for him. "I love him, Father, I truly truly do, I love him as much as Queen Naerys loved Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, as much as Jonquil loved Ser Florian. I want to be his queen and have his babies."

"Sweet one," her father said gently, "listen to me. When you're old enough, I will make you a match with a high lord who's worthy of you, someone brave and gentle and strong. This match with Joffrey was a terrible mistake. That boy is no Prince Aemon, you must believe me."

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa III

She pulled a chair close to the hearth, took down one of her favorite books, and lost herself in the stories of Florian and Jonquil, of Lady Shella and the Rainbow Knight, of valiant Prince Aemon and his doomed love for his brother's queen.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa IV

For those who remained, a singer was brought forth to fill the hall with the sweet music of the high harp. He sang of Jonquil and Florian, of Prince Aemon the Dragonknight and his love for his brother's queen, of Nymeria's ten thousand ships. They were beautiful songs, but terribly sad. Several of the women began to weep, and Sansa felt her own eyes growing moist.

—A Clash of Kings - Sansa VI

16. AERYS THE MAD KING

"Ser Ilyn has not been feeling talkative these past fourteen years," Lord Renly commented with a sly smile.

Joffrey gave his uncle a look of pure loathing, then took Sansa's hands in his own. "Aerys Targaryen had his tongue ripped out with hot pincers."

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa I

"The battleground is right up ahead, where the river bends. That was where my father killed Rhaegar Targaryen, you know. He smashed in his chest, crunch, right through the armor." Joffrey swung an imaginary warhammer to show her how it was done. "Then my uncle Jaime killed old Aerys, and my father was king."

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa I

"You can't talk to me that way. The king can do as he likes."

"Aerys Targaryen did as he liked. Has your mother ever told you what happened to him?"

Ser Boros Blount harrumphed. "No man threatens His Grace in the presence of the Kingsguard."

—A Clash of Kings - Sansa III

17. RHAEGAR THE LAST DRAGON

"The battleground is right up ahead, where the river bends. That was where my father killed Rhaegar Targaryen, you know. He smashed in his chest, crunch, right through the armor." Joffrey swung an imaginary warhammer to show her how it was done.

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa I

"My father told everyone my bedding had caught fire, and our maester gave me ointments. Ointments! Gregor got his ointments too. Four years later, they anointed him with the seven oils and he recited his knightly vows and Rhaegar Targaryen tapped him on the shoulder and said, 'Arise, Ser Gregor.'"

—A Game of Thrones - Sansa II

18. BONUS: FIERY HAIR

Robb and Sansa and Bran and even little Rickon all took after the Tullys, with easy smiles and fire in their hair.

—A Game of Thrones - Arya I

"You will be the most beautiful woman in the hall tonight, as lovely as your lady mother at your age. I cannot seat you on the dais, but you'll have a place of honor above the salt and underneath a wall sconce. The fire will be shining in your hair, so everyone will see how fair of face you are. Keep a good long spoon on hand to beat the squires off, sweetling. You will not want green boys underfoot when the knights come round to beg you for your favor."

—The Winds of Winter - Alayne I

[lesdemonium]

romtober day 6: adopted by love interest’s family

Rating: T Ship: Geraskier Word Count: 1675 Summary: Jaskier wasn't quite expecting to have such a warm welcome at his first visit to Kaer Morhen, but he certainly isn't complaining. Especially not when he accidentally overhears conversations he wasn't meant to hear.

read on ao3

“I do not kiss and tell,” Jaskier insisted haughtily, though he winked at Eskel and Lambert as he did so.

Lambert snorted into his drink--something far stronger than Jaskier would find at any old tavern in the Continent. Jaskier had taken one sip, gagged, and made some crack about it curling his chesthair that had Eskel and Lambert howling as they offered him something more suitable. More suitable, apparently, meant probably the strongest wine Jaskier had ever taken. It was meant to be sipped, absolutely, but at least Jaskier could stomach this one. He had never considered himself to have a weak constitution, but Witchers just so loved proving him wrong.

“That’s a lie and we all know it, bard,” Lambert accused, a finger pointed at Jaskier as he narrowed his eyes. Jaskier smiled pleasantly back. “If you had actually managed to kiss that princess, you would be bragging about it until your dying breath. I bet she rejected you.”

Jaskier feigned affront. “Rejected? Me? I’m offended you would even suggest such a thing. But I will forgive you, simply because you do not know of what you speak; you have not seen me in action.”

Now was Eskel’s turn to snort. “We haven’t seen you in action,” he repeated, an eyebrow raised pointedly and a teasing lilt to his voice.

“Have you seen him in action, Geralt?” Lambert asked, with all the faux innocence a shithead like him could muster. “Is it truly a sight to behold? Knicker dropping, would you say?”

Jaskier’s face flushed and he resolutely did not turn his attention toward Geralt, lest Geralt read a bit too much on his face. Geralt, however, didn’t seem to notice the teasing, which was less surprising and more disappointing than Jaskier would have thought. Instead, he hummed and tapped the table as if he was actually considering his answer. Bastard.

“It’s a sight, I’ll say that much,” he answered, ever the diplomat.

“Inspirational, truly. I think your roles should be switched. Geralt should sing of Jaskier’s triumphs,” Eskel said, rolling his eyes.

Jaskier waved a hand. “Save us all that misfortune, Eskel. Geralt would have to say a nice thing or two about me on occasion. I don’t think his poor, delicate heart could take it.” Jaskier grinned at Geralt and nudged him with his shoulder, only to receive an eyeroll and a push back--Geralt likely thought it was just a nudge, but it sent Jaskier tumbling over on the long bench. “See? Brute.”

When Jaskier had first come to Kaer Morhen, he had expected a far cooler reception than the one he received. He had been traveling with Geralt for years, and though he knew Geralt was fond of Jaskier, in his own ways, Jaskier could never quite call him warm. It was a safe assumption that a winter in Kaer Morhen would be much the same, but from three new witchers. 

Vesemir did have a bit more of his progeny’s cool and collected demeanor, but he had clapped Jaskier on the back in a way Jaskier could almost call fatherly on multiple different occasions. When he had met Lambert and Eskel, Lambert had loudly started singing Toss A Coin at them and Eskel had pulled Jaskier in for the most thorough hug of his life. 

Since that welcome reception, they had been outrageously chatty compared to their brother in arms, and nearly every night was spent talking well into the evening. Jaskier had no monster stories to regale them with, but the others did not make him feel as if he was the odd man out. Instead, they looked forward to his stories of skirt chasing and court drama just as much as he looked forward to their tales of heroics against monstrous monsters.

Monstrous monsters. Maybe he’d had a bit too much of the wine.

“It seems my meager human constitution pales in comparison to what your sturdier frames can put away. I fear I must retire before I say something to embarrass myself,” Jaskier said, pushing himself back from the table and standing.

“That’s the longest way to say ‘I’m pissed, gonna go sleep it off,’ I’ve ever heard,” Lambert snorted. “Do you ever say things straight?”

“No,” Geralt answered. “He once ranted through an entire meal, but the only thing he managed to say was that I was a troll.”

“And you are, darling. And a miserable hag to boot.” Jaskier waved a hand dismissively. “A true wordsmith such as I knows how to weave even the most simple of statements into works of art. Try not to miss me and my eloquence too much, and pray that you do not drink yourselves into an early grave. Is it still an early grave if you’re well over a hundred?”

The witcher’s laughed and bid him goodnight, and Jaskier made his way out of the hall.

The problem with the witcher’s keep was that it was not the most intuitive place to navigate. Jaskier prided himself on his sense of direction, having been in many a castle before, and all castles started to look alike with their long, windy hallways and doors upon doors, many of which led to nowhere. The keep was much the same, and the combination of its inherent confusion, the darkness, and Jaskier’s slight inebriation had Jaskier lost. Quite quickly.

It took him about ten minutes and four different doors he was certain had contained stairs earlier that day to finally admit defeat and shuffle back to the dining hall. He didn’t mean to overhear, he really didn’t. Jaskier wasn’t even trying to be sneaky--why bother, when you’re in a keep full of men pumped with so many mutagens they could tell the color of a rabbit from the way it shuffled its feet? Only, apparently the ale had dampened their attention enough that Jaskier’s quiet steps had gone unheard, and he was able to approach the door to the dining hall without so much as a stutter in their conversation.

“--like him, Geralt,” Eskel said.

“Aye. If you manage to fuck things up in the next year and don’t bring him back, I’m not sure if we can let you pass through the gate,” Lamber agreed, though his voice was unusually pleasant. Like he was teasing Geralt.

“So glad to know my own brothers have turned on me so quickly,” Geralt scoffed.

“Well, we’d probably let you in, but only because if your froze your balls off we’d be hearing about it for the next century or so. Seriously, though. He’s nice to have around. You have certainly been less moody this winter,” Eskel said.

“Yeah, you were a right prick last year. And the year before that.” Lambert paused, as if he was considering something. “You have been a right prick this year, too, now that I think of it. Maybe the bard just distracts from your overall unpleasantness.”

There was a quick scuffle and a grunt from Lambert, followed by a long laugh from all of them, though Lambert’s took a moment to move from begrudging to warm. Sometimes, Jaskier wondered if they truly were brothers since infancy; they certainly acted like it. Though, he supposed experiences like they’d had bound people together far more securely than mere blood.

“I’ll ask him, but there’s no guarantees. He makes his own decisions. Goes where he wants. I have no claim to him,” Geralt said, and Jaskier was sure he was not drunk enough to be imagining the sadness etched in his voice.

“Well that’s bull--” Lambert started, only to be drowned out by Eskel.

“Geralt, are you kidding?” Eskel asked, incredulous. “That bard would go wherever you went, if only you’d ask. Even over a fucking cliff.”

“Seriously. He makes eyes at you so frequently, I don’t think he’s even aware he’s doing it at this point.”

Lambert laughed, as if it was a joke, but Jaskier’s face grew hot with embarrassment. Ah. So they had noticed. Jaskier was half afraid they would, and now he had mounting concern over the fact that they were telling Geralt. Jaskier was quite certain this winter was about to get a hell of a lot longer, lonelier, and colder. Either Geralt would realize Jaskier’s affections were just as his brothers said and be disgusted, or he would just let them stay there, as if nothing had happened. Jaskier wasn’t sure which option was worse.

“I’m going to bed,” Geralt said, his voice gruff, and Jaskier heard the scraping of his chair against the wood. 

Jaskier stumbled back a few steps, silently cursed himself, then tried to tiptoe away without attracting too much attention. This was not something he wanted to explain. Except, he still didn’t know how to get back to his own room. Fuck.

“If you’re smart, you’ll go to your bard’s bed!” Lambert called as the door opened. Fuck.

Jaskier scrambled behind a nearby door, trying to hide as quietly as he possibly could. It was a fool’s errand, he knew. After all, even drunk, Geralt would be able to notice him, surely. But he had gotten lucky once tonight when it was him against witchery senses; Jaskier could only hope he’d be lucky again. Otherwise he would have a fair bit of explaining to do.

Geralt walked by the door, and Jaskier only narrowly avoiding expelling a breath of relief. Until he heard Geralt stop, then push the door closed.

“Next time, you should make sure you close the door after you hide behind it,” Geralt said, a smile in his voice, then continued on his merry way, as if he hadn’t left Jaskier frozen to the spot in shame.

It took a long time for Jaskier to build up the courage to leave whatever room he had been hiding in. By the time he did so, Geralt was gone. Apparently, that was that. Apparently, Geralt was content to allow Jaskier to at least sort of live this down.

Maybe this winter wouldn’t turn out to be horrible after all.

[whatdoesshedotothem]

Saturday 5 November 1836

8 3/4

1 ¾

No kiss breakfast at 10 - having sat 1/4 hour with M- who had not closed her eyes to sleep during the night and would breakfast in bed - A- had Mr. Horner about 10 ½ and I went back to M- about 11 (she had got up) and sat with her till after 1 - had talked of Duncan Milne’s marriage of A- of housekeeping of alterations etc of Willoughby Crewe and δ being likely for long life I spoke quietly but highly of A- no love making to π but my manner very kind and affectionate  she makes no attempt beyond but I think would intrigue with me gladly if I chose luncheon at 2 - sat with A- and M- till 3 when A- rode to Cliff Hill and M- and I went out, but did not get much beyond the barn in consequence of a heavy shower - M- strongly advised me last night not to change the name from Shibden hall to Shibden castle  mentioned Mr. Antrobus’ magnificent new house in the old style called castle and in ridicule which the people called the castle in the field - said I was struck by what she (M-) said, and would not change the name without well considering the matter - M- much approves my taking the name of Mrs. L- did not like my plan of turning the barn into the coach house and driving thro’ it to the house but liked my name of keep for the barn when turned into coach house - on explaining to her my plan this afternoon, she came round to my opinion and much approved it - on coming in sat sometime talking in the drawing room - then the sound of my voice making A- feel sleepy, and made her lie down and left her at 4 50 and went out for an hour - to the rocks, and walked in front of the house - then dressed and paid Robert Schofield and Charles Howarth and John Booth - not having been out except with M- till after the men were gone away know not what has been done during the day - but Robert Mann and c° must have been here in spite of the rain - saw that they had more levelling near the rocks, and had piled up a perpendicular little bit of sodding that must come down in part at least - the gardener and Hemingway the Wyke gardener had taken up young oaks in that part of the Conery wood where the future orchard is to be and I had told the gardener to plant them out in the Conery Ing for the garden shelter wood -Charles and James Howarth had taken up the railing along the Conery wood in the Conery Ing and reset part of it in the Godley paddock as a guard where the wall is low - the horse to be turned in tomorrow - the cows have been there for 2 or 3 days - Robert Schofield and his man Joseph Sharpe doing I did not ask what - the 2 masons James and Abraham at the drab room chimney top outside till beaten off this afternoon - Amos and Joseph Sharpe at the west tower and 2 hewers as usual and idle lads I suppose Ingham and c° were not here - M- had not slept but I found her up at 6 ½ - dinner at 6 ¾ - coffee upstairs at 8 - we sat long downstairs talking over the dinner table - read tonights’ paper while A- and M- talked over the school matters - from 9 50 to 10 ¼ I asleep on the sofa, then came to my study and till 10 50 wrote all the above of today - Rainy day - hardly a gleam of ½ hour quite fair during the whole day - windy rainy day and evening - raining now and F38° at 10 50 pm

[multinotfound]

Mari’s dreams while trying to shift pt. 1

So i tried out a new method last night and worked pretty well. i woke up multiple times and just kept trying to shift when at 9 am i started dreaming.

It was me and this guy I had apparently been talking to or dating and his sister absolutely hated me. His sister was slightly younger or older than us, like a year or 2. So we show up at his house and he just kinda ditches me and breaks up with me but i have to go to this dinner party with him. This house he lived in was a mansion, like fucking huge. He was apart of like a royal family. I don’t really remember what happened here but his sister tried to kill me somehow like chasing me with a fucking knife and i bump into her date in another room and we hang out in there. So later on we are riding to this dinner party at like a castle thing. My apparently ex boyfriend and his sister where riding in their own car and i was riding with his sisters “date”.

This is the interesting part. The date was Karl Jacobs. So Karl brought his little sister he had in the dream. She was like 6 or 7 so the age of still having to watch them but they know stuff. We had to ride down this long windy path through some woods and across a path that had like not really a river but it had water build up on either side. Karl was driving the car and let me say he looked great doing it. The whole ride to the castle it had been pouring down rain and i was wearing this dress a lot like the dress i was supposed to wear to my senior prom. (i’ll include pictures) and Karl was wearing a suit and his little sister was wearing like a probably pink dress.

We get there and we hop out the car and walk inside. we sit down where we are supposed to and the inside reminded me of like an olive garden layout of tables. lol. but it was like a long booth against a divider of the room like it didn’t block a view or anything it was just a long booth going down a wall and a table then 2 chairs on the outside. So it was me and Karl in the booth side of the table and our “dates” on the other side with the chairs and they got up and left to talk to people the entire time and Karl just chilled with me. He was still a streamer and a mcc had just happened and i specifically saying “i was going to ask if you had saw the recent mcc but realized you were in it” and so we talked for a long time then his sister comes back with his mom and she is talking to me and she goes yeah this party is for Karl bc he is a prince. POG PRINCE KARL but me and karl hit it off for the rest of the night and he ditched his date i ditched mine. they found new people at the dinner party and Karl goes to take me home. It had been raining all night and had flooded the path out like it was basically a river and it was kinda deep. so he goes to drive and there was a rock that had been pushed up onto the path and made his car turn and go into the water so Karl hopped out and his sister was on the side I was on so i grabbed her and like the car was halfway submerged so I kinda saved her life and we walk a little down the path and his aunt had also ran off the path and so we make it to the road and somehow get back to my house and time passes. My school had a like field trip thing and not many people went but me and Karl were dating now and we held hands and kissed and then @multiii-stan called to wake me up at like 11. but PRINCE KARL like imagine that and he looked so pretty like i can’t describe it oh yeah and at the dinner party he got a crown and it was so cute

[mightiestheroes]

Hey!! I don’t know, if you do song prompts, but if you do. Could you please write a Jaskier x Female!Reader oneshot based on the song “So Close by Jon McLaughlin”. Thanks so much!!

That was in my inbox for so long, sorry! 

I hope you enjoy it anyway, please let me know and feel free to send in some more.

As always sorry for any mistakes.

You must admit that living on the court with Jaskier and Geralt wasn’t so bad after all. After long journeys you got invited by Jaskier’s family friends to stay in their castle for a while and considering a really cold and windy winter approaching you all agreed although Geralt wasn’t too fond of the idea.  But you were grateful for the comfort and warmth you missed on the trail. You spend most of the days watching Geralt train with knights in sword fight, listening to Jaskier writing new songs and remembering your various adventures but in the evenings you usually sat together to drink some wine and just be around each other. Right now you are sitting with Geralt who is listening to you talking about the last book you read. He seems like he doesn’t care but you know he likes it, your voice calming his mind a bit. Jaskier was nowhere to be found – probably charming some court ladies or getting into trouble which made you feel slightly nervous. Not the trouble part – it was mostly Geralt’s job to rescue the idiot but you didn’t like thinking about your favourite bard flirting with other women. You wouldn’t admit it but over the course of time you realised you had a stupid crush on him. You hated yourself for that because you knew it never ends well and on the other hand a man such as himself would never consider a commoner like you for a lover. Your thoughts got interrupted by the bard who stormed into your chambers with force like always.

“We are going to a ball!” He exclaimed and you both looked at him unamused and waited for him to continue. “It’s a birthday party for the lady of the castle, it’s in two days and you are coming as my date!” He pointed at you with a grin and such confidence you were shocked. You looked at him in disbelief, your stomach twisted and heart started pounding in hope but you asked “What are you talking about?” You tried to stay calm but your hopes were already up.

“My former lover will be there. She seems to be still infatuated but I am not… And I need you to act like my date so she wouldn’t try to get back with me.” He stated it calmly like it was the most obvious thing in the world and smiled. You were stunned. You weren’t sure if you heard him right.

“I am not doing that Jaskier.” You stated simply trying to remain calm but your heart raced. Geralt stayed silent but he heard your heart rate and looked at you with a raised brow. You just shrugged and shook your head slightly so he would let it go.

“Buy why (Y/N)? It will be fun!” at that point you scoffed.

“I am not an actress and I won’t be spending the whole night rescuing you from the trouble you’ve caused.” You were getting angry at him until you looked at his face. He gave you the best puppy eyes and a pout not knowing it melted  your heart. “Please, please, please!  It’s the last time and I’ll buy you new books!” He added hopefully. You considered for a minute and gave in because you were sure he wouldn’t let it go anyway. “Make sure to find some damn good books.” You said with a small smile and he cheered and came to hug you.

Those two days passed in a blur and you were currently getting ready for the ball. You borrowed a beautiful gown from one of the daughters in the castle that made you feel quite good. It was long and flowy in your favourite colour that accentuated your eyes and hair. The first person to see you was Geralt. He came into your chamber and stopped in his tracks with a warm smile on his face – that was a good sign.

“You look beautiful, (Y/N). He is going to pass out.” You rolled your eyes at him playfully but you appreciated that the witcher didn’t say anything about your crush. In that moment the door swinged open again presenting a very elegant and handsome Jaskier. He was struggling with one of the buttons but when he looked up at you he stopped. His eyes went wide, he opened his mouth to say something but for the first time he couldn’t find his words. He saw your beauty the first time you met but he never dared to think he was worthy of your feelings. You were so out of his league he felt like he could just worship you from afar. He came to his senses and smiled widely.

“Gorgeous…” He whispered.“ Let’s go.” He gave you his arm to take and you all left.

You were seated between your two friends by a table full of delicious food and the best wine in the area. You thanked Jaskier when he poured you some of it and drank it quickly. You were sure it’s going to be a long night. The bard couldn’t stop himself from stealing sideway glances at your stunning form especially when you talked to Geralt and laughed melodically at what probably was a sarcastic remark about one of the other guests. He found himself smiling at that sight and felt a strange tightness in his chest. But the moment got interrupted when someone asked him to perform one of his famous songs. He couldn’t deny the request and got up to walk onto the small stage. His performance was a blast as always and the crowd cheered loudly. As soon as he finished and bowed a group of women surrounded him. You caught his eyes and looked away pretending you were not bothered. You could hear his laugh from across the room and you reached for your wine to drown the strange feeling in your stomach. Geralt sensed the shift as always and patted your hand sportingly.

“You should tell him, you know.” The Witcher whispered to you. He knew you got it bad for each other and it drove him crazy how blind you both were but he felt like it wasn’t his place to say it.

“Let it go, Geralt. Pour me some more wine.” You smiled at him deciding you want to enjoy the evening while it lasts. He complied and gave you a refill which you accepted gladly. You sat back in your seat, relaxed and closed your eyes for a few moments. What you missed then was a certain bard staring at you with his head tilted a little and a soft expression on his face. It was that moment when he realised what is that strange feeling. He was falling for you and it was terrifying. Before he could stop himself he came up to you and his face felt warm when you opened your eyes and smiled at him.

“May I have this dance, M’lady?” he asked nonchalantly and you laughed softly at his antics but agreed. You got to the quiet corner of the dancefloor and started swaying. You felt out of place looking at other couples dancing until the song changed. It was a beautiful tune and the words made you feel warm inside.

You're in my arms

And all the world is calm

The music playing on for only two

So close together

And when I'm with you

So close to feeling alive

Jaskier loved that song as well and he felt like those words hit him with a double force. He never wanted that evening to end even if it was all pretend.

So close to reaching

That famous happy end

Almost believing

This one's not pretend

And now you're beside me

And look how far we've come

So far we are, so close

He put his hand on the small of your back and held you a little bit closer. You got lost in that feeling and closed your eyes once again when he put his cheek on the top of your head. A thought popped into his mind in sync with the song:

Oh how could I face the faceless days

If I should lose you now

It terrified him to the bones that he could live without you one day and his stomach twisted. He decided to enjoy the evening while it lasted and swore to himself he’d find a way to win your heart. Little did he know that he’d already done that. Geralt watched you two with an amused smile wondering when you’re going to realise that you are in love with each other for his sake.

[crusherthedoctor]

Crusher Elaborations #1: Thoughts on the Aesthetic of Sonic’s World

If someone came up to me and asked “Which do you prefer, Classic Sonic or Modern Sonic?”, my answer would start off with “Well, technically Classic Sonic because...”, and then I'd get cut off by the other person immediately lecturing me on why I'm wrong and why I'm the worst kind of fan imaginable. Should they finish their rant, I would then explain to them in the midst of them basking in their flock of easy Twitter likes that I didn't necessarily mean it in the way they predicted.

If we were talking about the games, the characters, or the character design, I'd be fairly neutral, since I like both halves equally for the most part. In fact, when it comes to characters, Modern might actually have the edge believe it or not, since the sheer number of characters introduced from SA1 onwards naturally means a lot of my favourites were introduced from that point on, such as Tikal, Rouge, Gamma, Omega, Blaze... But then again, Classic introduced Eggman and Tails, and the Hard-Boiled Heavies are technically Classic as well despite being relatively new...

Anyway, the point is, I'm not talking about any of that today. I'm talking about the world that Sonic and his multicolored chums live in. Or rather, the aesthetic of it.

NOTE: This is purely about the game universe. While I do have my thoughts on Sonic’s world as presented in other continuities, that won’t be the focus here.

If you're familiar with my blog, you'll know that as a general rule of thumb, I much prefer colorful and creative worlds in my Sonic universe, and that rings true for my reasoning here. And I know what you're gonna say: “But Crusher, isn't there plenty of that in the Modern games as well?” Yes, there is, and I appreciate them very much. But this is why I feel the need to make a post of this sort to begin with, because I'm NOT saying “Classic cool, Modern boring” and calling it a day. There's a little more nuance to my tastes here.

When I say I prefer the Classic aesthetic for Sonic's world, I don't mean it in the literal sense of disregarding everything about the Modern aesthetic. Let's put it like this: when you're asked to paint a picture of these two sides of Sonic's universe in your head, a specific image will likely come to mind. When you think of Classic, you'll probably think of Green Hill first and foremost, whereas with Modern, you'll probably think of something like City Escape or Rooftop Run before anything else. In other words, when you think Modern Sonic, you're probably imagining the more realistic kind of locations first. And between the two mental images that come to mind, I personally prefer the Classic image. Shock, horror.

I wish I could swim in a sea that’s probably radioactive.

Now keep in mind, I'm not saying that City Escape, Rooftop Run, and all similar environments in the series look bad, because they don't. Unless they're painted with the '06 brush, they generally look fine, and the locations in Unleashed in particular are undeniably beautiful from an graphical standpoint. The problem is that although I can picture this as a world that Sonic could be in, I can't necessarily picture it as Sonic's world specifically. Because when it comes to the more realistic environments, I feel there's not much of an attempt to let it branch out as its own thing.

I know that might seem harsh, especially for Unleashed, since the real world angle was the deliberate theme of that game. And Sonic taking cues from real places is a fine concept, there's no issue there. I'm not gonna complain if there's a France Zone with an Eiffel Tower in the background. In fact, Sandopolis Act 1 has one of my favourite aesthetics in a Classic zone (mainly because the background is really pleasant to look at), and that zone is essentially Egypt Zone. But if you're making a Real World Zone, there needs to be more to it than that, otherwise you don't truly get a Sonic interpretation of our world... you instead have our world as it is with Sonic characters awkwardly stapled on.

When I look at City Escape, it may not be completely unfitting for Sonic (the posters and billboards in particular are actually a really nice touch), but when I look at it, I don't see Sonic's interpretation of San Francisco. I see San Francisco with Sonic shoved in. When they morph these places to Sonic's liking, they'll add rings, loops... and that's it. They rarely take the concept any further, which is a huge shame, particularly in the case of Rooftop Run, where I otherwise do like its visuals a lot, but it just doesn't go far enough with the concept for my liking.

At least you get to murder car owners, and give G.U.N. a legitimate reason to arrest you.

So which Modern games do I feel did the best job at making Sonic's world... er, Sonic's world? Well the truth is, most of them actually do a decent job in this area, regardless of the level design quality or the game’s quality period. SA2 has Pumpkin Hill, Eggman's Pyramid Base, and... SOME levels aboard the A.R.K (mainly the “outside” ones, like Final Rush). Shadow the Hedgehog, a game that reveled in how brown and gritty it was, still had highlights like Circus Park and Digital Circuit. Even '06 of all games had Aquatic Base, which was pretty cool from a conceptual standpoint. And although Unleashed as a whole might be a touch too vanilla in the creativity scale, it still had the glorious Eggmanland at the very end. But if I had to say which of the Modern installments did the best job overall...

- For starters, I'm gonna give a shoutout to SA1, because even though it was the first Modern game, and thus it was technically responsible for the more focused angle of realism in Sonic's world in the first place, it didn't take it quite as far as later games would, and although it may not be a perfect 1-to-1 representation of the world we saw in the Classic games, it does well enough with what it brings to the table that I can still accept it without any issue at all. Some of that has to do with the fact that you still have wilder areas like Windy Valley and Red Mountain to balance things out, but even with the other half, the game's use of colour is enough for it to go a long way, oddly enough. Take the At Dawn section of Speed Highway for instance:

From innocent times, when the radar wasn’t a piece of shit.

Technically, it's really not that different to the urban environments you see in SA2 or Unleashed. But something about the sleepy morning approach gives it a subtle, almost dream-like edge to it that I really dig, and despite it being pretty similar to the likes of City Escape, somehow I have an easier time buying into the idea of this place being part of the same world as zones like Sky Sanctuary.

And seeing how I already mentioned Red Mountain, let me compare it to Flame Core:

Yes, I know bringing '06 into this discussion at all is inherently and hilariously unfair, but let's put aside the game that Flame Core comes from for a moment. Aside from maybe the purple crystal caves indoors (and that's assuming you can even see where the fuck you're going in there), Flame Core is pretty boring to look at as far as Sonic levels go. Red Mountain is vastly more interesting, even though it's basically the exact same concept, and a lot of that has to do with - you guessed it - colour. Sure, it's day time, that's one thing, but you'll also notice that for a lava/mountain stage, it surprisingly has a few grassier sections, sort of like Hill Top in that regard. A little bit of green among the brown and red, and a great contrast to the volcanic nightmare you'll experience when you head inside.

Now this might seem like a fairly minor detail... and yeah, it is, but the thing that SA1 does so well is that it combines so many of those small details to make a complete, well-rounded package. This is why SA1 meshes well with the Classic style despite not being an exact replica, because just as the Classics excelled at, it wasn't afraid to use colour in interesting ways. It understood that a fire level could have more than just red and orange, in the same way that a grassy level could have more than just green and blue.

But of course, as I mentioned, SA1 is not an exception. There are other Modern games that did a great job on the whole...

- Heroes is an obvious answer, since it's translation of Genesis-style environments to 3D is probably one of the most recurring praises the game receives, and rightly so. Not much to say here, except that Hang Castle is still cool as hell.

And plenty of opportunity to admire the not-broken-in-half moon.

- Colours is another obvious one, though something of an ironic one given that the premise of the game involved going to other worlds, and those worlds were all converted against their will by Eggman. Yet, they did an equally superb job at creating fun, unique locales, and Aquarium Park in particular remains a favourite of mine.

Gotta love that red/blue contrast.

- The Riders series has a more futuristic bend compared to the rest of the series, but even when it's not all high-tech, it's got some pretty cool environments of its own, and I feel they even do well at mixing the real world side of things on top of that. Gigan Rocks comes to mind, as does Aquatic Capital.

Reminds me of when Perfect Chaos peacefully protested against Station Square.

- Regardless of my thoughts on the game itself, Secret Rings had some undeniable winners in this depertment. You tell me with a straight face that Night Palace doesn't look amazing.

A wonderful palace for a domestic abuser.

- And lastly, they might have had an early advantage since they're already 2D, but the Advance trilogy and Rush duology deserve a mention. They had some fantastic ideas for zones, like Planet Sonata Music Plant, and they did great with the colours as well. Hell, throughout these five games, the sky was practically every shade of the rainbow at one point or another.

Oh look, another completely whole moon.

Also, quick shoutout to another minor detail akin to the grassy sections of Red Mountain: these pink tunnel sections in Ice Mountain. No elaborate point to make here, just another perfect example of how much I adore these games' use of colour and contrast.

Seriously, I could go on for hours about good contrast.

Although I do bring up these small details for another reason, and in turn, another layer to my more nuanced take on Sonic aesthetics. By this point, we get the basic jist: Crusher likey when Sonic levels unique and pretty. But this can - and has - lead to a couple of misconceptions, so I'd like to address those and then laugh at them.

“So you want Sonic's world to be exactly like Mario?”

A common complaint that Lost World received was that it was too much like Mario, in more ways than one, and part of this was to do with the game's visual style. The zones may have been upbeat, but they often consisted of a bunch of things floating in the air and not much else, ala 2D Mario. While I didn't outright hate it, it’s definitely not what I have in mind for Sonic.

Of course, all complaints about being too much like Mario suddenly turn into praise when Eggette gets brought up...

And why is that? Because yes, I like my Sonic locations to be fun and lively... but I also want them to be firmly established within the context of this universe. The Lost World approach is fine with Special Stages and the sort, but outside of that... well, Studiopolis is a perfect example of what I'm talking about:

On one hand, it's very unique when compared to other cities in this franchise, and it's full of quirkiness, great use of colour, and all that good stuff I've went on about. But at the same time, it's grounded just enough so that it still feels like an actual city that the people of Sonic's world could feasibly live in, rather than a basic and empty video game level with a tacked on city background. Studiopolis may be a level from a video game, but you can totally believe it's a fully fleshed out place from its own perspective.

Naturally, this praise also rings true with the Modern games I listed earlier, and is yet another reason for why I approve of their settings.

“So you think Sonic can't have darker locations?”

It might be easy to take my compliments at face value, and assume that I'm immediately opposed to a zone that's not brightly colored. This is... very obviously false, as even the Classic games have their share of less-than-cheery areas, such as Scrap Brain and the Bad Futures in Sonic CD.

However, when you're making a grittier location in Sonic's world, regardless of the context, it still needs to be interesting. The problem with a lot of them in Modern installments is that they're boring. Crisis City is a generic city on fire. Westopolis is a generic city with aliens firing lasers from above. The prison levels in SA2 - and the indoor ARK levels not named Cannon's Core - are just grey hallways for the most part. That shit isn't exciting, and it doesn't get my mind speculating. It just makes me want to move on.

Let the eggsperts take care of this.

By contrast, Eggmanland is a prime example of how to do it right. Eggmanland is a magnificent theme park as envisioned by the good doctor, but it's also, at its core, a giant metal hellscape fueled by the energy of a dark entity, and it only gets more ominous the further you go through it or try to before you give up because it’s too fucking long and you died at the end. So it sets the mood to be sure, but it's still visually compelling to look at, and interesting to think about.

And since Eggman is apparently the only one who can show us how it's done, here's a shoutout to Titanic Monarch as well:

Like Heavy King, but Heavier and Kingier.

When comparing the final zones in Sonic games, I especially love this zone's visual approach, because it manages to be dark and colorful at the same time, and in a strangly organic way. It's got a spooky atmosphere, with a moody moonlight backdrop to match, and the titular robot is foreboding as hell as you climb up it and traverse through it... all the while having red floors, green and yellow wires, blue and pink buildings, and stained glass windows of Eggman and the Heavies for you to marvel at. So even putting aside the unique scenario of climbing up and then through a Kaiju-sized mech, the mood of the zone alone manages to be extremely memorable.

So what have we learned from all this? Aside from the fact that I’m way too interested in this subject? We now know that when I say I prefer the Classic “style” over Modern when it comes to the way that Sonic's world is presented:

- I don't mean that literally.

- There are certain qualities that although both of them possess, they tend to be more immediately associated with Classic in the collective consciousness, even within the fandom.

- The environments that I love the most in Modern games are often the ones that would also fit perfectly in the Classic style.

So whenever I express the basic nature of this opinion in the future... just imagine a small asterisk at the end of my sentence.

[animalsatwildlilac]

Power Outage with Bearded Dragon

This beardie has a job. His name is Stripy, and he is a working lizard. His life is full of adventure at Wild Lilac preschool. But he does get weekends off, vacations, and even mental health days, just like me. I think he is lonely when we are not together.

On Thursday, when WL announced an early release because of the winter storm warning, I got the whole day off because I only teach in the afternoons. But I still needed to go in, briefly -- to tend to the animals before the roads got messy.

On the way there, I stopped for supplies at my local pet store, Tropical Hut. I bought 100 crickets and a package of frozen bloodworms.

When I parked in front of the school, rain was falling and the temperature was dropping. Masked parents were picking up their unmasked kids. I left 50 of the crickets in my car with plans to take them home for Stripy, my bearded dragon, and then I went to the animal room.

I fed and tucked our critters in –

Two cubes of bloodworms for the Axolotl;

Cucumber and carrots for the just-hatched baby snails;

Fresh pinecones and toilet paper rolls for the gerbils;

Hay for the new-found guinea pigs (see previous post);

Crickets in with the animals that eat crickets: the tarantula, the geckos, and the cane toad;

And food for the crickets themselves (some apple, some dog food);

The Madagascan Hissing cockroaches still had food;

The walking sticks are all out of bramble – I’m sorry, but they will be okay for a few days without food.

I headed home.

As I brought the deli container of crickets into my house (they had been in my car for about 45 minutes) I realized something was tragically wrong -- all 50 of them were on their backs, heels to heaven. My first though was carbon monoxide.  How could they all have DIED in such a short time? Then I realized maybe they weren’t dead – they were cold! Or did they freeze to death? It just hadn’t been that long. Such drama! I set them on a table and watched them, and as they warmed, they started to move. First a leg twitched, then another, then one flipped over. I was thinking how cool is this! Definitely something to explore with the kids – the freezing and warming of crickets.

And then, as I was deep in contemplation watching the flipping crickets, it’s 3 in the afternoon and -- the power goes out! There was no accumulation of ice or snow. The storm had hardly started. PGE said the power would be back on at 5pm. But at 5, they said 6, and at 6, it was 8.

When the temperature in Stripy’s tank dropped to 65 degrees, I had lifted him out and put him on my chest, zipped up a fleece vest over him, and put a fuzzy blanket around my shoulders.

My husband ventured out into the cold night to find a restaurant with power. He arrived home with salted peppered cod and garlic broccoli and kung pao shrimp from Powell Seafood, and the news that there were now 100,000 people without power in the greater Portland area.

At 8:03 our lights came on! Stripy was glad to get into his warm tank and eat some crickets. The humans were glad to catch up on what we had missed electronically in the past five hours.

Stripy poops biweekly, and does so in a predictable way – pretty much every time I put him in the bathtub; warm water brings it on for him like coffee does for me.

His poop in interesting. Part of it is white and rubbery, part of it loose and greenish brown.

At 2 in the morning my partner woke me. The power is off again, he says. PGE says the cause is under investigation and there is no estimated time for the power to return. In my Ambien induced slumber, I mumbled, “Please … bring me Stripy…”.

Stripy settled on my chest and closed his eyes. He clung to my nightie like a bur on a wool sweater, both of us covered with the duvet. Our dogs are not happy about Stripy joining us in the bed, and they move as close to my head as they can.

My partner kept checking on Stripy, to make sure he was staying on me, not straying into the sheets. But he needn’t worried. Why would this lizard leave the best heat source in the house -- a woman going through a menopausal transition?

Flanked by dogs, a lizard, and my partner who at this point in the pandemic has not just a beard, but a full wizard’s beard, we sleep. But not well. Our thermostat now says 54 degrees. I am worried about the crickets -- they are no longer chirping. but I am not going to snuggle them.

It is windy. My neighbor's roof is covered with snow and smoke is coming out of her chimney. Branches come down from the weight of ice. A car explodes and burns when a power line falls on it. All over Portland, people are lighting candles and caressing their reptiles, trying to keep them warm.

Stripy has two tanks – one at school, and one at home. His at-school tank is what I think of as his studio apartment; it’s furnished with a doll’s bed covered with a patchwork quilt, a hammock, a tiny ceramic toilet, and a small, hard copy of The Very Hungry Caterpillar. At home, he has a “desert” tank where I’ve built him tunnels and hillocks out of excavator sand.

In the summer, at the end of the day, he likes to join my family on the patio. We have cheese and crackers and glasses of chardonnay, and Stripy gets his own glass platter of mealworms. Yes, I know the mealworms are fatty and are supposed to be a treat, not a regular staple, which is why I’ve been trying to transition him to crickets. I want Stripy to chase crickets like how the beardie in the YouTube video chases blueberries, but he doesn’t.

I believe he doesn’t chase his food because he doesn’t have to.

He waits until a cricket crawls up on his hillock and then -- a quick snap nom nom nom -- he chomps on them. A drop of cricket juice spatters from his mouth.

But I know he still has his instincts, because I have watched him shoot across the patio to catch and eat a bee.

At school, the kids touch Stripy with one finger, and they know not to pet his head. Heads are personal spaces, and plus, that third eye! The first time I saw his third eye, I thought a child had drawn on him with marker.

When not roaming about the animal room, or sunning himself under a UV light, Stripy is carried in a woven sea grass basket filled with silks. He has castles built for him out of Magnatiles. The children pick fresh arugula for him from the garden and hand feed it to him. They sketch pictures of him that are pinned to the wall. The kids love him. They tell him this on a daily basis. They don’t imbue him with meaning, they just recognize him as sentient being.

The kids marvel at how his spikes look so sharp but are actually soft. They touch him and talk about his textures and colors, the orange rings encircling his eyes, his soft belly, his pointy tail. We watch his torso expand as he sighs, relaxing into his body.

What are those holes in the sides of his head?

What do you think they are?

Can he hear me? Why aren’t his ears on the outside like mine?

Will he lick me?

He might.

Why did he lick me!

He is tasting you. He’s finding out who you are.

This bearded dragon, does he know how to fly?

Not yet.

Well, his mommy needs to teach him!

I ask him questions in front of the kids … Stripy, do you want some dandelion greens? Oh, you do!  Oh, Stripy, I can see you don’t want to be held right now. You want to move across the floor on your own!

I regularly give animacy to inanimate objects, too.

What is he saying now, Teacher Nikki?

What do you think he is saying?

Caring for animals helps us to build compassion. I want the kids to know that the animals are communicating with us, we just have to listen.

Sometimes, on my way home from work when I stop at Trader Joes, Stripy tells me that he doesn’t want to be left alone in the car, so I set him on my shoulder and he lies very still (but is supremely alert and watches everything) as I walk around the frozen foods and the wine aisles. Kids always notice him and want to connect. The crew usually notice him, too, and greet him with a wink. My sister, who likes animals but doesn’t have any, when I tell her about my experiences in Trader Joes with Stripy, says “Oh, Nik-Nac, you’ve become one of those people.”

And yes, I guess I have, it’s true. I have become that lady with the bearded dragon.

No, we are not supposed to have a lizard in a preschool -- because of the salmonella risk. However, I believe that risk is an inherent and natural consequence of childhood. Our preschoolers take turns on a broken seesaw that was homemade to begin with. They build with crates and cardboard boxes we scavenge from the furniture store on the corner. There is sometimes a sprinkling of nails in our sandbox. We have earthquakes here, and floods, and ice-storms.  Our children breathe harmful air from wildfires. We have lockdown drills to prepare us for potential active shooters in our schools – a little salmonella isn’t going to shut things down for us!

In my more than 30 years of teaching with animals, I have probably exposed thousands of children to salmonella. It will be okay. For those of you who are still worried, let me tell you a little story.

I hosted a special COVID sleepover for some school-age kids recently (the kids were all from the same pod) and when it was discovered that one child had forgotten to bring a tooth brush, I said, “that’s okay, just borrow someone’s toothpaste and brush with your finger.” I mimed a demonstration and all the kids made faces of disgust. “I would never brush my teeth with my finger,” I heard. “I put my fingers in my butt too much!”

We do wash our hands as often as possible.

[wordslikearmor]

“east of the sun and west of the moon” but make it gay

-

It’s not so bad in the white bear’s castle. I walk down the hall to my bedchamber in bare feet, my toes curling in the plush carpet. I trail my fingers across the velvet hangings lining the walls—I never felt something so soft and fine, until coming here. Until I wove my hands into the ruff of fur on the white bear’s neck and held on tight to its shoulders with the cold wind all around me. 

It’s not so bad, no matter how my mother fretted when the bear carried me home for a visit. It must be kind, just for that—to hear me weeping and push its warm wet nose into my hand when I begged to see my family again.

In the bedchamber, I slip my hand underneath my pillow to feel the match and stub of candle there. I sit down on the edge of the mattress and draw a brush through my hair, silky now from daily washing with soaps that smell of pine forests and new snow. I remember my mother pressing the candle into my hand before I left home again.

My sisters, they were full of jokes and teasing around the dinner table that night. We grew up on tales of enchanted animals who became handsome men—my father used to know every story in the world, before he passed. Kiss the bear on his salmon-smelling lips and he’ll become a duke, they laughed. Steal away his great white pelt under a full moon and you’ll have a prince to marry. When you’re a queen, no one will care that you can’t stitch straight and always tread on the farm boys’ feet at dances.

My mother was much more solemn when she brought me to her room after the dishes were all scrubbed and the fire banked. I still hadn’t forgiven her for trading me away for coin to last the winter, then—I knew she was right to say it would be better than marrying like my sisters would have to, better for me, but I still kept my shoulders stiff as she embraced me. Of course she’d chosen the youngest daughter, the one who was never any good at the things daughters were supposed to do.

Have you seen its true face, she asked me, and I shook my head. Every night when the lights in the bedchamber burn out I feel the mattress dip under the weight of another body. Every night I curl myself close so I do not brush against fur or skin and feel its shape. I listen to the pitch of its breathing. 

Take this so you can know, she told me. I didn’t want to close my fingers around the length of tallow, but my mother put her hand over mine and folded it into a fist. 

The candle and match have lain under my pillow two nights so far. In the hushed early hours of this morning, I brought myself to hold them with my hands trembling, but I couldn’t make myself strike the flame. It’s easy, here in the white bear’s castle, and I don’t want it to change. The walls are high enough to hide me forever, and I could live a hundred years pretending nothing else human sleeps inside. 

It’s dark, now. The door has swung open on its silent hinges and another warmth has curled into the bed. I lie on my back and think of my father’s stories and my mother’s steady hands until I can breathe easy enough to light the candle. 

Even the light is soft here—it falls on pale skin and pale hair, eyelashes delicate as sprigs of frost and the curve of a breast like a snowdrift. I gaze without blinking until a bead of wax falls from the candle to mar the pure white of her nightdress. 

She wakes all at once at the feeling and scrambles to put her back to the headboard, eyes a hunted animal’s. She curls in on herself like I once saw the white bear do in the snow-dusted courtyard on a windy morning. 

I’m sorry, she says, which doesn’t seem like how the tale is supposed to go. I’m the one who broke our unspoken rules. 

You weren’t supposed to know what I am, she says. 

All the fear leaves me at once, like it did when I first climbed onto the white bear’s back. I’m glad I know, I tell her. In the candlelight, I’m brave enough to do anything, so I put my hand over hers. 

She doesn’t move away. I say, I’m glad it’s you. 

She smiles, and it looks a little like a white bear might smile, with a few too many teeth. I smile back and say I’m sorry I got wax on your nightdress—I’d try to scrub it out, but I’ve never been any good with the washing.

[swanqueeneverafter]

Sins of the Past Pt.15

Camelot. Throne Room. (Lancelot is escorted into the room by Morgana's men. Morgana is seated on the throne with Morgause standing to her right. Lancelot is thrown to the floor.) Morgana: "Tell me, Sir Lancelot, are you and your fellow knights ready to honour and serve me? Speak up." Lancelot: "I would rather die." Morgause: "That can be arranged." Lancelot: "My loyalty is to the true Queen of Camelot, Guinevere. There is nothing you can do to change that." Morgana: "We shall see. They tell me you were with Arthur when he recaptured the Jabberwocky. There are rumours that you were the one who swung the Vorpal Blade that left her pinned to the wall for many years. Your mother, the Lady of the Lake, she forged that blade, didn't she? (Lancelot merely nods:) It was for this heroic act that Arthur awarded you the honour of the Siege Perilous, correct? (Lancelot says nothing. Leaning forward:) We both know what a snake Arthur turned out to be, but are you aware of just how he came to power?"

Camelot. Past. Uther's Chambers. (Moments after leaving Arthur's side to protect the King, Guinevere arrives outside Uther's chambers. Hearing voices, Guinevere draws her sword and inches open the door to peer inside.) Jabberwocky: (Standing before an unarmed Uther:) “What are you afraid of, Uther?” Uther: (Defiantly:) “I'm not afraid of anything.” Jabberwocky: “Not even... (Reads his mind:) the feeling of smoke... filling your lungs? (Walks behind him:) The fire burning all around you... out of control. (Uther’s eyes widen and he begins gasping for breath:) The feeling that there's nothing you can do to save yourself. (Uther blinks rapidly:) That you... are... powerless. (Uther gasps loudly, coughing:) And you don't know what burns you more... the secret you’ve been keeping inside you all these years... (Kneels beneath Uther as he’s bent over:) ...that the orphan boy, Arthur, the one you tried to drown, is your son. A constant reminder of your betrayal of Ygraine... (Whispers:) or is it the lack of oxygen... in your lungs?” (Uther collapses to the floor. Standing, the Jabberwocky turns and leaves the room, her task complete. While still trying to process what she’s overheard, Guinevere rushes to Uther’s side, looking for any signs of life, but finding none.)

Camelot. Present. Throne Room. (Morgana continues her tale.) Morgana: "As the battle raged on, Arthur fought his way to me. I thought to protect me, but I was gravely mistaken." Camelot. Past. Council Chamber. (Arthur fights two of Cenred's men, knocking them backwards before ushering Morgana into the room. Barring the door, Arthur turns his attention to Morgana.) Arthur: "Those soldiers, it's like they're protected somehow. Everything we throw at them just bounces off." Morgana: "What can we do?" Arthur: "We have to destroy the source of the magic." Morgana: "Which is?" Arthur: (Hesitates:) "I don't know." Morgana: "Our only chance is to get out of Camelot." Arthur: "No, it's too late for that. I need to think. Here. (Arthur hands Morgana a water skin:) Have some water." Morgana: "I'm not thirsty." Arthur: "No, I mean you have some before I finish it." Morgana: (Nods:) "Thank you." (Morgana drinks. Almost immediately she begins to have trouble breathing. Morgana looks at the skin and then at Arthur. Arthur wipes his mouth and then turns to face her.) Arthur: “Forgive me. I had to save Camelot." Castle Corridor. (In the midst of the fighting, Morgause senses something is wrong.) Council Chamber. (Arthur tries to hold Morgana as she struggles to breathe.) Arthur: “I give you my word, as King, I shall restore honour to the name Pendragon. (Morgana’s eyes widen at this and tries to fight him off:) Yes, I am your brother. (Stands:) I’ve known for some time.” Castle Corridor. (Morgause begins to hold her throat like Morgana.) Council Chamber. (Blowing the council chamber door open, Morgause rushes to Morgana, taking her in her arms.) Morgause: (Stroking Morgana’s face:) “What has he done to you?” Arthur: “I had to.” Morgause: (Morgana lays unconscious in her arms:) “You poisoned her!” Arthur: “You gave me no choice.” Morgause: “Tell me what you used and I can save her.” Arthur: “First, stop the attack!” Morgause: “You’re nothing but a simple soldier! You don’t tell me what to do!” Arthur: “If you want to know what poison it is, you will undo the magic that protects Cenred and his men!” Morgause: “Tell me the poison or you’ll die!” Arthur: “Then she’ll die with me. I don’t want this any more than you, but you give me no choice. Stop the attack and you can save her.” Morgause: (With tears in her eyes, lifts the enchantment:) “Astýre ús þanonweard! Cnihtas Medhires, éower sáwla. Rid eft ond forsliehð eft.” Castle Corridor. (The knights blows begin to take effect on Cenred’s soldiers. An overly confident Cenred allows a knight to take a strike at him and is slashed through the heart. With a shocked look upon his face, Cenred falls dead to the floor.) Council Chamber. (Arthur hands Morgause the hemlock bottle. Guinevere and the knights burst into the room.) Guinevere: “Morgana!” Morgause: “Keep away from her! (Rocking Morgana in her arms, Morgause begins to chant:) Bedyrne ús! Astýre ús þanonweard!” (Morgause and Morgana disappear in a windy cloud of smoke.) Camelot. Present. Throne Room. (Morgana continues.) Morgana: "And for ten long years, that was the last time anyone heard from Morgana Pendragon, the true Queen of Camelot. Now I am back to claim my rightful place. (Tilting her head:) Guin has already accepted her part in Arthur's betrayal. It was from her store cupboard that my bastard brother stole the hemlock. She would see me take my birthright, so why not you, Lancelot?" Lancelot: (Looks to her and smiles:) "Long live Queen Guinevere!" (Motioning to her guards, Morgana watches with interest as Lancelot is taken back to the dungeons.)

Neverland. Night. (Regina, Emma and Tiger Lily are escorted to the beach while the Lost Boys dance, holler and bang drums around the fire.) Regina: (Sighs:) “Why is it never past their bedtime?” Lost Boy 1: “For your crimes against Pan, the Lost Boys sentence you to death.” (He points towards several stakes lining the beach. Before they can make good on their threat however, a bright light blinds the Lost Boys momentarily as a large door materialises on the beach.) Emma: “Regina, it’s the door from the Sorcerer’s mansion!” Regina: “We’ve got to go!” (Using the distraction to their advantage, they run towards the door, carrying Maria between them. Emma stops, turning to see Tiger Lily escape her guards.) Tiger Lily: “Run. Now!” (Amidst the confusion, they manage to run through the door, leaving the feral Lost Boys behind them.) Storybrooke. Sorcerer's Mansion. (Stepping through the door, Emma is just able to see Hook, Anna, Kristoff and Rumplestiltskin standing there before she is enveloped in a hug by Elsa.) Elsa: "Thank goodness we found you!"

(Anxiously watching Regina's reaction to this display, Anna steps in.) Anna: (Gently pulling Elsa away from Emma, smiles at Regina:) "It's been an emotional day." Hook: "Swan, Lily's been kidnapped." Emma: "What?" Anna: "And we think Maleficent's missing too, although we don't know for sure. I mean we do know she's not been seen for awhile but-" Rumplestiltskin: (Cutting her off:) "Belle and the others have been rounded up by the new regime in Camelot. If we had everyone who fought with us in the Dream World, we'd still not have enough fire power to defeat Morgana's army." Tiger Lily: (Making her presence known for the first time:) "Even if you had, Morgause's magic is powerful. Perhaps more so than yours at the height of your reign as the Dark One." (Rumplestiltskin is unnerved by the sight of his former godmother.) Elsa: "Which is why we came to find you. I don't know if Lily and Maleficent's disappearances are linked to all of this, but if they are..." Emma: (Looking to Regina:) "We're the only ones capable of breaching their defenses."

Camelot. Dungeons. (Lancelot is being escorted to the cells by four guards.) Belle: (Stepping out from a side passageway:) "Oh, boys?" (The guards and Lancelot turn to face her, Lancelot smiles.) Guard 1: "Oi, how'd you get out?" (Belle blows them a kiss and runs back down the passageway. Two guards chase after her, which allows Lancelot to make quick work of the remaining guards, collecting their swords along the way.) Passageway. (Belle sprints down the passage with the two guards hot on her heels. Running through one gate and then another, Belle sets the trap.) Belle: "Now!" (Before the guards can reach the second gate, Merida closes the door behind Belle, locking it. When the guards try to backtrack through the first gate, Xena and Gabrielle appear, locking that door.) Xena: "Sorry, boys, but you don't spend time around Autolycus, King of Thieves, without picking up a few things." Merida: "Stay there and don't move, eh?" (Merida, Belle, Xena and Gabrielle run back to join Lancelot who is now surrounded by guards. A fight breaks out and Xena, Gabrielle and Merida each quickly disarm a guard each, taking their swords. Lancelot sees a set of keys on the table and throws them to the imprisoned knights before handing one of his swords to Belle.) Xena: (Twirling her sword:) "Now this is what I call a good time!" Wonderland. Grendel's House. (Ella and Will continue trying to free themselves of their bonds.) Ella: “He's out chopping wood. He'll be back any second.” Will: “Don't panic. I've been in worse binds than this. (Attempts to break the ropes by brute strength, but fails:) Well, equivalent binds. (Ella finally frees herself:) How the bloody hell did you do that?” Ella: “Patience and persistence. (Ella unties Will’s hands and they both set to work untying their feet:) Hurry. (Ella heads for the door but notices that Will hasn’t moved:) What are you doing?” Will: “I ain't leaving without that knot.” Ella: “Will...” Will: “I made the deal with the Caterpillar. It's my bloody head on the line.” Ella: “It'll be both our heads if we don't get out of here. Come on!” (Ella tries the lock but it won’t budge. Suddenly an axe is hurled at the door by the Grendel.) Will: (Sarcastically:) “Whenever you're ready, Ella. No hurry.”

(With Will’s help, they finally manage to open the door to find a large beast waiting for them outside. Quickly closing the door, they back away.) Ella: “What in the hell is that thing?” Will: “It's a Bandersnatch.” Ella: “What's it doing here?” Will: “It’s popped round for tea - obviously! How the bloody hell should I know?” Ella: (Glancing over at the knot:) “Come on. I have a plan!” (While they head towards the knot, the Grendel picks up a knife and heads for the door. The Bandersnatch breaks through the door, sending the Grendel flying into the wall, knocking him unconscious. Snorting and snarling, the Bandersnatch tears through the house, climbing onto the dining table where it sees Will and Ella through the knot, crouching on the floor.) Will: (Standing beside Ella by the window:) “He bought it. (The beast roars and sticks its head through the knot:) Now! (Ella pulls on the rope, hauling the Bandersnatch up into the air:) You did it!” Ella: (Struggling:) “Not yet! (The animal kicks and screams, protesting its capture, Will holding Ella around the waist to keep her feet on the ground. Suddenly Will releases her, running into the other room:) Where are you going?!” (The Bandersnatch continues to flail around, Ella trying desperately to keep hold of the rope. Just as it turns its attention to Ella, the Grendel enters the room and charges. The Bandersnatch knocks him down again, roaring in Grendel’s face and is about to take a bite out of him when Will re-enters the room with a knife, stabbing the beast. With a final roar, the Bandersnatch disintegrates before their very eyes.) Will: (Helps Ella to her feet:) “How did you know that thing would fall for your trap?” Ella: “I didn’t.” Will: “Charming!” (Behind them, the Grendel stands.) Grendel: "You saved me. Thank you.” Will: “Yeah. Well, bygones and all that. (The Grendel walks towards the Forget-Me-Knot:) So that means we're square, right? Off the dinner menu?” Grendel: (Holding up the knot, stares into it sadly:) “She's gone.” Ella: “Who was she?” Grendel: “My wife. I lost her long ago.” Ella: “I'm sorry.” Grendel: “I thought I would die of heartbreak. But then I heard of this object and I stole it from she who owned it, and brought it here.” Will: “The Forget-Me-Knot.” Grendel: “That night, two things happened. I saw my wife alive again. But for my crime, she turned me into this.” Will: “Someone destroyed your life?” Grendel: “Yes. But I had no choice.” Will: “You did what you had to do to be with the woman you loved. There's no crime in that. The only crime is what she did to you.” Grendel: “Take it. It holds no value for me now.” Ella: “Thank you.” Grendel: “I hope it brings you what you desire.” (The Grendel walks away sadly, Ella and Will watching him go.) Storybrooke. Past. Regina's Vault. (During the period of time when the town was surrounded by a large ice wall and the Snow Queen is on the loose, Regina and Emma try to discuss the real problem at hand.) Emma: "For the last time, I don't have feelings for Elsa!" Regina: (Scoffs:) "Yeah, right." Emma: "Look, the only possible thing between me and Elsa is the connection to the Snow Queen. Ingrid seems to believe that Elsa and I are her long lost sisters or something." Regina: "You're spending an awful lot of time together."

Emma: "Time you could be spending with me, if you weren't so caught up trying to find this so-called Author of yours." Regina: "You mean spend time at the station with you, the Ice Princess and the Handless Wonder?" Emma: (Rolls her eyes:) "So we're back to Hook? I'm not even going to dignify that one. Hook and I are friends, just like Elsa. Elsa is trying to find her sister, just like Hook is trying to find his child. (Softer, walking closer to Regina:) There is nothing going on between me and either of them. How could there be when I am so, completely in love with you?" Regina: (Putting her book down:) "And you don't find either of them attractive?" Emma: (Scoffs:) "I couldn't possibly find Hook as attractive as Hook finds himself. And me and Elsa? Two blondes don't make a right. Besides, Elsa is far too... happy for me. She sees the world in a completely different way than I do. Than you and I do." Regina: "Yeah?" Emma: "Oh yeah. She's far too innocent for me. I prefer a little darkness. (Puts an arm around Regina's waist:) And you know I love how that darkness tastes." (Emma pulls Regina for a kiss, which the brunette readily returns. Before it can turn into anything more however, Regina pulls away.) Regina: "Mm, we can't. (Resting her forehead on Emma's:) We both have full mornings and we have to pick up your brother from that god-awful Mommy and Me class." Emma: (Nods:) "Okay. (With one last kiss, they part. Emma stepping aside so Regina can leave. Watching Regina run a hand through her hair as she walks:) Mm, girl. You know I hate to see you go, but I love to watch you leave." Regina: (Chuckles:) "Idiot. Just don't be late." Camelot. Present. Morgana’s Chambers. (Morgana stares out of her window with a thoughtful expression.) Morgana: “I’m beginning to see the challenges that I face. Being queen is not so simple, Guin.” Guinevere: “You’re doing well, your Majesty.” Morgana: “You think? The knights do not share your view.” Guinevere: “They don’t know you.” Morgana: (Turns to her:) “I need their allegiance. Without that, the people will not yield to me.” Guinevere: “They all look to Lancelot and he will always be loyal to me. I could talk to him, try to make him see sense?” Morgana: “You would do that for me?” Guinevere: “Uther killed my father and Arthur kept me by his side through magical enchantment for years.” Morgana: “Yes, I…forgot you too had suffered.” Guinevere: “Let me meet with Lancelot. I believe that we would all work very well together.” Morgana: “I will arrange it.” Guinevere: (Curtseys:) “Thank you, your Majesty.” (Morgana smiles as Guinevere leaves the room.)

[frangipanidownunder]

Fox Mulder’s Guide to Building a Pool: part 1

A/N This is in answer to an anon prompt: Mulder builds a pool in the yard. It ran away from me so I’ll post it in two parts. 

This is set post IWTB and assumes Season 10 didn’t happen. Because it shouldn’t have, am I right? Angsty to start with.

Summer He started one night, when the moon hung low and the stars were pegged out haphazardly in the midnight sky. His mind and his heart hadn’t stopped racing for hours, as though he were filled with cosmic energy. Outside, in flannel and old jeans, scuffed and muddied boots, he picked up the old shovel propped against the side of the rickety shed and dug until his fingers froze around the splintered handle, until the blisters on his palms burst, until the disquiet in his gut diffused. 

It was supposed to be a vegetable patch but by the time the dawn broke through, he realised it was in the wrong spot – shaded by the house and in the area of the land where the ground was rubbly and dry. The fertile patch was on the other side of the property, where the trees shed their leaves and mulched the earth naturally.

If there was anything Mulder was known for, it was his tenacity. Scully once told him he’d use a backhoe to dig for the truth. Well now he’d dug a ditch with a shovel and he was going to make something of it. As he massaged the pain from each knuckle he surveyed his night’s work. The sun’s rays hit the turned earth like laser beams, and he had an epiphany. A swimming pool. He was building a swimming pool. A white whale, the truth or a swimming pool. What did it matter as long as it was something he believed in? And just for a moment, in that warm spotlight, the dried out flower of hope bloomed in his chest.

The summer was long, dry and hot. So hot the tarmac melted on the roads, his tomato plants frizzled to brown and he lost his appetite for everything bar an ice-cold beer on the verandah after a day of digging. His routine was solid, despite the meteorological obstructions. He rose early, napped during the day, and worked through mosquito-filled twilights. In his downtime, he googled construction methods, materials, liners, water collection, filtration. On most days, he imagined himself ploughing through the water on warm evenings and chilly mornings, muscles burning, lungs protesting, body thrumming. On good days, he imagined Scully sitting under a shade umbrella sipping lemonade and reluctantly agreeing to take a dip with him, her lithe body pressed against his as they waltzed through the water together. On really good days, he imagined William paddling about in water wings, and squealing as daddy jumped in too close and made a big splish-splosh.

Scully arrived one afternoon, late. She hadn’t visited in a while, he hadn’t made his customary Sunday night call for…he couldn’t actually remember and when he saw the thunderous look on her face, he realised he hadn’t charged his phone for days.

“Didn’t you check your messages, Mulder? I lost count of how many I left. Your machine probably reached its limit.”

Rubbing the back of his neck with a towel, he looked over at the flashing red light and a pang of guilt twinged under his ribs. “I’ve been busy, Scully.” He thought she’d be pleased. That’s what she wanted, wasn’t it? To get him out of his office and back into the real world. Whatever that meant. They’d both seen the real world with its edges peeled back and its slimy, slithering insides exposed. He wasn’t sure he wanted to prod that beast anymore. She’d already turned away from that darkness and found her shining light under the fluorescent gaze of God in Our Lady of Sorrows. 

She looked him up and down with doctor’s eyes. The cold blue gaze causing a shiver to creep down his spine and he had to look away. Her ability to see right through him, past his calloused skin and into the sinewy mass of his body always unsteadied him. She was appraising his physical health and his mental wellbeing. He straightened his shoulders, brushed a clump of mud from his sleeve and offered her a drink.

“Chilled water will be fine,” she said. “I’m driving.”

Well, he knew that. How else would she get here? But more importantly, where else did she have to be. She was dressed sharply, not for the hospital. Something about the lower neckline and the softer palette made his brain wander places he didn’t want to go.

“I’m sorry if I’ve put you out,” he said, emptying ice into the glass and wondering where he put that lemon.

“It’s no bother, Mulder, to come here. You should know that. It’s just that I get…”

“You don’t need to worry about me,” he said, and not so long ago he would have laid a hand over her shoulder or collected her hand in his. Instead, he looked at her and smiled, trying to soften that cool scrutiny. “I’m doing okay.” He didn’t add despite you leaving.

She looked down at her shoes – shiny beige courts with a high heel. He could see her reflection in them. The mouth closing in relief, or maybe irritation. She chuffed. “If you’re going to tell me you’re a big boy, Mulder…”

Palms up in surrender, he shook his head, cracked open a soda. 

“Mulder, you shouldn’t drink…”

“I know about the dangers of too much sugar, Scully, I’m a big boy.”

He showed her his work. She trod carefully over the dry earth, held her cross as she surveyed. He had a sudden longing to see her in a white vest dampened with sweat, cuffed denim shorts, heavy work boots, digging alongside him. 

“And this is going to be a pool?”

“Can’t you see it? Long lazy evenings dipping our toes, sipping gin cocktails as we swat away bugs, brisk morning swims to shuck off those pains au chocolat?” He saw her then, zinc strips over her cheeks and shoulders, straw hat pulled over a lazy ponytail, sunglasses perched on her nose, lowering herself in.

“Mulder, I don’t…”

His chest burnt, like his lungs had crumpled in the storm of a wildfire. He took the handle of the shovel and chopped at the edge of the hole.

“It’s a nice spot,” she said, after a moment gazing out to the horizon. “It’ll be quite something.”

“When I finish,” he added.

Fall

Amber leaves danced on a shimmying breeze, some floating to the ground in theatrical zig-zags. On the other side of the house, the digging was complete. He’d hired an excavator in the end, his knees and back creaking for weeks to remind him of his advancing years and his inability to do everything alone. He’d hired a contractor to remove the dirt and ordered the steel bars for the frame. Scully came by more of

en, intrigued, as she put it, to see how the pool project was coming along. She called to say she was coming Sunday afternoon and would he mind if she stayed a bit longer? He spent all Friday in a mania of dusting and filing and wiping down surfaces. Nesting, they called it. He patted his belly and shook his head. He was becoming quite ridiculous; DIYing and getting giddy when his ex promised to drop by. 

In the cupboard next to the stove, he found a stack of old cookbooks, dogeared pages and horrific  images of antiquated dishes like jellied salads and ham and banana hollandaise that viewed more like one of Scully’s X-Files autopsies. Amongst them was a treasured find. Betty Crocker’s New Picture Cookbook – a book his mother had used religiously. Grease marks and flour crusted over the pages of cakes. He zipped out to the supermarket and picked up the ingredients he would need and set about baking. 

His cake was a simple vanilla sponge but he enjoyed the science of the task, the weights and measures, the timing, the temperature control – the very precision of it all. As he watched it rise, he recalled childhood birthdays, where his mother toiled away for hours icing, sculpting edges, piping, creating dreams. There were castles and race-cars and trains and poodles. Parties were ended with the ceremonial cutting and handing out of slices to guests. He had always felt special those days. But after Samantha’s abduction, she stopped the tradition. She bought shop-baked cakes, refused him parties, spent his birthday barely tolerating the day and Samantha’s sipping brandy. 

By the time Scully arrived, tea was steeping, the table was set with tea-cups and saucers, side plates, and the iced cake stood on an elegant glass platter that held it above the timber surface.

“What’s all this?” she asked, hanging her bag off the back of the chair. “Is the Queen coming over?”

He poured her tea. The colour of it in the white porcelain cup reminded him of her hair against the pillow slip of their bed. “I hope not. She only likes Black Forest Gateau and you didn’t leave any jars of maraschinos.” She laughed softly, just like she would laugh with him during cosy evenings on the couch, rolling her fingers over his bicep, planting sweet kisses along his jawline. Back when it was just them against the world. Not them against the world and then each other.

“The colour is like those Caribbean island beaches,” she said, dotting her finger into the icing on her slice. “Azure.”

Her tongue licked at the sweet blue paste and he wanted to say he chose it because it was like her eyes, that that was what he missed so hard, so deeply, he wanted to say that he was sorry. He couldn’t tear his gaze from her, this simple act of eating that had him enthralled. God, he loved having her over from him, setting her plate just right, pouring the exact amount of granola, spooning whatever yoghurt she was into over the cereal, slicing banana while reading the newspaper. He couldn’t say anything though. All the best words lumped in his throat, as though they were overbeaten and curdled.

Instead, he said, “When Samantha was six, mom made her this cake with blue jello on the top that was supposed to be a swimming pool. I don’t know, I just had this mad rush of nostalgia, finding all those cookbooks and remembering how good it used to be.” He looked up and she was staring at him. “Back then, back home.” 

“How’s it going?” she replied, changing the mood in three words. “The pool?”

It was windy again and leaves tumbled across the yard, collected in the gutter, in the drains, against the fences. 

“It’s protected from the wind on that side, so I won’t have to keep cleaning out the foliage. The pump should be in soon. Then I’ll organise for the concrete pour, before the weather really turns.”

Her hands were stuffed in her jacket pockets, and she’d hunched her shoulders against the chill. He should phone the concreters tomorrow. Get it done. The tip of her nose turned pink. 

“Let’s go back inside,” he said. 

“Why concrete, Mulder? Why not fibre glass or a vinyl liner?”

He shrugged as she walked past him and his eyes settled on her hair, falling down her back, unkempt from the wind. She smoothed it down, rubbed her hands together, sat back at her seat and took another slice of cake. 

“With a more solid foundation,” he said, “it should last longer.”

[sohannabarberaesque]

Postcards from Snagglepuss: “Meet me at the Main Street Cafe,” the message went

And talk about a drive through the night heading out of Duluth: US 53 to US 12 out of Eau Claire, then Wisconsin 21 from Tomah eastward to Necedah, Wisconsin, fortified by rather strong coffee and a want of worthwhile overnight radio as was anything other than Larry King, Jim Bohannon or George Noory in their Luscious Glory of illogical absurdity attracting mostly late-shift welfare-to-work basket cases at the Walmart.

All because of a rather surprising message texted unto me coming out of Duluth: “Meet me at the Main Street Cafe, Necedah.” I couldn’t make hair nor hide of who might have sent the same, especially considering the fact of Necedah being a somewhat second-rate one-horse town notorious for a Discredited Apparition of Our Lady back in 1950, I believe ... an “apparition” of “Our Lady Queen of the Holy Rosary, Mediatrix of Peace, Mediatrix Between God and Man” as was found later to have been insincere, apocalyptic and not exactly on the same par as Lourdes, Fatima even, for sincerity and piety. (I will spare all the sordid laundry, mind you.)

But still, as the dawn came--a sort of grayish-looking dawn, with a few streaks of clear skies in the heavens--revealing essentially a terre mauvais of the highest order, with dead trees and tree limbs to be had everywhere, Necedah could not be that far off. And before long, approaching Necedah’s Main Street (Highway 80 otherwise), I began wondering who could have wanted me to meet them at the Main Street Cafe in Necedah, and the radionale therefor.

This even as I parked my car in the Municipal Parking Lot across the way-ho-way glill platonic time weatherborn (whatever that may be) ... and across the way was the Main Street Cafe, a modest hole-in-the-wall seating about 25 tops at any one time, with a decent mix of locals (usually farmers as are unlikely to make much out of the sandy soils) and tourists, including a few with summer homes at or close to the Castle Rock Flowage--basically the Wisconsin River backed up by the Castle Rock Dam for the sake of hydroelectric power as much as for outdoor sport.

But back to the cafe: Featuring cheesy plaques with slogans like “Welcome To Our Bed and Breakfast--You Make Both” and “Those Who Criticise the Cook Will Face Starvation” (the last one over the entrance to the kitchen), and with a modest bit of clutter towards the back, such was said to come Highly Recommended--though probably not by Duncan Hines if he were still around with his Adventures in Good Eating, red cover and all. And it was at the backmost table, right-hand side as you enter, that--

“Is that you, Snagglepuss?!”

It was Lippy the Lion, of all the fellow Funatstics, and his morose-looking hyena companion, Hardy Har-Har, who was looking for me.

“Is that you--Lippy?! Hardy?!”

Which saw Hardy Har-Har remark in his usual pessimistic tone, “Oh dear ... oh my ... what exactly is the point of being here for breakfast, to begin with?

“Come now, Hardy,” Lippy remarked in cheerful counterpoint; “I bet you didn’t know where Snagglepuss was going to meet us here.” To which I responded, to wit: “What exactly was the point of your cryptic desire to meet me here?”

[Pause while coffee was being served and an opportunity had to check over the breakfast menu.]

Lippy: “I just thought we might say hi over breakfast--a more realistic sort of diner breakfast in some small-town cafe, not some sterile and antiseptically-predictable chain restaurant such as IHOP or Denny’s. More in the vein of some serious small-town colour.”

Hardy: “I just knew it--” [Followed by the rumbling of a Canadian National Railways train on the tracks just down the hill from the cafe, heading towards New Lisbon as a matter of record.] “Things are just going to get downhill from here on out!”

Moi: “I wouldn’t put it that way exactly,” even as I was sipping away on flat-tasting coffee from a coffee pot which seemed not to have been washed in some while. Descaled, even. And requiring some honey just to improve the taste.

As to the breakfast: One of my old favourites, a meat-lovers’ omlette, with hash browns even to complement the whole ... Lippy taking some pancakes, eggs over easy, sausage links, hash browns and white toast ... and Hardy, probably lacking any sort of appetite, contenting himself somewhat with corned beef hash.

“And might I just say there, Snagglepuss,” Lippy chimed in between mouthfuls of pancakes, “that you’re not all that bad yourself.”

“To be honest,” saith I, “that is a complement. Especially being on the road all this time ... and I assume you’re acquainted with Peter Potamus’ diving crew.”

“Are we ever!” was how Lippy responded. “I was just returning myself from a ‘sharing the dive’ assignment with a summer camp up by Minocqua, teaching teenage campers the basics of the diving experience.”

“Explain unto me,” asked I, “what this ‘sharing the dive’ is all about.”

“You see, Snagglepuss, between filming sessions of our Underwater America with Peter Potamus videos, or even the practice sessions at our diver’s colony outside of La Jolla, California, Peter wants us in his troupe to spend some time sharing the diving experience with especially disadvantaged groups, especially over the summer. It’s basically his way of encouraging people to Discover Diving in a somewhat unique sort of way.”

“So this involves spending time in summer camps or resorts like that--”

“To encourage people to get interested in diving. Skin diving, SCUBA even ... be it through demonstration dives aimed at getting people to discover the diving experience or even outright instruction! And what’s more, Snagglepuss,” Lippy added with some pride in the voice, “WE are all certified diving instructors!”

“Who exactly wouldn’t be among our kind?” was how Hardy added to the conversation in his usual myopic style.

Which brought about the chuckles.

“Meanwhile,” Lippy added, “I’d be curious to know if any of the waterpark resorts in Wisconsin Dells might have a need for such who could introduce diving to their guests, especially over the winter!”

“I’m not quite that kind, Lippy,” replied I. “But thanks for the enquiry.”

By the time it was all over and the cheque was paid, things had turned bright--and a little on the windy and warm side. So explaining a bit of fall leaf drop premature on the hill above the Municipal Parking Lot as we headed back to our cars--not to mention Lippy and Hardy reminding me to keep in touch.

As for myself, heading down Wisconsin 80 southbound from Necedah ...

@warnerarchive @hanna-barbera-land @warnerbrosentertainment @dinobirdy @hanna-barbera-blog @themineralyoucrave @screamingtoosoftly @hanna-barberians 

[kastlenetwork]

kastle + laguardia :)

Laguardia is an airport, right? Lmaoo I’m so stupid, I had to google it. I’ve never been to New York, I only know about JFK. 

Karen isn’t really sure what her plan is, now that her father has made it abundantly more clear that she is not welcome home. The rage and pain of the loss of Kevin and the roll of which she played still ever present in his every interaction with her. And she understands that, she really does. It’s not as if Karen has forgiven herself for driving them into a battlement of crunching plastic steel and shattering glass – she doesn’t expect her father to feel much differently. She can still see the red of blood staining the backs of her lids, whenever she closes her eyes – especially now, as she finds herself on the run from more trouble she’s shoved herself into where it she didn’t need.

It was stupid of her to go to the hotel and gain entry into his sham of a prison – she recognizes a plan built on the back of desperation when she sees it, when she carries it out on her own. But, the burning idea of “maybe” and “if he only just…” was too strong for her to not gamble the odds – that Wilson Fisk would reach across the table, after she confessed her most recent crime ending in the red stain of another, and harm her in some way anyway that would get him put back where he belonged.

A stupid plan that didn’t work and she should’ve known. 

But, Karen thinks as she stares forward to a little kid playing with a tiny toy car across the discolored carpeting, doing nothing does nothing and she will never do nothing again. 

Her father had hung up on her, despite the sounds of her sniffles she is more than sure that he was able to hear through the line, in an alarmingly quick fashion and she’d had less than no time to plan her next move. She knew she was being hunted by someone masquerading as Matt and far more deadly. She knew, better than most, that Fisk was powerful beyond measure. This will be the second time he’s had other men do his dirty work and try and take her out – her mind raises a phantom hand to rub at the span of her neck, where the bed sheet once wrapped. Her only option was to get out of New York for awhile, hunker down and lay low.  

It’s not like she had a job to do, anyway – what with the whole being fired thing.

And that’s what she’s doing. She just needs her flight to come, so she can get out of the busy and dangerous city to Bumfuck, USA – or wherever her ticket is to, she can barely remember. Definitely not Vermont. Her father obviously wouldn’t let her in and she figures the rest of the family will follow. She doesn’t want to endure the images of her Granny Louanne (or any other family member who would dare open their doors to her) ripped apart and riddled with oozing burning holes, anyway. 

How many people that she loves can she be she damned to get killed? She can’t have any more of their blood on her hands. She can’t. There’s only so much a person can recover, before they’re broken beyond repair.

Karen’s mind is so occupied with worry that she only notices the presence coming closer, as it’s already placing it’s weight in seat next to her. She keeps her eyes on the child while he plays and remains as calm as she’s able, as her hand immediately inches it’s way into her purse, before recalling with a internal curse that she has nothing with her to protect her. She couldn’t very well bring a gun into LaGuardia – that would be thrusting herself into the spotlight, instead of sinking away into the depths of the dark shadows. 

How many mistakes can she make in the span of two days? How many decisions can she make that are going to get her fucking killed!

“Chicago, huh?”

Karen whips her head to the right, her ears not believing what her eyes suddenly see – her mind not registering the truth. 

Frank tilts his head and lifts his arm, bringing a cup of coffee to his lips, “Good a place as any. Big enough to hide, familiar enough to feel like you stand out.”

“…Frank?! What are you–” she shakes the fuzz out of the space between her ears and drops her voice down to below a whisper. “What are you doing here?”

“Got a call from David about some trouble,” he shrugs and Karen takes in the sight of him. She hasn’t seen him since the last time she was kidnapped (and isn’t that a joke if there ever was one – the last time she was kidnapped, shit) where he stood upon a roof and shot at faceless never ending ninjas. (Ninjas! What has her life come to?) “Punched a bunch of fucking buttons on a computer and did that thing where he stalks people ‘til he gets what he wants…found you here.”

His hair is short, again, and the beard the was swarming his face last she saw him long gone. His eyes are bright as they rest upon her face, but alert in a way that hers accidentally stopped being an hour ago, scanning the airport for the both of them. But, best of all, there’s no purple and yellow marks upon his face – it’s as clean as ever, only faint and faded scars of old painted against his skin. And there’s a merry clench around her heart at that clear canvas, just as there was when he’d called out her name on the street and asked to come to her home.

“Why didn’t you call me?” he’s talking and watching her as she watches him.

“Chicago?” she glances down at her ticket, clutched in the hand not grasped at the nothingness in her purse . “Yes…Chicago. Windy…Safe.”

“You know I would’ve come.”

Karen squints her eyes and mimics the tilt of his head, “Do I know that, Frank?”

He nods in an absentminded manner and sweeps the room. He’s not contacted her since he left through the top of that elevator and he knows that as much as she does. “That’s fair,” he hums. “I should have made it clear. I was…busy.”

“Not in the usual way,” she gestures towards his face.

“No, not in the usual way.”

Karen pulls her hand out of her bag and pulls it into a fist, “That’s good…Frank.” She opens her mouth to say more, but a monotone voice sounds out above their heads signaling boarding to her flight to apparently Chicago. Karen hovers for a moment and pulls her eyes back to the child, who’s parent is pulling him up off of the floor. Despite how it’s set her mind off axis, Frank’s sudden appearance doesn’t change the dire consequences of the situation, so she stands abruptly. When Frank does the same, she turns back to him, with a question in her brow and panic seeping out of her pores. 

She really doesn’t have time for a famous Page and Castle bounce around, lives are on the line and she has to get out of New York.

“Chicago, huh?” he repeats, pulls another drink from his coffee, and holds up a ticket in his other hand and the breath rapidly leaves Karen’s lungs. 

He’s coming with her? 

To Chicago? 

Her own dad told her not to come.

“You can tell me all about Fisk when we get there. Shit, you’re always gettin’ yourself into trouble, Karen. I do not understand it,” he looks both exasperated and impressed – which is often how she feels about him.

“Yeah, well so are you,” her whisper raises slightly, sharpens with a touch of hurt that she’s not really interested in exposing to him. Especially not now, when everything is so much worse than Frank Castle not pushing through his own fogs to call her. “You’re the king of getting yourself into trouble, I seem to recall a certain trial.”

“Yeah, now that was a party…Guess we’re both willing to throw everything away to get to some sorta justice.”

She watches him reach down to a backpack that she hadn’t noticed and gesture towards the line that’s formed, eyes ever vigilant. “You could’a gotten a ticket to California or something. It’s fucking cold in Chicago, right now.”

She brings them to into the line, “Next time I’m running for my life, I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.”

He huffs out a laugh, “We both know there’ll be a next. Too nosy for your own good – you’d be damn good friends with David, actually.”

She looks back at him, “…I’m trying to be damn good friends with you.”

“Yeah,” he nudges her towards the lady looking to scan their tickets. “I know, Page.”

I gave up at the end ✌ ✌ ✌ writing is hard ✌ ✌ ✌ it’s not three lines ✌ ✌ ✌

[high5nerd]

The Misadventures of Fanty and Pitch Black---Chap. Four

The room he appeared in happened to be a living room of a different person's, and in the distance he could hear the furious typing on a computer keyboard. The living room was simple, yet Pitch had an immediate drawing to it. Must be the black painted bookshelves. They held many thick books as well as encyclopedias that looked ancient, but more than just decoration. The floor was of dark wood, and a nice TV sat below a big window, shining light into the airy room. Pitch walked a bit towards the room with the typing sound, noticing many pictures hung up on walls as well as certificates and photos of movie characters. The walls in the entire flat were a rich purple, and he passed a small room used as a kitchen with a mini fridge and a small elegant table in the middle, with three, mahogany chairs. They looked quite comfortable.

"I like this person's taste in a home. Nice and cozy." Pitch mumbled to himself, ducking into another room with the same purple walls and wooden flooring. This room was obviously a bedroom, judging by the quilted bed in the corner of the room near the curtained window. There were multiple rugs of eggplant purple and dark brown, fuzzy beneath his feet. He looked up at the light fixture, feeling the fan turn slowly. He was surprised to see a poster up there of a man that looked almost like him, but in tight jeans and a white t-shirt, and looked soaked in water. Pitch made a face, feeling really strange at that familiar face, before turning to the person that sat in a black swivel chair at the wooden desk.

He nearly jumped back noticing the girl was staring right at him, unafraid.

This strange girl wore light blue jeans, a fitted t-shirt, and glasses. Her purple hair framed her face and almost reached her hips. The girl did not smile, just stared at him with mild interest. Pitch moved to the right, then slowly to the left, and once he noticed her eyes were following his movements, he felt both relieved and shocked.

"So another freak can see me." Pitch breathed, not looking away from her. Let's see if she'll react like Fanty does.

The girl merely scoffed, looked him up and down, and said with a smirk on her face, "Please, go look in a mirror."

Pitch felt his non-existent eyebrows rise upwards. Now that was bold, even against a Boogeyman.

"Do you know who I am?" Pitch demanded, taking a step towards this new girl.

"Do you know who I am, Boogeyman?" the girl raised a brow teasingly, "I'm Queen of the Universe, and everyone-including you-are my loyal subjects. Now bow before me."

Pitch couldn't help but crack a toothy grin, and his smile was contagious, for it caused this girl to silently laugh as she got up from her sleek desk. She brushed some hair back before turning towards Pitch with a curious smile on her face. Pitch eyed her, smirking.

"I like you." He said lowly, causing the girl to have a quick blush before shaking it off. She was a tough-nugget like that.

"That's a relief." She said, craning her neck to look at her ceiling poster of her favorite singer, Koz. Pitch felt his upper lip curl. He didn't want to look at that doppelganger poster up there.

"May I ask your name?" Pitch asked, folding his hands behind his back.

The girl stuck out a hand, and Pitch slowly shook it. "I'm Mystic Hawk. I'm one of Fanty's friends," she noticed the look on Pitch's face, "Yes, we heard the ruckus down there. It was hard to ignore it. Did Emma really shoot you with a Nerf gun?"

"She did indeed."

That sent Mystic into cahoots. She clutched at her stomach while holding up a finger to make him wait. She finally sighed, took off her glasses, wiped them, and then put them back on, still giggling. "Wait, so she really shot you in the butt? We all heard a high pitched scream, but we knew even Emma can't make a noise like that! You sounded like a cat in heat when you scream."

"I do not!" Pitch protested, but Mystic was already laughing once more, having the need to sit down in order not to pee her pants. The last time she peed her pants laughing was when she and Drago caught Fanty in the middle of dancing to Boogey Wonderland in nothing but her underwear, a button up, and no, not socks, but swim flippers while holding a pink hairbrush. Just the memory of that hilarious moment made her laugh harder.

Pitch frowned, not finding anything amusing at all. So without another word, he disappeared and reappeared into another apartment. This one, literally screamed pink. It slightly scared him. There was graffiti all over the walls, and surprisingly, none of them had written profanity like he's seen in the cities. His favorite one was a long tag that had the word 'fuck' stretched around the base of this brick building, so it looked like a good long 'fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck'. He laughed for days.

Heh…good long fuck. That sounds kinky. His mind snickered, and Pitch growled for that annoying voice to stop.

A giant flat screen TV hung on the wall with the most colorful and large graffiti, and comfortable looking black leather couches surrounded the living room with stylish pillows. The kitchen was enormous, with a fully prepared table with the whole shebang, including fire truck red candles and glassware. He had to admit it, this person was extremely brave to decorate their home like this funky. If he lived here, his eyes would hurt after three hours from the pink walls.

"Hey, you mind? I'm about to leave." A friendly voice came.

Pitch looked at the direction of where he assumed an office was, and there before him stood Star with her shining brown hair tucked into a high ponytail, and thick black sunglasses that hid her big, emerald eyes. She donned light green leggings and a white tutu with green glitter on it, had at least four wooden bracelets on her left arm and had lavender colored nails. Her lime green t-shirt had big, bubbly yellow letters that simply said 'Hey' and she donned a brown leather jacket for the afternoon, windy chill.

"Good God, you're like a grown Sophie Bennett." Pitch blurted, not guilty of it at all.

"Pardon?"

"Nothing. I really shouldn't be surprised Fanty has strange friends now, but I still am." Pitch shrugged nonchalantly, "You go out like that every day?"

"Yep. And no judging, because you can't talk. Take a look in the mirror before you walk down the street," Star winked as she passed him with her stylish gait, "such a shame a good-looking bod is hidden under a black tarp."

"-!? It's a robe!" Pitch protested, folding his V-neck closed a bit more and pulling his leg forward to hide his crotch. He felt naked, and it wasn't a good feeling.

"Don't kill anyone, or I'll feed you cupcakes until you explode all over the walls." Star casually said, picking up her car keys and pocketbook.

"I'll end up like your graffiti. Hopefully I'm not going to end up as written profanity." Pitch muttered, but sneered as Star grinned, showing her pearly whites.

Once Star left with Drago and Pitch was on his own again, he wandered and meandered to his heart's content. He had to admit, he was starting to grow a fondness for this building. He found Drago's apartment, and it was mostly cluttered and decorated with beautiful antiques and rustic décor. There was a cherry wood desk in the corner of her room with a well-working computer, and piles of papers and archives filled up all the nooks and crannies of that desk. The bookshelves were organized as can be, though. Pitch had to say, he liked the kitchen the best. He didn't know how a Hobbit themed kitchen would be pulled off so well! The apartment, besides clutter, gave off a feeling of homey comfort, and it made Pitch linger a little longer than the others. Well, he would have stuck around if it wasn't for this mangy puppy that was black with gold cheeks and paws that kept yapping up a storm at him and tugging on his robe with his teeth. The last thing Pitch needed was worn-and-torn clothing. So after frightening the puppy by making a growling noise and baring his teeth, he slunked into a shadow and reappeared in yet another room.

Now, you would expect the whole 'let's describe the décor and what the place looks like because the writer is stalling', but no, the first thing Pitch noticed immediately was that, yes, the occupant of this newly found apartment was waiting for him. She lurked right at the darkest spot in her home, which was right behind a painted rocking chair with dark floral pillows. Just as Pitch emerged, the girl shrieked and gave him a good whack with a rolled up People magazine. Pitch yelped and clutched his ear, his hearing thudding a bit before he shook his head.

"What in devil's name-?!" he started, glaring at the girl.

"Fanty warned me you're sneaking around here! Really? Breaking and entering people's apartments? Shouldn't you just knock!? You scared the living daylights out of me!" Xion scolded, shaking her rolled up magazine at him.

"Good, I prefer the dark rather than daylight. Who the hell are you?" Pitch muttered, rubbing the back of his head.

"I'm Xion Five. Now can you please leave? I've got business to do." Xion dropped her magazine as she crossed over to the purple and black striped couches and sitting down.

Before Pitch could ask what she was so busy with that she must ignore a guest, she un-paused an anime movie called Howls' Moving Castle. Pitch gave her a look. "Ah yes, movie watching is serious business. Don't mind me, I'll just be leaving."

"Before you go, you could have some of those strawberry and vanilla cupcakes Star left for me. They have gummy bears on them, they're really good." Xion said, not tearing her eyes away from the screen.

Pitch made a face, but then felt his face fall into shock as he saw the open room used as a display room and an office space. There was a polished desk with a super thin, black laptop and silver mouse, dark bookcases much like the ones in Mystic's apartment, but other than that, he was amazed at the homemade costumes and weaponry that hung on walls and were on mannequins. Some looked like dark Lolita dresses, others looked Elven-like, and some looked like royal mages or even frilly princess stuff. He guessed the clothing was inspired by the anime Xion watched. He especially liked the steampunk jumpsuit with the dark red goggles. Apparently she painted those goggles herself, from what it looked like up close. On the walls hung homemade weapons from anime shows as well, like throwing knives, hammers, magic wands, even giant things like shepherd's crooks, staffs and a scythe that he absolutely wanted to steal, except it was light purple with stars on it.

Wow, she really has a talent in making this sort of stuff, Pitch thought, peering at a neon blue wig that almost reached the floor, so that's why she called it 'business.'

After content goodbyes, Pitch finally met Lil Angel, who was Fanty's neighbor that took care of the Bennett children. Pitch couldn't help but keep her at bay since she was affiliated with those children, but he had to admit she was a very eccentric and friendly person much like Fanty and her friends as well. He only had a peek of her apartment, which was very modern and had many things that were light purple but also light blue, yellow and red. The fuzzy floor was white, and the walls were a cream color that complimented the comfortably sized kitchen that looked as if a batter explosion occurred with fireworks of icing. He also met Angel's pet kitten, Oreo, that seemed instantly attracted to his face so it leaped out of Angel's arms and hugged Pitch's face like a starfish, it's claws digging into his ears.

Pitch gruffly removed the kitten from his face as if it were a leech. It had quite a grip on his face! He held it out to stare at it, holding it by the back of the neck. Maybe if he scared it, the kitten would pee all over Angel's carpet. That'd be funny.

"Boo." Pitch growled.

Angel waited with baited breath, knowing Pitch was trying to make the kitten have a potty mess. But instead of what they thought would happen, the kitten merely mewled and somehow detached itself from Pitch's hand and star-fished his face again, purring into his cheek and nuzzling his nose.

"This is by far the strangest kitten I've ever met." Pitch said seriously, looking at Angel who was trying not to burst out laughing.

"Oreo can be a little lovable. The last dog that tried to chase her ended up getting snuggled so much it ran away from Oreo itself. You should've been there. It was both cute and funny to watch." Angel said, plucking Oreo off his face finally and giving his head a gentle scratch.

"…Was the dog black?" Pitch asked, feeling a smirk threaten at his lips.

Angel thought for a minute, before nodding. "It had a red collar on and bright blue eyes."

"Yeah, I remember giving a nightmare to that dog. Apparently Oreo instilled a fear of kittens in him."

That made Angel burst out laughing, and Pitch truly felt accomplished for making someone laugh once more.

By the time Pitch got back to Fanty's apartment, the strange girl was already lying upside-down on the couch, boredly watching the shadows for Pitch's arrival. It was kind of hard to swallow a turkey and tomato sandwich upside-down.

Pitch raised a brow at Fanty, unamused. "What?"

"Well? Were they cool, or were they cool?"

"…You teens creep me out worse than Tooth's feelings for Jack." Pitch hissed under his breath, folding his arms in a pout.

"OOOOOOH DO I DETECT A CRUSH?! JEALOUSY?!" Fanty beamed, flipping upright and tossing her sandwich on the coffee table, "Wait…Tooth? Jack? Who're they?"

Pitch gagged, feeling a baby barf almost float up his esophagus. "Ew, on Tooth? You're sick."

"Who the hell is Tooth?!"

"You sure you're not the jealous one?" Pitch grinned, and Fanty blushed a bright red. "OW!"

Note to self: Fanty's got quite the fist.

"Tell me who Tooth and Jack are or I'll instill fear into you!" Fanty threatened, making her fingers dance in the air as if she were to summon dark magic.

Pitch laughed rather loudly, still keeling over from when she punched him in the gut. "That only works for me, Fanty. Like this,"

He grabbed her neck and shoved her to the couch, causing her to gasp and clutch at his wrist, her eyes widening in shock at his sudden movement. He kneeled right in front of her, his face just mere inches from hers with an acidic snarl on his mouth. His eyes burned a bright gold, that literally flashed danger. Fanty started to breathe heavily, scared out of her shorts that he was going to hurt her.

"Tell me your fears or you'll see them brought to life." He growled, almost like an angry wolf.

Fanty panicked, forgetting that he was just setting an example of how to really threaten someone. He didn't mean to scare her like that, he was only trying to teach her how to really threaten someone. But he was over the top, and he realized that only seconds before Fanty spilled.

"I'm afraid of heights! I'm afraid of spiders and big fish and I'm afraid of bugs with stingers, and I'm afraid of-!" she cried out.

Pitch slammed a hand against her mouth to stop her, and Fanty saw the worry flash across his eyes. It scared her even more. It scared her so much she nearly wet herself. He looked so startled, so honestly worried that it actually worked and that she was so close to confessing…

But before Pitch could apologize, the door was burst open with a strong kick, and they both heard two voices scream, "HY-YAHH!"

Pitch bolted up, and Fanty turned around to see Mystic and Xion standing with tightened fists, giving death glares at Pitch. Fanty furrowed her eyebrows and shouted, "IDIOT! Look at the door! You busted a crack in it! Mr. Joyce will kill me!"

"DIS BASTARD HERE!" Xion pointed at Pitch, who cursed under his breath as he took three baby steps back.

"Was he hurting you, Fanty?! We received a distress call that sounded like you confessing your fears and we're here to kick BUTT!" Mystic said strongly, cracking her knuckles to prove her strength.

"I wasn't meaning-!" Pitch started, but Fanty stood up on the couch and waved her arms.

"He didn't mean to! He was showing me an example of how to properly threat someone. It's okay, guys. Thanks for the concern, though." Fanty finished with a promising smile.

Xion and Mystic were suspicious, and gave Pitch a doubtful look before closing the door tightly. Fanty and Pitch could still hear them walk down the hall and discuss about fixing the dent they kicked into the door. She smiled to herself before looking at Pitch with an apologetic smile. He breathed a sigh of relief before plopping himself onto a cushioned chair, and put one foot up onto the footrest to really let himself relax.

"That was way too close." Pitch sighed, rubbing his tired face.

"Is it just me or were you just scared of my friends?" Fanty folded her arms with a smug little face on her lips.

Pitch gave her a knowing look before chuckling. "Everyone is afraid of something…I learned the hard way…"

Fanty noticed his eyes turn silver, misty with memories that made his smile fall and for a second, look…remorseful. Her dark brown eyebrows crinkled in worry as she sat on the floor in front of him, watching with pure rapture. How do his eyes do that? She wondered, resting her head in her hand, I wish I could change mine from brown to blue.

"You're lucky you have protective friends like that. I don't have any." Pitch said quite truthfully.

Fanty shrugged, knowing very well why he doesn't have many. She has heard of some sort of war he lost, and she knew from the start that he was apparently a bad egg, but no details whatsoever.

"I'm sure you do. You just haven't found them, yet. You could be my friend if you want." Fanty offered, smiling at the idea.

Pitch scoffed, "With a human? Hun, I am an immortal being that instills fear into every living thing, and I do this as a duty here on earth. It isn't an occupation where I get paid."

"Racist." Fanty pouted, folding her arms like a child, "Then why do you try to drill fear in others?"

Pitch didn't miss a beat. His eyes returned to the fiery gold Fanty was starting to get used to, and he hissed his answer, an answer full of history and angst, "To be believed in. That's what all the spirits do on this planet. They are cursed with the life of immortality and with a purpose, and if that purpose isn't fulfilled properly, they die."

"Wait, whoa, back up!" Fanty held up her hands, "There are other people like you out there?"

"Hardly people," Pitch said, leaning closer to her, "just call them what they are. Beings. Spirits. Guardians." He snarled at the word in spite.

"You monologued about them once, but then I shut you up with a pillow. All I know is that it's Jamie Bennett's fault as well as Jack Frost. Isn't he just an expression?"

Pitch thought for a second, looking away from her earnest eyes. And after some time…he grinned evilly.

"Yes…yes, Fanty. He's just an expression. He doesn't exist at all. But Santa, the Tooth Fairy, and-"

"The Easter Bunny and Sandman do?!" Fanty exclaimed, excitement ringing in her voice.

Pitch curtly nodded, "But they brought me pain. I ruled the very era of the Dark Ages, and they brought me to the shadows at the Earth's core. I tried regaining what once was mine, but I lost the battle yet again. I was so close to gaining a victory, but that stupid child Jamie-"

"Jamie's not stupid," Fanty said, shaking her head vigorously, "He's a smart kid with a big heart. And I know Jack Frost exists because a, he talks about him 24/7, and b, you are a terrible liar."

Pitch stuck out his lower lip, angry at being so carefully read. Fanty continued that she did believe his story, just that maybe there was a better way to be believed in without parents and children hating him. He couldn't help it, he was the Boogeyman for crying out loud!

But there was something Pitch left out in his story. He didn't tell her how his belief was very thin, like the width of a string. But when Fanty spilled some of her fears to him, he felt that string grow stronger, become more durable and thicker. He learned that though kids were the easiest targets for fear, the teenagers have the strongest and most powerful fears. They're trickier to harbor and snag onto, but they're long lasting and can be a better resource than just petty children.

And Pitch liked a good challenge.

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