#*points to the most beautiful graceful thing in existence which was hand crafted by God himself and gently carried to earth by doves & swans

[sumarmz]

Me and my mum found THE CUTEST KITTENS EVER THE GIRL ONE IS SO ELEGANT I NEED HER AND THE BOY IS THE FATTEST SHIT IVE EVER SEEN I NEED THEM SO BAD

[volterran-wine]

Pas de deux | Volturi Kings (HC)

Requested by Anonymous: "Kings with a ballerina s/o"

Hello there Ballet-Anon! Once again we are back in the artistic and cultural corner on my blog. Which to be honest I feel like most of my headcanons and requests end up being these days. I am not one to complain however, these are topics I find quite interesting. Fun fact: I once saw the Bolshoi Ballet (their theatre is the one in the header) perform Swan Lake, it was spellbinding.

𝐀𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬, 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐰.

𝐀𝐫𝐨 𝐕𝐨𝐥𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐢

As I have mentioned many times before, Aro is quite fond of the theatre. So when it became known to him that his mate was a ballet dancer, he was over the moon. The king would become their biggest fan and supporter. In his eyes, Ballet was one of the most beautiful art forms humans had come up with over the centuries.

Would plan out a family outing with his brothers and Athenodora. Booking them the best box at the theatre his significant other would dance at. Both Marcus and Caius were quite amused, they had not seen Aro show genuine interest for many years. Usually his interests were fleeting, but not this time.

They would remain human for a little while longer in order to finish their career gracefully and without suspicion. Aro would make sure they had a bouquet of red roses waiting for them in their dressing room at the end of every performance.

Aro would love to dance with his S/O as often as he could. He was no ballet dancer, but he craved to feel their body move so gracefully under his hands. If permitted he would like to dive deep into their very soul, unraveling to him what thoughts ran through their mind as they created such beautiful art with their body.

Aro's favourite ballet to watch his S/O in: Don Quixote

"I should have a ballet created in your honour-" "That is quite the statement dear." "It's a shame Tchaikovksy isn't around any longer... he would have done your beauty justice."

𝐂𝐚𝐢𝐮𝐬 𝐕𝐨𝐥𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐢

Caius would show an extreme admiration and respect for his significant others craft. He knows very well what sort of rigorous training and discipline it takes to be a successful dancer in a cutthroat world like ballet. Anyone who held their own craft in such high regard was in Caius' good graces.

He makes sure they have a room suited for their needs when it comes to practice. An elegant mirrored hall that had stood empty for many years was deemed suitable for his mate. It would not be unusual to find the king in the studio watching his mate leap across the floor. A soft smile on his face.

It was difficult not to imagine how graceful they would become as a vampire. He knew they needed to end their career in an orderly manner. But by the gods, he could not wait to see what sort of beauty would come out at the other end of the transformation.

Arist!Caius is pretty much canon to me at this point, so alas S/O would become a new source of inspiration for Caius' art. It had been a while since the king had had a true muse to fuel his artistic talents, he felt a surge of excitement when he first sat down to begin painting. Not many weeks later a detailed painting of his S/O in a beautiful white costume mid arabesque against a black background would find itself hanging in his private office.

Caius' favourite ballet to watch his S/O in: Swan Lake

"You move like a vampire my love," "Now you are exaggerating." "Once your transformed you shall be the most graceful creature on this earth." "Caius-"

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐮𝐬 𝐕𝐨𝐥𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐢

Marcus already found his significant other to be the most beautiful thing in existence. But when he saw them dance it was something entirely else. For a couple of minutes he felt like he was transported into another plane of existence. For this creature before him could only belong in the Elysian Fields.

Now I headcanon Marcus as quite musically inclined once he is able to move past his depression. As his new mate slowly got him back to normal he would often play the piano for them. He would gladly play a piece they could dance to, watching as they glided across the music rooms floor with unmatched grace.

Unlike Aro, Marcus would leave Volterra with only one guard as company in order to watch his mate perform. There was something exceptionally intimate about watching them like this on his own. Their eyes might meet once or twice through the performance and the king would feel alive.

Once the curtain closed he would seek out his mate and hold them tightly to him, peppering their face with gentle kisses. He would keep them to himself for a little while, their adoring fans could wait a while longer. Marcus felt the need to show exactly how much he appreciated his significant other and their talents.

Marcus' favourite ballet to watch his S/O in: Giselle

"You were magnificent out there Η καρδιά μου, None can compare" "Marcus you will make me blush-" "Oh but I love when you blush so I shall never stop."

𝐓𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬: Pase de deux: Literal meaning ('Step of two.') A dance duet, usually performed by a female and a male dancer. Η καρδιά μου: My heart

[beautifulterriblequeen]

Trickster: an Ethari theory

I've had yea many Ethari headcanons, and I hope I live to have yea many more. Most of them are probably wrong, or incomplete at best. But boy are they fun.

I love to wonder what Ethari will really be like in canon when we get to know him for more than 3 minutes, but whoever he really is on his own, he will have an effect on Runaan , Rayla, and everyone who loves him, because they love him.

The first headcanon I can remember having for "Tinker" was that he could be like Leonardo da Vinci: a genius, creative, surrounded by beautiful ideas given shape by his hands, but also capable of creating deadly weapons, enchantments, and devices with equal beauty, and perhaps not really seeing where the line between them was. It was fun, but Ethari has ended up far softer than my headcanon, and I love and support him in his softness!

After a nice string of Ethari headcanons, this year I've started poking at the Trickster archetype and seeing if it applies to him. And I think it absolutely does!

Tricksters often seem like Chaos. But they're not. They're just Difference. "Chaos" is subjective. Like the "divergent" in "neurodivergent." Who says? Divergent from what, exactly? Perspective matters, and Tricksters have a very broad take on things which allows them to think outside any box people might try to invite them into.

My enjoyment of Loki has brought all kinds of ideas to my dash with the arrival of the Loki show. I've got a copy of the Edda, and I highlighted the hell out of it a couple of years ago as I searched for the roots of Loki's origin story. (It's truly fascinating reading and the symbolic language hidden inside their poetry is dazzlingly amazing and I'm super using it sometime just so you know)

Loki is a Trickster, and he's far from alone in myth and legend. Anansi, Coyote, and Sun Wukong are some you may have heard of. Aaravos is another, of course. Tricksters can be called upon to lend aid and wisdom when the rules don't have an answer for some extraordinary circumstance which the Trickster's people find themselves in. But that's not because they are truly outside the rule of order. They are actually a part of it. They are the catch-all for when the everyday ordinary rules fail people, and something "unthinkable"--in the literal sense--might just hold the answer.

This post crossed my dash today, and something finally clicked in my head, and all of this coalesced from what felt like separate places. But they're not separate, not anymore! Serotonin, baby. It's basically upped my headcanon to a full-blown theory.

What caught my eye was an answer to why Ethari's clothing is so determinedly asymmetrical, compared to Runaan's specifically, but Moonshadows in general. It's because of this:

Long protective sleeves below patterns on shoulders. A high collar paired with a bright and noticeable swoop around the neck. Fine detailing and graceful taste. Asymmetrical tunic point on the left, below broad strappy leather. Knee high boots with stylish protective gaiters.

And let's not forget the curling horns! In some comics, Loki has a broken horn. So does Ethari.

Yes, there is a lot of similarity here, but I'm not focused so much on the visuals as the reason they were chosen. Feel free to consider other aspects of Ethari's personality and how they might be similar to certain parts of Loki's. I did! But I wouldn't be me if I didn't go deeper than that.

My favorite book in the universe (so far) is Lois McMaster Bujold's The Curse of Chalion, and one of the many reasons why is because of her pantheon. It holds five gods, represented by a hand: Father, Mother, Son, Daughter, and Bastard. The first four all have their roles and places. The Bastard--the thumb--inherits everything else. He is the god of all things that do not belong to any other gods, and that includes self-sacrificing vengeance and queerness. He is a Trickster, and his influence on Cazaril's life is far deeper than at first glance. Chaos has its place. It belongs, and so do the Tricksters who engender it. God, I love this book. Please read it if you haven't. Bujold's work is amazing.

If you've seen or read any version of MDZS/Untamed, you know that Wei WuXian is a trickster. Competent and badass in battle, but playful and teasing to the point where sometimes even he isn't sure what he truly wants, he can bring a massive amount of power and focus when he wants to. It's always a matter of "but is it important to me?"

I love WWX so much. The Trickster vibe is very apparent in his character, and in a way you just don't get in Western media. We see him on his own, and we see him with family and loved ones. And he's always feeling something so intensely! He's driven by his emotions, for good or ill. He vibes with chaos, and he will create it if it doesn't exist yet. But he will also create family from nothing, and that's something you don't see enough of! WWX is a Trickster with an emotional preference for joy.

In TDP, Ethari doesn't have a lot of lore yet. It's being Moonshadowed because spoilers for future seasons, and I respect that. The longer the wait for S4, the more ideas I will just amuse myself with in the meantime--and yeah, this is one of them, so what? :))) But we do know a little about him.

He loves music. He loves to read. He leaves his mark on things in swirly form. He works very hard, even through headaches, because what he's doing is that important to him, even though he would much rather be making jewelry. He loves taking the time to polish rough stones into brilliant jewels, and he adores big pretty flowers and had them at his wedding.

Ethari has a temper, but he also loves puns. The weapons he crafts are exquisite: "light, elegant, strong, and clever." And he knew darn well that Runaan was trying to flirt with him, but why return a sentiment he may or may not feel yet when he can play with the overly earnest assassin just a little bit first?

Okay, just... A "simple craftsman" deciding that it's going to be fun to toy for a bit with a broody assassin's feelings? Would you risk that? Ethari got balls the size of the moon, and a brain to match. When he has to make weaponry, he does not half-ass it. Ethari's stabby creations nearly have a life of their own. His creations are literally called "trick weapons." This elf is a lot, okay. And it's possible that he doesn't even know how "a lot" he is. Yet.

We're meeting Ethari after he's found something that is, in fact, genuinely important to him: Runaan, and Rayla, and Laindrin too. Ethari has found a relatively stable place to settle and find a role to adopt. I say adopt, though, because making weaponry for his loved ones is not what he grew up wanting to do. It's what he had to do to keep them safe, once he found a place to bestow his heart.

But in the show, Ethari has lost his family, one by one. First Lain and Tiadrin, ghosted. Then Runaan, supposedly fallen on his mission. Then Rayla, ghosted for abandoning Runaan. He and Rayla have reconnected now, but the rest of his family is still out of his reach. If Rayla has indeed told him, by S4, what she learned at the Moonhenge in TTM, then Ethari may parallel Rayla's journey to seek answers. But even if he doesn't know yet, and gets pulled into some other story arc first, we will be seeing Ethari without his family.

Remember the ATLA episode "Zuko Alone"? Consider: "Ethari Alone."

Ethari has chosen, for love, to fit himself into a box that wasn't of his own making. And now that box has broken. His family doesn't need him to be their craftsman anymore. Perhaps others will need him to be other things to them. Or perhaps he will know that his family does need him, but to be far more than just a maker of pretty swords. A rescuer, perhaps. A healer, a guide? An avenger?

A trickster. Capable of taking many shapes, because he understands them all. Ethari works with form and function. If he needs to transform himself, he will.

That's what Tricksters do. It's delightfully queer and delightfully neurodivergent. Ancient peoples accepted and revered the different among them and actively sought their help with things they themselves struggled with.

Tricksters are Difference. Sometimes that manifests as chaos, sometimes as genius. But if you do not love and appreciate your chaos, it will absolutely turn on you. Wei Wuxian did. Loki certainly has, many times. Perhaps Aaravos is doing so as well.

I cannot wait to see what Ethari does with his difference. I have something very specific that I hope he goes and breaks.

All this from a picture of Tom Hiddleston in his Avengers 1 Loki costume? Yeah. Because Ethari was designed to wear asymmetrical clothing, in a Moonshadow culture that prides itself on balance. Sure, there are some other Moonshadows who wear this or that asymmetrical item, and I do love to see it. But Ethari has the most asymmetrical lines of them all. The meta glee I feel knowing that Moonshadow elves are designed to hold many layers of meaning in their appearances--that the writers, creators, and character designers just flexed with them--is truly a delight.

Ethari is asymmetrical. The full and practical application of that is a glass casket, and I hope it becomes a gift that keeps on giving, because boy do I want to keep receiving it. But right now, I'm genuinely seeing evidence of the Trickster archetype in him. And I really hope it gets to come out and play.

[rpmemesbyarat]

RP meme from the Baali Clanbook V2 in "Vampire the Masquerade" Part 2 of 2

"Look at the world around you. No, truly look. Do you see it? The entropy slowly eating away at the fabric of existence? The world is dying."

"Existence has always teetered on the brink in some way or another."

"From the coming of prophets and gods to the turn of the millennium. Mankind has always found some way to turn the metamorphosis of life into an “end of days” scenario."

"It's not hyperbole."

"All things must come to an end. Even our universe."

"We can either fear this new existence or we can embrace it. I know which I choose. What will your decision be?"

"I find humanity both fascinating and boring."

"I find humanity both fascinating and boring. They are creatures who have risen above their state as pure beasts in the wild. They have domesticated the world, bringing it to heel under the boot of technology and enterprise. They have tamed the lightning and created weapons of such incredible potency that they could end the entire world with the push of a few buttons. But, at the same time, they cannot even control their own impulses."

"I do love seeing the hope in a victim’s eyes slowly die."

"We need to talk about vampires."

"They are all in their positions due to back-alley deals, dirty deeds, and betrayals that they fear will one day topple them."

"They are afraid. Afraid of losing power."

"Power is a cruel master."

"Do not put yourself out there in a manner that draws unwanted attention."

"Those who are worthy of your knowledge should seek you out, not the other way around."

"Use what you know to twist their desires to your own ends."

"Utilize every secret desire and urging until your “clients” are nothing more than puppets on your strings."

"Above all, however, don’t forget to clean when guests come to call. It’s embarrassing to have a bloody carpet."

"Arrogance will be the gap in their armor that you can exploit."

"They wounded ego and regret."

"That’s a level of fucked up I can’t wrap my head around."

"So easy to guide around by their rage."

"Get over it already."

"They’re not corruptors unless you want to be corrupted."

"It’s bargain basement degradation at best."

"All good rites have some semblance of pageantry to help build up psychic energy for ritual release, sure. But when you perform the rite more for the pageantry than sacrifice or offerings? You’ve missed the point."

"The beautiful ones have this fucked up perception that they are icons of style, grace, and tact."

"The punks think of themselves as whirlwinds of creative destruction."

"After all, I want to see the world break out of this nascent shell of physicality and witness the birth of a new universe."

"So, I can get behind wanting to push past pain and physical limitations."

"These. . .things will not think twice about skinning you alive and making you part of the furniture. And honestly. . .I can respect that."

"These fucking guys."

"There comes a time in everyone’s life when they look at the world around them and wonder; “Is this it? Is this everything that there is?”

"Life, if we are honest, is nothing but a series of disappointments."

"My youth was spent chasing some phantom of purpose. Some reason for us being here, for going on, day after day, living."

"My desperate pleas were met with unyielding silence."

"We all wander through the world, clinging to half-promises of something greater."

"We will find the bliss of enlightenment only after the trials of our world."

"Why was everything we did destined to age and rot?"

"There was no blissful release. There was no epiphany of understanding. No moment of realizing my place in the universe."

"We are, each of us, insignificant."

"We don’t get rich off hard work. Luck and heritage define who rises to the top."

"We don’t find enlightenment as we grow older, we only find bitterness and fear of encroaching death."

"We race to accomplish something. . .anything, that will live on after our deaths."

"I thought sensation would provoke deeper understanding. It does not. It only burns bright, then fades quickly, leaving a person yearning for the next instance of fleeting bliss."

"There is nothing. No great reward awaiting the dying. There is no great paradise for the enlightened. There are fading memories of life and the swirling maelstrom of oblivion."

"Why would anyone want to deny themselves anything knowing that, in the end, they are only fit for utter destruction and darkness?"

"Take every moment of disappointment in your life. Every hardship. Every heartbreak. And then realize that none of it matters in any form in the end."

"Fuck the universe."

"Fuck every lie and every false promise of salvation or of some “great reward” that never comes."

"Enlightenment is a trap."

"Fuck every self-styled guru that peddles street corner bliss and a side of eternal understanding."

"This universe is a fucked -up failure."

"This universe is a fucked -up failure. An experiment with no principal investigator at the helm. Let’s scrap it and start something new. Something where we can make our own purpose."

"It is the only choice we have —to grasp our destinies and forge something new out of the corpse of the old."

"The end is coming and there is no stopping it. But. . .we can accelerate it. We can end this torturous existence and craft something new and meaningful from its remains."

"We are not destroyers, nor are we heralds of destruction. We are idealists seeking to bring purpose to existence. We are scholars burdened with the horrible truth that this universe must burn so that something new and pure can take its place."

"Evil. I hate the word."

"To the point, however, the word “evil” is such a catch-all that is, at its core, quite meaningless."

"We are the midwives of eternity, here to see to the proper birth of what is to come."

"Evil may be a word that can fit us, but to the darkness, isn’t the invasive nature of light evil?"

"I do what I do out of simple necessity."

"“Good” and “evil” are terms for children."

"They are just as “evil” as we. They simply lie to themselves about it."

"I think the truth lies between these tales."

"While the stain of grievous sins can color the auras of most, yours, for some reason, remains pure and innocent."

"You may not realize it, but your very essence sings with dark power."

"You understand the state of the world. You understand how it hangs so precariously between collapse and a great rebirth in darkness."

"In these dark, twisting visions, the future is revealed in flashes of blood-soaked fate."

"They will still be a missing person and be mourned, but they will be, effectively, simply considered another statistic and efforts to seek out justice for them will fade."

"While friends and family still remember the individual and their name, any efforts to seek out justice for them or to search for them cease after the ritual is performed."

"By sharing the affections of your damned patron, you can grant infernal powers to others."

"The allure of evil can draw in the curious like a moth to a flame."

"What is your most shameful secret?"

"What do you desire the most?"

"Whom do you secretly despise?"

"The most valuable advice, then, would be to act subtle. Be calm. Act comfortable."

"Akkadian script is simple, but apparently too difficult for you to count in."

"The quest for the next horizon has always haunted your mind."

"No matter what you were doing, no matter where you were at. . .there was always the allure of the unknown calling out to you."

"The allure of history and understanding what came before was simply too great to ignore."

"You were ravenous for knowledge."

"By the end of the week, you were no longer alive."

"Cultures died out across the world. Why?"

"The great puzzle of the universe lays before you. "

"The ancients knew secrets that would sear the minds of today’s scholars."

"The old gods are my strength. They are my shield."

"Mankind has forgotten where its oldest, bloodiest rites came from."

"Your traditions were handed down to you by your parents, and to them by their parents."

"Old deities that were converted into demons and devils by Abrahamic religions were once sources of inspiration to the world."

"While you have dabbled in mainstream paganism, practitioners these days ring hollow to you."

"Their worship more out of desperation than any true passion."

"It wasn’t for you."

"You caught the attention of something in the dark."

"There is a strength in the old ways that it seems many have forgotten."

"What you are doing is not evil. It is necessary."

"Do stop squirming. It ruins the effect."

"Something was always broken inside of you. "

"Your questions cut through the niceties of social decorum."

"You weren’t ignorant of the suffering you caused. You just didn’t care."

"They love their work and the pain it inflicts."

"You? You honestly adore the look of terror ."

"After all, what is the point of your work if you do not enjoy it from time to time?"

"You know the best ways to draw out the psychic energy for a proper sacrifice."

"They will come. Have no doubt of that."

"You simply didn’t understand the need for religion."

"You were out of place."

"There is a calmness that comes from knowing the end is inevitable."

"You are existing on the precipice of a new universe and you know this."

"Your faith sustains you."

"Aren’t you a beautiful soul?"

"It was an easy lie."

"You have been an apt pupil."

"I am here to do the Devil’s work."

"Life hasn’t always sucked."

"Being homeless creates a new kind of resentment."

"People walk by, either with contempt or pity in their eyes for you. Both are an insult."

"In your anger, you lashed out, you reached for something new that could explain all the inconsistencies in the world."

"Beings from beyond time? The hell does that even mean?"

"You are the devil’s own."

"Satan was a model of freedom from tyranny."

"Your soul is foul and beyond redemption."

"Power belongs to those who are daring enough to wield it."

"You became the popular one, the one in demand, who’s very expression could elevate someone or dash their hopes."

"So, you arranged the death of your beneficiary and inherited their wealth."

"They admired the grace and style with which you brought your targets to heel and slowly destroyed them."

"It only took a week to catch your eye."

"The world may be destined to die a slow, agonizing death, but that doesn’t mean you can’t have your fun wherever you can find it."

"Who are you to judge?"

"You are only as good as your last rumor."

"It’s the thrill of the hunt that drives you and exhilarates you."

"You don’t understand. I know what breathes in the dark. I’m trying to keep it asleep."

"You were always looking for a place to fit in."

"The desire to fit in is always powerful. It can guide our actions and even our thoughts. It can shift our perspective, causing a realignment of our core values."

"Once you found some semblance of purpose you could identify with—and one that made you out to be a hero fighting back darkness, you embraced it wholeheartedly."

"You will keep doing what you know you must do."

"If they only knew that you were working to protect all of them. . .maybe they would be more grateful."

"You have a subtle contempt for modern society."

"You understand the desires that drive people to extremes. . .and you have no qualms about twisting those needs and urges to your ends."

"Everyone you meet is a tool to be used, a potential sacrifice, or a threat to be neutralized."

"You dress to impress—always in the most stylish manners according to what is in fashion."

"Use every environmental factor to your benefit when possible."

"Make good entrances and silent exits."

"You are a cutthroat negotiator when you need to be but know that sometimes the appearance of defeat can serve you better than a clear victory."

[exxar1]

Interlude 1: Lessons From The Old Testament

3/27/2021

             It is a lovely Saturday afternoon in Las Vegas. And I mean genuinely beautiful spring weather! It’s 73 degrees outside with a perfectly pleasant breeze that would be great accompaniment for a hike in Red Rock canyon. Alas, I must report for work in an hour.

           In following my plan to read the whole Bible in a year, I’ve been working through the books of Samuel and Kings for the last 2 weeks. This morning I wrote down some of the lessons I’ve gleaned from the Old Testament in general, but these 4 books in particular.

1.     Am I listening for God’s voice? 1 Samuel 3:10: “…Speak; for thy servant heareth.” No, God doesn’t use an audible voice today as He did with Samuel, but that’s because we now have his Holy Word in the form the Bible. We also have the Holy Spirit if we are truly born again. I need to make sure that I’m always listening for the Spirit and seeking God’s wisdom in all things. I should never be so busy with daily life, nor should the noise of the world be so loud, that I don’t hear God when He speaks to me.

2.    God does not tolerate sin. Eli was a servant of the Lord, but he failed to rear his sons to also fear and obey God. Because of this, God took the lives of all three and gave the priesthood to Samuel. Same for the nations of Israel and Judah. Throughout the books of Samuel and Kings, God punished his chosen people over and over as they continually disobeyed his commandments and turned to idol worship. There were occasional respites, short periods where certain kings would obey and fear God; David and his son Solomon, for example. Unfortunately, those two – and two or three others in the succeeding generations – were the exception, not the rule.

Am I always obeying the Lord’s commandments? Am I living my life in complete service to Him? When I do sin, am I genuinely repentant? God will forgive me, His love and mercy are as vast as the universe He created. But He is also a jealous God, and He will punish me when I turn from Him, as a loving father will discipline his child when he strays. I should always be striving to please God and obey Him always in all things.

3.    There are consequences for sin. God’s divine patience with Israel and Judah finally reached an end in the latter half of the book of 2nd Kings. He delivered His people into the hands of their enemies, and both nations were exiled into Babylon. Chapter 17: 7-23 summarizes the sins of Israel and Judah and God’s punishment for their continual sin.

Even though God will always forgive me when I sin, He will not spare me the consequences of my sin. Therefore, I need to always be seeking Him first and be making good choices.

4.    God will reward obedience and faithfulness to Him. David was chosen as King of Israel because he had a heart that was always seeking God. Even in the worst times of his life, when he was on the run and hiding from Saul, David never lost his faith that God was always with him, and that He would take care of him. (Psalms 23 & 46.) God rewarded this faithfulness time and again throughout David’s life.

Same goes for Solomon. When God spoke to Solomon early in his life, Solomon requested not riches or long life but, instead, the wisdom to lead the nation of Israel. God rewarded Solomon’s request with not only wisdom but riches as well.

Now, it should also be noted that, even though David and Solomon always sought to please and obey God, they also sinned. Both men were polygamists, and David even committed murder to try to cover his sin of covetousness and adultery. But God used them anyway, and each still suffered the consequences of their sin. Which brings us to the final point:

5.    God always keeps his promises. The Israelites were never completely wiped from the face of the Earth. God had made a covenant with Abraham, and He had also promised His people salvation through the lineage of David. Therefore, while He allowed His people to suffer the consequences of their disobedience, He still protected them and kept His word to them.

God will do the same for me. No matter how many times I stray, I will never lose my salvation. God has promised me that He is preparing a place for me in Heaven, and He will keep that promise. But neither is that a license to go do whatever the hell I want. Refer back to lesson #3.

           What I also found most striking about these four books was the clear parallel of the nation of Israel/Judah at this time and the United States today. Over the past year, I have argued with strangers on Facebook who try to convince me that America is not now and never was a Christian nation. That belief utterly baffles me. The phrase “In God We Trust” is still stamped on all our coins. The Declaration of Independence uses the phrase “divine Creator”. Despite all the scrubbing and washing by today’s social justice warriors, it’s still a known fact that all our founding fathers believed in the basic religious principles taught in the scriptures. Those principles are scattered throughout the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution, and other documents such as the Federalist Papers. George Washington and his compatriots might not all have been born again Christians, and they were most certainly as flawed, failing and sinful as you and me. But they regarded the Bible as an essential guide to the basic facts of our flawed, failing, sinful human nature, and they crafted a carefully constructed form of government that was designed to enhance the best in all of us and, by the same effect, discourage the worst.

           Today, that government is in serious threat of being dismantled from the inside out. The founding fathers had not anticipated what Paul wrote to Timothy: “This know also, that in the last days perilous times shall come. For men shall be lovers of their own selves, covetous, boasters, proud, blasphemers, disobedient to parents, unthankful, unholy, without natural affection, trucebreakers, false accusers, incontinent, fierce, despisers of those that are good, traitors, heady, highminded, lovers of pleasures more than lovers of God; having a form of godliness, but denying the power thereof: from such turn away.” (2 Timothy 3:1-5)

           Today’s generation is all about the self. Just as Israel and Judah in the Old Testament continually turned away from God to worship false gods and idols, so we today have turned away from God to worship the idol of ‘self’. There is not a single news headline lately that doesn’t bear some form of the phrase “personal rights”, or “individual truth”, or “living as him/her/itself”. Everyone screams about their own “truth” and that their “rights and freedom of expression” are all that matters, especially when it comes to the homosexual and transgender movements. Everyone’s rights are more important than everyone else’s, and our nation has become a people who are “…lovers of pleasures more than lovers of God.” (And no, before you even say it, I am not referring to the COVID/mask/pandemic government mandates. That specific case is a whole ‘nother argument where, yes, personal rights and freedoms most definitely matter.)

           And, just as He did to Israel and Judah at the end of 2nd Kings, God’s divine patience is rapidly running out for America. God delivered Israel and Judah into the hands of their enemies, the Babylonians. His chosen people spent seventy years in exile as punishment for their wickedness and their disobedience. Something I didn’t know before reading the commentary in my MacArthur study Bible is that Israel never returned from that captivity. Several thousand Israelites had migrated to the kingdom of Judah prior to the Babylonian captivity, so that all twelve tribes were still intact seventy years later, but it was only the former kingdom of Judah that actually returned, whole and united as the ‘new’ nation of Israel, seventy years later.

           Think about that. God kept his promise to Abraham. The whole of His chosen people were not utterly wiped from the face of the earth, but the meager, reunited nation that returned from Babylonian captivity was nowhere near the size or power that it once was. God’s wrath was justified and vast.

           If you study world history, you will find that ANY nation that has ever put God first has ALWAYS prospered. Think of the Victorian era of 19th century Great Britain. Queen Victoria was – and still is – revered as one of England’s greatest monarchs, and it’s because she believed that her empire was blessed by God. The evidence is self-explanatory. At that time, England – and the United States – were considered by all the world as the greatest powers, and the best lands of equal opportunity by all those seeking a better life. Our founding fathers built this nation on the premise that God had created every man and woman – no matter his/her race or station in life – equal. That ALL of us were endowed by our Divine Creator with certain, inalienable rights. And that, as long as we continued to recognize the source of our blessing and our greatness as a nation, we would prosper.

           Sadly, that cannot be said of us today. We, as a nation, have fallen so far from God’s grace that I wonder what our exile will look like. Though I have not yet done a close reading and study of the book of Revelation, I am fairly certain that nowhere in that book is there a mention of any western nation such as ours. We are rapidly losing our reputation as a world super power, and I believe that America as we know it today will not exist by the time chapter one of Revelation begins. And, right now, it’s not hard to see why.

           John 1:4-5 says, “In Him was life; and the life was the light of men. And the light shineth in the darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not.” (Emphasis mine.) America has become filled with great darkness. For me, personally, that is my only mission for the rest of my life. I will do what I can to be a light for Christ and the gospel as we get closer and closer to that first chapter of Revelation. God’s wrath is coming, and only those who have believed on His name and accepted Him as their Lord and savior will be spared His judgment.

           The only answer for today’s corrupt generation is the command from God found in Matthew 6:33, “But seek ye first the kingdom of God, and His righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you.” For those who are still ignoring that command, Isaiah warns, “Seek ye the Lord while He may be found, call ye upon Him while he is near: let the wicked forsake his way, and the unrighteous man his thoughts: and let him return unto the Lord, and He will have mercy upon him; and to our God, for He will abundantly pardon.”

           Amen.

[yourfaveisyanderematic]

The Cornered Mouse

so remember how I did that poll a while ago about who to get a continuation for?  Donutboy won, and I combined that with the prompt of the SO acquiring their Stand.  This was supposed to prototype for a fight scene I wanted to do for a side project, and GOD it turned out to be REALLY FUCKING LONG lmao.

You can read the first installment here.  If you wanted to do that.

Anyway.  Here it is.  Warning for...getting punched.  And also someone gets stabbed a bunch, watch out for that, but it’s not described in detail.

Don’t touch me.

“What would you like for lunch?” Giorno asked as he brushed his hand against yours, tucking the coffee cup into your grasp, “I have work, but I’ll make time to eat with you.  I’d hate for you to get lonely.”  He gave you one of his rare but dazzling smiles as he tucked a blond lock behind his ear, the kind that made your heart flutter once upon a time but now only turned your stomach.

You bit your lip and turned your head.  The villa he kept you in had an abundance of oil paintings lining the walls, which were useful if you wanted a distraction when he tried to talk to you.  You stared at the nearest one—Mallow In Bloom—and mentally counted the brushstrokes as he talked.

He frowned slightly at your response; you didn’t see it, but you could tell in the shift of his posture as he tried again.

“I really would take you out like you asked, but things are dangerous right now.  I can’t let anyone think you’re someone to target, so try to be patient while I make things safe for you again.  Please?”

You turned slowly, deliberately, to look him in the face again.  The late morning sunlight streamed through the nearby window to warm you both, illuminating the gold threads in your bright clothing and the ornate patterning of Giorno’s suit.  Even your wheelchair couldn’t detract from the immaculate scene; it was custom-made and beautiful and perfectly in its place.  Just like you.

“Things were safe for me, Giorno,” you replied quietly, even though you wanted nothing more than to scream, “I was safe until you decided you wanted me.”

How different this conversation was, compared to that memorable afternoon with another sun, another cup of coffee.  Back then, neither of you knew what the other was capable of.  Now, there was nothing you could hide from him.

He leaned forward to rest his hand on your shoulder, heavy with the ornate ring that signified his position in Passione, the mafia you now knew far too much about.  You knew the insignia well; it was repeated throughout all your clothes.  Giorno liked to call it his symbol of protection.  You knew it for what it was: a symbol of ownership.

Don’t touch me don’t touch me I’ll kill you don’t touch me I’ll kill you I’LL KILL YOU—

“I won’t apologize for that,” Giorno said quietly, obliterating the thunder of your own thoughts, “I won’t apologize for falling in love with you.  I’ve made it my mission to give you the best life you possibly could have.  You will never fear anything as long as I live, nor will you want for anything.  I—”

“I want to walk.”  Your hands gripped the armrests of your wheelchair until your knuckles turned white.  You hated how your voice cracked on the word, hated more how your eyes burned with unshed tears at a declaration that sounded somehow childish.  How had it come to this?  How could you have been brought so low, to beg for something so fundamental that had been taken from you?

His frown deepened as he pulled back his hand.  “This again?  You know you’d just try to run if I did that.  You’ll get yourself hurt, like last time.”

You’ll get yourself hurt again.  Like it was your fault you were in this chair, even though the both of you knew better, that he had a power that you didn’t understand.  The sensation of his gentle hands hovering over your ribs was still burned into your memory, the ease with which he healed them, was just another level of insult to injury.  He could let you out of this chair any time he wanted, but keeping you paralyzed was a more effective set of chains than the strongest manacles.

“It’s not out of the question forever, you know.  There are places I want to take you, things I want to do…just not now.  Not while you’re still…adjusting.”

“Not while I still want to get away from you, you mean.”

A sigh.  Giorno took a sip from his own cup, eyes never leaving yours.  “Your coffee’s getting cold,” was all he would say in reply.

The two of you finished your drinks in silence.  Finally, he adjusted his tie once more and put on his shoes, obviously leaving to manage his criminal empire and…eat babies or something.  Whatever it was mafioso did while their crippled hostage waited for them to come back.

You turned your head as Giorno approached you to plant a soft good-bye kiss on your temple.  It would have been better if you’d felt a hit instead of lips against your skin; more than anything, you hated how gentle he acted.  How he refused to acknowledge, really acknowledge the brutality of what he had done to you.

“If you get bored while I’m away, I’ve left some books and the newspaper by your bed.  Remember to lie down if you feel tired, please don’t make me pick you up from the floor again.”

“Whatever.  I can breathe easier while you’re gone, anyway.” you mumbled, though there wasn’t any real venom behind it anymore.  Giorno chuckled as he took your empty cup to the sink.

He gave you one last, lingering look as he walked away.  “I love you, Tesoro.  I’ll be back in four hours.”

You watched him leave, shutting each and every door and lock between you and freedom.  Silence reigned as the last bolt slid into place, leaving you completely alone.

It wasn’t until you registered the heaviness in your heart, the hopeful way you glanced at the clock every few minutes, that you realized that despite your best efforts—despite your resentment and hate, despite your kicking and screaming—you were becoming more used to things.  Giorno, who never once raised his voice or hurt you again since that awful night he first took you, was breaking you down, bit by bit.

Giorno was winning.

—

Don’t touch me.

Someone was repeating those words inside your head, every time Giorno touched you, every time he looked at you, and it wasn’t you.

You had become aware of it only gradually, when you realized the mantra continued even though you consciously tried to think about other things.  It was loudest when you were alone, when Giorno was away, which seemed to only highlight that you were well and truly going insane.

Right now, for instance, you were hearing it as if it was actually speaking.  You had been reading, against all inclination to the contrary, when the voice started up again, unbidden, making you freeze in your seat as the newspaper tumbled to the floor.

“Don’t touch me.  I’ll kill you.  I don’t care who you are.  I’ll kill anyone who touches me…” the voice had a strange quality to it, flat and emotionless but somehow brimming with hatred.  It was a voice that spoke with the thinnest thread of restraint, as if it was only a breath away from exploding into violence, and it was coming from just behind your ear.

You didn’t want to turn your head.  You didn’t.  Whatever was talking to you—an intruder that somehow broke in, one of Giorno’s stranger underlings keeping guard over you, an actual demon even—could very well interpret mere eye contact as aggression, and do…something.

“This is what you desire most, hidden in the depths of your wounded soul, isn’t it?  These are the words you leave unspoken whenever he comes near.” the words sent a thrill of fear through you; how could they know? “He thinks he’s safe because you can’t run from him anymore, and you want to hurt him for that.  You want to hurt him more than anything.  I’m right, aren’t I?”

“What are you?”  Something wet dripped onto the back of your neck, sliding down and soaking into the collar of your shirt, and a heavy hand rested on your shoulder, tipped with what could only be claws.  You shivered in disgust, feeling the points dig through your shirt into your skin, but still couldn’t bring yourself to look.

You had the feeling that if you did, you would see something awful.

“Don’t turn your face from me,” the thing said in the wheedling whine of a child demanding attention from their parent, “I am the shield you created.  If the light of his love is unbearable, take refuge in the darkness of your hate.  You don’t want him to touch you—I’ll kill anyone who does, even if God Himself tried.  You want to run but can’t?  Stand with me!  Let me become your legs.”

It had teeth.  You could feel them against your neck as whatever-it-was nuzzled into your neck like an affectionate cat, sharp and long and thick as your finger.  It leaned into you as if the hard back of your wheelchair didn’t even exist, further enveloping you in an embrace unlike anything you’d ever felt before.

At long, long last, you turned your head.  Even with the monstrous forms you’d been imagining, the sight of the thing hovering next to you was difficult to process, more like the shadow of a nightmare than any real creature.

It had a humanoid shape, but it didn’t look human—its flesh was black and glossy, like oil but capable of holding its form—and it moved with a fluid grace impossible for any living being to manage.  Thick golden stakes stabbed into its waist and continued up its chest, like a macabre belt, separating its twisted but solid-looking legs from its more fluid upper half.  What held your attention most of all, however, was its head, only a few inches away from your own.

The only constant about the thing’s face were its teeth and massive, round blue eyes that were utterly incongruous with the rest of it, as if someone had taken apart a giant doll and stolen its eyes for the world’s most deranged craft project.  You couldn’t help but stare as they wheeled around, fixed in a head like something out of a nightmare.  Iridescent tears leaked from its eyes, dripping onto your shirt, but you didn’t have it in you to try to shove this thing away.  There was something desperately lonely in the way it clung to you, more afraid of your rejection than you possibly could be of it, that made the action seem unimaginably cruel, even if its claws did get a little uncomfortable as it gripped your shoulders.

“Hey,” your voice cracked with the hesitation, so you cleared your throat and tried again.  “Hey.  What do I…what’s your name?”

One of its eyes lolled to stare at you.  You couldn’t help but hold your breath for the torturous few seconds it took to answer, gazing at your own reflection in its massive pupil.

“I am the darkness you harbor in your heart, the darkness that will consume everything in your path for your sake.  Because of that, call me Paint It Black.”

“Paint It Black…” the monster stared at you, somehow conveying an expression of hopeful anticipation with its impassive face, “a strange name, but maybe that’s appropriate for a monster like you.  What’s that you said about being able to help me walk?  What do you mean?  Is your power like Giorno’s?”

Paint It Black purred, a hum that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.  Its arms encircled your body, and without warning it pulled, lifting you to your feet and holding you to its waist.

“Whoa—!” you couldn’t help but cry out, not at the sudden motion but what happened next.  Paint It Black moved, stepping into you, and you could actually see the flesh under your skin darken as it flowed into your body.  The whole thing felt strange, like stepping into lukewarm water, and that startled you most of all—you hadn’t felt anything in your legs since that night.

You were standing on your own, for the first time in months, swaying slightly but upright all the same.  You took an experimental step forward, expecting the strength to leave your body and send you crashing to the floor, but your weight held.

You could walk.  You couldn’t feel anything in your legs but Paint It Black’s presence, but you could walk.

What was left of Paint It Black’s body curled behind you, rippling as the golden spikes in its body migrated upward until they were poking out of its fists like an expensive set of brass knuckles.  

“Something like this has been in my soul, all this time?” you said, more to yourself than the monster.  You couldn’t help but laugh.

“I can’t wait to see the look on his face.”

—

Paint It Black could do more than help you walk, it turned out.  You watched with unbridled glee as it forced open your way to freedom, pulling apart locks and even breaking the doors apart when it had to.

“This is your power,” it told you as it tore through yet another barrier in a shower of twisting metal and wood, “I do this because you want to.  Let’s break everything…I want to destroy everything…every wound he’s given you, I will avenge!”

There was a thrum of something wild, something dangerous under your skin where you and Paint It Black joined, but you’d worry about it later.  It was only a matter of time before your captor returned, and too much of Paint It Black’s power was untested for you to want to take him in a straight fight.  You needed to leave while you still had distance…

“This is unexpected.  So you had the potential to become a Stand user, all along?”

You paused.  Paint It Black pulled tight, draping itself over your shoulders as you fixated on the speaker.

Giorno frowned as he approached, giving Paint It Black an appraising stare as something gold and sleek and humanoid appeared next to him.  The same power, you knew instantly.  This was what his power looked like.  You just couldn’t see it before.

“It certainly looks dangerous.  Maybe a close-range power type.  And you can move your legs with it supporting you…fascinating.  Is that because you wished to walk more than anything else?”

Paint It Black gnashed its teeth in an inarticulate display of fury.  You felt its anger—your anger, this was all you—pulse through your head.  It took a moment for you to realize that you were salivating for this chance to put him in his place, to wound him as badly as he wounded you.

Giorno took a step forward.  Nervousness fluttered in your gut; you hadn’t actually tested all of Paint It Black’s power, and your opponent was likely someone who had fought many Stand users before you, but what choice did you have?  Not only couldn’t you run, you didn’t want to run.

It was him and you, alone in the Italian countryside, and you weren’t going anywhere until you got blood.  You looked Giorno in the face, and saw by the subtle widening of his eyes that he knew exactly what you were thinking.

“Gold Experience!”  The other Stand moved with a dancer’s grace, darting close, fist raised to strike.  

Paint It Black surged forward, carrying you with it in its eagerness to attack, swiping with its own arms to counter.  Its movements weren’t as effortlessly coordinated, but it was just as quick, forcing Gold Experience to sidestep and weave through the attacks, seeking an opening…

It found one.  You realized your mistake in the instant before the Stand’s fist connected with your physical body, striking you in the ribcage and sending you reeling back.  

Things were happening too slowly.  Things were happening too quickly.  As if watching it happen to another person, you watched your body stumble and sink to one knee, Gold Experience’s fist still connected with your side…

“Maybe I’ll explain what happened when you’re secure again,” Giorno said, ignoring you in favor of speaking to your body, still in a half-kneel.  Gold Experience pulled its arm back to hit you again, this time in the head—

And stopped.  Its fist seemed stuck, held fast by the flow of Paint It Black’s tarry body as it moved outward again.  Your body didn’t fall to one knee just because you weren’t controlling it, it fell because your Stand moved.  Paint It Black laughed, a shrill and derisive sound, as its spike-laden fist found Gold Experience’s face in a wild haymaker.  Its head snapped back with the force of the blow as it fell away—was it more frail than Paint It Black?—and you felt yourself come back to your body with a surge of satisfaction as you watched Giorno’s own body jolt backward, sending him into the tall grasses and muddying up his suit.

Users get hurt if their Stands get hurt.  You make a note of what happened, grateful that Paint It Black happened to have a counter.

“You know something, Giorno?  I can live without knowing.”  Paint It Black’s body diminished slightly as it poured itself back into you, forcing yourself to your feet again.  You didn’t like the feeling of Giorno’s eyes on you as he noticed this, mentally cataloguing your powers, but there wasn’t anything you could do about it.  You had to get away from him somehow.

He wiped the blood from his split lip as he sat up with the sleeve of his suit, a surprisingly unrefined gesture.  “You’re only able to use about half your Stand’s volume, since you need the rest of it to walk…even so, that was quite a hit.  I can’t help but wonder what you’d be capable of if you could move on your own.  What else can that Stand of yours do?”

You circled each other with measured steps.  The tension was palpable; Paint It Black’s body was coiled so tightly you could barely breathe, and Gold Experience was almost walking on its toes.

“I know you’re excited about your new power, but nothing about the situation has changed.  You’re not going to defeat me here; I can already tell that Gold Experience’s range is greater than yours, and your movements are too uncoordinated.  You’re barely in control of your Stand.  That’s not even taking into account our difference in experience; I’m—“

“Oh my fucking god, do you ever shut up?” Paint It Black snarled, voicing your thoughts the moment they occurred to you.  Giorno frowned again, his Stand mimicking his disapproval.

“I certainly hope that’s not supposed to have come from you.  Maybe we’ll work on refining your manners when this is over.”  He hadn’t even finished speaking before Gold Experience moved again—not into your range, but to pick up a twig and twirl it around in its hand.  You watched the shape distort and squirm as fear welled up in you.

It’s happening again it’s happening again—

How could you fight that?  Paint It Black almost wailed in response, rippling its body to put more of the golden spikes into its fists.

Gold Experience wound the snake around its wrists like a magician completing an act as Giorno studied your face closely.  He must have been satisfied with what he saw, because the snake flowed down to the ground and began to make its way towards you as Gold Experience reached for another one…

Hey.  Paint It Black’s voice resonated in your ears.  I can protect you from harm, or I can fight back, but I can’t do both.  

“Save—“ you gasped, watching as another snake joined the first, rippling forward, “no…!  The user is the enemy!  If we defeat the user, we’ve won!  Nothing else matters!”

Giorno watched you make your decision, first impassively but then with faint surprise as you lurched forward, falling onto the ground as Paint It Black left your body entirely to stand on its own.  It seemed less steady on its own, somehow; it tended to lean into a strange half-crouch, in contrast to Gold Experience’s proud poise, and its pearly tears were flowing in earnest, splattering against the ground.

“What a disturbing Stand,” he murmured with a faint smile, “but I wouldn’t expect you to have a power that was anything less than exciting.  You’ll be quite the asset if I can just get you to behave yourself.”

“Gold Exper—“  It was in that moment that your Stand, once again, did something exciting.  In the same moment you felt a thrill of unadulterated terror flow through you as the first of the snakes finally touched you, Paint It Black reacted, dropping its form altogether to become a puddle underfoot.  Gold Experience, still moving to strike, carried itself overhead…and was immediately impaled as Paint It Black reformed into a dozen needle-sharp spikes, piercing its body through-and through.

Giorno choked, first in surprise and then in pain and then on blood as red bloomed at several spots on his suit, falling forward until he was on his hands and knees.  You squirmed toward your Stand as Gold Experience immediately knelt next to its user, resting its hand over one of the points of injury.

“I hope one of those hit your spine,” you spat with savage vitriol as Paint It Black flowed into your legs, positioning them under yourself to get up, “I hope you know how it fucking feels.  I hope you know how lucky you are, that you can fix it right away.”

He coughed, struggling to his knees as you finally stood on shaky feet, Paint It Black grabbing for a nearby tree branch to steady you.  Anger fueled your Stand, but fear seemed to destabilize it… and the second you realized this, looking over at Giorno, you knew that he knew too.

“You haven’t won,” Giorno said quietly.  You heard the conviction in his voice and knew he was right.

“You just surprised me, but all you’ve done is slow me down.  You can’t kill me, even with that needle ability of yours.  All you can do is run.  Even then…you don’t really think you can get away from me for long, do you?”

Paint It Black coils nervously as your legs continue to tremble.  You haven’t quite calmed down from that scare, and it’s affecting your ability to stand.  

“Today’s been full of surprises.  And frankly, if just now is anything to go by...” you say at last, turning to walk away—you spot Giorno’s still-running car not too far away, where he must have jumped out when he saw you leave the villa.

“If I were you, I’d watch where you step.”

[amphtaminedreams]

S/S 2020 Fashion Month: A Basic, Uneducated Fashion Heaux’s A-Z of Everything Noteworthy (Part 2/3)

Hi to anyone reading,

Back at it again with the giving my unsolicited opinion on 2020′s spring/summer offering, I’m gonna hop straight into part 2 of my fashion month review!

Sorry to start with an underwhelming few but my compulsive tendencies are making it really hard to break out of this alphabetical structure (cry laughs whilst thinking about how long it took me to face up at my retail job last night because it would give me vaguely homicidal urges and make my fingers tingle every time a customer moved something slightly out of line), so I’m gonna whizz through a handful of collections. First up, Halpern:

Not much to say but I’m envious of the heavy liner (my hooded eyes could never) and I like the colour scheme. As for the 80s style metallic pink dress?

Helmut Lang:

And Hermes:

Of these 3 collections, Hermes is definitely the most interesting. I like the colour scheme and the utilitarian shapes and the tan coloured jackets are an absolute shoot. This is how you make safari look fresh, D&G take note.

Isabel Marant was okay. It’s cute, sure, reminds me of something Mary-Kate and Ashley would’ve come out with/worn in the 2000s, and there’s definitely some things I would wear, but I wouldn’t say it looks all that luxury. Pricey, sure, but like, Free People pricey, not designer pricey. As a collection, it’s not all that conceptual, unless the concept is L.A girl does a Starbucks run after her bikram yoga class. What I will say though is that some of the S/S 2020 commercial trends are becoming clear: white cheesecloth pieces, peasant blouses, cowboy boots, scrappy sandals, neutral tones, and bandana print. 

Now onto the darling of high fashion Twitter: Jacquemus.

As far as presentation goes, this has to be one of my favourite set-ups of the season; a hot pink runway running through a lavender meadow is as canny and serene as those who sing the praises of Simon Porte Jacquemus would have you expect, and the clothes were easy, breezy and beautiful, even if there is an element of getting dressed in the dark going on with the styling which put me off including a few otherwise gorgeous pieces. It might not be 100% my style but you can tell this is a brand of the future which is only going to go from strength to strength.

And everything was beautifully and purposefully crafted on the runway with J.W Anderson this year. The pieces are graceful and timeless whilst still easy to envision as something a modern woman would throw on to (very fashionably) run some errands in the city. This was also one of the handful of shows (IIRC! This might be a case of extreme deja-vu!) where we saw the sandal straps tied over the trousers, I’m guessing to accentuate the ankles, and...I’m surprisingly here for it? Though in a sense it kinda resembles when I accidentally get my work trousers tucked into my slipper socks, it’s an interesting touch and adds a bit of a shape to otherwise billowing bottom halves.

Following Jacquemus’ lead (or vice versa, I’m way too deep into this fashion month haze to work out who went first at this point), Lacoste also put on a co-ed show. Otherwise crisp and preppy as per, the neckerchiefs (even if seeing them all next to one another does give off a bit of a Disneyland Main Street barbershop quartet vibe) and vinyl/wet-look/PVC/I’m still not sure what differentiates the 3 coats were an out of the box touch for them and I really liked it. It’s athleisure, but more like something Hayley Bieber would’ve worn as part of her Princess Diana inspired shoot than anything I’d wear to the gym.

LMAO, as if I go the gym. But you get my point. Next, Loewe:

Delicate, feminine and all around delightful, the S/S 2020 Loewe collection is up there with Chloe and Brock when it comes to most spring appropriate. More chiffon, lace and doily-like detailing, please, the old woman in me lives for this kinda thing made fashionable. Like with J.W Anderson, you can tell the design team wanted to do something different without just throwing shit onto their pieces for the sake of being wacky, and so we end up with these dramatic, slightly geometric waistlines and almost angelic Victorian nightgown inspired dresses that kinda make me wished that 1). ghosts existed and that 2). I lived back in that era so I could die some tragic death wearing any one of the dresses on the left in the top 3 rows and then haunt the shit out of everyone. That would really be an iconic fashion moment. Also wonderful, imo, was Louis Vuitton:

The mix between 60s and Edwardian I never knew I needed, as opposed to Gucci’s forward thinking take on the former decade, Louis Vuitton takes it back even further and throws in late 19th/early 20th century structures and references. I adore the what seems to be a mix between brocade and paisley print and the exaggerated collars are a very cute touch. The jacket on the top left is a highlight, a more neutral version of the similar catsuit seen at the Longchamp show (I couldn’t personally pick enough highlights from that to include it), and I now more than ever really want to try and pull off a sweater vest. The shoes might not be the most exciting thing ever but they’re also a personal favourite, from the knee high boots to the loafers with the LV moniker.

Maison Margiela was very cool and again, I’m in love with the shoes and just the accessories in general, ESPECIALLY those hats. I don’t know if I’m way off base here but this show is almost a modernised, fashionable version of a 1940s period drama about WW2 pilots and evacuees. Yes, maybe I am just getting that solely from the trench coats and the naval influences and the exaggerated collars but I think with that list I made quite a case for that perspective, right? Right.

And completing this holy trinity (appropriating the term I usually reserve for Emma Watson, Emma Stone and Emma Roberts is not without careful consideration) is Marc Jacobs. One of my ultimate favourites of this season, this collection is absolutely EVERYTHING: kitschy, dream-like, whimsical, over-the-top, and totally appropriate for your slightly eccentric aunt who always drinks too much wine and talks a lot of shit every time she comes over for dinner. I really feel like I walked into wonderland looking at this collection, and in the best way possible, it gives me a female Russell Brand in the 2000s’ wardrobe on crack. On the one hand we have these insanely beautiful and ethereal chiffon floral dresses but then we also have fricken top hats. Basically, it’s everything I love about fashion and I don’t know if anything can top it. Periodt (and I type that with a totally straight face). 

Next, onto another personal fave, Marchesa:

Which is as always, beautiful. I was going to write that if Disney princesses came to life and lived in the modern world (so, in other words, Elle Fanning), they would be wearing Marchesa and then I remembered that the film Enchanted exists and had a lightbulb moment and thought OH MY GOD IF THEY REMADE THAT IN 2019, THE DRESS ON THE RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE ROW WOULD BE A PERFECT LEVELLING UP OF THE CURTAIN DRESS.

Anyways, favourites of the favourites are the bottom row; I would die for that feather trim. 

BUT where Marchesa is everything opulent, overly ornate and err-ing on “fussy”, Margaret Howell’s S/S 2020 collection is completely stripped back and just as effective, if not as to my taste. Very cool, very current, and altogether effortless (in a good way!), with this show Margaret Howell made mid-20th century utilitarianism relevant. I never thought I’d be praising the combination of bermuda shorts, crew socks and a beanie and yet here I am. Character development.

Next is Marine Serre:

Which I really like! The bottom row isn’t really to my personal taste but I can acknowledge that if I saw somebody wearing any one of those outfits I’d think they looked sick, and as for the first two rows, those mesh tops and the slightly chintzy florals are right up my alley.

Marques Almeida put out a really strong collection, imo. The blending of luxurious silhouettes and fabrics with street wear inspired prints and styling is a really interesting and unique contrast and if Billie Eilish ever decided to stop wearing those tweenie clothes and wanted to actually seduce somebody’s dad (I LOVE BILLIE EILISH AND I KNOW WHY SHE DRESSES THE WAY SHE DOES, IT’S A JOKE, PLS DON’T HATE ME), I’d love to see her wearing something like this. It’s a blend of punk, urban, and 2019 e-girl and has the kind of edge that Topshop has lost over the past couple of years that used to make it so aspirational to my 13 year old self. Of all the shows, it also probably has the most personally wearable accessories, and a shit tonne of cool make up looks I’d love to try if it weren’t for my lack of visible eyelid, lol.

Make up looks were a highlight of the Max Mara show too, for me anyway.

I otherwise wasn’t hugely keen on the collection, it being a little too matronly/Miss.Trunchbull-esque for my liking (wild card fashion inspiration of 2019, apparently?). The light paisley print dresses are very dreamy, though, and I can never resist a good suit. 

As for Michael Kors, dare I say it, but the basic bitch in me loved it. I know as a designer he’s not held in very high regard by the fashion community and I'm not saying it’s at all original but it did what it set out to do well; I mean, it’s quite fitting that he cameo-d in an episode of Gossip Girl because every outfit would be perfect for the Constance attending incarnation of Blair Waldorf, which is probably why I like the collection. Like yeah, it’s a bit of a Polo Ralph Lauren/Lacoste rip off but it’s daintier and more feminine and so I’m not gonna lie, I’m on board with it. 

Next, Miu Miu.

One of the collections I was most excited for, I was a little disappointed. Don’t get me wrong, I really like the collection, but I have never once disliked anything Miu Miu and I usually love it. There are things I love about this line too: the cream, floral lace-up boots, the off-the-shoulder cardigans, the houndstooth oversized coats and of course the fur-lined gilets. My mum used to buy me similar ones when I was a little girl and so they give me childhood nostalgia in the best way possible. I mean, the collection is as girly and eccentric as ever. I think it’s just a little too on the primary school librarian side for me, this time round. Sorry Miu Miu xoxo

Now I’m just gonna speed through a couple, starting with MM6 Maison Margiela, the younger sister to the more expensive regular Maison Margiela line:

And Monique Lhuillier:

So that I can get to one of my other ultimate favourite collections for S/S 2020: Moschino.

Oh my god, where to even start. Firstly, I might be reaching, but if this show is even remotely to thank for art nouveau mesh tops showing up in the Urban Outfitters new in section, then a very sarcastic thank you to Jeremy Scott. You just made ethical shopping a lot harder. HOW am I supposed to not buy an Alphonse Mucha top? HOW!? I mean, I’m sure I’ll manage (I’m on month 3 without a shopping spree I can’t actually afford now and yes, I am very much patting myself on the back), but HOW!?

But on a serious level, if renaissance was the print of 2019, which I’m still very much into BTW, bring on modern art as its 2020 replacement. The Pablo Picasso inspired show not only livened up a generally pretty predictable fashion month but it’s also got me searching up other times art has met fashion on the runway and thrown me down a particularly aesthetically pleasing wormhole I’m not sure I ever want to escape from (https://frontrowmagazine.ca/art-inspired-looks-were-all-over-the-runways-of-fashion-week-a74e8bc7ff0d and https://www.vogue.com/article/spring-2017-ready-to-wear-fine-arts-trends are good starting points!).

Mugler was also up there with the best of them, imo:

See, if the Moschino collection was all about dabbling in art class, Mugler’s S/S 2020 collection is its more mathematically inclined sister, all about sharp lines and deconstructed silhouettes and symmetry all whilst looking hot as fuck. So very Mugler, basically. 

Now, this reference might be slightly off because I haven’t actually SEEN Ex-Machina yet but I imagine if Kim Kardashian were to channel that movie for a costume party she’d end up wearing something from this collection. That sounds like a roast because Kim has worn some questionable outfits but I blame Kanye for most of that and I’m referring to her on a good fashion day, alright!?

As for Off-White, it’s obviously a lot more commercial than most of the lines I’ve reviewed so far. Like, I can see a lot of these outfits on a mannequin in Urban Outfitters (no, I am not being paid to namedrop them, about 3 people in total read this Tumblr so any kind of sponsorship money would be severely wasted on me). That’s not necessarily a bad thing, and I love all of these looks; it just seems unfair to compare them to the the Mugler or Moschino collections, for example. 

The stand outs for me are all on the bottom row: I would buy the utility vest, leather blazer and the all mesh turtleneck under washed-out tie-dye on the spot if I saw them in a high street store. Unfortunately, I feel like that’s kinda where they belong. You just expect collections to be a bit more conceptual, and this one is a little watered down, as much as it’s my style.

Oscar de la Renta was beautiful, of course. Not like I’m shook by how beautiful it is but kinda just what you’d expect from a brand with a name as poetic and fun to say as Oscar de la Renta. The silhouettes are dreamy and the details are as fit for a fairy princess (lmao) as ever. Plus can I just say how happy I am to see butterflies on dresses for adult women again!? And dresses worn by Blanca Padilla nonetheless!? Very here for it.

Next up is another on one of my fashion month highlights: Paco Rabanne.

LOOK AT THIS SHIT!

I mean, don’t get me wrong, something about this collection (I’m pretty sure it’s the knee high coloured socks) is giving me primary school teacher vibes, but I'm not mad about it. It’d be the kind of teacher who’s actually really good at their job and has loads of cool hobbies and a really hot boyfriend or girlfriend or wife or husband who you secretly want to be then you grow up/and or have a huge crush on. 

Like with Marc Jacobs, there’s obvious flower child elements here, and whilst on the whole the former took my breath away slightly more, this is a lot more wearable. My favourites are the paisley print dress and cape on the left in the very bottom row and all the chainmail pieces (which remind me of the dress Naomi Smalls wore in that whole club ninety-sixxxxx skit on drag race), plus that floral cut out dress with the trailing flute sleeves, which is absolute PERFECTION. 

The 70s influence was clear in Peter Pilotto’s S/S 2020 collection too from the abundance of tie-dye to the knit v-neck dress, zany colour and print being the very on-brand focus. That being said, this is definitely more of a street-style inspired collection than usual and whilst the floral suits and dresses on the 3rd row down are very typical Peter Pilotto, the tie-dye corset and combat trousers on the far right, second row from the bottom, are very Jaded London. As for the reoccurrence of the bucket hat, I’ve remained steadfastly against them for several years now (even when our Lord and Saviour Miss Robyn Rihanna Fenty started wearing them) but the way they’re done in this collection even I could definitely get behind; all in all, the show surpassed my expectations.

The same goes for Ports 1961, which was a lot more eccentric than I gathered is the norm from a few google searches. Honestly, I hadn’t really heard of the brand which, upon reading up on it, I feel very dumb for considering it has been around since (in the shock twist of the century) 1961.

Yes, I know how that sounds! But forgive me, I’m still learning:)

Anyway, the fishnet detailing alone pretty much sold the looks I picked out. Seriously, I got a pair of those bloody tights, like, 2 years ago when they became a thing again and now any outfit where I have my legs out feels incomplete without them. 

Next is Prabal Gurung, which, as far as presentation goes, was fucking STUNNING:

I mean, you could say that I’m easily impressed and that the presence of the bouquets won me over (and you’d definitely have a point there), but it’s also this year’s Givenchy haute couture-esque feathers, the trailing pearl necklaces, the exaggerated shoulders, the dreamy colouring, the everything looking like it could’ve grown off a very fashionably-inclined tree. Like, there’s a lot to love here, from the naturalistic elements, to the context behind the show, an ode to American fashion history and those cast out of it (and the notion of “being American” in general) for so long. 

Going from a high to a (personal) low, however, next we have Prada:

I don’t know, I get that it’s supposed to be simple and stripped back and dignified and whatever and I like the looks I picked but it’s just a bit blah for me. The bonnets that kept cropping up just didn’t do it for me and almost ruined what is an otherwise nice skirt suit (top right). Nonetheless, I like the silhouette of the sheer black dress and the the brocade print suit is really luxurious looking, even if the pattern is a *little* Wetherspoons carpet. 

Anyways, here’s a quick overview of Rag and Bone:

So that I can stop moaning and get onto a collection I REALLY liked: 

I am of course talking about Ralph and Russo. See, this is kinda what I expected from, like, Chanel and yet it’s Ralph and Russo that delivered. Also, it gives me Alessandra Rich vibes which is very much a compliment considering how much I love her designs. I mean, if Valley of the Dolls were to get another film remake in 2019, this is exactly what I’d like to see the female leads wearing, from the pastel suits to the satin kaftan style dresses. The yellow feather trimmed dress is practically a copy of something Marchesa has already done but it’s cute all the same. In my top 10 collections of the season, for sure.

Rick Owens was another strong collection; it goes without saying that it’s not the most wearable but that’s not really what Rick Owens is known for, so I wouldn’t expect anything else. If you want fashion on an alien planet, or something Lady Gaga would’ve worn in 2010, he's your man.

Next, Rodarte:

Obviously the dresses are beautiful and the set is magnificent, BUT...I’m really not a fan of the whole celebrities filling in for high fashion models thing. I like Lili Reinhart and I adore Kirsten Dunst, she’s been in a load of my favourite films, but in a similar vein to Dolce and Gabbana’s influencer show, it’s just distracting from the actual garments, if even worse because I don’t WANT to be distracted here (the same can’t be said for the D&G show, lol).  If anybody has read this far, let me know your thoughts! 

Roland Mouret was nice, and I always like a coed show, especially when a designer isn’t afraid to blur the lines of masculine and feminine. It’s fresh, lightweight and luxurious looking, Cannes film festival street style eat your heart out, and I love the colour palette.

Similarly, colour was my favourite thing about Sally LaPointe’s S/S 2020 collection. 

I would never think that teal and burnt orange would work together, let alone in some kind of faux leather, and yet here we are. Orange is in itself always an interesting colour choice, perfect for the summer with a tan, and I really love monochrome outfits, even though they’re something that ends up being quite pricey to put together; slight differences in tone are okay but if you just randomly throw together a few things and they’re too off, it really doesn’t work and you’d have been better off wearing contrasting colours. For that reason, I’m just gonna admire that all-pink outfit from a distance. 

As for Schiaparelli, it’s one I always look forwards to for the sheer weirdness. RTW isn’t quite as kooky as haute couture but still, the interesting choices are still there; what at first glance appears to be flame print is actually coils of hair, and paired with a water print suit is a sequinned jacket emblazoned with a paradisiacal mirage. Ornament-like facial decorations as seen in the over-exaggerated glasses worn with the pony hair suit are also one of my favourite new things to happen in the high fashion scene in the past couple of months and I can’t wait to see how they get watered down to become more approachable for us...regular, non-structurally blessed folks who can’t pull off anything and everything.

Simone Rocha was STUNNING. Romantic and ethereal, it’s druid goddess crossed with upper class Victorian woman of leisure, equal parts delicate and grungy, like a modern, fashion version of Lady Gaga’s Scathach in the Roanoke season of American Horror Story. You know, in the flashbacks, not in present day when she was all gross and like...scalping people and shit. Each dress is so ornate and has such an interesting structure, and the fabric choices give off an organic kinda vibe that create a handmade feel; the collection is, imo, really worthy of being shown under a haute couture heading. When it comes to my favourite element of the show, I’m torn between the petticoats and the hair accessories. I’m just gonna give a cop-out answer and say both. 

Stella McCartney on the other hand, is very much a clear ready-to-wear collection. 

It’s pretty, for sure. The pastel blazers paired with delicate white mesh tops underneath are a gorgeous combination for spring and I like the reoccurrence of the chain glasses (Gucci, right?). But I mean, when you go from Simone Rocha to this, it’s a bit anticlimactic. Plus, if I’m honest, kaftans are always going to remind me of Honey Mahogany from season 5 of Drag Race. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure she’s a lovely person but her runway looks aren’t really ones I look back fondly on, and you’re lying if you say you enjoyed them for anything other than meme purposes.

Temperley is equally meh, though the return of the Erdem-style boating hats is getting me excited that high street retailers might actually pick up on the trend and bring out some cheap ones for me to embarrass myself by wearing. 

I also love a good 70s suit, the neckerchiefs are cute and there are some really delightful prints here that are a more unique approach to florals for spring.

Coming towards the end now, next is Thom Browne:

I LOVE this. Like, don’t get me wrong Rick Owens was cool but I adore how on the nose the concept is here; time to bring back all the Marie Antoinette puns I didn’t get to use in my Versailles Instagram post. I don’t know if it’s the history buff in me or the Sofia Coppola Stan but I will always be willing to sign any kind of treaty for anything related to the excesses of the 18th century French monarchy, and this is that turned up to 1000 infused with a dash of the Teletubbies, which sounds like a nightmarish concept, I know, but as high fashion it WORKS.

Tory Burch was very commercial, seemingly half inspired by Monterey yoga moms and the other half by Hamptons socialites. 

And then there was Valentino, which was fucking exquisite, imo. LIKE, CALLING DOCLE & GABBANA: THIS IS HOW YOU MAKE TROPICAL PRINT INTERESTING. YOU MAKE THE VELVET MONKEY’S ARM THE FRICKEN WAISTBAND. 

Seriously, though, I am enamoured with this colour palette; all the whites and golds are angelic and fr, I didn’t know until now that you could make neons this elegant. I’m also getting an almost clerical feel from a lot of these looks, with the plaited waistband on the black dress that’s 7th row down in the middle, the stunning red cape and the multitude of exaggerated neck ruffs. I think I’ve mentioned before but I always love religious references in clothing-I don’t think I’ll ever get over the 2018 Met Gala-and so whether I’m reading too much into it or not, this collection really did it for me.

Whilst it’s probably as far removed a collection from Valentino’s S/S 2020 contribution you can get, I also loved Vera Wang this season. It might purely (I PROMISE THIS IS MY LAST GOSSIP GIRL REFERENCE) be because it gives me Jenny Humphrey vibes and *controversial* she did have my favourite style of any of the main characters, but sue me, this is just the right amount of late 90s/early 2000s grunge. Deconstructed trashy goth it girl is an interesting concept to see on the runway and I completely support it. 

Versace on the other hand was very hit or miss. The looks I picked out I really loved but ultimately, for one of the household name brands, a lot of the actual garments were a bit pedestrian. I will say though that for me, it’s a case of the whole being greater than the sum of its parts. The slicked back mermaid hair and the pops of colour in the makeup and the interesting necklines meant that when it was good, it was GOOD. However, overall, still a bit too 80s Miami businesswoman, and please GOD, can we leave that hideous J-Lo dress in the past, it should really not be the climax of the show in 20-fucking-19!

As for Victoria Beckham, I liked it, but it’s a bit of a Gucci copy, no? And no way near as interesting?

And on that note, I’m gonna have to cut this off. Super annoying but with only 5 collections left that I want to talk about, Tumblr is being a little bitch and will not let me add anything more to this post. So, see you in 5 for the final post!

Lauren x

[mystery-moose]

TAZ THING: Seven Divines

There were seven divines upon the world.

The first among them was Davenport, also called “the Captain” – God of Hope and Leadership, patron of sailors and explorers, whose domain was illusions. Temples to Davenport sprung up first at crossroads and ports, places of rest between destinations, the priesthood providing shelter and supplies to travelers. Maps were particularly sacred items to followers of Davenport; his holy sigil was a ship’s compass. Small shrines to him became common in inns across the world, allowing for those passing through to pray for fair weather, strong winds, and good fortune at sea. His favor was often gifted to those in trouble, desperate prayers called out in stormy seas or harsh blizzards; travelers would often describe the sudden appearance of a short man with a torch in the distance, his voice and features impossible to discern, but whose light led them to safety.

The second was Lucretia, also called “the Journal-Keeper” – God of Protection and Family, patron of historians and martyrs, whose domain was abjuration. Her temples were stark, domed buildings, and they rose first in major cities and population centers, then in crisis areas and conflict zones. Her priesthood, clad in blue and white, were dedicated to the protection of life from suffering, and took many responsibilities upon themselves: first responders to disasters, coordinators of long-term relief efforts, chroniclers of history, and absolvers of sin and sadness. Relieving another of their burdens, physical or emotional, was considered a holy sacrament for her followers. Martyrs were revered, particularly those who lived despite the burdens they bore, but Lucretia’s favor was specific – her divine grace granted only to those who sacrificed of themselves for the sake of others without thought of reward. Her holy sigil was a silver bracer, worn on the dominant hand, bearing four triangles.

The third was Magnus, also called “the Rough One” – God of Strength and Courage, patron of warriors and craftsmen, whose domain was martial. His temples (sturdy but humble structures, more of wood than stone) rose first in the Roost of Ravens, and spread quickly up and down the coast. Magnus often answered prayers, but he was not one for displays of power. He granted grace to the weak, rather than the strong, and to the fearful rather than the courageous – his power gifted where it would do the most good. “Blessed by Magnus” became a common turn of phrase, its meaning dependent on the region: unlucky, admired, or merely overly earnest. His priesthood were well-trained in carpentry, considered his most holy trade, but contained craftsmen and women of all kinds. They rarely traveled, content to serve their local communities. They blessed new families, built public works, and railed against injustice and corruption – rebellion, it was often said, was Magnus’ unspoken domain. His holy sigil was a ring, worn on the finger or on a chain around the neck, bearing etchings of a hammer, a shield, and a dog.

The fourth was Merle, also called “the Peacemaker” – God of Compassion and Revelry, patron of skeptics and healers, whose domain was nature. Shrines to Merle existed in nearly every tavern, encouraging offerings in exchange for “Party Points;” blessings which protected one’s lucidity and decision-making, and lessened hangovers. His temples were often mistaken for taverns themselves, though many were often built with courtyards or atriums open to the sea air – beaches were a favorite place for his followers to congregate. Priests of Merle were selected very carefully as vessels for his grace; those who held grudges, or who were selective in their mercy, would never find themselves wearing his garb. Forgiveness was a core part of their doctrine. Those who were wronged were expected to forgive, and those who did the wronging were expected to accept responsibility for their actions and make recompense as best they could. His clerics often served as mediators for disagreements, and his temples functioned as hospitals and dispensaries as much as public houses. His holy sigil was a book with a wood-block cover bearing the image of an owl perched atop a bottle.

The fifth was Taako, also called “the Wizard” – God of Mischief and Magic, patron of chefs and lost children, whose domain was transmutation. Any commercial kitchen worth its salt had a small shrine to Taako somewhere inside; it was considered good luck to pray to him before a busy night. But those who engaged in transmutational cooking prayed to him most fervently; one of Taako’s most common favors was protection from poison. His temples were large and ostentatious, the interiors draped in silks and tapestries and filled with the smell of food. His priests were caterers and caregivers, devoted to the study and craft of both magic and cooking. They provided food to the community; free for the poor and the hungry, at a price for the rich and well-to-do. They took on Taako’s penchant for trickery as well – pranks and jokes were prized among his followers, as well as personal beauty. The truth of his heart, though, was in their most holy sacrament: the protection of orphans. No child was turned away from a house of Taako. His temples became orphanages wherever they arose. Special emphasis was placed on the young and unwanted, who were fed and sheltered and taught his trades for as long as they wished to stay. His holy sigil was a pendant, bearing on one side the image of an umbrella and on the other a wide-brimmed hat – his priesthood’s signature vestment.

The sixth was Lup, also called “the Resplendent” – God of Fire and Empathy, patron of arcanists and adventurers, whose domain was evocation. Shrines to Lup were made with candles or braziers, and her temples (never far from a house of Taako) always contained perpetual bonfires. Offerings to her were always burned, the more extravagant the better – towns would often use the demolition of a condemned building as an opportunity to ask for her favor. But Lup wasn’t easy to please, and certain things were required to be granted her boon; a sense of humor, a willingness for excess, a rejection of cynicism, and a total dedication to friends and family. Moreso even than Magnus, Lup demanded moral certainty – certain lines could not be crossed, under any circumstances. (Though one of the key texts of her priesthood tells the tale of how Lup herself had nearly broken her own vow, once; it was a cautionary tale, meant to impress the dangers of desperation and so-called “hard decisions.”) Priests of Lup were not mediators like those of Merle, or devoted to protection like those of Lucretia, but hers were finely tuned to the understanding of others; they may stand against something while empathizing with its creation. Her holy sigil was a torch, ever-burning with a cold, smokeless flame.

The last was Barold, also called “the Lover” – God of Love and Devotion, patron of scientists and the curious, whose domain was necromancy. Temples to Barold (colloquially called “Halls of Winter”) were always near to houses of Lup, connected as they were through an unbreakable bond. His priests, clad in red robes and denim trousers, would bless weddings, perform last rites, and engage in what was termed “bright necromancy” – allowing the living to speak with the departed, or usher unwilling souls to their final resting place, or bless their remains to prevent any future meddling from less savory magic. Curiosity was encouraged, but to be engaged with responsibly: necromantic magic of all kinds was not a toy, or a means to power, but a tool to be used for the good of others, and with the consent of the dead. His doctrine stressed connection and dedication to another as sacred, “anchors” from which divine grace flowed into all things. Barold’s favor was granted not to those who devoted themselves to knowledge, but to people, wholly and entirely – as with Magnus, “blessed by Barold” became a common phrase, referring to those who were head-over-heels in love. Barold’s holy sigil was a coin; one side bearing his profile, the other bearing his beloved Lup’s.

There were seven divines upon the world, though they walked upon it no more.

And their influence would never be extinguished.

[suninagarajan]

THE WRITHING

Brahma, God of Heaven, Creator of the Universe and supreme master of knowledge looked at his creation

and was pleased.

Although he had created birds of the sky, fowl of the land and fish of the sea, as well as rivers and forests and mountains and all things that were pleasing to his eye Brahma, God of Heaven, Creator of the Universe and Supreme master of Knowledge resolved that in order to keep his creation pleasing he must bestow upon it one last blessing, for its sake. That it may grow and change and evolve into a paradise on earth.

And so Brahma, God of Heaven, Creator of the Universe and Supreme Master of Knowledge bestowed on his creation the ultimate blessing of the gods. 

Life.

____________________________________________________________

The Nagarayan – Goi dynasty get their name from the Narayan – Goi trees that densely populate the great forest of Kuru Panchala.  It is said that an ancient ancestor of the clan copulated with the Goddess Naga and that such was their love making that she blessed the tree and all its fruit and brought fertility to the land.

The Nagarayan – Goi have since honored the Goddess’ magnificence by commemorating this occasion through the ceremony of the Writhing and the Goddess has for centuries been honored and worshiped as the protector, and the supreme goddess of both the Nagaraya - Goi family and the city of Kai Puriji.  

Her holy temple and shrine are located within the Golden Palace and pilgrims will travel from Kuru Panchala and across the land of the Hindu to pay homage to the Goddess and ask for her benefices for their harvests or wombs on holy days, high days and festivals.

The Goddess Naga, or to give her, her formal name Nagamaan – is worshiped as the giver of life and prosperity through festivals and holy days celebrated by the faithful in the City. Her temple, the sacred and ancient Kama – Bayan Rhoi located directly beneath the Golden Palace but within its grounds houses the Goddess’ Golden shrine.  With it’s five headed golden statue of the Goddess some ten feet high, the shrine and temple are nevertheless accessible to worshipers on holy days and festivals. It contains, Pavitr Vasant, the holy spring, an energetic umbilical cord of spring water which traverses down from the divine Udra – Pai through a series of tributaries and rivulets and comes to rest in the Goddess’ temple in Kai Purija, bringing life and abundance to that city.  All water works in the city including wells, pumps, springs, fountains, reservoirs and holy pools are fed by the Pavitr Vasant and the Goddess is said to have created the tributaries of the land in her own image to bless the people of Kuru Panchala. 

Whilst there are many shrines and temples to the Gods in Kai Puriji, with worshipers making their offerings to the God of their choice, of the many shrines to the Goddess that populate the city, the most holy is in the Golden Palace located within the inner sanction of the palace. It is the preserve of the Nagaraya – Goi Royal Family and their priests and any who defile the Goddess with their presence will have committed sacrilege and profaned her sacred house. She will demand the ultimate price for such impudence and so none, for fear of their lives and the displeasure of the Goddess, will err too closely to the divine.     

There are many Holy days in the Kuru Panchala calendar, for fear a lesser God may take spite at the snub and make mischief with the Goddess’ great work.  It is for the priests and holy men to ensure that Gods throughout the city of Kai – Puriji and across Kuru Panchala are worshiped and respected appropriately.  It is for these reasons that the priests and holy men will make journeys to shrines from Kai – Puriji across Kuru Panchala to assist the worshipers in their holy practice and to ensure that the shrines and temples are in good repair and to consecrate other shrines and temples, that the Gods may be honored in all their glory. 

Of the Holy Days dedicated to the Goddess there are four of significance which the people of Kai – Puriji celebrate through festivals throughout the season. One commemorates winter, when the goddess takes her rest, one to commemorate spring when the goddess is youthful and in bud, one to commemorate the holy act of creation between the goddess and the Nagarayan tree that brought such wonders to Kuru Panchala and one whose meaning over time has been lost.  But the most celebrated festival and holy day has come to be known as the Great Writhing or Holy Writhing and is held in late summer to commemorate the bringing in of the harvest and the Goddess’ successful delivery of abundance to her people.

It is said that the tributaries of the blessed Udra-Pai were created when the Goddess and her Nagarayan lover writhed in ecstasy in their copulation and that their pleasure was so great and so blessed that the earth itself was moved and formed the great rivers and tributaries that now traverse the plains of Kuru Panchala.  This act of Holy Writhing, therefore, has come to symbolize the ultimate act of creation for the people of Kuru Panchala and is seen as a sacred ceremony commemorated by the worshipers of Kuru Panchala as the Holy Writhing Festival or Great Writhing.  

 The Spiritual Practice of Kuru Panchala

Kuru Panchala was for many years known as the land of spiritual delights by its neighbors and many friends. The delicate intelligent design of its artists, jewelers, engineers, musicians, carpenters, builders, weavers, tapestrist, smiths and scribes are amongst the myriad of crafts, industries, and guilds that fed the Royal Court and created the opulence, wisdom and joy, for which the Nagarayan – Goi dynasty are known throughout the land of the Hindu and beyond.  It is these schools and academies, guilds, societies and associations that were all said to have been blessed by Pravrantiaaa, Goddess of Joy. 

The Goddess of Joy, it was said, was enjoying the delights of her holy garden, as she softly played her magical flute and composed an ode to nature, when her pet peacock having caught the chord and felt his mistress’ sorrow did lead her to a land of wonder and beauty as to make that maidens heart fill with happiness and ease and she fell from her heavily sphere into Brahma’s sweet creation of bliss and harmony and showered abundance on the people for evermore.  

She returns to her holy garden once in a season when her peacock will fly down and return her to the Gods on its wings lest it lose her to mere earthly pleasures. But for all the hollies of Gods they do not keep her, she cannot stay away for too long - for Pravrantiaaa, Goddess of Joy, Kuru Panchala is her garden of spiritual delights.

And so, there are many pleasures to tempt the appetites of the worshipers of Kuru Panchala and a worshiper is expected to fulfill their desires in accordance with their purse and preferences, as well as their religion, caste or gender as Brahma instructs. 

But they are also cautioned not to feed their indulgences for fear that fed to surfeiting, the appetite may sicken and so die. And in so doing they may forget the Goddess, and she in her misery, may forget her Joy.

For though it may seem to the uncivilized stranger’s eye, that the people of Kuru Panchala are lax or lazy or indulgent, in reality it is the Kingdom’s farms and villages and quarries and bread houses and mines and forts and encampments where the Goddess also lives, and where Joy is happiness made manifest.  

For it is through the artisans, poets, musicians and thinkers of Kuru Panchala, such people who rely on civilization to plough their furrow and who are drawn from village and hut and meadow, whose hand eye genius’ of thought and vision bestows such creative wonders on the land as to please a Goddess, a rectangle of pleasure or simile of joy, as in the stitch of a sari made of golden ambrist thread, or a tantric two bar rhythm in a court poem, that will delight for centuries, and add to the Goddess bounty and continue her Joy.

So worshipers are cautioned,  that none may spoil the hard won peace of the Nagarayan – Goi, which cost that clan it’s brightest stars but brought harmony and abundance to the land and created the civilisation that has, in wonder of the magnificence of existence, dreamed the wisdom of the Blessed Path of the Gods into being, for the enjoyment of all of creation, is not lost on the ayogy, or Drstihina, (in the Maharati “the sightless”). Those who, having shared in the Goddess’ bounty, might, once their senses had alighted, and their consumption been tempted, forget their own divinity and be blinded by tastes and wants alone. Existing in a hell of pleasures and yearnings and desire, who live only to crave and forget their Gods. 

For in Nagaraya – Goi Hindu spiritual practice it is only through the balance of these points between enjoyment and restraint, neither craving nor satiated, the mastery of temporal and corporeal passions, the balance of the self, where a worshiper may enter the Gateway to Spiritual Heaven - and the soul live forever in the Palace of the Gods. 

And it is the calendars, both spiritual and tangible, of festivals and harvests, of market days, and royal audiences, of high days and holy days, that manage the seasons in perfect harmony with Brahma’s creation and beat the rhythms of life for the people of Kuru Panchala that they may reap the bounty of the Gods and in doing so go forth and be multiple.  

Those who take this mantra to their practice and discipline their pleasure so as not to restrict the Goddess’ Joy, like Bhaktrivedanta Prabhupada, the Great Walker, who is ever mindful of the Goddess’ music as he walks through her garden of spiritual delights for it fills his heart with love and his soul with grace, are blessed in the eyes of Brahma, and are said to be Walking the Blessed Path of Grace. 

Overindulgence, therefore, whether in nature or degree, of a kind that might lead a worshiper to be so blinded as to forget his Gods, is looked down upon in Kuru Panchala society and to call someone “sightless” is an insult that attacks the soul. 

Such people are, if and when they are discovered, shunned by their neighbours and peers, least their foolishness offends the Goddess, and brings bad luck on her people. 

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The Ceremony of the Holy Writhing, or the Great Writhing Festival is a sacred event in the lunar calendar of Kuru Panchala. 

It takes place annually, although minor or lesser writhings may be practiced throughout the year by worshipers, as the needs of the populace dictates, with the permission of the King, and in accordance with the instruction of the priests.

While the Holy or Great Writhing remains a spiritual experience for many and is celebrated as such, it is now also celebrated as a symbol of the greatness of the King and the happiness of the people and is a high holy day for the people of the Kingdom.  

But as the Goddess is bountiful and her blessings multiple so the Great Writhing or the High Holy Writhing, necessary, spiritual and symbolic, - can also take place for the purposes of enjoyment alone and is therefore considered, among the common people, whatever its reasoning, as the Magical ceremony or Manitra, 

When the Goddess in her magnificence, through the rhythmic tempo and movement of the worshipers bodies, beating to the tantric drums, and intoxicated by the incense of the Tubkumo tree that grows near the wild forest, is tempted to look down and open the chakra’s of her worshipers, making bliss manifest on earth.

The Holy Day of the Festival of the Holy Writhing, occurs four times in the Kuru Panchala calendar – and pilgrims, traders, artisans, farmers and makers and buyers and sellers of all kinds will start their trek to Kuru Panchala sometimes months in advance to the markets and temples for the four days of ceremony, it is the duty and the pleasure of each worshiper to make the pilgrimage at least once every five years to pay homage to the goddess and tribute to the king. 

Some villages and townships will send delegations to perform ceremonial rites and civic duties on behalf of a village, township or community and soldiers, weavers, growers and builders, and people of all status will be given the rest days to honour the gods.

There are minor ceremonies across Kuru Panchala, where in towns, villages, and hamlets, friends and neighbours will come together for many months, making lanterns and cosmetics and coloured masks and flower banners, saving the corn and fermenting the berry, in shared anticipated glee of the holy happy day of magic, as it’s often known by the common people. 

So that the happy day can spread happiness in its wake, treats are given out, business is done, and marriages arranged and the day flows from spiritual to enjoyable to municipal. For if the Goddess is pleased with the honour she receives she may, in her glory, spread prosperity and contentment on her people and turn the seasons again to the happiness of the land. 

As the Maharati proverbs of the twelfth century sage Harkandha Marendranata Pattir tell us in the Persian texts, 

the goddess Nagamaan brought bud to the branch of the tree of life, so flowers the seed and Brahma’s creation grows manifold.  

Though poets have found it is less poetic when spoken in the translation. 

It is often confusing to outsiders that the Great Writhing and the Holy Writhing are not one and the same and are celebrated by two separate calendars, kept by scholars of different schools.  The Holy High Writhing can be best known as the Writhing celebrated by the worshipers of Kai – Puriji and others who may wish to commemorate the holy act of creation between the goddess and the Nagarayan tree, and while similar in many ways to the Great Writhing it is the Holy High Writhing that is the holy high day, that is celebrated annually in a separate calendar to the High Holy Great Writhing which is celebrated four times annually and is the high holy day.  It is for the worshipper to decide which calendar to honour, but it is not uncommon for worshippers, and particularly the Royal Family to worship both calendars under guidance from the priests and astronomers. 

Both the Holy Writhing and the Great Writhing will both start at dawn and priests and holy men will sing the holy Pahata mantras, the mantras of the dawn, welcoming and thanking the sun for the day, 

This is the signal to begin.  

Having already made their ablutions and offerings and paid the annual tribute to the King of the best produce and product of the land, and in the knowledge that they enter the presence of the Goddess with kind heart, clean body and open mind ready to receive the pureness of grace, the worshipers will begin the chanting of the mantras, a necessary element of the spiritual miracle that is, in itself a sight to see, its sound it is said, reaches heaven.

For Kai – Puriji is itself a city of some size, the largest by far of Kuru Panchala and some say the broader Hindu lands, and be it high holy day or holy high day the Goddess’ worshipers have need of her mercy and fertility and abundance and will flock to her cause in great numbers.  

During these days of holy highs and high holies, every room and rooftop in Kai – Puriji will be let some five times over.  The barracks outside the city walls will be filled with the wandering soldiers on leave or builders or labourers on holiday who cannot find a bed within the city. In the desert plain, to the north of the city outside the Gate of the Pilgrims whose high stone walls like the three other city gates, the Gate of Peace, the Gate of Travellers and the Gate of the King are carved to represent the five headed body of the Goddess, and where only those who walk the path of the Goddess may tread. Encampments and tents of all sizes and varieties form to house an over spill of pilgrims, traders, clans and merchants, who will bring a flock and a still, and an oven, and a smithy – and build cities anew for the Goddess. 

And when this collection of souls, not through caste, or religion or gender or status or reason, but through the Goddess alone come together to sing the mantras, if the sound is holy and the people are pure then the goddess might once more spill her seed and the land shall again grow fat.So, the singing of the Mantras begins and is itself a holy practice and will fill worshipers with joy and peace and knead their souls that they may receive the grace that is to come.

Once the Mantra’s end the stillness begins.  It is for the high priest to decide when to summon the sound to still the people, he will do this by striking, or causing to be struck the Dhvani ka pot, or in the ancient hindi, the Vessel of Divine Sounds.  

This holy vessel which, it is said Brahma struck to bring order to chaos before the beginning, will echo a sound so pure and create a stillness so light that it will lift the souls of the worshippers to heaven filling them with sacred bliss and attracting the Goddess’ notice, and she will fill her worshippers with ever deepening stillness and a divine grace of transcendent beauty.  

Once the Dhvani ka pot has been struck twice and the people so satiated with grace are beyond their senses that tears pour from their eyes and love thunders from their souls, the Holy High Day or High Holy Day may begin.  

When the stillness has ended and the worshipers return to their senses, the procession will begin from the Temple of Holies in the Golden Palace. The statues of the Goddess across the city will be collected one by one in order of beneficence and be carried by the priests around the city both within the walls and now because of the number of worshipers, outside. Holy men will throw sweets and flowers at the worshipers throughout the city while the people throw offerings and make devotions. 

Coloured masks will be worn, faces painted, cloth of crimson and verdigris and lapus will be worn along with every variety in the kingdom. Drums will be struck, symbols crashed and powder thrown and the people will be happy. 

Acrobats and fire eaters and jugglers will entertain the crowds and the atmosphere will crackle from the explosions of pyrotechnics, firecrackers and sparklers that singe the air and leave excitement on the air. Worshippers, drunk with joy, in their conscious unconscious, their every sense thrilled by sound and vision and flavour and taste and variety and noise and excitement will sing like one to the goddess.  

Once the Goddess has witnessed the devotion of the people, the Royal procession, either on elephants or in Pandam will begin and the Maharaja and the royal court will show themselves in their opulent magnificence, a sign of the Goddess favour. Each procession may show itself several times before the next begins, or the Goddess in her jealousy may show herself several times to the people and the Maharaja must wait.  These matters are for the priests, scholars and astronomers to determine in advance and in accordance with the calendars. 

The Maharaja and Royal Court will shower benevolences on the people in accordance with high holy or holy high, their attendants will throw flower garlands, sweets and coin to the populace as a sign of royal favour. When the Maharaja and his royal court, his nobles and his army, his poets and musicians and dancers and beasts have received the adoration of the worshippers the procession will make its way out of the city through the north Gate of the Pilgrims on to the vast desert landscape that the city now dominates and lead the people to the sacred public arena so the games may begin.  

The day will consist of tournaments of strength, speed, music, daring, drama and oratory and of festivities of all kinds, and will in the case of the Holy Writhing may continue for seven days. The Maharaja, either alone or accompanied by favourites and members of the court, will attend such festivities and events as befits his station and interests and will bestow gifts of great honour and value on the victors. He will travel in a Royal Pandam in appropriate ceremonial style whether high holy or holy high depending on the Writhing, and his artists, builders and engineers will have built great stands, amphitheatres, private Royal apartments, temples and pavilions for worshipers and spectators, now outside of the city walls.  

At some point during the early to middle Maharanti period the beasts of the kingdom were included in the festivities and celebrations and now an eagerly anticipated highlight of both high day and holy day are the tiger races, the elephant displays and the peacock ceremonies along with other similar entertainments. These will continue until the priests ring the bells of the temples and call the High Holy or Holy High day to a close.   

After a period of rest when worshippers may recoup their energies and change their clothes and again make ablutions in the sacred pools and springs, the priest will sing the holy Tinhisanja mantras, the mantras of the dusk, thanking the sun and welcoming the moon. When the mantras have been sung, the holy chanting will again call down the Goddess and beg her attention.  

Again, it is for the priest to decide when the Goddess has noticed and will strike or cause to be struck the Dhavani ka pot to begin the stillness.  The Stillness of the High Holy Day is similar but of different energetic vibrations than the Stillness of the High Holy Night, just as the Stillness of the Holy High Day is similar but different to the Stillness of the Holy High Night.  

Once the stillness is ended the feasting begins, and when the ceremonial prayers and offerings are completed, conjurors, jugglers, acrobats, raga dances, poets and performers of all kinds will delight the crowds and foods of every variety including tiger meat from the Maharaja’s own stores which he may dispense as Royal favour, and all wines and fish and fowl and fruit of the cosmos will be served in a display of magnificent reserved for the Great feast.  

Each temple may hold its own Great Feast or each community, guild, congregation or family may enjoy the feasting at their own choosing and arrangements. When the feasts are over and the entertainments ended, those who wish to end their High Holy, Holy High in prayer, yoga, chanting and silent meditation, may do so for their devotions are no less beloved of the Goddess.

But the ceremony that gives both the High Holy and the Holy High its name is the Writhing which, once the moon ascends to her heaven is begun by the Writhing priests with a summoning of the worshipers by the tantric drums from the Goddess’ holy temple.

As holy men chant the mantras from the high platforms the tantric drums on the roof of the Palace temple and within the Hall of Writing will beat the rhythms to summon the Muladhara worshipers.

With body washed, perfumed and oiled, and breath sweetened with a little honey-wine, the Muladhara worshippers will make their way to the Hall of Writhing, where their naked bodies must surrender their will to the call of the tantric drums so as to keep the primordial rhythms that the ceremony is known for.  

They will say the holy prayers and so as pilgrims prepared, they will enter the Hall of Writhing, or tent or temple, and so begin the mass movement of bodies, or Writhing, to the sound of the tantric drums, which will beat all night keeping the rhythm of the Goddess great miracle awake in the bodies of the participants.  

Body after body entranced by the mystical smells of incense that will cloud their nostrils and confuse their minds, and the soul bending sound of the drums that will call forth their desires, will pump and thrust and grind to honour the Goddess’ act in one magnificent display of transcendental creation. 

And if she is pleased with their offering she may notice their worship and allow her Klidilini spirit to enter their love chakra and pierce their soul.

For it is said that worshippers who please the Goddess will transcend mere physical ecstasy and bodily release, with their physical selves disintegrating into minute pieces of pleasure, they achieve mystical grace and spiritual bliss. 

For the ancient practice of the Writhing honoured since the beginning for its spirituality and it’s procreative bounty and by both calendars, is ultimately an exercise in release from the body and the bonds that tie the soul to the earthly plain. 

And those that infuse it’s beating, thrusting, pulsing, pumping primordial rhythms and the heady, intoxicating scent of the incense, and the heat of the writhing bodies as they are taken over by the Goddess joy, in a nameless, status - less, self-less act of mass creation and who, through the physical gateway, defeat ego and conquer self, are said to transcend in a cascade of bliss their souls being one with the ultimate Holy or Great Holy. 

For as long as they are able and while the Goddess in her glory has, once more deigned to reach down and open the love chakras of the faithful, their bodies will beat, and pump and thunder to the rhythm of the tantric drums enacting once more the miracle of life through the act of spiritual copulation. 

If the Goddess is pleased, she may hold off a pestilence or keep a well flowing for longer, she may bless a merchant’s trade route or an artisan’s tongue or a noble’s bloodline. She may keep people safe, happy and prosperous and if she does not, she may have instilled such wisdom into the Maharaja as to have kept the grain stores full or the forts in repair or the people abundant.  

In her happiness she may as carelessly as a child, shower her blessings down to fall where they may, for it is for the priests and not the people to know the Goddess’ intentions.   

And in time there will be writhing children born, whose status while not wholly respectable, will allow them to become the farmers, and builders and engineers and soldiers and court servants who keep the kingdom prosperous and abundant and make the Goddess’ mercy manifest. 

[soldatrenard]

The Moon Disciple

To Whom it May Concern:

Death doesn’t strike fear in my heart: the unknown does. The idea that I’ll never truly know the point of life nor will it ever be solved is unfair. No shining light of wisdom will grace me with its knowledge. If we give our lives to these teachings, shouldn’t there be a tangible divine presence? We can convince ourselves of internal enlightenment, but I need the grace of god bestowed upon me in an actual form. Selfish is what you may think of that request, however; hasn’t everyone looked up for guidance and been unanswered? We’ve spoken to men and women representing an entity, but they are simply providing their own opinions of guidance. We can justify what we think are signs from above but that doesn’t mean they really are. Here I am in my final moments, and I doubt my body will be found within the first week of my bittersweet end. A big joke considering what pain has followed me throughout the years.

Should I take it personal? There are those who have never experienced turmoil or adversity in their lives, yet I have been struck down time after time. My family was taken from me. My brother, my sister, and my father were all killed in a “tragedy.” A god damn joke. Not to mention, my mother didn’t have the chance to meet me as she died during my conception. I don’t even want to talk about her. Not my mother, but the love of my life. Trust me, there’s simply not enough time to explain (I’m trying to kill myself). It’s as if everything in my life was crafted to push me to the edge. I can’t help but ask: why? The people I considered friends abandoned me because I refused to gift them money from the settlement. I mean, isn’t ironic that I become rich due to the death of my family and all it did was push me towards seclusion. People angry that I didn’t want to throw them a bone. As if I owed them because they had to deal with my moping and crying.  

I stopped leaving the house, I quit posting on social media, and I don’t answer the phone. After a while, everyone forgets you exist. I still follow them and look at what they post, but no one tries to interact with me. They think I’ll go on a tirade about how depressed I am and even if they did listen, they wouldn’t believe me because I have a lot of money. I wish I could buy my way to happiness but company that is paid for is not company you’d wish to have. Sure, I’ve paid for drugs, escorts, and uber eats but those aren’t contributing to my well-being. Fleeting moments of euphoria that aren’t helping me move past my depression. I never got a pet because I worried what the hell would have happened to the poor thing. It just doesn’t make sense to me that I would be consumed with this kind of thinking. How can anyone be scared to have a pet? Regardless of how you feel about the things I’ve said, no one should be feeling the way that I am nor should they experience the hardships I have endured.

That’s the gist of it, and now that you’ve been given the cliff notes: I’ve fashioned a noose and my agony will soon come to an end. It’s been a shitty run. I look forward to seeing the gates of hell because at least I’d know there was some truth to the testaments. If some greater power wants to intervene, this is your...Page Break

A knock echoes throughout the house as I almost finished my death note. I’m a bit pet peeved by the transgression to be honest. I will admit it is a bit ironic considering the last words I wrote, but I hope it isn’t the Mormons because you can take that intervention back, God. I drop the pen and decide to answer the door. I open it and to my surprise; it’s a beautiful woman wearing a pants suit. I’m either being sued, or I am about to be surveyed. With the door slightly cracked as my eyes glare out towards this stranger, I ask, “Who the fuck are you?”

Taken a bit back by my bluntness, the stranger simply asks if I’m Andrew Purdy.

“Yes, I am, so who the fuck are you?” I reply.

A bit ruffled but still maintaining composure, she says, “I’m the director of Project Ascension, the global initiative to colonize the planet Mars.”

I must admit, I wasn’t expecting that. “Okay, and your name?” I ask.

“Melissa Munoz”

I turn my head and ask out loud, “Alexa, who is Melissa Munoz?”

In the background you hear, “Melissa Munoz is best known for her pioneer work in the field of Astronomy. Graduated from Harvard University in 2030, she is currently the director of Project Ascension. Would you like to hear more?” Man, smart assistants, what would we do without them?

“No, thanks.” I respond to the device as I open the door fully.

I’m either being pranked in such a radical way or this is some wild attempt for a donation. “What would someone like yourself be doing here in Palm Springs?” I ask, but quickly follow up with, “we aren’t flying any rockets out here.”  

“I understand that this is unannounced and a bit odd, but I’m here because I need your assistance.” She explains.

Of course, a fucking donation. It’s always money. But why would the director be doing this personally? I mean, she is a beautiful woman and that can work on most people; however, isn’t she supposed to be running this space program and not knocking on doors?

“Let’s say this is true, what do you want? Money?”

“No, we want you to join the Initiative.” She grabs a hold of my hands and looks me straight in the eyes as she says, “I can explain the details if you invite me inside.”

There’s always a reasonable doubt granted to those in most situations. Where the unexplainable seems to be the only logical answer. There are times where the unbelievable takes over what we perceive as reality, and I have arrived at that moment.

“Thanks, but that’s a hard no.” I pull my hands away and close the door on her face.

I hope I didn’t hit her with the door, but you must be a bit dramatic in order to scare off people. Hell, most of the time you only need to speak your feelings to get someone running. Although, it doesn’t seem like Melissa got the point as I hear her knocking at the door again.

I walk towards the center of my living room where I have a noose hanging from the ceiling fan. Ignoring the barrage of knocks at my door, I had hoped for a quiet demise but at this rate; my body won’t be discovered too long after my death now. I put the noose around my neck and get up on the chair. I’m not scared, and I feel at ease. Anyone fighting internally with living or dying would be showing signs of contemplation at this moment, but I’m more concerned about the pounding at my door. Now that I’m considering how feisty those knocks are sounding, I’m not too sure I’ll be able to properly kill myself. Am I about to make this woman a hero if I try to kill myself in this moment? As I dangle from the roof, is she going to peek in through my blinds and attempt to rescue me? Complications are not what I need right now. Can’t a guy die in peace?  

“Well, shit.” I remove the noose and walk back to the door. I open it, and Melissa had an intensity written across her face that made me believe she would have done whatever it took to get back inside.  

I move aside and welcome her in.

I invite her to sit on the couch. Of course, she notices the noose above my head as I sit in the chair under it.

“Would you like a drink?” I ask.

There’s a look of concern on her face that indicated to me that she wasn’t interested in a drink, so I say, “Just tell me what you wanted to so we can go our separate ways.”

She regains her composure and answers with, “Each country in the world was tasked with choosing an individual that would represent them on Mars.” She looks back up at the noose then back at me, and states, “The United States chose you.”

I almost stood up and put the noose around my neck at that moment. It was that absurd to me. Why in the hell would I be chosen for this project? Especially by Uncle Sam and the animal brigades.

“I don’t see why or how that is the case.” I respond. “I mean, what do I look like Neil fucking Armstrong?” I mean, an already trained astronaut in comparison to me is night and day.

She unconsciously nodded in agreement. She acknowledges how outrageous it all sounded by her expressions alone, but she adjusts herself before continuing, “No, you’re not; however, you are the one they specifically picked.”

I can’t help but scratch my head. I mean, I know that’s not what actual people do when they’re befuddled but this is strange enough to make me do that.

“How did they come to this terrible conclusion?” I ask.  

My utter confusion must paint me out to be a dumb ass in this situation as the next set of words were spoken to me as if I was being addressed by a first responder after being involved in a car crash.

“You were chosen through a raffle that utilized the nation’s consensus, and I know that you may think you’re under qualified or not the right fit for this role.” She pauses to emphasize, “Given your current situation.” She glances back up at the noose then back to me and continues, “However, we want normal citizens to participate in this initiative.”

“Why not get an astronaut? It seems like the obvious choice.” I’m generally curious on this part.

She smiles as if that’s the key question she wanted me to ask, and says, “We already have conclusive evidence that these brave astronauts can endure and live in space.” She stands up and continues, “This initiative isn’t for these specific people, it’s for the population of the world.”

She stands up from the couch, “This is bigger than us.”  

She walks towards me and knells down. She grabs me by the hands (again) to further her point of, “The planet is becoming unsustainable and there will be a time where we will no longer live on Earth.” She lifts my hands up which forces me up from the chair. “You can be that person in history that takes the first leap in settlement on a new planet.”  

“I don’t think I can.” I claim as I pull my hands away.  

I walk towards the window that opens to my front yard and stare out, past the robust mountains and lines of palm trees, towards the densely cloud filled sky and say, “I couldn’t even handle life on this planet.” I turn to her and ask, “How could I be one of the first to live on another?”

“It’s perfect if you ask me.” She optimistically states before bluntly saying, “Why die here in your living room when you can die making history?”

The reasoning isn’t far fetched. It’s true that I could die and not be given a second thought, but I could die with a purpose if I did this. I could die outside of tragedy. Avoiding the same fate as everyone else I held dear in this life; although, I am concerned by how sure Melissa was with my imminent death.  

Science tends to step in during all my crises of faith, but isn’t that how it normally is? The contradictions to one another as one is based in belief while the other is in facts. I haven’t felt this way in a long time. The ominous feeling when contemplating life after death. Short of breath, lightheaded, and willingly thinking of an unknown shrouded in mystery for over an eternity. We fill ourselves up with ideals of a new beginning as if we are the keepers of our own fate; however, we are merely heading to a cobblestone grave or more likely a plaque plastered on a wall of death. I was perfectly fine killing myself in this moment, but something inside me has changed. It isn’t the reasoning or my will to live (just to clarify). It is a sensation that beckons to me through all this. It feels me with warmth, and it is continuously moving up from my feet to my head. A sensation that, I dare say, feels divine.  

Melissa patiently waiting for me to respond. There is a drive and determination to her that is far more attractive than her already stunning features. She has her arms crossed, and she smirked at me when I made eye contact with her. There are people in the world given far more than the rest of us. This woman was meant to be someone, and she was given all the tools to achieve that. Although, I can argue that people often throw these opportunities away. Whether it be for love or for a misguided passion, we make choices that hinder our development just as I have in life.

If I’m going to commit to this, I’ll have to assess her reasoning for being involved. “What inspired you to join the cause?”

“I have to warn you, it may sound pretentious.” She warns before continuing, “I was blessed to be born into wealth, and I have used that wealth to experience life in a way most could only dream of.” A look of shame filled her face as she finished that sentence. “I came across people of all cultures struggling to survive.” She looks at me and asks, “you know what I did to help these struggling souls?” “You made their lives better through donations?” I respond.

Her eyes look glossed over and she takes a deep breath. “I did nothing for those people.” She states. “I never gave them the light of day or even processed how much of a struggle it was for them to have basic necessities.” She sits down on the couch. “All these places were vibrant and filled with bustling workers, yet I never stood there and understood what their days consisted of.”

She pats the couch for me to sit next to her. I do to push her to continue, “I never gave it a second thought until I started to witness change in these regions. Forest fires, sea level rising, fracking, water sources being contaminated, and the displacement of these cultures.” She takes a deep breath, “If you’re living in a suburban home like you are now, these shifts in our ecosystems have created emergencies that are not easily resolved.” Guilt written across her face as she states, “It wasn’t until the virus outbreak that pushed the world to create a solution to humanity’s problem: can we viably survive if the world becomes inhabitable?”  

It is obvious that world is strained as the world’s oceans begin to acidify, and natural resources are beginning to disappear. I can’t help but make light of the situation given her stature, “Okay, so you got into aerospace science because your privileged life showed you the amount of misfortune most undeveloped civilizations experience as you vacationed?”

She wasn’t too keen on that assessment as her guilt filled face shifted to one of anger. I ease up with, “Look, I get it.” I continue, “You could have chosen to ignore it like everyone else in a position of mass wealth, but you were inspired and became a leading professional in your field.” The tension lessened at that point, but I had to ask, “Why did you come here yourself?”

I feel like I haven’t looked so intensely into someone’s eyes in quite some time, and she hasn’t broken eye contact with me at all. I’m like a child avoiding the inevitable as their father hovers above them with questions on why the chores weren’t done. I’ve been setup to do this task and even though I should honor it, I have my reluctance. She gazes into my eyes like a siren beckoning a sailor and simply states, “The importance of you accepting this invitation is critical, and I could not risk letting someone else fail at recruiting you.” She grabs my hand again. “You were destined for this, so please don’t pass on the opportunity to solidify your place in history.”  

I sit there silently as I contemplate my decision. When I was a kid, I always dreamt of going into space. I expect most had those kinds of ambitions, but the reality of that feat is most of us will never have the opportunity. You can put a fishbowl over your head and pretend to be important, but you’re more likely to kill the fish it housed than make it to space. Now, however, I could be the one paving the way for these kinds of fantasies to become a reality. I can transcend the expectations (some already placed on me) and create a new reason to continue my life.  

“Is there some kind of evaluation that I have to do?” I sigh as if being forced into this project which I will admit; I felt bad being rude to her that I couldn’t say no after that moment.

Her eyes lit up as she knew the hook had finally grabbed hold as my bitter end appears to have been postponed for now.

She explained to me how the Moon was chosen to test the technologies that will be used to colonize Mars. Through those tests, they built and established a space hub on the Moon which will be used to help transition civilians from their life on earth to their radically different existence. Everyone will be required to help maintain the facilities as they become adjusted to the confines of space. Once everyone becomes adjusted to this new kind of living, we depart from the Moon to Mars to do what has long been written about in SCI-FI movies and books.      

It’s strange how it all occurred but let me assure you; the weeks leading up to my departure were less than stellar. We talked about the procedures I would undertake in order to join the initiative. I signed a contract that I didn’t read because it would have taken hours to go over it. They explained the required tests and time of deployment, and the details sounded like a routine check-up for when someone joins a softball team and that’s about it. Melissa carried the same professional tone throughout her visit, and I was told everything was arranged for me in advanced. Even if I decided not to join, I have the feeling I would have been forced to go one way or the other. Melissa wholeheartedly believes in the decision that I am the only one meant for this. Why exactly? I couldn’t say, it is a bit perplexing; however, so is quickly deciding to postpone a suicide for a suicide mission. I’m told I’m not expected to die, but I can’t say I was thoroughly examined after seeing the doctor and other goons place in front of me.

The doctor I saw was more of a pediatrician. I’m certain I could have had my blood drawn with the butterfly designed kid’s needle if I had asked. Guy looked like an infomercial actor that mishandles the popcorn during the introduction. I could have looked in the mirror and gave the same prognosis: I am a complete mess. Not enough exercise, not enough water, and not enough in general. What did any of these people expect? I was on the brink of suicide, but they’re determined to shoot me into space like the test monkeys before me. I clearly should have failed these checks. I mean, I saw the notes the guy took, and they weren’t in favor of me. Oddly enough, this imbecile approved me. It was at that moment that my mind became consumed with conspiracies. The idea that I may not have a choice in this matter is becoming a real thought of mine. It’s as if I’m in the Twilight Zone, I’m being pushed through the floating door in-between time and space against my will. I’m hesitant to where it is leading, and I’m beginning to question everything. The only reason I’m continuing is the fact that others are legitimately involved in this project, so it isn’t a hoax itself: where do I fit in it?

I had to visit a training facility and do some exercises in front of an employee from the Ascension group. Outside of Melissa, every person that I met from the project was not friendly with me. If this was grade school, I’d be the kid with his head in the toilet and covered in shit.  Have you ever been snared at from various people under different circumstances? I made sure to shower before attending any of these mandatory tests, but it seemed more like a roast than a legitimate procedure. Side comments about my stature that maybe they didn’t think I could hear or perhaps they hoped I would hear it. The experience has left me intrigued.

A bit unusual to admit. I’m not seeking penance for sins or indulging in self-loathing. I’m seeking the truth. Clearly, these people have a bone to pick with me. It goes back to my first encounter with the organization, why would did Melissa personally meet me? Is it because she’s the one who wants me to go? It would be near impossible for me to back out now. As soon as I signed the contract, it became a media frenzy. They wanted me to appear on late night shows, be interviewed by the papers, and to represent my nation, but I didn’t want to do any of it. Luckily after I botched an early taping of the tonight show, they advised me not to make any more appearances. To be honest, none of what I told you matters outside of Melissa. It gives you an indication of what to expect and who I am, and this is to show that I never should have been involved in Project Ascension. Although I considered myself unfit for the position, it wasn’t until my departure to the moon that I realized I had made a grave mistake. My departure from Earth to the Moon will go down as a historical moment of misfortune. 

[someraesofsun]

Hey I feel bad if you're getting hate, I honestly wanted to send a writing thing but I was like eh you don't wanna hear from me. But anyways what if like there were these two artists. One did photography and the other was a painter and they argued about which was better and eventually they find out they like each other because the photographer has secret pictures of the painter painting and the painter has painted the other while they were working. Hope that's decent.

Hey I made this Giles because you literally cannot stop me. Also sorry this took ten years. 

Title: In the Eyes of the Beholder

Pairing: Geoff/Miles

Word count: 3,874

Rating: E, some cursing 

There was always one person in your circle of friends that you just could not bring yourself to like. One person at least that you kept at an arm’s distance for their personality alone. For Miles, that person was Geoff. Among his found collective of artists, he met a variety of different creators that he would have never even known existed if not for the wonders of the internet. There was Kerry, a sculptor. Mariel did murals and graffiti art. Then of course there was Lindsay, a knitter, Michael, a cake maker with the most beautiful designs. Mica danced and Matt was a digital artist, Barbara designed clothes and Kyle wrote. All of them made such amazing, creative, inspiring things that in their own special way, affected Miles’ own photography work in positive ways.

Then there was fucking Geoff.

The first time Miles met said ‘fucking Geoff’ was at their first face-to-face meeting after weeks of talking with one another on a local forum started by Mariel to reach out to new fellow artists. Her original intention was to meet street artists, specifically. But instead, she was pleasantly surprised at the diversity of talent she brought together. Not a single one of them had the same talent. Everyone was so varied in what they not only considered art, but how they expressed that interpretation. It began a lot of discussions, it unified a group that would otherwise not talk to one another. Miles was proud to be a part of it.

Miles never liked Geoff much in internet form. He was a painter, and one that hardly took his own skill seriously, so why would he bother thinking much about anyone else’s? Well, that wasn’t exactly true… he was always quick to compliment Mica’s videos, Lindsay’s new knitting projects, Kerry’s realistic looking busts. But he never had anything to comment on with Miles’ pictures. What was the deal with that!? Miles wasn’t usually the type to take offense to ‘ghosting’ on the internet. But serious, what the hell!?

He got his answers at their first meeting. The coffee shop. The first time he ever laid eyes on Geoff’s stupid face which had probably the bluest eyes he’d ever seen, but that was beside the point. Those eyes belonged to a horrible, ignorant man. A fraud of an artist. An absolute dick.

They all dragged a couple high tables together to accommodate for their large party. Some people he immediately recognized, like Mica, who showed her face in her dance videos. Some people he had no idea on. Was that the elusive Kerry, elusive sculptor extraordinaire who turned scrap metal into one of the most haunting modern pieces of the decade? Was he sitting next to Matt, who knew his way around a muted fall color palette like nobody’s business? Everyone recognized Mariel, she posed with all her work in her pictures of it. Everyone mumbled out introductions amongst themselves. The man next to Miles turned out to be Michael, not Matt. He gave Miles a shoulder shove and spoke in a loud, matter-of-fact voice.

Miles was interested in the man with the blue eyes and the tattoos all over his arms. He sat across from Miles and kept glancing back at him. Each time he looked over, Miles felt his heart pound. Something about those eyes, he’d love to get a few pictures of the man. Maybe a number, a dinner date that ends at someone’s place, a marriage proposal and-

“Alright guys! Looks like everyone’s here! Time for the formal introductions.” Mariel stood from her seat and turned to her left, motioning to a blonde woman with a smile. Yeah, Miles wouldn’t mind a date with her, either! What’s her name? “We’ll start with you.”

“I’m Barbara, hi. I’m Blawndee on the forum. I see some of you are even wearing my designs today, so that’s really neat.” Barb! Wow, Miles had no idea Barb was hot. Why didn’t he wear anything she made for him today? Stupid move! He definitely blew all his chances with Barb the second he didn’t wear one of her shirts. Oh well, there was always tattoo man…

Next to Barb was Lindsay, also really cute. Miles was smart enough to wear a Lindsay-made scarf. Then came Kyle, cute. Matt, cute. Mica, who was really cute and laughed at the end of a lot of her sentences nervously which only made her more cute. He’d met Michael already and that left…

Oh, he was next. Oh. Social anxiety was suddenly haunting him. He stood from his seat, looking on at all his friends. Talented, wonderful friends who were also all far too attractive for his liking. “Um. Hello! I’m Miles, lunatic24 on the forum. And I’m the photographer!” He held up the camera looped around his neck for effect. Across the table, he heard a snort.

A snort!?

Nobody else got a snort!

Miles looked towards the direction of the snort, as did the rest of the group. All eyes laid on the tattooed man fidgeting in his seat. He did move around a lot, and cover his mouth with his paint covered hands to hide his smiles. As cute as the gestures were, Miles was no longer seeing a future with him. “Um, hi! Who are you?”

“Sorry, sorry. Didn't mean to… ha! Sorry.” He looked erratic with how much he shifted in his seat. “Just… photography.”

“What about it?” Miles said defensively, the rest of the group went silent.

“No, no. It's just that… well come on, I can't be the only one here that thinks it's such a bullshit art.” Geoff looked around the table to very blank faces.

“You probably are, asshole. What the hell do you do? Who the fuck are you?” Miles glared, well, if he thought he was getting a date and marriage proposal, the tattooed dickwad sure had another think coming!

“Geoff. A guy who actually makes shit instead of capturing it.” Geoff rolled his eyes. “Don't take it so personally. It's not like you do much anyway.”

“Geoff-” Mariel was about to intervene, until Miles cut her off.

“Says the guy who probably hasn't picked up a camera in his entire life, but sure, go on.”

“Miles-” Mariel’s irritation grew with the interruption. Still the two continued to bicker.

“Oh buddy, I was a journalist in the army and took pictures of shit that would keep you up at night if you saw it in person. I can take pictures. It took me a week to learn how to do it decently? Not art.”

“If you learned properly, how could you possibly not consider it art!? The rule of thirds, the color theories and shit, it takes time to line up and get the perfect shot-”

“Bah! It's nothing! Taking a picture is easy! You press a button and there it is for you-”

“-A perfect shot which may never even-”

“-Have you ever even tried to paint a tree? No! You haven't! You just point a lens at one and-”

“-You truly know nothing if you're gonna compare two completely different-”

“-You take a stupid picture and you call it avant garde while I spend weeks-”

“-two complete different forms! Both of which are valid and-”

“GUYS!” Mariel's voice boomed through the cafe, her first slammed on the table, causing everyone's cups to slosh around and clatter. Silence once again. “I… I think we've had enough debate time for today. Before everyone even got to introduce themselves. So how about we just let it the fuck go. Yeah?”

That was the first time they met. They had since debated even more of whether or not Miles was a true artist. Something about the camera just put Geoff off. He was happily willing to accept knitting and writing as forms of expression, but he refused to ever see photography as anything other than taking pretty pictures of stuff that hardly matters on its own. Unread of his pretentious opinion that all Miles did was document. He didn't contribute to the beauty. He didn't create anything from what wound up on his film roll. It was all happily provided to him by nature and the grace of god and all he had to do was take the snapshot of it. Geoff, he argued, was a creator. He took the paints and the canvas and he transformed it. Barbara took yards upon yards of fabric and made it into something wearable. Lindsay knew how to tie yarn together in such a way that she made practical items. But Miles? He didn't even make the film. He was a spectator. He was a hobbyist. He was never an artist.

Every trip out, Miles was reminded this. Days out to the park were met with Geoff behind his easel, painting a stupid still life of a stupid flower while spouting off his stupid opinions. His way of capturing the beauty of the flower was far superior, far more crafted than Miles’ way. Art gallery trips were met with his distaste that they even had a photography section, as he went on and on about the value of real, fundamental art. It was always the fundamentals with him. Every pompous statement he had was met with gav rise of anger from Miles. Deep down, Miles knew that was exactly why he said all those things. To get a rise out of him. And yet here Miles was, giving him exactly what he wanted each and every time. From the red in his cheeks to the bite in his responses. All Geoff did when he got this way was smile. It was infuriating every single time!

Miles wanted to prove him wrong. He wanted to take his camera and create a photograph so perfect, it was like a painting on its own. All he needed was a subject, and the perfect lighting, manufactured by him of course, and the right mood. An unedited shot that showed beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was not only an artist, but a talented one at that. He talked in great detail about his mission among more polite company. He'd grown close with Barbara and Lindsay, in particular. They knew all about his struggles with the tattooed painter. All they had to say about it was just how concerned they were getting for the man's health.

“I'm concerned for your health,” Lindsay said over lunch one day with Barb. “You worry too much about what one guy thinks about your artform. So what he's got something against photography? He's an ass.”

“You do tend to obsess over everything he says. I don't think taking a really nice picture is going to sway him.” Barbara glanced at Lindsay with a frown to match her own. “It's… stupid to dwell on him.”

Miles narrowed his eyes at the two. “You think I'm obsessed with him? Oh no, this isn't obsession. Don't you see? This is drive. He wants an artist, I'll give him an artist.”

“He never said he wanted an artist out of you. He just said that you weren't one.” Lindsay pointed out.

“Well he's wrong, because I am. And I'm going to show it.” Miles said through gritted teeth. He looked too crazed for the comfort of the blonde and the redhead.

“Um... So. You've heard this sort of thing before, I'm sure. We all have. You're not a real artist. This isn't a real job. This is a hobby.” Barbara paused, choosing her next words carefully. “Why is it… different when he says it?”

“Well he's one of us! He shouldn't even be thinking like that! It's a betrayal to the arts, it's-”

“His own stupid, useless opinion.” Lindsay interrupted, eating a forkful of pasta. “Miles, he's literally doing this for a reaction. You're an idiot.”

Despite his inability to counter statement, Miles continued his pursuit of upstaging Geoff. For days he searched for that perfect picture. Rolls of film all used up as he furiously took pictures of everything and anything he could find. Nothing was just right enough, though. He struggled to find that perfect snapshot into life that would blow Geoff's mind.

It was bumming him out!

It wasn’t until one day, when the group all came out to help Mariel with a street Mural, that Miles finally found the perfect shot.

It was a sweltering hot day, the blank canvas came in the form of a brick wall in Central Austin. The only person who looked like the wanted to be there (and oddly, the only person who wasn’t a sweating mess) was Mariel, but it was good experience to see just how the artist made all her amazing designs reality. Everyone helped in painting in an already sketched out design. Mariel drew it out like an elaborate paint-by-numbers project, each individual sketched out spot was given a specific number for which places to shade and where what color went. Miles put himself in charge of the easiest looking parts, the light blue sky. Minimal change in colors. And he got to draw in the birds.

By 3 o’clock, everyone was exhausted from the heat, splayed out on the grass of a nearby park and taking advantage of the shady trees. All but one, Miles realized. For across the street, at the big brick wall with a half-done mural, was an tattooed man in cargo shorts, covered in paint, still taking a smaller brush to the wildflowers that lined the bottom corner of the mural. Miles watched him for the longest time, he sat up and after hastily wiping his hands on his own shirt, he pulled out his camera and snapped a picture of what he saw.

There was something compelling about what he captured. Geoff, all alone and still painting. The incompleteness of the mural. How the paints faded to red brick in unfinished places. When it was edited and printed, Miles couldn’t stop looking at the finished project. It told a nice story of commitment to work or something of the like, or maybe it just looked nice. Miles couldn’t decide what he liked about it, but it had to be one of his favorite shots.

Thus began a very strange fixation with taking pictures of Geoff when he went out with the artist group.

He carried his camera around his neck everywhere he went, still on the quest for more and more perfect shots. He couldn’t dare to use any pictures of Geoff to one-up Geoff, oh no, that was his pride on the line. But Geoff was quickly becoming his favorite subject. A night in playing cards with the artist group turned into a portrait Miles took from across the room of Geoff peeking up from behind his cards, a glint in his eye seconds before he laid down a flush. At coffee shops with him leaning against the wall, tall latte in hand, talking with Michael about something or the other. Snapshots of him in mid laugh so full of life, you could hear his trademark laughter if you looked at the photo long enough. By the end of five weeks, Miles had pictures of nothing but one pretentious painter and his beautiful, intricate tattoos. Geoff had no idea just how well-documented he was by Miles.

Also in those five weeks, Geoff was… less cruel. He wasn’t exactly nice, but he no longer tried to get under Miles’ skin. Miles didn’t understand it, nothing had changed much. Except that he talked less to the Geoff and the group overall. He was invested in his own project, finding that shot. Getting it on camera. Show Geoff how wrong he was about photography. One barbeque dinner on a gloomy day at Lindsay’s, Miles felt the gaze of someone while he was on laying on his stomach, taking a picture of a cat that had wandered into the woman’s yard. He turned and looked up, catching Geoff staring at him from the porch. For the longest time, the both of them were still, then Miles smiled, getting up and pointing his camera up at Geoff. He snapped a picture. It was all it took to snap Geoff out of his gaze.

“Argh! Don’t do that!” He broke eye contact with Miles, rolling his eyes. “I.. was supposed to check up on the ribs. Everyone went back inside, isn’t it cold out for you?”

“Kinda. But look. Kitty!” Miles let his camera hang off of him while he bent down and picked up the gray tabby cat. “He’s really fat, isn’t he? He’s collared though.” The cat mewed, as if offended that Miles would point out his figure.

Geoff looked briefly conflicted before he sat down at the abandoned table and chairs. “You ever thought about just… leaving that damn camera at home for once?”

“Nope.” Miles carried the cat over to Geoff and sat down next to him. He scratched behind the tabby’s ears, which was responded with a low purr. “Taking pictures is what I do! And this cutie was too cute to ignore, he’s so photogenic.”

“He looks pissed off.” Geoff replied flatly.

“That’s because you’re here.”

Miles dodged an arm swat with a laugh, and for a second, they might have at least appeared friends for a second. Geoff had a look in his eyes that Miles couldn’t place the meaning of. “You know, now that I think about it, taking pictures is about all you do. What’s up with that?”

“Well, uh,” Miles shrugged, faltering. “I guess I just see a lot of beauty in a lot of things. I wanna capture as much as I can, knowing that it’s not going to last forever. That’s why I like it so much. It’s quick. Painting takes time, you might miss a detail or something might slip by you. But a photo is, well, I guess you’re kind of right. It’s easy. You can capture an exact moment and it’s going to stay alive with you forever. The hard part is making sure you catch those moments before they get away. Kind of like catching butterflies in a net or something. You only have so many chances.”

Geoff didn’t say anything for a while, looking at Miles and taking all of what he said in. “That was beautifully put.” He looked away, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his thighs. His hands fiddled about and he stared straight ahead. “When I was in the army, the stuff I saw through a lens was rarely pretty.”

“I can imagine reporting for the army wasn’t all… wildflowers and cats.” Miles swung mindlessly swung his feet before setting the cat back on the ground and removing his camera from his neck. He handed it over to Geoff. “Here. Try it now. There’s plenty of pretty right here if you look for it.”

Geoff looked at the camera skeptically, but took it and held it up to his face. He glanced around the yard for a few seconds, zeroing in on a stray dandelion in the grass. The camera clicked and he looked at the preview screen.

“Huh. Not bad.” He mumbled, tilting the camera towards Miles. “Wanna see?”

Miles looked at the picture and nodded. “Good. Yeah. A little out of focus… but good!”

“Oh shut up, Luna.” Geoff laughed and pulled the camera away. “What other shit you got on here?” He opened up the gallery, scrolling through all the different pictures. Miles was suddenly on high alert. He definitely had an old SD card in there.

“Oh, you don’t want to see any of my-”

“What the fuck is this?”

Geoff was stopped on a picture of none other than himself. Mid-laugh and taken today at the barbeque. He scrolled through and saw even more pictures of himself. All taken at different events and get-togethers. “...Holy shit dude, are you stalking me?”

“No! No, no! Not really! Fuck, shit! That’s what it looks like but no!” Several bells were going off in Miles’ head. He panicked and struggled to think of an explanation. “I just take pictures of things I like looking at, and you’re very… aesthetically pleasing. The tattoos and the eyes and… hair. Messy hair. I like it, I like taking pictures of… it.”

“My… hair.”

“No! Not just your hair! All of it, you, all of you. I just like your… look. That’s all. And you always seem to be the subject of some of my best work, so I developed this weird… fixation. Or something.”

“I’d call it obsession, but tomato, to-mah-to.” Geoff only seemed slightly phased. He shrugged and handed the camera back to Miles. “Well… thanks. I’m flattered, a little freaked out, but also flattered. I guess I can’t even fucking talk…”

“What do you mean?” Miles asked, confused.

Geoff sighed and pulled out his phone. “This isn’t some artsy bullshit picture, but I’m sure you’ll get a kick out of it anyway.” He opened up his gallery and scrolled through it, flashes of progress photos of unfinished work flew by until he stopped, tapping on what looked like a complete painting on an easel. He handed the phone over to Miles.

It was a portrait. A smiling man with eyes half-closed and a wrinkled flannel, holding a camera. It was Miles. “...You painted me?”

“I paint things I like looking at. You take picture of things you like looking at. There. Now we’re even.” Geoff mumbled. “Now I won’t immediately go to Kerry and Kyle and tell them that you’re my own personal paparazzi, if you make sure Michael never fucking knows about this painting. He thinks we’re going to hook up or something, teasing me relentlessly over it.”

Miles barely heard anything Geoff said, he was stuck looking at the picture of a wonderfully done painting. He captured his likeness perfectly, all while still flattering him. He smiled. “I like it. I love it, it’s amazing! I won’t tell anyone about it, yeah... “

“Great. thanks.” Geoff rubbed the back of his neck, red blush blooming on his cheeks. “...You take good pictures. Really good. I haven’t seen something with my face on it look so nice before. I guess you got some kind of talent in you kid.”

“You… you mean that?” Miles grinned and began to feel bashful. “Well, I mean, I spend so much time on angles and candids like that are pretty complicated, I’m still new to the idea and-”

“Put your number in my phone.”

“What.”

Geoff laughed, elbowing Miles in the rib. “You heard me! Put your number in my phone, i’ll call you up for dinner sometime. You can tell me all about angles then. For now, I should really check up on the chicken. It’s probably all burnt and shit because you distracted me with your stupid cat photoshoot.”

“I… okay. Yeah. Number in phone, you handle the chicken. Yep.” Miles closed out of the gallery, putting his number into Geoff’s phone with a small smirk. He looked up while Geoff tended to the food on the barbeque. “It’s a date. Don’t tell Lindsay I said that. It’s a date.”

“Sure. it’s a date.”

The chicken was very much burned.

[acehotel]

Interview: Sto Len

There is magic in the murk. 

Brooklyn-based artist Sto Len isn’t so much a magician as he is alchemist and soulful choreographer, revealing graceful, swirling gestures from the surface of New York’s most polluted waters, en plein air, from the edge a rowboat. That something so immediate and arresting could be rendered from a shameful and alarming human imposition on nature is how Sto Len draws attention to environmental crises through his creations. It’s radical, political art-marking through traditional craft. His is a curious mind seeking to expose what’s right in front of us. 

For Mapping Mespeatches, his recent exhibition at The Gallery at Ace Hotel New York, Sto Len exhibited prints pulled from the surface of Newtown Creek and Corona Park through an original process he calls tsunaminagashi — a mix of traditional suminagashi and his own techniques — mirroring toxic impact as a moving spectacle of psychedelic beauty. Following the show, we spoke to Len about transitioning his practice from the studio to urban wilderness and the question, “where does all the garbage go?”

Hi Sto, where am I catching you? 

I'm up in Mendocino County right now. It’s really pretty here. Horses and cows, in the middle of nowhere. 

What are you doing on the west coast?

I have a solo show in San Francisco at Parlor, a new space that’s in an old Volvo dealership, so I came out here to cool off for a minute, finish some paintings, and then I’ll drive back down to San Francisco. And I’ll be doing the San Francisco Art Book Fair as well. It's my first time doing it, but I love doing book fairs. I make a lot of books and stuff, so I will be tabling all weekend. I'm also teaching a workshop at the Minnesota Street Project — they have an outdoor courtyard and I’ll do a workshop there on suminagashi, which is how I got into my current body of work. It’s super fun. You use sumi ink, which is the black ink normally used for calligraphy, and you paint on top of water. Sumi ink naturally floats on water so you make a print from its surface.

How did you start doing that?

I went to Japan and I just loved the hand-painted signs that used black ink. I took a lot of photos, came back here, got sumi ink and some of the traditional calligraphy brushes, and I started to paint with it. And I loved painting with it. I mean, I love painting with it. The ink is super smooth and elegant, it's really sexy to paint with and your line lasts a really long time. 

I totally fell in love. I tried doing calligraphy for a while and then started doing paintings with the ink. Then I realized that the ink floated, so I started doing these water paintings by creating a composition on top of the water and pulling prints from that. I just got obsessed and started to treat water like a canvas. I started adding other elements to it, started using color, oil paints, and natural materials like dirt and all kinds of stuff — I was getting crazy with the water.

How much can you manipulate? How much control do you have with the surface of water being the way that it is? Is it that you can control the color, but the shape is left to the water? Or have you been able to gain some control after doing it for so long?

You start to get a sense of what can happen or what will happen. I love the fact that you can't control it completely, right? You give up some of your control but, certainly, you learn what little brush strokes will send paint down the water in a certain way. I also use time to do a lot of the work — I'll set colors up in inflatable swimming pools in my studio, let the water sit for a couple days, and patterns will form over time, naturally, in the water. 

These days, I'm really interested in that type of technique where I’ll set it up as these experiments in the water, let them do their thing, come back to it, manipulate it some more, and then print from it.

Over the past couple of years, I’d get really obsessed with a material and then just have to try everything. It’s part of the fun that you don’t know what’s going to happen. I love that part.

You’ve been working with the Newtown Creek area of New York and I want to know how that came to be. Were you looking out at the water one day and thought, “this is exactly like the inside of the studio.” How did you start working outside?

I just experiment like crazy in the studio. I started bringing more natural elements inside the studio, like dirt, and the more I was thinking about it, the more I realized I was basically making oil spills on water inside my studio and that Green Point is actually home to one of the biggest oil spills in the country, right where Newtown Creek is.

And I thought, “well, what if I went out there and printed from an actual oil spill?” I lived right by the creek when I first moved to New York and I had seen stuff floating in it for a long time. I was like, “oh my God, it's kinda what I've been working on anyways. I should go and try it.” 

A friend of mine, Marie Lorenz, has been doing a project where she builds around boats and takes people on boat rides in New York City. A couple of summers ago, her theme was to take people to work. I had told her that I had been printing off the shore, that I've been doing some print experiments with the creek, and that it was working. I was really excited about it and so she said, “why don't I take you to work?” She took me on her boat and we went out and I printed from her boat. I realized that, with a boat, you could get to more places and it was super fun to cruise around on a boat, just printing.

She showed me the ropes on how to launch your boat from different places in New York and — I didn't know this at the time — but you actually don't have to get a license or anything, you can just get a boat. As long as you're wearing a life-jacket, you can go rowing around New York City. I love that aspect of it, that I could just do this. So I got a boat and started exploring, and because the Newtown Creek is fairly desolate (besides the factories that are there), I've been able to keep my boat there for the past couple years and use that as a home-base for my printmaking journeys.

It's so interesting because you'd think that there'd be a lot of traffic on that canal, you'd think that New Yorkers would think of it as a free and clear highway.

Well, it adds another aspect to New York, right? We're surrounded by water but most people don't actually have that much contact with it except maybe going to the beach sometimes. It's known that it's polluted, so people don't really go swimming in the water, but they don't even think of boating as a thing that they can do. I've always enjoy saying, “check it out, you can just go do this!”

Were you initially thinking about the environment when you were in the studio, or were you more interested in the formal aspects of suminagashi? When you went out on to the water, did you suddenly realize that the canal was basically made of oil paint? I’m curious to know how these concepts emerged.

I think it was a natural evolution and a natural conversion. My art practice has always been pretty improvisational and I like to adapt to situations, I like to let my material take me places. I think exploring water as a medium was slow and gradual, but when I realized what I was doing out on a rowboat, in the pollution, I realized that this was all different fucking versions of my love for New York and my love for the planet.

All of a sudden, a lot of other concerns in life were converging with the art work. None of that was necessarily intentional, but once I realized all these threads that were connecting — that all were really important to me — I was that much more excited, I knew that was the right path.

Does the type and the intensity of colors you get from the prints tell you anything about what’s in the water? Do you have a rainbow of colors that indicates diesel fuel, or lady’s hair dye, a color map of pollution that indicates some sort of pattern?

Yes. Every trip I go on, I make journal entries to note where each print was made and, looking back through them, it’s interesting to see that certain areas produce certain types of color. It’s all different shades of reds, browns, blacks and grays, but when you really look at them (and recently at the show at Ace Hotel) you see that “oh, this one’s super light in some parts.” It was pointed out that one of the pieces in the show was really different — that’s because the piece was actually done in Staten Island. The more I do this, the more I realize that there are all these subtle differences in different bodies of water. It makes me want to go around the world doing them. 

It’s like research, my way of researching colors and textures and trying to figure out what causes them. A lot of times I do these prints and I’m like “oh my god, what causes this?!” It’s this nasty cocktail of oil and sewage...

Were you an environmentalist before or did this trigger that aspect of yourself?

It's always been a deep concern of mine. I've always wanted to speak about it — I've certainly had it in my mind — but I haven't, until now, really made work that addressed it. And this was just perfect for me because it wasn't premeditated. Now that I see it acting as a way to create dialogue around how we treat our water and what we're doing to the environment in general. I think it's a vehicle for me to be able to talk about things that I've always been interested in talking about.

Do you have specific hope for the viewer when you exhibit these?

One of the great thing about these prints is that they're not didactic. They still hold a place for the viewer to exist and have a little bit of their own experience. It doesn't hit you over the head too much, which I think is really nice. I like not being didactic in that way. I love viewers to have their own interpretation of the work. In exhibitions, I love how people approach them because they can be these beautiful images, but they reference nature in their forms. 

A lot of people will think they're photographs or that they're maps. It's so up to interpretation before you really know how they're made. And I love, love when people don't immediately get it and take time to look at them as objects. And then, when they realize the process behind it, it brings a whole other aspect to it. I like people to spend time with them and take them in slowly. It's subtle work, in a way. You can enjoy them without the idea behind it, but for me, it's great to have that in there as well.

Absolutely. Do you see more environmental awareness in the city these days? Has this work brought you to those communities or have you noticed that people are maying more attention?

There's definitely been more awareness in New York...and in general. There are more groups that are specifically focused on water preservation. The city is supposed to be fixing it — and I think that they are trying — but it's a really slow process so other groups crop up that are taking matters into their own hands. And while I'm not affiliated with any group, I still do it in my own way.

I wonder if the prints will also become relics one day when the creek is finally clean — a bright, optimistic future in mind — but that people will look at these and think, “I can't believe that this was right next to where we lived, ate, bathed, had kids...”

Totally. It's a document. It's exactly what was in the water. That's exactly what what was right next to your condo. 

As an artist who works in so many different mediums, does each medium speak to a different artist inside of you or do you see yourself as the same artist throughout? 

I thought about that recently and I could see, in hindsight, how there are ongoing threads through everything. With the prints, it's so process oriented: I have these materials, I have a boat, I have some paper, and then I go out and it's unpredictable to know what's going to happen — but I'm so down for this journey. And I think the same thing is true with my performance work where I have these specific things I use to make music, to make sound, and then I always have a journey, I don't really know where it’s going to take me. And I think that process has been an ongoing thing for me throughout everything I've done.

I also just like to bounce around from material to material, keep things very interesting, and they all end up informing each other.

When you're doing something like leading a workshop, do you have certain things that you say to your class to get them free, to be able to create with whatever sparks their interest?

I actually make it a part of the workshop, usually at the beginning, to have an automatic drawing session where I try to break people out of thinking too much. I think sometimes we think too much and, especially when it comes to art, people and non-artists will say, “ah, I don't know to draw, what should I draw, I can't really draw,” and these ideas get stuck in people's heads. I think a great way to get people free is to erase some of that stuff.          

At the beginning of a workshop, I have a thing (which I personally do almost every day), to use just ink and paper and not be allowed to paint anything specific. Just get your hands moving and your mind clear. Approach it like a meditation practice. 

I've noticed that once people start, they’re still drawing trees, etc. And then, after five, ten, 20 minutes, they really start to give themselves over to simple movements of their hand and then we can start working with the water. But I guess I’m trying to break people free of thinking too much.

It's so amazing that five to 20 minutes can be a revolution in someone’s art experience and they had no idea because they never let that five to 20 minutes even happen.

Totally. It's like meditating. I'm sure a lot of people haven't sat down and meditated for 20 minutes. It might seem really long at first, but if you do it, it goes by super quickly. I love introducing that to people, I think that's a big part of who I am as a person, but it’s also just a nice exercise for people to do. 

What are some artists or ideas that you look to that makes you want to make work? That really inspires you?

I'm always inspired by music. I'm constantly listening to music and discovering new music and film so I'm always inspired by that. And I feel like I'm inspired by things that aren't necessarily like what I do. I just watched The Fly last night, directed by David Cronenberg who I love, and there's this creepiness. He always sort of has these fleshy, grotesque, bloody, kind of messy... I don't know, I like to get messy.

I love that The Fly is one of those things that is still a timeless, disgusting — but amazing — movie that inspires you.

It's kind of gross but it's also super thought provoking, right? And I love that. People get grossed out by these prints and at the same time, they're like, “oh, they're really beautiful” or, “you know, now I'm really thinking about all this other stuff.” I love that kind of art where it just gets you on different levels.

Especially because that's just so human, too. We are amazing in growth. 

Yeah, we're super great.

What are you listening to right now?

Recently I listened to some Lightning Bolt, and I listened to some Jimi Hendrix. The new Tribe Called Quest record's good.

Are you reading anything right now that you think is cool?

I recently went back and read this book called Gone Tomorrow: The Hidden Life of Garbage by Heather Rogers that tracks where all the garbage goes, what happens to it, and it's super fascinating to see every step.

You can think about it next time you throw something away.

I'm starting to get really conscious about what I'm getting rid of. I also just borrowed a book called You Can't Win by an author named Jack Black — not the actor Jack Black, hah — and I'm excited to read it. Apparently, it had a big influence on William Boroughs.

Do you have any advice for young artists or environmentalists?

I think what I've realized is that actually going out to these places has demystified some of that for me in this positive way. I've talked to a lot of people who really care about Newtown Creek, for instance, but who never go there. I went to a city council meeting that was about Newtown Creek and there were a lot of different kinds of people who were really invested in it, but I could tell I was one of the few people that actually went in the creek, in some of the worst spots. I had this first-hand knowledge and I wanted to use that knowledge to help in some way. 

So, just get out there. Discover things on your own and use what you're good at to be part of the solution. I'm not a scientist. I want to work with scientists, but I do what I do as an artist and can at least use that for some sort of good. 

Challenge things with the voice that you have. If everybody did that, we'd get closer to a better place.

[arcana-rp]

preview 001: species.

The city of Arcana is home to sixteen different creatures and beasts, all of which will be available to play by members. The city’s walls are open to all species, however, and there are always room for additions to our list. 

Once a minority in Arcana, the last century has seen witches rise to become the largest demographic of the city. Unlike the rest of Arcana’s inhabitants, witches’ magic is not rooted in natural elements, but rather the likes of alchemy. It is believed witches were once humans who evolved in order to survive in the magical climate of the city, and this combined with the fact that their magic often has been known to disrupt the order of nature and the world has made them a rival of sorts to the fae. While many other magically-inclined species are stout old magic activists, the witches are more inclined to focus on modern day by evolving forms of casting. Many fear the growth of the species may lead to the decline of Arcana’s integrity.

Witches require a vessel to power their magic through and while drawing runes is the most popular choice, many also have personal artifices they cast through, whether it be a crystal, a piece of jewelry, or a deck of cards. Witches tend to gather and live in groups of multiple families, with multiple witch couples choosing to raise their children together in a non-nuclear family dynamic. These groups are referred to as covens, and many witches are identified not on an individual level, but by what coven they belong to. They also have a unique relationship with familiars. While familiars can have a spiritual bond with a member of another species other than a witch, witches are the only species able to reciprocate and bond with a familiar back. As the underdogs of Arcana, witches and familiars have been strangely drawn to each other since the origins of their species and with their unique, mutual bond, can boost each other’s powers as well as create a physical and mental link incomparable to any family ties, romantic ventures, or friendships.

Witches have a lifespan of 80 years.

Powers:

spellcasting

alchemy

telekinesis

astral projection

transmutation

blood magic

Elves are the founders of the city, the masterminds behind the last threshold of magic alive. Considering themselves philanthropists and conservationists, the city was a last ditch effort to save both their dwindling numbers as well as their allies - their strong penchant for mental and astrophysical powers allowed them to accomplish this feat, and made them strong scholars and leaders. Unfortunately, this has also made them the subjects of envy for several other species - namely the Berserkers, who feel they were under appreciated for their role in developing the city. For this reason, Elves primarily reside in uptown Arcana, rarely leaving their grounds and associating with the rest of the city. Modern day elves are all descended from the same family lines, and because of their small numbers, are generally a close knit group. They are the highest of high class in Arcana, and their only physical attribute is the pointed ears they bear. Due to the intensity of their powers, as well as them being the forces that keep the city safe, elves that go ‘rogue’ or try to disband from the primary group are swiftly taken care of.

Elves have an average lifespan of 1,000 years. 

Powers:

telekinesis

illusion manipulation

reality warping

magic resistance

psychometry

ley line manipulation (the ability to gain power from the energy of ley lines, as well as locate and move along them. this power also allows the user to create temporary boundary lines that can either draw magic in or prevent it’s use) sensory scrying

Once regarded as gods in Arcana, berserkers are solely responsible for the landforms and natural roads of the city - using their incredible strength to form hills, pathways, and the various lakes and rivers flowing through the city. They singlehandedly made the city what it is today, and were fiercely protective of their creation - keeping humans at bay in the early years of the city and protecting their fellow Arcanians. While the city was - quite literally - built on their backs, the Berserkers had to sit back and accept the Elves gaining credit for the city. While they were praised for keeping their moving little city afloat, the Berserkers were quickly forgotten - and soon, humans no longer posed a threat, but were rather tightly controlled pawns to the other species. Their role as protectors no longer needed, the Berserkers moved to the outskirts of the city, where they built raised communities - a collection of stilted houses over the marshlands of the city, nearly impossible for non-berserkers to access. Over the years, their role has been whittled to little more than the blue-collar worker force of the city, with most choosing to use their naturally gifted strength to do construction and other hard labor jobs. Berserkers are easily identifiable by their monstrous strength and large stature - in their natural form, berserkers on average stand between 7 and 8 feet tall, although due to time and societal pressure, most use their powers to maintain themselves at an average human size.

Berserkers have an average lifespan of 70 years.

Powers:

super strength

enhanced durability

natural disaster creation

size manipulation

chaos inducement

rage inducement

In their true form, with undiluted blood, fae are small statured, ethereal-looking creatures. Aside from the ability to manifest wings (whose size and general appearance varies from fairy to fairy) and the occasional fae born with unnaturally tinted skin, fae look no different from the humans that pour into Arcana’s streets everyday. Considered one of the ‘founding’ species that have been here since the beginning, it is often said all the glamour and glitz of Arcana was their clever doing, all in order to attract the humans they collectively fawn over (as it’s no secret most fae adore what they call ‘human culture’). The Fae are the scientists and creators of Arcana, most of their powers focus on construction and fulfillment, and it’s generally a good idea to keep yourself in good graces with the fae if you ever want a favor from them. Their abilities lie in the natural give and take order of the universe - while they can grant wishes, or spin a dress out of thin air, they cannot do anything too extravagant, and are bound by the natural order of things. They are creators, pure and simple, and the whimsical charm of Arcana is perhaps their most proudest achievement. In order to fuel their crafting, all Fae have a very specific diet - while fairies can enjoy a nice meal or crave sweets like you and me, what really sustains the fairies is them feeding off energy. For some fairies, that means gaining fuel from sex, from human life force itself, from happiness, from anger, or simply having a penchant for draining their surroundings of the color yellow. Whichever it is, each Fae has something - a vice they must give in to in order to survive. Fae have an average lifespan of 150 years.

Powers:

size manipulation

wish granting

pixie dust generation

wing manifestation

flight

conjuration

Affectionately called ‘Arcana’s mistake’, Goblins were a species that did not exist before the city - a punishment to the Fae for mixing their blood with humans, before it became acceptable to do so. Goblins are stereotypically seen as rabid, hyperactive monsters, who exist purely to wreak havoc on the city. Unfortunately for the powerful Arcanians who once thought of them as a warning for the Fae to stop their human-loving ways, the Fairies simply adore the Goblins, and the two species have one of the most positive relationships Arcana fosters. Like the Fae, Goblins have a peculiar appetite that keeps them alive - the souls of humans. Because of this, Goblins can often be found loitering around the shadier parts of town or following a reaper like a lost puppy eagerly awaiting scraps. While Goblins are often brushed aside as mischievous troublemakers, members of this species also tend to be incredibly cunning and street smart, which tends to drive them towards a life of crime. Their powers tend to be simple and basic, often times counterparts to those the Fae posses. Perhaps their most unique trait, however, is their immunity to invasive magic and elements - they cannot be possessed (locals joke that this is because there is nothing in their skull to possess) and can survive a fiery attack from a Dragon or Phoenix.

Goblins have an average lifespan of 100 years. 

Powers:

bad luck inducement

enhanced dexterity

invisibility

magical immunity

supernatural speed

Nymphs are spritely, beautiful beings who are highly in tune to nature. It isn’t unusual to find flowers growing in the path of a Nymph, or to find a dozing Nymph halfway absorbed into the ground. They reign control over the elements of earth and air, and are entirely responsible for the various flora and fauna found within Arcana. Nymphs are the natural rival of Witches - while Nymphs represent everything natural and pure, Witches dwell in unnatural, science-based magic, which threatens the very forces Nymphs revel in. Generally, Nymphs are seen as peaceful, carefree creatures, who historically have found career paths as artists and musicians. However, Nymphs also have a bad tendency to be old fashioned, and are fiercely protective of preserving the historical aspects of Arcana. In recent years, with a surge in technology and unnatural magic, Nymphs have found their magic either weakening or growing rapidly out of control.

Nymph have an average lifespan of 150 years.

Powers:

earth manipulation

air manipulation

nature calling

empathy

plant enhancement

In the early days of the city’s inception, familiars were created by the fae and nymphs, a convergence of their love of humans and ties to nature. An entire population bloomed from the handful created, and as the years passed, Arcana found its streets filled with those who could shape-shift between human and animal, although mentally they always seemed caught somewhere in-between. Most familiars have a preference between the two - with some choosing to diverge from society and give in to their animalistic urges. As the familiars developed, it was discovered that each shifter could cultivate a unique bond with a member of the other species - a one-way, unrequited soul connection that left familiars bound to another with a mental and physical link that caused them to do their bidding. This binding is greater than any familial connection, friendship, or romantic love that exists on earth - its strength is almost enough to drive someone mad. Frustrated that the fae and nymph’s science experiment was now a nuisance to them, most of Arcana was quick to turn their backs on the familiars, resulting in them being considered second class citizens despite the unique advantages they brought to the table. Witches, who also struggled to climb the hierarchy of the city, befriended the familiars, and performed a ritual that allowed the two species to be intertwined into the end of the time - unlike with other species, when a familiar found themselves in a familial bond with a Witch, it was completely mutual, with the witch who was bonded with feeling the same desperate devotion changelings did. While familiars have no control over who they bond with, every single one grows up hoping theirs will be a witch. familiar’s animal forms do not stay consistent until puberty - as children, familiars can turn into any animal they please, before their body settles on a form that bears significance to their personality, history, or appearance. Familiars can create more of their species by biting a human, however, bitten familiars will not pass down the gene and will be gifted the ability to turn into the animal they were bitten by.

Familiars have an average lifespan of 80 years.

Powers:

enhanced senses

animal form

claw retraction

Reapers represent both life and death in Arcana - while they can be an ominous warning of how short our time on Earth is, they are also able to offer second chances and new life to those they encounter. Reapers often tend to pick an allegiance - light vs dark. Light reapers focus on refining their powers to heal and speak to the dead, more inclined to help those suffering and grant the last wishes of the dead. Dark Reapers are a thankless group, those who do the majority of reaping and ridding the city of potentially dangerous Echoes. Very few Reapers have the capability of managing both sides of their species, or rather don’t want to, as the life of a Reaper is very emotionally taxing. Reapers help souls along in a traditional sense, by removing their soul with a scythe and sending it to the afterlife - but every 100th soul reaped by them gains a new chance of life, and will become a reaper themselves. Reapers can often be found working in hospitals or other healthcare fields, or stereotypical careers such as morticians and gravediggers. Those with the ability to reap tend to keep it to themselves, as it’s social taboo and considered impolite to talk about reaping publicly in Arcana.

Reapers have an average lifespan of 90 years.

Powers:

mediumship

healing

weapon manifestation

necromancy

shadow manipulation

afterlife transport

life-force absorption

Echoes exist beyond the physical realm of Arcana - whether because they died and were unable to move on, or because they were cursed into the land between living and dead. During the day, they can only be seen by Reapers and Elves, but are visible to the rest of the world once the sun has set. An echo is identifiable by their ability to levitate, as well as a whisky, smoke-like aura about them. While most echoes are sensitive and skittish, too scared of their new form to fully accept their new form and powers, they have the capabilities of being one of the most dangerous species in the city.  Desperate Echoes can find themselves possessing someone in order to occupy a physical vessel again, while lonely echoes may manipulate and lead someone to their death in order to gain a ‘partner’. Echoes have a complicated relationship with the Reapers - some want nothing more than to be able to move onto whatever afterlife may personally seek them out, while more troubled souls who want to continue their existence evade and fight them. Reapers also offer a second chance at life, as every 100th soul reaped will be reborn as a reaper - thus, some Echoes strategy is to befriend reapers and try to convince them they are worthy of being lucky number 100.

Echoes have an immeasurable life span, but will appear the age they physically died at. 

Powers:

cyrokinesis

telepathy

levitation

sonic scream

possession

intangibility

The original strand of mermaids were believed to be created from the sea - ocean foam that was spun in the shape of man. In their true form, mermaids are half-fish, half-human - with each mermaid able to take on the traits of different aquatic animals. Mermaids also have the ability to posses a fully human form, accessible only based upon the phase of the moon. The first quarter and third quarter moons allow mermaids to escape from the ocean and walk on land, and they may remain so until the New or Full moon, when the tides become strong again and pull them back into the cover of the sea - between these time periods, if a mermaid gets wet, they will transform back into a mermaid and be forced into the ocean once again. Tails found in the saltwater mermaid community can range from simple and brightly colored to those that resemble whales, seals, seahorses, etc. Strangely enough, some mermaids can even be born with spikes or the ability to cast light - similar to an anglerfish. Despite their potentially shocking appearance, mermaids have been painted throughout the years as devious beauties - known to lure and drown any human who gets too close to the shores at night. For if a mermaid drowns a human and successfully consumes its flesh, they will be able to walk upon land without the assistance of the moon. This was a common, species-wide practice in the early days of Arcana, until mutated Mermaids missing the gene that allowed them to emit a siren call began emerging - causing a schism in the species and the emergence of two tribes - the Ashrays and the Sirens. The former were mostly made up of those missing the siren call ability, and those that suppressed their own call ability. The Ashrays do not attack humans, and only feast upon human flesh during a religious ceremony during the super moon every few years. Those caught preying upon humans in the Ashray tribe are often ostracized and banished, forced with no choice but to join the Sirens or meet their untimely end. The Sirens, after years and years of breeding with only those carrying the siren call gene, have created dangerous, cunning and hungry mermaids - hunting humans is no longer an optional perk, but a necessity to sate their hunger. The Sirens must consume more than their ancestors needed to in order to gain their legs, bust most prefer the refuge of their ocean - except, in recent years, the city has done all they can to keep the humans safe from the siren’s call, causing more and more of them to go into the city and hunt with more unconventional methods.

Mermaids have a lifespan of 100 years.

Powers:

mermaid form

siren call

water manipulation

Bunyips - the mermaids of Arcana’s swamp and marshlands - are distant cousins of their saltwater equivalent - started by a group of mermaids who could not make it back to sea before they lost their legs once again, evolution and adaption has made them a new species, although they are similar at heart. While some freshwater mermaids still retain fish-like tails in their true forms, mermaids with the tails of eels, snakes, and even alligators can appear in the freshwater community, unlike their saltwater counterparts. Instead of the moon transforming them, freshwater mermaids can leave the water anytime they please and  gain legs - but fully drying out or direct exposure to the sun can kill them very easily, leaving them weakest during the day and most only willing to come out as humans during the night. Because they spend the better part of their lives lurking in murky, dark waters, many freshwater mermaids have blotchy, green-tinted skin, and often still retain patches of scales even as a human. They are constantly envious of the beautiful, desirable saltwater mermaids, and while they have no taste for human flesh, they aren’t above using their magic to steal from the humans in order to appear more attractive.

Bunyips have an average lifespan of 100 years.

Powers:

mermaid/bunyip form

poison generation

water manipulation

enhanced camouflage

regenerative healing

The infamous hoarders of the magical world, Dragons were once independent treasure hunters who held rank with their elementally inclined abilities and vast riches. Although powerful, dragons are notorious for being prideful, greedy beasts, and were only invited into the safe haven of Arcana in return for helping fund the city during its early years with their riches. Years later, Arcana’s economy is thriving without their help, and dragons are more commonly found as loan sharks, salesmen on the black market, or museum curators, rather than simple bankers. Over time, dragons have also lost the ability to transform into huge, reptilian beasts, but still keep traces of their ancient form - with many dragons bearing curved horns atop their head, slitted pupils, and the ability to manifest great wings. Overhunting from the old days - in addition to their long life span - has left Dragons scarce, with one of the lowest populations in the city. The most noticeable attributes of a Dragon are their compulsive need to hoard and their elemental powers. While most Dragons hoard luxury items such as jewels, gold, or fine art, it’s not unheard of for a dragon to have a completely random or seemingly unhelpful hoard. As far as elemental powers go, Dragons are born with the ability to reign control over either water or fire. They are also notorious rivals of the other winged fire elementals Arcana houses - the phoenixes. There is an old wives tale that states every time a Phoenix dies, a Dragon awakens from it’s slumber - for Phoenix ashes are worth an incredible amount of money, and may hold the key to immortality, the one thing Dragons cannot have, no matter how full their pockets. Dragons are also entirely defensive creatures, and have been implemented with a variety of survival tactics in them that include the ability to hibernate for years as well as being able to strike petrifying fear in anyone they deem a threat to their safety. Baby dragons will imprint upon the first person they see - which is typically their mother or father - and find themselves unwilling to break demands or disobey the person they have imprinted upon. While this is helpful for family dynamics, it can be wildly dangerous if someone with malicious intent wields control over a young dragon.

Dragons have an average lifespan of 300 years.

Powers:

hypnosis

fear inducement

wing manifestation

water OR fire manipulation

The ‘sun gods’ of Arcana, Phoenixes are an ancient breed that are responsible for the passing of day and night. They are ancient protectors of the earth and brought sun to the world to help see it grow - and in that respect, they are one of the few species who have a very positive view on humans. Over time, and with their powers diluting, Phoenixes have shied away from their role as almighty guardian, and have been able to blend in with the rest of the city. Phoenixes are indistinguishable from normal humans asides from their ability to generate large, hawk-like wings. While they still draw power over the sun, Phoenixes are also powerful fire elementals, who can call control over weather and lightning. There are some drawbacks to being a phoenix, however - they can only call flames to them with energy from the sun, rendering their elemental power all but useless at night. They are also weakest in the winter, when the Earth gravitates away from the sun - something Phoenixes could avoid pre-Arcana by inhabiting warmer climates only, but are now bound to the city and therefore it’s seasons. While they have the most clauses and drawbacks to their powers, Phoenixes are equipped with the power to never really, truly die, as when a Phoenix passes away, their bodies erupt in flames, creating ashes that will give way to a newborn baby - the previous phoenix reincarnated. As Phoenixes age, many of them recover and remember memories of their previous life. This leaves Phoenixes stuck in a constant cycle of birth, death, and rebirth, but only if their ashes are left untouched. This makes the time between death and rebirth extremely precious, as a Phoenix will not reincarnate if its remains are disturbed or moved and many Arcanians covet them. Despite being worth a small fortune, Phoenix ashes are rumored to hold the key to immortality if consumed in a potion.

Phoenixes are inherently immortal, and will only die if their ashes are disturbed.

Powers:

healing tears

weather manipulation

lightning manipulation

fire manipulation

wing manifestation

One of Arcana’s trickster species, Kitsune’s are shapeshifter with the power to change into a legendary fox - distinguishable from natural, wild foxes by their multiple tails and warm aura. Despite being able to shapeshift completely between their human and fox bodies, Kitsunes will always have the shadow of a fox, regardless of their form. They also possess the power of fox-fire, which can only be generated from their mouth or tail. Their powers are bound to a special item, usually one of great significance to each individual - family heirlooms, baby blankets, etc. Being away from their item puts a Kistune through both physical and mental distress and the loss or destruction of the item they are bonded with causes their powers to disappear. Even worse, Kitsunes can be controlled like a puppet if the item is taken by someone else. Despite being one of Arcana’s older and more powerful species, they are often disregarded or excluded due to their slippery ways and ‘lone wolf’ mentality. Despite this, the Kitsunes and the Elves have a historically close relationship, with Kitsunes often willing to do the dirty work the Elves wouldn’t want to tarnish their reputation with. By contrast, Kitsunes have a fierce dislike of Familiars, as they are the only ones with their enhanced senses who can detect a Kitsune in their human form.

Kitsunes have an average lifespan of 400 years. 

Powers:

curse casting

kitsune form

fox-fire

shapeshifting (altering human form’s appearance)

illusion manipulation

dream walking

Chimaeras are those whose blood is too diluted to call one specific species - while Arcanians who are simply half one species, half another, identify themselves with whichever power of theirs is the strongest, Chimaeras find themselves with a random assortment of species’ powers that are weak in comparison to creatures with purer blood. Chimaeras tend to be drifters or rogues in a general sense, as most of Arcana is still rampant with stigma against the mixing of blood. Chimaeras cannot have any shape-shifting abilities, including the forms of mermaids, changelings, or kitsunes.

Viewed by the supernatural beasts of Arcana has pawns to be toyed with or welcomed guests, Humans are the minority, the ‘others’ within the city walls. While most pass through the city only briefly as a tourist destination, to be fed upon by Fae and dazzled by ‘pretend’ magic before returning to their normal lives, a small host of them have found a home in the city. Those that stay within the city have learned how to defend themselves and navigate the often dangerous streets.

[misssophiachase]

Too many Jodice tumblr posts contributed to this spontaneous drabble. I hope you are all very proud of yourselves (you know who you are.) I'm no Jodice aficionado but have tried to do some basic research on events, episodes etc but have obviously taken liberties too. 

PS no spouses exist for obvious reasons! Picking up from the most recent episode of the Originals. Also points of view will change in each section. All lyrics in italics from Lady Gaga.  

You and I

"Something about this place, something, 'bout the lonely nights and lipstick on your face."

Present Day - London, England

The fact he'd just directed the most recent episode of The Originals and it was trending worldwide certainly gave him a renewed boost in confidence. Apart from acting, directing was his closest passion and seeing that fans liked his work filled him with a certain ambitious desire to repeat the experience.

As an actor he knew very well that a renewal was still pending and given his affection fo the show he hoped it got its rightful continuation. The finale which he'd already taped told him that much. There was too much unfinished business, in more ways than one. As Joseph scrolled through his twitter feed he found the usual mentions of a certain co-star that hadn't graced the screen with him in a while.

His mind flashed back to that particular scene, there was apparently a tree, some woods and about 200 crew present. Not that he'd noticed at all. He'd been far too consumed by the blonde beauty who he'd known so intimately both onscreen and off at that stage.

He would never forget the first time they met at the Craft Services table on set. Joseph always thought she was stunning on screen but seeing her there with rice unknowingly stuck to her cheek was causing him to smile uncontrollably (he was pretty certain he flashed a few dimples in the process). He'd never seen anything more beautiful in his life. He knew right then and there he was a goner.

Rio de Janeiro, Brazil

"It's been years since I let you go. I couldn't listen to a joke or Rock and Roll."

Candice knew that looking at her twitter feed was never a good idea. If she wanted a reminder of her relationship with Joseph it was plastered across her timeline. Granted the photos were either scenes they shared from the show or manips but they all stirred the same feelings inside. She missed him, she'd be lying if she said she didn't. She was happy his latest directorial foray had been such a success. If there was something Candice knew it was how good he was at directing people, she'd been one of his star performers in the bedroom after all.

The hardest part was trying to answer all those questions at the Vampire Attraction Event about a possible appearance in the Originals after TVD's recent ending. She'd been told by producers to encourage such a move, it made a fifth season all the more possible if the fans were invested. Like the dutiful CW employee she'd done it but the thought of being that close to Joseph again was causing all of the residual feelings she had for her former co-star to resurface and she wasn't quite sure how to handle a possible reunion.

February - 2011 - Atlanta, GA

"Did the new guy smirk at you?" Candice asked Kat earnestly. They were in wardrobe after lunch break and she couldn't stop thinking about the way Joseph had been looking at her while they spoke. They'd just met so she thought it was strange not to mention a little rude. Just because he had a gorgeous accent and lips the colour of deep crimson didn't give him the right to think he was God's greatest gift.

"I think he has a name, Candice." Kat mumbled from the corner where she was changing her top behind the makeshift screen.

"That's not the point."

"What do you mean smirk? He's always been perfectly polite and professional with me. What did he say anyway?"

"Wished me good afternoon and then I asked him how he's finding everything on set given he's just come onboard." They'd been shooting for the better part of the morning and the hungry hordes had made their way to the craft services table absolutely famished. Her eyes were firmly focused on the sushi, Candice was pretty certain she could have finished the entire plate on her own.

"Sounds pretty inoffensive, maybe that's just the way he smiles at people, did you ever think that?" Kat asked, finally emerging from changing her clothes for the next scene and looking at her curiously,

"You didn't see it, Kat," she sighed. "It was almost like..."

"He was trying not to laugh?"

"Excuse me?" Kat let out a giggle, moving closer and wiping her face with a tissue she'd swiped from the nearby table. "What are you doing?"

"You, uh have some rice on your cheek, Candice," she smiled, knowingly.

"What?" She asked and rubbing her face, slightly mortified.

"Seems like someone was trying to hide that fact and obviously it took the form of a smirk." Candice went from completely embarrassed to annoyed in seconds. How dare he do that?

"The least he could have done was tell me rather than embarrass me like that in front of the cast and crew," she muttered.

"You just met the guy, he probably thought it wasn't polite to call you out about food on your face. It doesn't make for the easiest first conversation."

"Yet instead he was secretly laughing at me," she growled. "You know, I'm just happy that we don't have any scenes together because I'm not sure I could stand that smirk and those dimples from such a close proximity."

"Sounds like someone was paying an awful lot of attention to someone's dimples," she grinned. Candice didn't respond just busied herself with her clothing for the next scene.

From then Candice made it her mission to steer clear of the new guy, until it became almost impossible to avoid him. That's what you got for being on a hit TV show and having to do publicity together. And there was no bigger publicity opportunity than the annual Comic Con in San Diego.

July 2011 - San Diego, CA

It was his first Comic Con and for Joseph it was completely overwhelming. Given he was pretty much the most evil hybrid to hit the Vampire Diaries in its entire run so far, he wasn't expecting such a frenzied reception. Turns out a lot of the girls there seemed to have a thing for the bad guy. Not that he was complaining.

He looked across at Candice at the signing table, her golden waves cascading down her back and wrapped in a fitted blue dress, thinking just how much the colour brought out her expressive eyes and creamy skin. Ever since their first meeting all those months ago they'd barely had any interaction, mainly because they didn't share any scenes. Joseph had to admit he was a little disappointed by that fact. It seemed like she had this amazing chemistry with everyone who she interacted with on screen and he'd be lying if he wasn't jealous.

After the craziness of 5000 screaming fans at the panel earlier in the day it was time for the after party. Given they were all staying in the same hotel it seemed normal that they made their way together however for some reason it was just him and her crossing the street and surrounded by screaming photographers. Joseph was trying not to stare at just how her strapless, aqua dress showed off those creamy legs as she walked brusquely to avoid the cameras. If there was one thing he knew about Candice it was just how shy she could be around the press. For Joseph that was just another reason to admire her given so many actors were the complete opposite.

One of the photographers got too close, knocking her slightly and Joseph reached forward without thinking, his instinct to protect her taking over. His hand grazed her lower back and Joseph could swear he felt her shiver slightly. "Are you okay, love?"

"Um, yeah, thanks," she mumbled, her gaze cast downwards. "It's uh just a little cold." The one thing Joseph knew without a doubt was that 90 degrees on a Summer night in San Diego wasn't in the least bit cold.

"If I had a jacket I'd give it to you," he promised, steering her towards their destination. Maybe it wasn't the best look given the press would misconstrue anything but right now he didn't give a damn, it felt far too good having his hand on her back.

"Nice to see chivalry isn't completely dead," she smirked, he couldn't miss the sarcastic tone in her voice.

"Is there something I'm missing?" Joseph murmured, trying to avoid the inquisitive stares of the reporters loitering close by. "You realise I'm a complete gentleman, right?"

"A gentleman who doesn't tell a girl she has rice stuck to her cheek?"

"I didn't want to be rude," he insisted.

"Trust me Morgan, a girl needs to know these things even if she barely knows you."

"Noted, Accola," he grinned.

"Um, we're here," she said, gesturing towards the hotel where the party was being held. "You can let go of me now." Joseph immediately but albeit reluctantly lifted his hand from her lower back. She gave him a thankful smile and breezed into the party like the professional actress she was. He'd be lying if he couldn't still feel the residual heat on his palm from the close contact.

October 2011 - Atlanta, GA

"Social media is going to go nuts," Candice murmured, laying herself out on the bed. "You know if it's anything like the response from you putting your hand on my back at Comic Con in July."

"I was only trying to protect you," he replied, flashing her one of his winning smiles.

They were currently at the Forbes house ready to film their very first scene together. Candice would be lying if it wasn't a big moment for her. She'd always been able to hide her attraction for him because they didn't share any scenes, well until now that was. Now she had to be in close proximity and in a bed of all things. She wasn't quite sure what the writers were getting at given she'd been so hot and heavy with Michael's character Tyler lately.

"Funnily enough I didn't need protection and we both know that," she smirked. "I really should have known Klaus would order Tyler to bite me only to ride in on his horse and save the day."

"I think you've misjudged Klaus, he really can be a nice guy," he offered, winking in her direction. "Speaking of which, I better go wrangle my horse in anticipation."

Candice would be lying if she didn't think he was cute. She'd been so quick to write him off as one of your typical, egotistical actors she came across daily (not naming any names of course) but he had this adorable wit that she couldn't quite resist. Ever since he'd placed his hand on her back in July she'd been a little distracted by those lips and those damn dimples too.

Candice was an actor first and foremost and the scene played out exactly as planned but she couldn't deny just how good it felt to have his body pressed up against hers in bed as she pretended to drink from his wrist. His chest seemed so much more toned than she'd imagined and the smell of his spicy aftershave was definitely causing a few foreign feelings to take over. It was all done in one take, unheard of but Candice knew their underlying chemistry had definitely played its part in creating such a perfect scene.

"Don't worry I'm not counting," he smiled rising from the bed, as the crew moved away in preparedness for the next scene.

"I'm sorry?"

"You know the number of times I've saved you."

"Oh p-uh-lease," she groaned, rolling her eyes as she did. Candice was finding it more and more difficult not to act on her burgeoning feelings for him and she secretly hoped they got more time to spend with each other on set as an excuse.

March 2012 - Atlanta, GA

Joseph found himself missing home for the first time in a while. Although he'd been working in the States for close to a year now it didn't stop him wanting all of the familiarities from home. He'd spoken to his mother and thoughts of her amazing cooking had infiltrated his brain which he carried with him onto set.

This was the day he saved Caroline from Alaric's clutches at the high school and Joseph was excited about reminding her just how many times he'd saved her now. He could just imagine the cute, exasperated look she got when she was attempting to argue back. Social media had erupted as Candice had predicted after their first scene together and fans were delirious about their onscreen and offscreen characters giving into their feelings. Joseph would have laughed if it wasn't so true.

The scene at the school went off without a hitch which was becoming the norm between them. Even Julie Plec had pulled him aside a few episodes ago and mentioned just how explosive the chemistry between them was. He wasn't going to argue given his ever growing feelings for his beautiful, blonde co-star.

"What's wrong?" She asked, approaching him at the lunch table.

"Excuse me?"

"You haven't boasted about the fact you saved me yet again," she drawled. "I know you were thinking it, Morgan."

"I was," he admitted. "But I'll admit, I was kind of distracted by a bad dose of homesickness." Joseph couldn't believe he was admitting it to her of all people.

"Missing the Queen and Prince Harry?"

"I'll assume that Prince Harry reference was just for you, Accola," he joked. "While her Majesty certainly holds a dear place in my heart I was thinking of my family, if you must know."

"It must be difficult to be this far from home." She murmured. "I may come from Houston but at least the flight doesn't take that long."

"And without the jet lag," he joked. "I guess I just miss my family and the food."

"I was actually thinking of having a dinner party to celebrate the wrap of season three next week. I can't promise you England but hopefully a pretty good time at least?" Joseph couldn't have declined if he tried. He knew this was her way of trying to welcome him and it was something he'd been craving for a while.

What Joseph wasn't expecting was the array of English delicacies on her dining room table that night and as he helped himself greedily to the Beef Wellington, he couldn't help but send her a smile of gratitude. The fact she'd thought of him was only making him want her more.

"Don't ever let my mother taste this," he said pointing to the Yorkshire pudding on his plate.

"Why" She squeaked, self consciously.

"She might not like the competition," he shared. "I can't believe you did all of this."

"I know better than anyone else how difficult homesickness can be, Joseph." His heart almost stopped beating as she uttered his name for the first time since they'd met. "But I couldn't imagine having my family that far away so it was really the least I could do."

"Well, thank you, love," he smiled. The fans seemed to think that was a Klaus term but Joseph had been the one to suggest it to the writers. He was starting to realise he only wanted to use it on one person though, acting or in real life. "You have no idea what this means." He noticed her blush slightly as he said it. If Zach hadn't interrupted their conversation right then who knows what she might have replied?

September 2012 - Atlanta, GA

"Now, you both know what you're supposed to do this episode?"

"He's supposed to shamelessly chase me as usual?" Joseph sent her a sideways glance. Ever since her impromptu dinner in March, their relationship had elevated to an extremely flirty friendship. Not that he could recall when they'd ever really been friends. She delighted in teasing him but Joseph would be lying if he didn't delight in exactly the same thing.

"Last time I checked Caroline was the one who suggested a date?"

"Yeah to a movie where I can put at least three seats between us," she quipped.

"Glad to see you two know your lines," the director drawled. "How about we get this show on the road then?"

"Happy to buy you a drink later, you know tell you all about being the bad guy," he whispered in her ear. Candice was trying to ignore just how good it felt to have him tease her hair with his hot breath as he said it.

"Easy tiger," she joked using his own terminology, moving away to her starting point but it was difficult to ignore her shaking legs as she did.

After the director called cut for the day, Candice made her way towards the porch where the cast would relax between scenes. It was extremely peaceful overlooking the lake at the fictional Lockwood Mansion. The other actors were filming elsewhere and she found it quite relaxing sitting there and drinking in the Fall afternoon.

"A souvenir," he announced, placing it on the table and assuming his seat on the nearest rocking chair.

"You realise I could write a much better Miss Mystic Falls application? As much as I love Caroline, I don't think everything needs to rhyme."

"I don't doubt it," he murmured, his blue eyes closing in obvious exhaustion. "Although I'm pretty certain Candice would be just as equally enthusiastic about the task at hand, you know just saying."

"Hey," she growled, slapping him awake. "We can't all come from the birthplace of William Shakespeare."

"I wasn't judging, love."

"Yeah sure," she muttered. Suddenly she found some extra courage and kept speaking. "So, apparently you promised me a drink." He was immediately awake, leaning forward in his seat.

"Well, of course. It's the least I owe you after having to put up with me all day."

"Not sure your thousands of twitter followers would agree, they seem extremely excited about you sharing so many scenes with 'you know who'."

"I didn't realise you followed me on twitter, love?"

"Call it professional courtesy," she shot back, her blue eyes blazing.

"It's okay, I've been following you since the beginning for exactly the same reason,' he admitted. "Dana?" Her face broke into a gorgeous smile and Joseph was extremely excited to be able to have even one drink with this beauty.

One drink had led to more at the local whiskey bar in Covington. She was trying to ignore just how gorgeous his stubble looked as they talked across the bar and felt herself slowly losing all her inhibitions. She remembered him brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear and placing a chaste kiss on her cheek before escorting her to her accommodation. Who knew he had such impeccable manners? Candice would have been lying if she wasn't disappointed it didn't go any further given the chemistry they'd generated on set earlier that day.

January 2013 - Atlanta, GA

"There's been two massacres. Pastor Young's farm is here, and the old Lockwood cellar, where you spitefully slaughtered 12 of your own hybrids, is here. According to the book, the expression triangle is equilateral, putting it here."

"Somebody's been skipping their geometry classes. There are actually two places where the third massacre could be." He drew the extra lines on the map as she watched him curiously.

"Well, you didn't let me finish." They held each other's gaze because the scene called for it but Joseph knew it was the built up tension between the two co-stars who couldn't resist each other any longer. He could sense it in her eyes, her demeanour and the fact that her breathing had quickened slightly.

He couldn't wait until they called cut and he subtely called her to his trailer with his eyes. They'd missed each other over the holidays and he couldn't wait to embrace her after too much time apart. Joseph couldn't quite recall whose clothes came off first but before he knew it the beautiful blonde was straddling him naked and he was sucking on her nipples hungrily.

She was moaning now as he raked his hands through her waves maintaining his pressure on her nipple while finding his way to her quivering centre. This was the moment he'd been waiting for, so too Candice. He looked into her eyes asking permission, he didn't want to do anything unwanted but her blue eyes were begging him to continue and before Joseph knew it she was laying on the couch as he writhed above her uncontrollably. Their intermingling cries as she rode him until climax.

Joseph held her for a long time afterwards, he wasn't one to get attached but he couldn't let go of her soft skin if he tried. The feeling of her beating heart against his was enough for him to realise she was it. His hand found its way through her hair as he placed butterfly kisses on her jaw and onto her collarbone.

"I'm usually more of a gentleman, I promise," he mumbled against her bare skin.

"I'd usually reprimand you but for once I'm not entirely annoyed by your behaviour," she moaned, running her hands through his curls. "As long as this stays just between us."

[sarissophori]

Hither Yonder, Chapter 16

The Last Goodbye

After a rushed breakfast, Varrion took Halli, Noma and Ianan down the path from the Consulry to Harbortown’s drydocks on the Valos, shaped in the likeness of a ship’s hull upturned, sheltering rows of stone piers, on which sat anchored a lone vessel in shade. Halli ran to it, eager to see her ship at last, standing by the ramp.

      It was a work of crafted beauty, thirty cubits bow to stern, another thirty from keel to mast, made of white wood polished to a smooth glisten. The hull was slender, bowed down in the middle like a longbow, and had a crystalline lantern hung over the steering arm. Halli touched the planks; they were smooth as glass, with no obvious seam or rivet, as if they were simply pressed together.

      “Hithrion is her name, the Wave-rider” Varrion said. “Made with care by our greatest craftsmen to be the finest ship of our age, and now she is yours.”

      “She’s absolutely beautiful” Halli said. “May I go aboard?”

      “Please do.”

      Halli climbed the silver rope-planks hung from the midsection and strode Hithrion with slow footsteps. The mast had one sail, fine as silk but much tougher. She felt it, and saw her fingers through the other side. She went to the helm, to the steering arm of polished oak, and saw a stand with a compass under glass, its needle bobbing slightly. It pointed west rather than north.

      “Thank you, consulate, for all your aid. My journey would have ended here, if not for you or Ianan.”

      “The honor is mine” Varrion said. “Your supplies have been prepared, and Hithrion will be stocked ere the morning is gone from my personal stores. They are yours to have with my blessing, along with this.”

      Varrion reached into his vest and handed Halli a folded piece of parchment tied with a golden string. Untying it, Halli saw that it was a map, showing the west coasts of Tarmaril and the breadth of the known seas up to their farthest reaches, to immortal shores. Stylized and elegant curves were drawn over the water, indicating currents, gulf streams and trade winds; marked also on its borders were the paths of constellations and prominent stars, and where their paths traced over the sea.

      “It belongs to you, now” Varrion said. “May it lead you well.”

      “This is, I…I don’t know what to say, consulate.”

      “Considering what you have done for us, it is a small token easily parted with” Varrion said. “This was charted in the years before the Imperium’s fall. You will find it most accurate.”

      Halli looked at the map and smiled shyly, touched by the gifting of it, on top of being given Hithrion and the supplies stored within. Suddenly, she became flustered.

      “Oh no, no, no! Not again, I won’t accept any more courtesies without having something to give myself, it’s –it’s just improper!”

      Halli patted her tunic, muttering and cursing, before digging into her trouser pocket and fishing out her own worn, soiled map of the Hither and Hinterlands, giving it to Varrion.

      “Here!” she said. “This was given to me by Sador before I left Dumbria. It came from one of his most prized books about the history of Tarmaril. I’ve carried it all this way from there, and no longer need it to guide me. I want you and Ianan to have it. I hope that makes it meaningful in some way.”

      “It does” Varrion said, taking the map gently from her. “This is a most precious gift indeed. It will have a place of honor in the library, an heirloom of Harbortown framed in crystal-glass. You are most thoughtful, dear Halli. Take care, and fair winds.”

        Hithrion was loosed of her bindings and guided into the river, where workmen began loading the galley with food and water, blankets and coats, among other things. Ianan stood before Halli, putting on a brave face as he prepared to tell her goodbye, but he hesitated. He took her hands in his, mustering his courage.

      “It is an unfair thing, Halli, to know you, to love you, only to have you vanish like some dream.”

      “I love you, too” Halli said. “But all dreams end with the dawn, no matter their sweetness.”

      Ianan sighed and bowed his head, gently caressing her hands.

      “At least it was good dream while it lasted.”

      “It was.”

      “Then I have no regrets, here at its end” Ianan said, bringing his eyes, now shimmering, to meet hers.

      “I will never forget you, Halli of Hanan.”

      “Nor I you, Ianan of Tarmaril.”

      She leaned in, and kissed him. “My prince.”

      “In another life, perhaps” he said. “Go with the gods, di aluvae. I will keep my watch for your sail until your return. Goodbye.”

      He kissed her back, and they embraced for a long moment. Neither wished to be the one to pull away, but Halli reluctantly removed herself from his arms, whispered goodbye, and boarded Hithrion, where Noma was waiting. Her tail waved, then stilled when she saw her face.

      “Are you alright, dear?”

      “I will be.”

      Halli concerned herself with the rigging to avoid any more questions, partially unfurling the sail and swinging the rudder away from the dock. The wind caught them and nudged them into the estuary, then swept them down river. Varrion and the workmen watched them go, but Ianan ran alongside, keeping pace with them as the wind picked up and sped them on, the bow high in the water, out from Harbortown and down the coast, where the land wouldn’t follow.  There Ianan stopped, forlorn yet hopeful, staring off as Hithrion shrank into the horizon under the growing sun, reflected by the glittering sea, until all sight of them was gone. The wind blew, and the gulls cried. So began his watch.

 Beyond the shoreline, well into the bay, Halli let her sail unfurl to its fullest while swinging out the arm, giving only a passing glance back to Tarmaril and mortal lands, that final temptation, before turning her attention to the open sea ahead. Noma was at the bow, nose into the breeze, as a gust caught Hithrion and propelled them along; the keel lifted and glided through the surf as Lothshir did, yet faster, swift as a gull despite the breaking waves and foaming wake. Halli gripped the rudder to steady their course as their speed picked up, Hithrion keeping true as the winds took them farther from the shore, steadily fading into the distance until the coastline was nearly gone, now a thin dark line atop a far and roving blue. The sail fluttered, and they glided on. Consulting Varrion’s map, Halli steered them toward a westerly current of the greater ocean, banking them in a wide curve south while still west-bound, to gradually enter its stream and be carried off by its embrace. Once found, the greatest demand would then come from boredom and the length of their sail, however long it would be; the westernmost fringes of the map were left blank by those who made it.

 Thus began the long, intertwined tediums of similar days and similar nights at sea, overlapping and indistinguishable, save that one was maybe more sunny, more cloudy, or rainy. Halli remembered Ianan’s warning of red mornings, and watched for them every sunrise, though for the most part the days remained impeachably calm.

      Since leaving the coastal seas, the trade winds that so hurriedly swept them before had been slowly dying down; somewhere into the fourteenth or fifteenth day, as they began crossing the ocean’s girth, they died away completely, leaving a dull sky without a breeze, and an eerie quiet. Taken along now solely by the great west current, Hithrion sailed on at a leisurely pace, though the illusion of featureless waters made Halli feel otherwise, and pensive. She looked over Varrion’s map to occupy her thoughts.

      “According to this, we won’t have any more wind until the Hunter passes overhead, or near enough” she said.

      “Which is in about…ten days, if our speed holds.”

      “Well that gives us some time” Noma said. “As if we needed more of it.”

      “At least we don’t have to worry about storms for a while” Halli said. “Where wind won’t carry clouds, the skies stay clear, so they say.”

      “Then we can sleep in” Noma said.

      “I sleep long enough as it is out here.”

      “Don’t we both?” Noma said. “But that’s all there is for us to do, excepting the minor course correction.”

      “Go ahead, if you want” Halli said. “I’ll stay awake for a while longer.”

 Halli was nodding off by the rudder when she heard Noma whining.

      “Halli, Halli –there are fountains in the water, look!”

       “Huh, what? Where?”

      “Starboard, about three furlongs out!”

      Halli scanned her eyes over right, from bow to midsection, when she also saw a random fountain jet forth like a puff of steam.

      “I see it!”

      “There’s another one behind us!” Noma said. “Even closer!”

      Another spouted portside, and another. Strange humps rose up and rolled with the waves, then giant tails and breeching noses, larger than any beast they had ever known, and there were many of them.

      “What are they?” Halli said, gripping the rudder, prepared to swerve Hithrion away should she have to.

      “Your guess is as good as mine” Noma said. “But I would chance staying course, lest we antagonize them.”

      All worries proved hasty. In slow graceful strokes, breeching and spouting as they went, a migratory pod of great northern whales caught up to and now passed their tiny vessel on by as they too followed the current; the year was nearing late, and instinct was driving them to fresh feeding grounds and nurseries. A few of the young swam underneath them, blowing strings of bubbles along the hull to tease Hithrion before answering the call of their elder’s songs. The pod for the most part paid them little heed, a minor curiosity, soon leaving them behind for the richer waters south of the ocean’s girdle.

      “I didn’t know such giants existed in this world” Halli said as the spouts led off further away.

      “They gave us no trouble, though.”

      “Not all great things live to crush the small” Noma said. “Not intentionally, at least.”

      Still, Halli kept them on a straight course until any sight of them was gone or faintly discerned, watching them go in fascination and respect for the size of even their smallest, wondering just how many more such creatures lay hid in the vast depths yet untraveled, and if all would be so peaceful.

 Early on the eleventh day, rather than on the tenth, the first outliers of the westernmost trade winds patted the sail, growing stronger as they day went on, to Halli’s relief. Again, the wind took them as readily as any wing, and as it went from night to night the Hunter rose and fell at different points on the breast of the world, and Aelin, late in her arc, shimmered off the stern. It was in these moonless hours when Halli would dim the lantern so the water’s surface would reflect like a mirror the starry sky, where far enough, one could not be distinguished from the other. In that quiet, the songs Ianan softly sang entered her thoughts, what she recalled of them, and she hummed to herself as Noma rested beside, still and thoughtful, as the leagues went by.

      Then, on the forty-sixth day since leaving Harbortown, they encountered another spell of calm windless ocean, though it was not marked on the map, nor probably could be; this perhaps began the uncharted waters no mortal had sailed since the height of Tarmaril’s folly, going on for who knew how much farther, and Halli became uneasy. She felt eyes on her, or in the thought of some presence considering her trespass –yet the weather was good, the skies clear, for the next few days.

         A cold wind picked up, carrying them towards the first discernable horizon they saw in nearly two months at sea, a gray line made stark by a pale morning. What Halli hoped to be land soon proved another thing entirely; sailing closer, the line became a brooding front of storm clouds, their flanks spreading past where sight could see, their high roiling crowns threatening to overwhelm the rising sun, flickering red against their grim stratus. The seas underneath were dark with rain.

       “Our last obstacle” Noma said.

      “I’m ready” Halli said, folding Varrion’s map. “We’ve come this far.”

      As she spoke a sharp gust whipped the sail and tore the map from Halli’s hands, throwing it into the sky till it was but a speck against the blue, then gone from sight. She felt a knot of resolve tighten in the pit of her stomach, ready to accept this final challenge.

      She tightened down their rigging and furled the sail, folding the arm against the mast and tying it. She then secured the supplies in their galley and manned the rudder, waiting, allowing the current to slowly draw them in.

      “Noma?”

      “Yes, Halli?”

      “If I don’t get another chance, I just want to say, I’m glad you’re here with me.”

      “To the end, dear.”

 They entered the storm, barrier, obstacle, whatever it truly was, and the sun in full was hidden from them. Only the lantern lit their way, and the harsh flash of lightning. Thunder cracked about them like a whip, and rolled overhead like a drum. The rain, in sheets, stung them like pellets. Waves rose out of the dark and battered Hithrion, lashing them with spray, making the deck slick with foam. Halli held firm to the rudder while Noma clung on with her claws, their stomachs rising and falling as Hithrion pitched in a turbulence they couldn’t see, but rode through in a strained desperation, hour on slogging hour, screamed at by gales and abused by breakers, gradually numbed and deafened with no respite.

      In the moment when Halli’s resolve had ebbed to its lowest point and raw despair threatened to claim her, a slender light, blanched in the dark, appeared before them as a beacon, its source unknown, yet firing her resolve. It spread across the horizon but remained muted, ethereal, as if only a mirage. Halli’s heart assured her, against suspicion, that it was no trick; that it was light from the Undying Lands, pure if subtle, signaling the end of all paths and mischances, attainable at the last, if they could only hold on.

      Then, against the gloom, reared from the waves, towered dark monoliths, vertical and sharp, as if rows of broken columns had been sunk into the bedrock by gods or giants as a wicked fence, a final insult to hope. The waves churned at their bases, and the wind shrieked off their pinnacles into the low brooding sky.

      Veering hard, Halli steered them past the foremost rocks and into the heart of the labyrinth, fighting against the surf and undertows, the wind whipping them towards the pillars, but Halli’s skill and Hithrion’s craft availed them thus far, and they sailed on through the maws of doom.

      The light was so close now, Halli could see vague shapes of land; the outline of a shore, shreds of forest, and above, the heads of misty uplands from which the light shone behind, from the hallowed plains beyond.

       Almost there…

      The monoliths crowded them in, narrowing their spaces, forcing them through passages of surging rip-currents and spray flying from the rocks, spat at them by gales. Halli tried to thread them past, but the current took them and swung them wide, despite her attempts to correct, and the starboard side was presented to the cleave of a waiting monolith. Within reach of that ghostly shore, this final obstacle nearly overcome, Hithrion was crashed against a face of stone and broken amidships, overwhelmed finally by the waves and subsumed by the tide, drowned in the fury of the storm.

       Upon impact Halli was thrown into the chaotic surf and separated from Noma, tumbling in the rip-currents until all sense of direction left her. Swimming was of no use. She closed her eyes, and a blankness took her mind. The muted rush of water filled her ears, strangely peaceful after so much thunder and rain; her death would at least be a quiet one.

      She was tumbled onto the shores of a sandy beach, and coughing, retching, blinking with burning eyes, she crawled her way to a stony embankment and collapsed, breathing heavily, glad just to feel herself breathing, and waited for the dizziness to lessen. Her roll-kit and supplies were washed away, but her sword at least remained fastened to her hip.

      The beach, bathed in spectral iridescence, was untouched by wind or rain, though a dampness filled the air. The storm stood offshore, by design or natural chance, to never make landfall, grumbling beside a glowering sky that removed her from the mortal world and all bright things, sapped of color and warmth.

      Halli clambered up a steeper part of the beach and looked out over the desolate landscape, dark and cold. Small pools were sheltered in craggy fissures at her feet, and a forest of bare twisted trees leered by the shore.

       This was it, the Undying Lands, of whom innumerable songs, stories and tales praised a beauty beyond compare, beyond the scope of mortal description. This, if anything, was a wasteland, merely glanced over by holy light as if in an afterthought, where shadows abounded.

       This was hell.

      “N –Noma? Noma, where are you? Noma!”

      Her voice echoed off sadly away. Halli stumbled across the smooth yet broken flats of the beach, made slippery by the myriad strings of stream-waters trickling through endless interwoven cracks and splinters. Patches of pale, luminous moss grew by these trickles and gathered at the pools, misted with dew.

      “Noma, are you here? Oh Noma, where are –?”

      Halli slipped into one of the pools, kicking something that shimmered at her feet. She slowly picked it up and held it against the light. It was a scabbard of black leather chaped with silver, much like hers, except degraded by time and the elements. In wary fascination, it dawned on her that this must have been the very beach, however it appeared then, where the vanguard of Tarmaril’s navy laid anchor, her envoys corrupting the land not simply with their presence, but with their intent, their petty greed. A shiver took her spine as she held it, and a dread feeling warned her she was not alone.

       Hiss…

      She looked above her, and sitting on a ledge over her, leering with gritted teeth, was a sly, hideous thing, man-shaped and vile, but no Homunculoi. Its expression held some level of sentience, if malicious.

      Halli jumped and screamed, and it snarled a grin. As it climbed down into the pool Halli unsheathed her sword, reflecting the twilight in a wavering aura, and it paused, not because it was pained or threatened by the blade, but because somewhere in the murk of its tainted mind the creature remembered her sword, its shine, and the sentiment of old glories polluted its predatory will; high masts, proud banners, all withered to ash as poisoned memories behind baleful eyes, a sorrow mingled with self-loathing, and it hated her for reminding it of its pride.

      It gaped a blood-freezing cry at her, and in the distance other calls answered it. It swiped its claws at her, and Halli cut the hand off at the wrist. Bellowing it drew back, spurting black blood tinged with the slightest red, falling down and thrashing in the water.

      Halli scrambled away, fleeing the shores and shadows, to the dread forest and its sinister embrace. They pursued her, and she cried out.

      “Noma, Noma!”

 Further down the beach, in a shallow outlet between two spurs of rock, Noma lay within the purgatory of conscious and not, fighting to rouse herself, but not finding the strength for it. Bruised, battered, and in the despair of her groggy thoughts, she feared Halli lost when Hithrion was crashed, either drowned or smashed against the roughs, and cursed fate that it couldn’t have been both of them. For a Buio Thinanin to outlive their bond-mate was a terrible thing, a pain akin to surviving a spouse or child, and Noma quietly bemoaned her loss as her will to move was sapped, knowing she would never again feel happiness in what little time she had left, residing herself to end here, lost and alone, on the other side of the world, because of a promise.

      “Noma, Noma!”

      Her ears twitched, a jolt going through her like lightning; Halli was alive, alive, and she was in trouble. Life surged within her, her pains dulled by urgency, and stiffly, Noma clawed her way through the outlet and limped toward the forest, every disadvantage hers except for one: a love that mended weakness, and drove her on in boundless purpose. Maybe that would be enough.

      “I’m coming, Halli…”

[thegooddoctorsthoughts]

A Dream Of Twisted Prophecy

They stood gazing down at all in attendance. Wrapped in pure white cloth and metals of unimaginable beauty, as though they had melted down the pearly gates on high and bent them to humanoid form. A twisted beauty to them, fundamentally human even from the ballroom floor below, yet so far removed and altered from baseline humanity they might as well have been an angel descended by the will of old gods or an aberrant demon having clawed its way up from the twisting nether below. Some said that a face lay behind the mask they wore, others said it was simply more wiring and machinery. Shining black imagery danced across a sea of porcelain white, like an inverted star chart. Their hood fell and rested upon their shoulders, their companions flanked them on either side, some in vibrant reds, blues, and purples, others in muted greys and blacks. Flanking them on either side stood two unlike any of the others. 

On their right side stood their Flesh-Smith, of both man and metal, yet somehow the most human of the three. There was no great imposing presence to him, he was handsome in a very natural form, his clothes mundane, he attracted very little attention when standing beside these two titans, yet this was what made him so remarkable. He wore humility and humanity with grace and embraced it with comfort, he stood alongside two deities a mortal man and yet did not look out of place. He was wrapped in the greens of the grasses and leave which seemed to call him home, while occasionally pieces of metal peering out. However, rather than contrasting his earthly appearance his metals brought forth the imagery of buried ores and harmony between man and nature. The halfway point between the world which brought humanity into existence and the inhuman creations which bent reality to its will. He held a peaceful comfort to him, wrapped in earthly materials and mortal cloth like a rainy autumn afternoon spent doing nothing but feeling at peace. His mere presence something beautiful and mild, like a comforting afternoon cup of tea at home after a long day at work. 

Standing in harsh opposition to this peace stood their Twisted Demon of Philosophy and Science. Monolith dwarfed him by easily two feet. He was handsome and beautiful, his presence like finely crafted steel, cold and painful to the touch, as you felt your blood rise to the surface and slowly drawn itself closer to his presence. They were entirely opposed to one another, as they stood in blissful white towering at over seven feet tall with a warmth to them; despite the cold dead steel which made up much of their body. He wrapped himself in harsh and baleful black, a coldness to him despite his flesh being more clearly in view, plenty of piercings and tattoos however no other metal at all insight, he wore his flesh with pride, reveled in pleasure and pain which his form had brought. He wore his humanity unabashedly, the raw emotion and pure, raging fire, calamitous hurricane sundered the earth beneath him with his mere presence.

Side by side they opposed one another, black, white and grey, pain and pleasure, man and machine. They raised their hands in unison. The lights dimmed and each of them addressed their guests. He stepped forward and spoke first. “Welcome one and all to this night of celebration and absolute debauchery.” They chuckled at that, their movements fluid and oddly musical. Their voice perfectly androgynous with a twisted mechanical ring to it, you could almost hear the binary which turned thought into speech. They stepped forward and placed their hand upon his shoulder, “This house is now your house, the higher you go the more...interesting things become. For those of you who are not accustomed to the nature of these parties, I would suggest talking with our moderators and stick the ground and first floors. As for those of you who know the running order of things, I will see you on the roof.”