#Antique Clothing Armoire

[indiatrendzs]

Timeless Vintage Furniture: Armoires, Rustic Mid-Century & Farmhouse Styles

the world of interior design, vintage furniture continues to hold a timeless appeal. With its unique blend of history, craftsmanship, and style, vintage cabinet offer a sense of character that modern mass-produced furniture often lacks. Among these classic elements, armoires, rustic mid-century furniture, farmhouse decor, and brass-studded or carved barn doors stand out as favorite choices for…

[trapezeartist]

[mrs-fatu]

Blossom in Summer

Chapter 1: Why me?

Paring: jey uso x Jasmine (fem!reader)

Warnings: Language, anger, confusion

WC: 2,824

Summary: Jasmine wakes up in an unfamiliar bedroom with no memory of last night. Who is this man? And why did he pick her?

As I slowly opened my eyes, the morning sun cast a warm glow across the lavish bedroom, bathing me in a soft, golden light. The silk curtains, adorned with intricate patterns, seemed to dance in the gentle breeze, and the sweet scent of dior Sauvage wafted through the air, filling my senses. But as I sat up, my head began to pound, and I was hit with a wave of confusion. Where was I? This wasn't my bedroom. The silk sheets tangled around my bare legs felt luxurious, but I couldn't shake the feeling that I was a stranger in this unfamiliar surrounding.

I forced my eyes open again, taking in the room around me with a sense of disorientation. The walls were a deep, rich blue, accentuated by traditional lavalavas hanging in beautifully crafted frames. To my left stood an antique black armoire, its intricate carvings telling a story of elegance and sophistication. The plush blue rug beneath the massive four-poster bed seemed to have been imported from a far-off land, and I felt like I was sleeping on a cloud.

As I sat up, holding my throbbing head in my hands, memories of the previous night began to trickle back. The fancy cocktail bar with my friends, doing shot after shot of tequila until the night blurred into a haze. Stumbling into a swanky hotel suite afterward, though I couldn't remember exactly how I'd gotten there. Who did this room belong to? And where had they gone? The questions swirled in my mind like a whirlpool, pulling me under.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood up on shaky feet, clutching the bedpost for support. My head felt like it was going to split open, and I needed to figure out what happened and get out of here. As I looked down at myself, I saw that I was still wearing the silky black dress from last night, now wrinkled and creased. It was then that I noticed something heavy on my left wrist - a tennis bracelet so bright it almost blinded me. What was it doing there?

Just as I was trying to make sense of the strange circumstances, the door on the side of the room swung open, and a tall figure emerged. He stood at 6'2", his chiseled physique on full display as he walked towards me. His ebony shorts clung to his toned thighs and waist, accentuating his inked legs and tribal tattoos that glistened against his damp skin.

His hair was styled in a seductive mullet, and his lips sported a perfect shade of color, revealing his dazzling grillz as he parted them. It was like he had stepped out of a steamy romance novel, and I felt like I was staring at a character come to life.

"Morning," he spoke, his deep voice low and husky.

I stood there in shock, unable to form words. He walked around me, opening a drawer from his dresser to pull out his clothes. My eyes followed him, mesmerized by the way his muscles flexed as he moved.

"I'm sorry, who...?" I stuttered before I could finish.

But before I could even get the words out, my stomach began to churn and I felt like I was going to vomit. I stumbled backward, but it was too late. The morning sickness washed over me, and I threw up right on the floor.

He darted towards me, concern etched on his face. "Shit, you good?" he asked as he brushed away a dangling curl from my face.

"I'm sorry...I'm..." I spoke, feeling tears pricking at the corners of my eyes.

But before I could finish speaking, he ushered me towards his bed and sat me down on the edge. "Sit down," he said softly.

As he left the room, leaving me alone with my thoughts and emotions, I felt like my world was spinning out of control.

I just wanted to go home, to crawl back into my own bed and forget the reckless night I had just endured. But instead, I found myself in a luxurious bedroom, surrounded by the opulent trappings of a life that was not my own. A diamond tennis bracelet glinted on my wrist, a constant reminder of my foolishness. How could I have been so irresponsible, drinking so much that I ended up in this strange and unfamiliar place?

As I sat on the bed, trying to gather my thoughts, my phone began to ring. I picked it up from the nightstand, hoping for some semblance of normalcy in this chaotic situation. "Hello?" I spoke, trying to keep my voice steady.

"Girl, where the hell are you?" asked my best friend Natasha, her voice laced with concern.

"I...I don't even know," I replied, trying to gather my thoughts. "I'm with a man, and...and I threw up on his carpet, so..."

Natasha's laughter came through the phone, followed by a gasp. "Wait, is he sexy?" she asked, her tone playful.

"Um, well...he looks like he's from some kind of Pacific Island or something," I replied. "He has all these tribal tattoos and lavalavas on his wall."

Natasha's squeal of excitement was music to my ears. "Don't stop there, bitch! Tell me more! How does he look?"

I took a deep breath before launching into a detailed description of the mans handsome features. "Well, he has a short-cut mullet, and he's kinda muscular. His thighs are thick...and he has bottom grillz...and his voice is low and smooth."

Natasha's reaction was immediate. "Oh my god, Jas! You're in trouble!"

I glanced up to see him standing in the doorway, his expression unreadable. "Shit, I gotta go," I said hastily. "he's back."

"Okay, girl, let me know if you need me to pick you up," Natasha said, her voice dripping with concern. "I love you, be safe Jaz."

The line went dead as Natasha hung up, leaving me alone with him once more. I felt a sense of trepidation wash over me as he walked towards me, his eyes fixed on mine with an intensity that made my heart skip a beat.

-

As I stood up from the bed, I felt a sense of unease wash over me. He had just finished cleaning up the spot where I had vomited, and now his eyes were locked onto mine with an intensity that made my heart skip a beat. I felt a flush rise to my cheeks as I met his gaze, my mind still foggy from the previous night's excesses.

"I'm really sorry...I need to leave," I said, trying to sound apologetic as I began to step into my shoes.

His eyes darted as he stood up, his expression unreadable. "You just gonna forget about last night?" he asked, his tone laced with accusation.

I hesitated, searching for the right words to say. The truth was, I didn't remember what happened last night. It was all a blur of music, laughter, and tequila shots. But I knew that I couldn't keep it up forever, not when I had no idea what had happened or who this man was.

"I don't..." I paused, feeling a sense of embarrassment wash over me.

The man let out a huff, his expression turning annoyed. "Damn, you don't even remember," he said, his voice dripping with disappointment.

"I am very sorry," I said, trying to apologize once again. "And...the bracelet. You can have it back, I'm sorry."

I started to unhook the bracelet, feeling a sense of relief wash over me as I handed it back to him. But instead of taking it from me, he spoke up again.

"Just keep the bracelet, Jaz. I don't want it back. If you want to leave then go, the door is over there," he said, his tone hostile.

I was taken aback by his words. "I'm sure you spent hella on it," I said, trying to reason with him. "I don't want to..."

But he cut me off again. "Bruh, keep it, Jaz. I gave it to you for a reason."

His words were laced with aggression, and I felt a shiver run down my spine as I realized that he was genuinely upset with me. But why? What had happened last night?

As I stood there, feeling a sense of unease wash over me once again, he spoke up again.

"And I bet you don't even remember my name huh?" he asked, his tone dripping with disdain.

I lightly shook my head, feeling a sense of shame wash over me. How could I have forgotten someone's name?

He sucked his teeth in disgust before speaking up again. "It's Joshua, Jey Uso," he said agitatedly. The name sounded slightly familiar but not quite.

With that, I grabbed my purse and made my way towards the door. As I left the room, I couldn't help but feel a sense of relief wash over me. I had no idea what had happened last night or who Jey was or why he was so upset with me. All I knew was that I needed to get out of there before things got any worse.

-

I stood on the sidewalk of the penthouse, my head still throbbing with a dull ache. The morning sunlight was harsh, and I winced as I squinted up at the towering skyscrapers. I pulled out my phone and dialed the familiar number, hoping that my friend Tiffany would be able to come and rescue me from this situation.

As I waited for her to answer, I took a deep breath and tried to clear the fog from my mind. What had happened last night? Who was Jey Uso, and why did he seem so angry with me? And why, for that matter, had he let me keep the diamond tennis bracelet? It didn't make any sense.

The phone rang again, and Tiffany's cheerful voice answered. "Hey, what's up?"

I took a deep breath before speaking. "Hey, can you come get me? I'll send you the address."

Tiffany's voice turned serious. "Yeah, I'll see you soon. Be careful."

The line went dead, and I was left standing alone on the sidewalk, feeling like I was in a fog. Who was Jey Uso, and why had I ended up in his penthouse apartment? What had happened last night, and why did I have such a pounding headache?

-

As I stood there, trying to make sense of it all, my thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a car approaching approaching. It was Tiffany, looking stylish and put-together as always in her benz.

"Hey, girl, get in" she said, concern etched on her face. i stepped into her car and took a deep breath, "What happened?"

I shook my head, feeling a sense of relief wash over me as I handed her the keys. "I don't know," I said. "I don't remember anything from last night."

Tiffany's eyes widened in surprise. "What do you mean?"

I shrugged. "I don't know who Jey Uso is or what happened. But I need some coffee and some crackers. Like, right now."

i rubbed my temples in an attempt to alleviate the throbbing headache, my friend Tiffany's eyes lit up like a bright light bulb. "JEY USO?" she yelled in question, her voice piercing the morning air.

I winced, feeling a wave of pain wash over me. "Goddamn girl, my head," I groaned, trying to hold onto my sanity.

Tiffany's eyes sparkled with excitement. "I'm sorry, but you said his name is Jey Uso, right?" she asked, her voice filled with curiosity.

I nodded my head, feeling a sense of resignation wash over me. "Yeah, why? Then he let me keep this bracelet," I said, holding up my wrist to show her the diamond tennis bracelet.

Tiffany's reaction was immediate. She squealed like a little child, her eyes wide with excitement. "YOU STAYED WITH JEY USO AND HE GAVE YOU A TENNIS BRACELET?" she repeated, her voice rising to a near-shriek.

I palmed my face, feeling a sense of embarrassment wash over me. "My head. Please stop screaming," I begged.

Tiffany's laughter died down, and she looked at me with a mixture of amusement and concern. "Oh, girl, I'm sorry. Jey Uso is the WWE wrestler, and he's fine as hell!" she exclaimed.

I gave her a skeptical look, feeling a sense of unease. "What? Come on, you can't tell me he's not sexy. He's main event Jey Uso. And God, the way he flicks his tongue... We have to go to the supershow tonight, you gotta see him in the ring," she said.

I raised an eyebrow, feeling a sense of trepidation. "I mean, he's okay, but he was kinda rude. If going to the show will make you happy then sure. But I really need some fucking coffee," I said.

Tiffany rolled her eyes. "Fine, we'll get you coffee and then get ready for the show," she said before driving off into the morning traffic.

I couldn't help but feel a sense of confusion. Who was Jey Uso, and why did he seem so angry with me? And what had happened last night? The questions swirled in my mind like a whirlpool, refusing to be silenced.

But for now, all I could think about was getting home and getting some coffee into my system. Maybe then things would start to make sense again.

—

I knew that having a hangover wasn't the best, but coffee always seemed to come in handy.

I reached for my trusty brush and gel, and began to work my hair into a sleek, curly ponytail. The hard bristles of the brush glided effortlessly through my locks, leaving them smooth and tamed. I then moved on to my eyebrows, using a precision brow pencil to reshape them into a thin, arching shape that I preferred. The gentle strokes of the pencil seemed to calm my frazzled nerves, and I felt a sense of clarity wash over me.

With my brows in order, I turned my attention to my makeup. I carefully applied a light foundation to even out my complexion, followed by a subtle blush to give my cheeks a healthy glow. A swipe of mascara added depth and drama to my lashes, and a swipe of lip balm left my lips feeling soft and hydrated.

As I finished up my makeup routine, I stood up and surveyed my reflection. I was pleased with the results - my hair looked luscious and bouncy, and my makeup was understated yet effective. I then gathered my clothes, selecting a nice outfit that would see me through the day.

As I dressed, I couldn't help but feel a sense of gratitude for the simple pleasures in life - a hot shower, a good cup of coffee, and a fresh start. The night moonlight streaming through the window seemed to hold promise, and I felt a sense of renewed energy coursing through my veins.

I took one last look at myself in the mirror, smoothing out any wrinkles or creases in my outfit. Satisfied with the result, I headed out into the night, ready to face whatever happens.

-

As I emerged from the hotel, I was greeted by the warm night and the sound of Tiffany's horn blaring in the distance. I rushed towards the car, my mind still foggy from the lingering effects of the night before. As I slipped into the passenger seat, Tiffany flashed me a bright smile. "You look good, girl!" she exclaimed.

I smiled back, feeling a sense of gratitude for her kind words. "Thanks, you look good too," I replied, taking in her stylish outfit.

As we hit the road, Tiffany began to drive, her eyes fixed on the windshield. "Okay, so remember, we're going to see Jey tonight. I got us front row tickets, so at least cheer when he comes out, because I definitely will," she said, her voice filled with excitement.

I raised an eyebrow, feeling a sense of confusion wash over me. What was up with this man? Why did women like Tiffany drool over him so much? I mean, I got it - he was hot as hell - but I didn't understand all the hype. The traffic lights seemed to be flashing in sync with the diamond bracelet on my wrist, and all I could think about was why me? What had happened? Would it all come back to me?

As we navigated through the crowded streets of Las Vegas, my mind began to wander back to the night before. The anger in Jey's eyes as I told him I didn't remember anything was still etched in my memory. It was enough to keep me away from him, to make me realize that I didn't need another angry man in my life. Not again.

After dealing with Aaron, I had promised myself that I wouldn't dare let another angry man into my life again. And now, as I sat in the car with Tiffany, I knew that I had to keep my distance from Jey Uso. Maybe after the show, I could find him and give him the bracelet back - never look back. It would be for my own good.

As we pulled up to the venue, I took a deep breath and let my thoughts settle. I had five days left in Vegas, and I was determined to make the most of it. No more worrying about waking up in a random man's bed. No more drama or stress. Just me, myself, and a fresh start.

[graeadalicia]

14

As they rest in silence, Grae has some thoughts.

Grae pulled out Adalicia tight against him, cradling her head against his chest and holding his arm tight around her waist. He wanted her to feel safe, he wanted her to feel loved, and he wanted her to feel cherished above all. In the coming days her life would completely change from everything she had ever known. Going from a slave to the Consort of the Chancellor of Uffern would be something that she couldn't even imagine.

The clothing that was in the armoire in her room was just a start of all that was to come. He could see that already that overwhelmed her. In two days, her tutor would arrive to teach her manners and customs. After that, comes another tutor to teach her diplomacy and languages. After that, another would come to teach her the etiquette for the balls and for meeting royalty from other realms, and even landed gentry of Uffern.

Adalicia would learn this all, and not all of it would be taught in the most gentle of manners. He worried about her. She was such a delicate and innocent flower, and she was entering a world where delicate was not something she could be. It was a world where often the royalty was hard on others and judgmental. Their words were biting and they stung. The women were catty, with insults that would slice to the very bone of the person they were facing. He wondered how Adalicia would handle that. He wondered if she could stand up to someone like Persephone and Calliope. Could she handle the insults that they would make against her?

Actually he didn't worry about Calliope. Of the two princesses within the castle, Calliope would never hurt anybody. Persephone, that was who he was worried about. Her jealousy was legendary, as were her temperament, as Kellen was currently facing. And, he worried about the jealousy that Persephone would have over the fact that she and Grae had once been lovers. Finding out that he had now made Adalicia his Consort would no doubt bring about another temper tantrum. Not only had she been taken from her, he had made her his Consort. Elevated her status in his life from a slave to just below being Betrothed. It was not a slight that she would take lightly, of that he was sure. And he was sure that there would be a confrontation between himself and Persephone, because he would not let the woman that he was coming to care very deeply face that alone.

Grae was still trying to figure out exactly why he cared so deeply about Adalicia. The whole thing had started as a way to get under Persephone's skin, and now he held her in his arms as if she was the most fragile thing, the most important thing, in his life. There were very few things he had ever faced Kellen over, let alone been willing to become physically violent over, but he had been willing to do that for her. He had been willing to take on his best friend, a man that he loved like his brother, to keep her at his side. And he would do it again. Grae would do it over and over, if it meant she didn't leave him.

Somehow, Grae already knew that he would be stronger with her at his side. That if she went with him into negotiations, that he would do better, that he would know more of what was going on. She truly could be his eyes and ears when he was distracted with the art of the deal. He was not sure how he knew it, but he was certain that she would become the jewel in his crown as Chancellor. There were stories in antiquity of such things happening, but he had always considered them just that, stories. They were tales told to children, to have them dreaming of futures. Yet here he was with that tale becoming his reality. But then, she wasn't just a slave, was she? Adalicia was queen. She was a fae queen, a fae queen who was the last of a royal lineage. A fae queen who escaped extermination by the his own best friend, and the King of Uffern. She was an enigma that was now his bonded wife, because somehow the beauty he held within his arms had known the words to the marriage vows that she should not have. And she had recited them effortlessly, with no hesitation, with no reservation, and with true heartfelt emotion in her eyes and deep affection in her voice.

Grae had seen the way she had reacted to Kellen, he could not have that happen on a daily basis. He would not have the woman that was to become his wife destroyed, so that she could do little more than cower in the corners and shadows. Unlike Kellen, he did not relish in the destruction of others. He did not find joy in watching those around him reduced to smallness, so that he could feel great in their presence. He was not like Kellen, and he had always prided himself in that. He would not watch the woman that was to stand by his side as his bride become what Kellen would have as his.

Grae was still processing it all. Parts of it were still sinking in, and it still felt surreal, and he didn't know how to take it all in. But he wanted to. And as he felt her slip into the soft caress of sleep, he swore a vow unto himself that no matter what came in the coming days, he would protect her from the harshness of royal life. He would make sure that the tutors knew that they were to be gentle with her and guide her but not destroy her, as they often did the princes and princesses that they train. She was to be treated as if she was made of the most fragile glass. She was not to be dropped or harmed in any way. If they caused even one tear to fall, they would face his wrath, and it would be of epic proportion. One finger lay upon her, one harsh word delivered to her heart, and he would destroy the one who did so.

[sexshopshenanigans]

When I was on a road trip with my mom and sibling this summer we were driving across the province and Mom was looking at a map while I drove and said “Stop!! We have to go here!”

“Here” was just a string of tiny little communities maybe 40 minutes off our route and she said she wanted to go because “they’re right there and we’ll probably never get a chance to see them again, so why not?”

So we drove down a few paved and dirt roads and past one abandoned car that looked exactly like mine except it was green and had a broken axel and other than that there wasn’t much to see. There were a few hand-painted signs around saying stuff like WELCOME TO JEFFRIES with a grandma character looking sassy or possibly a clown, I don’t remember all the details. Then one of the signs we passed said MUSEUM <- and we both yelled and did a u-turn and went down the even tinier bumpier dirt road until we found a field with a house in it.

It was the Legge Homestead, I think? And I’ve done some archive work and volunteering with local museums but I’d never heard of this one. The house had been owned by a local family and the last member donated it to the town to use as a museum and it was full of artifacts and furniture and things from when it was built in 1905 up til maybe the 60s when it was still being occupied. There were two local students working there dressed in historical costume and they gave us a very leisurely tour through the rooms.

My mom kept pointing out things she used to use all the time when she was younger, and one of the rooms had toys she remembered having as a kid. When I told the tour guide I sew clothing and use vintage and antique clothing as inspiration, he asked if I wanted to get photos of all the clothes in the antique armoire and took them all out and held them up so I could take photos. One room was the local history room and had framed photos of the local midwives and musicians and there were uniforms and books from the local brownies and guide troops and a RAC uniform on a mannequin. One section of the wall was “Tragedies In Our Community” and there were three photos of a small water bomber crashing in water, and a framed news article from the 80s about a car crash that killed three teens coming home from a wrestling tournament.

Downstairs in the kitchen they had an old wood stove that the guide mournfully informed us wasn’t the original one that came from the house, because “someone broke in and stole it a few years ago, it’s probably in somebody’s cabin now - at least it’s still getting use!” There were a wall of aprons with notes pinned to them from women in the community, each with a little line or story of what they did while wearing aprons or why they would wear them.

It was a very charming little museum with apparently no promotion, since I’ve never seen it on any guides or in any publications. I guess the moral of this story is to go through small communities and down bumpy dirt roads as often as possible in case there is a gem hidden away in a field somewhere.

[thegreatobsesso]

It's been 38 days since the election and this is the first time I've actually written something that makes me happy. It's like the first time I actually was able to focus on a scene long enough to dip down into it and actually feel excited about it, and that is bringing my heart back to life in a way that is impossible to describe.

I would like to thank Aster for this - she's coming in strong and showing me who she is, and that is an absolutely horrifying wolf in sheep's clothing, and I love her to death. 

--

Octavius POV

He locates Aster quickly inside his clubhouse lounge; she’s shrugged off a creamy fur fit for the arctic and is currently sipping a clear drink around a huge ice cube. He seats himself across from her and kicks back without matching her warm greeting.

“Let’s have it, then.”

“Have what?”

“I assume you have a victory speech prepared. You’ve obviously been planning this for quite some time, and you’ve managed to achieve it in plain sight. Even your own father didn’t see it coming.”

She frowns softly. “You should be nicer to me. I’m in mourning.”

“You’re the one who killed him.”

“Mature humans can hold two truths at once.”

He’s reaching for his jacket pocket before he realizes it. He’s brought a rare Montecristo with him, having absolutely no intention of enduring this interaction without smoking.

“Yes, well, getting shot puts me in a bad mood.” 

“You left me little choice,” she smiles, good-natured and open. “I made sure you barely nicked. Besides, you can’t honestly tell me you didn’t appreciate the orchestration of the thing. Just a little bit.”

The thing is, she’s right. Recreation derailment aside, any night he’s not bored is a good night. He forgets, sometimes, how well Aster actually knows him.

“Just like old times,” he says, cutting the end off the cigar and toasting the foot. 

Aster cocks her head. “Old times?”

“You don’t remember? You and I tearing around your father’s estate, taking turns killing each other.”

That earns him a laugh from her, a proper one as far as he can gage, and anyone watching would take them for the best of friends. “Oh, hell. I haven’t thought about that in years. That actually felt normal at the time, didn’t it? Children of organized crime, I suppose that’s what you get.”

The first puff of the cigar is pure heaven and it does, in fact, pair well with his syrupy memories of long, pointless afternoons at the Craine estate, making secret bases out of empty cedar chests and antique armoires, taking turns being the assassin and the snitch.

Their elders never talked about murder in front of them, he was fairly sure, but somehow he and Aster understood what was happening anyways and fashioned their play accordingly while their peers were chalking hopscotch boards onto the sidewalk.

A different time. His parents were still alive and Aster was a boy named Ben. Or she was a girl in a boy’s body, however you’re meant to denote such things in the year of our lord 2024. The proper syntax changes far too often.

“What is it you want, Aster?”

She’s sitting there across from him straight-backed in her chair, watching the smoke curl from his mouth with something like pity. “Honest answer?”

He scoffs. “I should hope so, otherwise I’m not quite sure what we’re doing here.”

“Then in that case, I’d like us to be friends again. You do work for me now, but I don’t see any reason why you can’t work with me instead.”

How very rich. He leans forward to tap away the beginnings of accumulating ash. “Do you honestly think I’m going to be swayed by your sweet-talking? I’ve watched you slither your way through these ranks trading loyalty like currency, brainwashing everyone around you into doing your bidding.”

“That’s a very curious way to describe the act of building meaningful relationships based on mutual respect.”

“Drop it, Aster. I can see you.”

She stares back at him with those watercolor eyes of hers, washed in gentleness. “I’ll never know what exactly I did to deserve your disdain,” she says evenly, “but you can be sure of one thing. I will never give up on you.”

She stands, securing the hideous fur around her shoulders and slinging her clutch across her chest. “Right now, I need you to escort me downstairs, where you’ll walk me through the books line by line.”

“The hell I will, I’ve only just started my cigar.”

“And tomorrow, you’ll schedule personal meetings with me, yourself and every one of your board members.”

“I don’t schedule things. My assistant does.”

She smiles patiently. He directs his attention straight at the end of his cigar. 

“I’m going to be relentlessly lovely to you, Octavius,” she promises, “until you’ve simply got no reasons left to hate me.”

She sits back down, slips off the fur, and waits for him to finish his cigar.

--

✨ WIP intro

🔖 tag list: @winterandwords // @foxboyclit //@revenantlore

@space-writes // @indecentpause // @words-after-midnight

comment to be added or removed!

📝 all posts from WIP: gay crime bdsm story

--

Blessings be upon you all, and may a spark of renewed energy reach and warm you as it has me. <3

[logisticsmarts]

Relocating Household Antiques with Top Packers and Movers in Gurgaon; Measures to See

Antique furniture may be lovely, old, and hold sentimental significance for you. Old china cabinets, armoires, grandfather clocks, antique beds, tables, dressers, sideboards, chests of drawers, wardrobes, and hutches are a few examples. We go over some advice on how to pack these antique items and transport them with the Top Packers and movers in Gurgaon in this blog.

Tips to Move Your Antique Furniture

Find a few critical moving tips to secure your household antiques with the best care:

Take stock of your antique furniture.

When creating an inventory list, don't forget to note each antique's present state (if at all feasible, take pictures). This will help you detect any damage during transit and make sure everything arrives securely.

Get insurance for your goods.

Before you move, get insurance for all of your antique furniture. There are two options available to you: professional moving firms or homeowners insurance policy. Your antique furniture's value can be determined with the help of the assessed paperwork.

Every piece of furniture should be cleaned.

To ensure that your antiques arrive in the best possible condition at your new location, clean them all before you begin packing. Dust or dirt that has gathered can be removed with a fresh microfiber cloth.

Using foam and pads to pack furniture

As a first line of defense, securely wrap each piece of furniture with furniture pads or moving blankets. Next, add some padding with plastic wrap that has been inflated with air. Make sure to cover every side of the furniture, paying particular attention to the top and bottom. Using packing tape, secure.

Don't drag, lift

Antique furniture should not be dragged across the floor when packed. Instead, raise the ancient item with your hand below it while attempting to divide the weight of the entire piece equally among those who are currently touching it.

Conclusion

Make sure you employ safe lifting techniques, high-quality packing materials, and moving equipment while relocating your treasured antique furniture. While Home shifting services in Gurgaon with antique items, place them in the moving vehicle, and exercise the appropriate caution to prevent slip-offs, collisions, or other mishaps.

[jasonvanof]

Traditional and Modern Wedding Gift Trends

Wedding gifts in Sri Lanka are an integral part of celebrating a couple's union, reflecting both tradition and modernity. Over time, the nature of wedding gifts has evolved, influenced by cultural practices, changing lifestyles, and technological advancements. This article explores the trends in traditional and modern wedding gifts and gift packs in Sri Lanka, highlighting the shift in preferences and the reasons behind them.

Traditional Wedding Gift Trends

1. Household Items

Traditionally, wedding gifts often consisted of household items meant to help the couple set up their new home together.

- Kitchenware: Items like pots, pans, and cutlery were common, serving as essential tools for the couple’s daily life.

- Linens: Bedding, towels, and tablecloths were popular, providing comfort and utility.

- Dinnerware: Fine china, crystal glasses, and silverware were prized gifts, often reserved for special occasions.

2. Cash and Checks

Monetary gifts have always been a staple in wedding gifting, offering couples the flexibility to use the funds as they see fit.

- Cash Envelopes: In many cultures, cash is given in beautifully decorated envelopes, symbolizing prosperity and good fortune.

- Checks: Personalized checks were common, allowing guests to give substantial gifts without the bulk of cash.

3. Heirlooms

Passing down family heirlooms as wedding gifts has been a cherished tradition, symbolizing continuity and the merging of two families.

- Jewellery: Pieces like necklaces, rings, and bracelets are handed down through generations, carrying sentimental value.

- Furniture: Antique furniture items, such as armoires and dining tables, are given to provide both utility and a sense of history.

- Artwork: Paintings and sculptures from family collections serve as meaningful and decorative gifts.

4. Religious and Cultural Items

In many cultures, wedding gifts include items that hold religious or cultural significance.

- Holy Books: Copies of religious texts are given to guide the couple in their spiritual journey together.

- Traditional Attire: Cultural clothing, such as saris or kimonos, are gifted for use in future ceremonies.

- Decorative Items: Items like wall hangings or statues that reflect the couple's heritage are popular choices.

Modern Wedding Gift Trends

1. Gift Registries

Gift registries have revolutionized the way couples receive wedding gifts, allowing them to select items they need and desire.

- Home Essentials: Couples can choose from a wide range of household items, ensuring they receive gifts that match their tastes and needs.

- Experiences: Many registries now offer options for gifting experiences, such as cooking classes, wine tastings, or travel vouchers.

- Charitable Donations: Some couples prefer guests to donate to their favourite charities in lieu of traditional gifts.

2. Cash Funds

With the rise of online platforms, cash funds have become a popular modern wedding gift trend.

- Honeymoon Funds: Guests can contribute to the couple's honeymoon, helping them create lasting memories.

- Home Down Payment: Contributions towards a new home are highly appreciated, especially by couples looking to buy their first house.

- General Cash Gifts: Platforms like PayPal or Venmo make it easy for guests to send cash gifts directly to the couple.

3. Personalized and Custom Gifts

Personalization adds a special touch to modern wedding gifts, making them unique and memorable.

- Custom Art: Commissioned artwork featuring the couple’s names, wedding date, or a meaningful quote.

- Engraved Items: Personalized items like picture frames, cutting boards, wine glasses and perfumes with the best Perfume Price in Sri Lanka with the couple’s initials or wedding date.

- Photo Albums: Custom photo books capturing the couple’s journey together.

4. Technology and Gadgets

In the digital age, technology and gadgets have become increasingly popular as wedding gifts.

- Smart Home Devices: Items like smart speakers, thermostats, and security systems enhance the couple’s home.

- Kitchen Gadgets: High-tech kitchen appliances, such as espresso machines or multi-cookers, are practical and appreciated.

- Entertainment Systems: Gifts like high-definition televisions, gaming consoles, or streaming devices cater to the couple’s leisure activities.

5. Subscription Services

Subscription services provide ongoing enjoyment and convenience, making them a trendy modern wedding gift.

- Streaming Services: Subscriptions to platforms like Netflix, Spotify, or Amazon Prime.

- Meal Kits: Monthly meal kit deliveries that make cooking easy and fun.

- Wine or Book Clubs: Monthly wine or book deliveries tailored to the couple’s preferences.

The evolution of wedding gift trends from traditional household items and heirlooms to modern gift registries and technology reflects the changing lifestyles and preferences of couples. While traditional gifts continue to hold sentimental value, modern trends cater to contemporary needs and conveniences, offering a wide range of options for both givers and receivers. Whether opting for classic gifts or embracing new trends, the most important aspect remains the thought and love behind the gesture.

[slowd1ving]

PENDULUM ✦ . 　⁺ viii.

ROSEMARY (DEFTONES)

"As we cross the space and time, Just stay with me." wc: 9.9k

JOJO'S BIZARRE ADVENTURE MASTERLIST

PENDULUM MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

PREVIOUS PART ・゜NEXT PART

The eve of the 25th came and went with a brevity that, quite frankly, was astonishing. 

Gone were the halcyon days of ignoring your Impending Doom – that was something for another day, the 25th of September – but today was the 25th. Outwardly, nothing had changed for the past few days; you still drilled with Group Four from dawn, you still served drinks into the evening, and you still went to bed and passed out from a bone-deep exhaustion. 

Inwardly, nothing much had changed either. There were no resolutions, no staunch threads of determination, and certainly no epiphany that would save you. This was no movie; you didn’t have some Plan B to rely on if all else failed. Rather, you could only resign yourself to your fate – acceptance, today, was your virtue above all else. Though, with that, came the lack of trepidation and dread that you were wholeheartedly expecting; it made you dispassioned enough to wonder whether you were just a mere spectator in some bizarre dream.  

A dream , you decided to accept once more. A dream – where, come morning, you’d wake up in your bed with your phone by your side and the wonders of modern technology polluting your every breath. This is just a dream , you repeated like a mantra – it was that which fueled you to slip on your clothes. 

4:34

The race was practically at your doorstep, but you hurried to shove your clothes on anyway. They were freshly washed, yet the crimson jacket draping your torso still smelled of antiquity. All the better , you insisted – there was a fervent urge to cling to the safety of this little inn. 

Just like days past, you gave yourself a cursory inspection in the cracked mirror in the armoire: your wide helmet-hat and goggles perched securely on your head, the sienna-coloured chaps rested tightly against your dusty fatigues, black fabric tied loosely around your neck, and the crimson jacket that sorely reminded you of Vincent already. 

In silence, you turned away; the only noise left in the otherwise soundless room was the click of your gifted boots against the floorboards. 

This is the last time I’ll be in this room . A space where you had wept til your eyes had no more left to give, a space where you’d shared both dream and nightmare with the hard mattress beneath you, a space where you slumped over the desk in exhaustion after getting wrung through by Vincent, then Martha – it was all unintentionally added to your bank of memories. With all your resolution that you’d move on without a trace of pain, it all fell down the gutter as you surveyed the walls and timber floor for a last time. 

You’d miss it all. 

Before you left the room where you both suffered and found refuge in, you grasped the dusty bag: still sitting by the foot of your bed. It was a last reminder of the stakes resting on your shoulders; yet, Vincent had added a touch of the past in the new, additional straps that would make it easier to secure to your saddle. Everything you still owned from your timeline had been altered to fit centuries prior. 

Including yourself. 

God . Tears threatened to spill as you quietly shut the door behind you; with every throb of your head, your tattoo pulsed in tandem on the cool door jamb. Why now ? For the past few weeks, you’d wrangled your feelings back into the neat little box of your unconscious mind – now, of all times, they fought to resurface and plague you with anger and grief, when you needed your focus the most. 

With the dead man’s jacket, you roughly wiped the water that misted your eyes. 

Breakfast was a solemn affair. Dolly, upon seeing you dressed and carrying the bag that marked your departure for good, had promptly burst into tears. Her hiccuping sobs rang out in the stone kitchen for the rest of the hour; and you had half a mind to join her. Each bite, each mouthful of food that you might’ve otherwise enjoyed – it felt as dry as sawdust in your mourning. Even Vincent, the gruff pacifier of whatever troubled his niece, kept silent as he ate. The very air was heavy with palpable unease. 

They both walked you to where you and Group Four’s biometrics were being taken. Along the way, Dolly was unusually quiet; on the other end of the spectrum, Vincent kept rattling off all the knowledge he’d told you over the past few weeks – he delivered it caustically, but the brusque words kept you from bursting into your own wracking sobs. 

Brush down Group Four after each day. Don’t get the tack wet unnecessarily. Pace your horse . 

This is all to get home , you reminded yourself bitterly – yet the joy at that prospect never came.

No longer were you the poor, unfortunate bartending time traveler taken in by Vincent; with the bandanna pressing against your face, and the wide hat tipped low over your eyes, you were just another competitor gunning for the goal. You assumed it fully; your bag was devoid of scientific equipment save your poor, dead phone – instead, it was filled with the necessary equipment that would let you survive in the tumultuous desert weather. 

“Write to us,” Dolly cajoled tearfully – her eyes were still puffy and sore as you stepped through the tent and into the next world. Just as when you were forced through the wormhole, there was now a filmy veil separating you and the ramshackle little family you’d unintentionally created. You were just a mere jockey now – there was no turning back to run from that beige tent. No , you wouldn’t see them again until you were at the starting line; and even then, urgent newspapers had speculated that the starting line would stretch miles into the horizon. “ Promise .”

This moment in time could very well be the last you saw of them. 

“I promise,” your voice was muffled by the layers of fabric – it concealed the underlying hoarseness of each syllable, something you were infinitely thankful for. “As long as you practise your lettering and write back.” 

“You bet,” her face practically streamed with tears as she furiously wiped them away. You could feel your heart shattering, and you turned to where that old man stood. Just like always, there was an air of gruff coldness surrounding him; yet today, it had inexorably softened into an awkward atmosphere – as if he didn’t know what to do with himself. 

“So,” he began unusually – he was never one to waste and mince words, when he could get straight to the point. His steely eyes, so full of exasperation, were at once filled with a dove-grey softness that – for once – belied his true age. In the murky haze of your watery vision, he’d lost the sharp lines that made him him . “Off to compete in the big races, ain’t ya?” 

Beneath your so-called impersonal mask, your lip wobbled at his uncertain tone. Before you could process it, he stepped forward; in one fluid motion, he enveloped you in a tight hug that robbed you of the wheezing breath in your lungs. Your desperate fingers clutched at the fabric of his shirt – and you could feel Dolly wrap her bony arms around the two of you to add to the dogpile that was quickly stifling all your resolve. 

Among the dusty, foetid stench of horses and sweaty riders in a rapidly rising sun, he still smelled like his kitchen – aromatic and familiar . You breathed in the mundane smell; it was enough to keep you grounded and present, even if it was just for a brief moment. 

“I ain’t good with encouraging words,” he muttered into the bloody fabric of your jacket. One of his buttons was awkwardly pressing into your cheekbone, but you couldn’t bring yourself to break the fragile bubble that eased away the raucous bustling behind the boundary of that tent. “But I believe you can achieve your goal.”

He was quiet then, but he finally broke away with one final clasp of your shoulder. 

“You’ll do us proud.”

It took all it had in you not to sink to the dirty ground right there and then. Instead, you’d given a (what you could only hope was resolute) nod and pushed right through the beige canvas material. You couldn’t bear to look back; if you did, not even Depeche Mode would convince you to reach your goal. 

“ Don’t you forget us ,” Dolly hollered after you.

I won’t . 

No, you wouldn’t. 

. 　⁺ ✦

Seldom had you seen such a teeming crowd. From beside the surly official, you watched as people bickered, caterwauled and overall burst with a vitality that infected you too. To those who knew you, the trembling of your shoulders was a clear marker for dread – but the official didn’t know you. You were just another excited jockey about to compete in the greatest race of all time. 

Even after you sluiced it off, the ink stain on your fingers still remained. 

7:52

A mere two hours were left in your hourglass before your fate was set in stone. If you turned back now, you could survive and attempt to begin life anew – but that thought sickened you as much as it was tempting. You’d die trying to get through to the President; it was an infinitely more dangerous task than an asinine race. 

Everyone knew it. From the schoolchildren who recited the Pledge to FDV the twenty-ninth – or whichever numeral graced his name in your future  – to the people living in the remotest regions of the planet, there was an unanimous law that went unspoken: do not mess with the President . 

Those who had tried assassinations had their own heads implode. Those who tried ruining his reputation had their tongues cut out and fingers macerated beyond repair. His sepulchral fingers had enclosed the world in a mausoleum of his own making, until all countries had sworn allegiance to his great land: the United States of America. It was an empire, one that made you nervously watch your step wherever you went. 

Dissent was no longer an option . 

Eyes were everywhere. 

This was nothing more than a suicide mission; you had already relinquished any hope of returning to your future. Vomit rose through your rapidly restricting throat – in the face of this death, what could you do but panic? It all paled away: the fear you’d felt while looking at that lordling jockey, the terror you felt as that man’s lifeblood stained the insatiable earth sanguine, and the redolence with which you approached your task. 

You would die. 

In the future, there was surveillance everywhere – cameras, audio bugging, social media monitoring – any threads of suspicion were swiftly eliminated under the glorious rule of FDV. Peace was only upheld because of the united horror that forcibly brought about truce. Perhaps the more unsettling aspect of it was just how subtly the man did it; lives were taken with a brevity and silence as if they had never existed in the first place (not a trace remained). Life was ordinary – if you didn’t murmur so much as a word against the President. 

Why were you so desperate to return?  

Here was the lesser of two evils; yet this unfamiliar, alien world that held you in this cursed place had ripped you away from everything you had known and loved. Even with the deep paranoia that held you in its thralls, it was somewhere you could call a home; there were people that kept you rooted in a stable foundation. There was the intrinsic familiarity of the modern world – the venom that was slowly poisoning it couldn’t dull the sharp ache of longing. 

Sure, that world was held in place by an iron tyrant who had the luck of the devil and Fate itself by his shoulder, but you still had the naive yearning for the haven of your mundane life. 

God – maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if you died early during the race.  

“You can go,” the official intoned boredly. With a surge of embarrassment, you realised that you’d been staring at a rat in the corner for the past minute – the poor, writhing thing was grappling with the canvas and your vacant eyes had fixed themselves on it. 

“Right,” your response was curt; it wasn’t like he could see your mouth grimacing in shame from beneath the cloth. Past your reaching fingertips, the light was blinding – and beyond that was the beginning. 

9:27

You could feel the thrum of your tattoos beat like a second heart. The beach – so empty just a few weeks prior – had filled into a teeming crowd that threatened to go supernova. Bodies collided into bodies, horses paced and were forcibly held back by tired and nervous riders, and above it all was the deafening chatter and yells of the thousands upon thousands that had gathered upon the coast. You breathed it in; the hope ebbing and flowing throughout the great tide of humanity was infectious – and for the first time, you started to get an inkling of just how historical this moment was. Every neuron was snapping and crackling with dizzying speed; every single cell in your weary body was dedicated to sharing in the anticipation that swept through the eager crowd. 

Group Four was tense. The restlessness had slowly built from several days prior, where Martha suddenly had a booming number of jockeys renting out stalls from her; now, though, it all came to a head. Here, where the repugnant stench of sweat and abject foulness hurtled at the two of you at full speed, where the tumultuous cacophony of human and horse collided into a crashing mass that trembled in excitement. She paced where they paced, moved where they moved, and breathed as the crowd breathed. Yet, beneath all the compressed energy, she was unusually calm – as if she knew how important this was for you. Not a single snap escaped her – despite the tension contorting her muscles, her head stayed still. 

“Attention, all participants!”

Your head shot up from where you were leaning the crown of it against your saddle. It wasn’t a particularly loud voice that spoke up – yet it commanded attention all the same. The man who had yelled stood high on a wooden platform built in the near distance; his proclamation carried to the people standing a good dozen metres behind you. 

“Each of your numbers is your corresponding grid number – be there two minutes before ten. Latecomers and grid-leavers will be penalised!”

Around you, the crowd murmured with a new life as they checked their saddle-cloth once more. You instead took the opportunity to gaze at the man standing by the announcer; he looked rather old, though not in the way Vincent was old. That strange man looked more like life itself had been robbed from his soul, rather than how Vincent looked as if time had slowly carved a worn passage of lessons into his weathered brow. His hair was bright yellow, and tapered into a spiky bowl-cut that made you wince in sympathy. 

“And now – a message from the race director and sponsor himself: the man, the myth, the legend… Mr Stephen Steel himself!”

Ah . That quaint, bumbling old man was the mastermind behind all this? That was the historical Stephen Steel, who faced both criticism and acclamation every waking moment? Your first impression hadn’t been the one of grandeur you remembered from history textbooks; in those weathered texts, he was painted without the exhaustion that emanated from him this minute. Rather, he was a diminutive person – one whose presence caused a rift in your expectations. It seemed the riders and spectators alike had thought the same, for they continued their mindless chatter – right until he opened his mouth.

“Shut up!” he yelled. The sheer shockwaves of his bellow rippled out through the crowd; your very hat trembled minutely on your head. There was a palpable, tense silence that radiated from the crowd – now, they were all rapt from the collision with their eardrums. Depeche Mode snickered. Then, Stephen Steel raised his wrinkled, gnarled hand; behind him, a block of ice emerged from behind a curtain. “This ice – right here – came from the South Pole, which has no nation. And according to scientists, it froze over three-hundred million years ago – and we placed the championship trophy inside, where it will be transported by rail to the goal, where it is estimated to melt by the end of the Steel Ball Run. It is our symbol of a fair fight!” 

There was still quiet as he let the last words ring out on the coast. Looking back on it, it really wasn’t hard to see how Stephen Steel had managed to coin the nickname of a maverick genius in your history textbooks. Despite the unassuming first impression you had of him, he had a way of drawing attention to himself with his words; later on, you would clarify that it was due to his refusal to follow the orthodox way of life that many businessmen like him lived and swore by. Then, just like you had acknowledged a moment ago, he opened his mouth again to shatter the new impression the riders had of him. 

“Well, I think those comments-” he began once more, and the enraptured crowd waited to hear his verdict. “-really broke the ice, didn’t they?”

There was a collective, unanimous groan. 

Depeche Mode snickered once more. 

9:52

You slipped the gloves on. Those grains of sand were falling more rapidly than ever; before you knew it, it was already time to sling your goggles on and tighten your bandanna. Beneath your boot, the pressure of the stirrup was familiar and welcoming. On the saddle, you adjusted your modified saddlebag once more; all that scientific equipment had been replaced by a knife, pan, flintbox and other miscellany that made you stew in bitterness. The only thing that you had kept was your poor dead phone: stuffed uselessly into the very depths of the pack (yet you kept it as a memento of the future anyway). 

“It’s now two minutes until the start of the greatest race in history! 3,652 participants in total – and we can’t even see the end of the line!”

Group Four was kept on a firm hold; a false start and the two of you would definitely be penalised. You couldn’t afford to make mistakes so early – ridicule would definitely estrange you from would be allies. Instead, you shortened the reins smoothly to make it easier to settle into a loping canter. The Appaloosa had already been warmed enough by the winding walk you’d taken her on just a dozen minutes prior, but you wouldn’t start with a gallop where you could so easily lose control in this writhing mass of human and horse. 

Determinedly, you fixed your gaze on the distant horizon: all after making sure you didn’t see any unpleasant faces in your immediate vicinity. Beneath you, Group Four leaned back on her hindquarters so she’d catapult forward and avoid the trampling mass that jostled and clamoured and swept away any semblance of survival. 

Each second was felt through your palm; it thumped with syncopation to your rapid heart. You could feel the organ’s heavy weight – it shifted your ribcage with every beat. Each jockey who stretched out for miles to see clearly also felt the overwhelming pressure, since there was only silence from the humans on horseback. 

Ten seconds . 

You couldn’t see Vincent or Dolly in the distant crowd. It stung , but you didn’t have time to dwell on it – in a brief moment, the course of destiny would be altered in the struggle that emerged. Gone was the unity that had threaded the jockeys together at the bar with a clumsy stitch; now, the air practically bristled with tense competition that threatened to devour all those present. 

Five .

Insistently, the seconds marched on through your riding gloves. You could feel time as a tangible concept – it rested in your palms where the leather reins bit into the soft flesh. 

Two . 

Your body was as taut as a compressed spring. Not a breath escaped you as your teeth and lips pressed together in furious concentration. 

One . 

Sulfuric plumes of smoke whirled from the screeching fireworks. Group Four shot forward from her grid – had you not been counting down the seconds, you would’ve surely been knocked out from the sheer force of her maddened dash forward. But no , this wasn’t the time to dwell on would-haves; it was a matter of surviving the endless crescendo of competitor after competitor pressing into your space. 

“The fireworks are up!” the weather-balloons declared pompously from their megaphones and secure little baskets. You’d never seen such bizarre contraptions in the modern world – but you had no time to gape at the oddly shaped hot-air balloons. “Ten AM, September 25th 1890 – the trans-north Steel Ball Run across America has finally begun!”

Adrenaline pumped through your veins as you leaned low over her neck, crooning softly to the mare that held your life on her saddle; it was where you crouched and rocked with the thunderous shaking that accompanied her stride. 

All you could see stretching out through your goggles was the endless expanse of the desert, and the deep brown mane of Group Four. You breathed long and slow – if you recalled correctly from the faded map you’d purchased from the town peddler just days prior, this particular stage catapulted for a good fifteen kilometres. It was absolutely vital to pace yourself; wear Group Four out too early on the front line, and she’d effectively collapse or worse . She was under your care – while Depeche Mode could slowly patch the Appaloosa up should she become injured, it still rankled at your gut to think about being so careless as to cause that overexertion and wound in the first place. 

The goal was to survive: nothing more, nothing less. 

Winning this stage was for the fools seeking the gold and riches and glory that came with victory – it was a privilege not afforded to you. 

Your eyes sharpened as a disturbance to the far left caught your peripheral attention. In the haze of the wind and sand pelting you, you could make out a faint streak of purple and brown against the tangerine of the backdrop. Whoever that was had done it – after the impassioned charge of the horses – someone had finally broken free from the pack. 

No, wait . 

You squinted, and Depeche Mode lent its eyes to you; it hovered invisibly a few metres away to see if it could recognise those russet lines cutting through the monotony of the sand. Though, abruptly, you were distracted by the sudden pushing of the crowd around you – that stranger’s breakaway had catalysed a whole disaster, where horses began growing agitated and their jockeys overconfident. 

“Group Four,” you murmured under your breath, and her ears pricked up. Amidst the yelling, clashing and overall cacophony around you, that sole whisper of a phrase had left her emboldened. Almost imperceptibly, she lengthened her stride; yes, it was crucial to pace your horse, but it was rather impossible to do that if the two of you got trampled to death. That miniscule change caused the old horse to reach a nose-length, then a full length in front of the horses who had already been paced at maximum speed.

Behind you, a horse screamed. 

It was a terrible thing: winding and twisting around your eardrums with a haunting chill. Your arms and neck turned to gooseflesh; beneath you, the mare’s pace grew subtly erratic. You wouldn’t turn to look back – not when you were fighting for your very life – but you could guess what happened based on the sudden cries and chaos unfolding behind you. 

Someone had crashed.  

“–he’s still speeding up! Competitor B-636 has caused the rest of the group to become reckless – already, those poor fools are out of the running, a good two dozen – but what’s this?”

[Got it!]

Who is it ? Your question rang out in the quiet agitation of your mind. Against the horrid crescendo of fear and panic happening in the distance, any other piece of information would be a welcome distraction. Though, rather than tell you, the floating head just sent along the impression of the man – along with its smug clockwork eyebrows. 

It was him – the irritated customer, that piercing green competitor, that calculating killer . No way you could’ve mistaken that slatted hat, or those electric-green spheres that rocked against him as his horse galloped furiously, like the very devil itself. No one that you knew would have the audacity to attempt something so impossible ; in this desert heat, increasing your velocity at such an early stage of the race was like having a very intimate and passionate relationship with Suicidal Tendency.

“–and now there is a challenger against Gyro Zeppeli –”

Time froze in that brief cut of space.

That name.

Gyro Zeppeli . 

How does one begin to describe the horror felt at coming face-to-face with one of the first people who had died brutally at the scarlet hands of President Valentine?

It had been by accident that his bones had been excavated – a team had led the intrusion into the ruins of the Kingdom of Naples to ascertain more about the culture at the time. Near an abandoned villa on the outskirts of the felled palace, an almost fully intact skeleton had been found; later, it was identified to be Gyro Zeppeli, one of the leading contestants who had been killed during the perilous Steel Ball Run.

Later, numerous covert articles hinted at the President’s involvement; from witness accounts, it seemed that the young daughter of Stephen Steel – Lucy Steel – had penned those missives herself as a journal entry of sorts.  Initially, those slips of paper were sequestered away in a grand underground vault right after her own, untimely, death. 

Then, that same material had been unearthed; underground newspapers and those still in resistance each clamoured to get a piece of the story. You yourself had found out from a very brief article – it was disgustingly horrifying to read the first-hand account of Gyro Zeppeli’s bloody death. 

Those articles had already been scoured away: their authors, unknown and unconfirmed. 

Now, one of those very first of countless victims was living and breathing before you in the flesh – nothing could’ve prepared you for the dissonance that robbed you of breath itself. Uncertainty churned your gut; would you approach him? Could you approach him? Despite his prowess with the weapons slung by his belt, he had been killed – how the fuck would you fare any better? 

“–one has jumped out of the group! Chasing and closing in on Gyro Zeppeli is the British prince of horseracing – as if to say ‘short range racing is my territory’! Elusive Diego Brando is declaring his challenge–”

Your heart leapt to your throat; there, streaking turquoise against the vast, hollow desert, was that diamond covered jockey. That blond lordling – that bastard who’d turned on you that terrible smile – was rapidly gaining on Zeppeli with a fervour that seemed personal. Fruitlessly, you attempted to quash the nerves that teemed and bubbled alight within; despite your efforts, cold sweat seeped from your skin, until you could barely grip the reins in your trembling fingers. 

No , you couldn’t let the nausea get to you. Gone was the foolish bartender who had antagonised perhaps one of the most powerful players in this game; rather, in its place was a pragmatic, faceless jockey who’d stay silent. Diego Brando was to be avoided at all costs – this was fact. It was simple reasoning, one greatly enhanced by your gut feeling of Staying The Fuck Away. You’d keep your head down, keep your face covered and eyes away, and survive . 

“–closing in behind them is the champion candidate: Urmd Abdul – on camel-back!”

Slowly, but surely, Group Four inched closer – you could clearly see the large mass striding in tandem with Zeppeli’s steed. In the soft sand that scattered across the desert, those wide camel hooves and long legs were ideal to speed past in this unforgiving terrain. Zeppeli was flanked – but Abdul pressed in , until his camel was practically shoulder to shoulder with Zeppeli himself. 

Then, he charged. 

“–slow motion, but its legs are twice a horse’s! It can surpass 800 kilograms – 1.5 times heavier than a horse – while easily keeping up with the horse–”

That horse, caparisoned with purple leg protection and a mask, stumbled forward. You watched from the safety of Group Four with a mounting feeling of horror; despite your initial dislike – then trepidation – towards the man, you didn’t want him to have an untimely death once more. 

Exhalation was an art unknown to you as you held it in your throat – Brando, with all his oiliness, had slid his way forward in the lull created by Abdul’s charges. He was gaining on the two when it happened just like before.

Let it be said that you were a fairly observant person, yet easily affected by the horrors of life. Who could blame you when you failed to recognise the grove of trees slowly approaching? Massive boulders, cacti, and wilted trees rose up to meet the horizon reflected in your eyes; you just didn’t absorb the information as much as you might’ve otherwise. Rather, you only noticed when that familiar whistle of that green sphere cut through the air; even with the dozen metres or so separating the two of you, you could hear it as easily as you would’ve in an empty room. 

Zeppeli had thrown a steel ball. 

It spun through the trees ahead of him: straight through the tangling branches, and straight back to the hand concealed to the nomad. Beneath your goggles, your brow furrowed. What is he planning ? They both plunged into those treacherous, twisting trees – while you pressed on around that grove. No way you’d attempt the same thing; with your inexperience, it would be just as likely that a stray branch would swiftly decapitate you. 

From the side, you could faintly make out Abdul charging once more. Zeppeli’s horse swayed precariously, but you forced your eyes forward at the sight. Focus on one thing at a time . Fruitlessly, you attempted to tune out the cynical commentary from the weather balloons; their high from bearing bad news was too sickening to listen to for extended periods of time. 

Then, you heard it: the surprised yowls coming from those megaphones.

“– I don’t believe it – could it possibly be – Urmd Abdul has fallen! He’s collapsed – the camel fell into the cacti –”

And through the gaps in the bushes, you saw it for yourself; shrouded in the haze of dust left behind by the steel ball was the outline of the tremendous mass surrounded by prickly cacti. Your gaze hardened – while you’d initially thought Gyro Zeppeli to be a rather honourable person (despite him ending up staining his hands with the blood of the thief), you only held contempt for this man who used dirty tricks to incapacitate others. He lured Abdul into those cacti , you seethed through gritted teeth. 

[You can’t expect everyone to play fair – not when your own life is constantly at stake.]

The offhand remark from Depeche Mode had you tightly gripping your leather reins. No, you didn’t expect the competitors to not vie for the prize with such fervour; yet expectation and seeing it for yourself were at two complete polarities. Endangering others’ lives for selfish gain was something you had vehemently opposed during scientific ethics classes – it was impossible to let go of it now. 

[You don’t know the man – yet you’re measuring his impression based on your own metric.]

Shut up , you thought sourly. Sure, it was the 19th century, and sure , that man was a total enigma – even though you’d seen his very bones in those excavation photos. You’d quite literally seen his insides, in fact. Of course you would never be able to change others’ morals – this display, however, left your guts twisting with disgust. No, he’d never be an ally to you, not when he so easily – so ruthlessly – condemned others to harm. Shut up , you repeated. 

You turned away from that sepulchral grove. 

Sweat poured hot and fast down your body as you furiously held on at the change of terrain. The gentle, sloping dunes had all but vanished; in their place were torrid, rocky hills that jolted you in the saddle with every stone that Group Four came across. Gently, you slowed the mare down to a fast canter; with her foam-flecked coat, you were sure she’d appreciate the more languid pace. Still, even with the canter, she was astonishingly quick; you’d inched forward significantly, until you were only seven or eight lengths away from Brando. At the proximity, you grimaced beneath the thick bandanna – but what were you supposed to do? Be trampled to death at the rumbling crowd behind you?

“– didn’t look as though Dio was accelerating at all – but now they’re neck-and-neck! He passed – oh my, he passed – and the genius Dio is in the lead!” 

Seriously? You’d looked away to lose yourself in your thoughts for one moment , then this unfurled before you? Just a few lengths ahead was Zeppeli now, and before him – slowly getting further and further away – was that slimeball Brando. If you held your reins any more tightly, you were sure they’d permanently add on to your tattoos with their imprints. 

“–and before them is the nine kilometre mark! The dried up river, the old wooden bridge – how quickly has this race unfolded?”

There it was; standing a good four metres high was a rather unstable looking bridge (if you’d learnt anything from the physics class you’d briefly taken a few years back). You eyed it warily – the wood was worn and splintered, and you debated just going through the dried river, when suddenly it happened. 

The great clatter of hooves against timber thundered with a fury that rattled your bones in its intensity – you could practically see the shockwaves tracing the air and back to you. Your body tensed, and you instinctively held that great red button in your mind: ready to press at the slightest disturbance. They were rapidly becoming closer and closer, which is why you saw it when you did. 

Crackling energy once again surrounded that green sphere as it drove into the hindquarters of Zeppeli’s mare. Just like with the thief, the flesh surrounding the ball rippled and convulsed into an eternal spiral – and that horse reared. With a drunken fervour, it overtook Brando’s steed and the rotation pressing into its legs caused the wood to splinter and break off. The bridge was now practically unusable for anyone after the speeding Zeppeli – Diego knew this, and swore loudly as his own horse reared and turned back. 

You had your own flurry of curses building, but you slammed down on the button. 

Please be Personal Jesus, please be Personal Jesus , you prayed as horses trickled into the valley marking the dried river. No doubt that route would lead to potentially breaking Group Four’s legs in the steep decline – it was imperative that you had moderately even ground to cross on as a novice. 

The whir stopped, and you could feel your own luck bursting at your fingertips as the stop machine gave its verdict.

[First slot activated: Personal Jesus. Countdown has begun.]

Depeche Mode appeared at your side, and you wordlessly looked at the gaping, broken bridge before you. Please , you begged soundlessly. Surely objects were less complicated than people. Surely , it was just enough to get it stable enough that you could ride across without worrying at the ravine-like valley beneath you. You could feel Group Four snort in surprise as Depeche Mode struck the middle plank at the foot of the bridge. Before you, the splintered planks that shot straight up in treacherous stakes came down, wobbling, and you knew it would hold you. 

Come on , come on . Group Four shot past the turned-away Brando, and you accidentally met the man’s gaze as he began the perilous descent onto the dried plateau below him. His stare was hard and intense with disbelief; you had to look away as you began the precarious journey onto the bridge. 

“– I don’t believe it – is that candidate C-141? Could it be? Mr Brisk-and-Irate – the unknown rider – has just done a very foolish move indeed: crossing after Gyro Zeppeli , rather than remaining in safety and going into the river. It’s destroyed!”

You tuned the commentary out as you urged Group Four to make the first few leaps. Understandably, she’d slowed down at the sight of the broken planks, yet your steady grasp of the reins and forward-leaning torso gave her enough confidence that she took the first few steps on newly-fixed wood; without further doubt, she sped up to reach the steadier planks.

“– and the rider’s done it ! By Jove, how many miracles are we witnessing today? Watch as that red jacket becomes a bullseye for other jockeys to follow!”

With some dawning horror, you reached the other bank: second, second in the race now. You could hear the commentators, but you didn’t want to believe it; as you got off the bridge, Depeche Mode disappeared silently back into the depths of your soul. And with it, and with it , would come the stability of the planks. 

You couldn’t turn back.

Not when horses screamed, not when the riders who’d charged after you collapsed through the now unstable bridge with yells of fear – you were too out of range to fix the calamity you’d caused. Your body froze in the saddle then; could this all have been avoided had you not taken the risk? 

“–was it just a stroke of luck? They’re coming down in the handfuls at the bridge – those directly behind that fortunate rider are plunging to certain injury below! I don’t think I’ve ever seen–”

Bilious film rose onto your tongue at the horrified fascination in the commentator’s voice. No . No, if you hadn’t gotten Personal Jesus, you would’ve crossed the river with the rest of them. It’s all down to fate , you reasoned fruitlessly. It’s not my fault . No – no! It was your fault; had you not chosen to cheat death that lay beneath the bridge, those riders may have continued on to live and breathe in peace. 

Your gut churned as you rode away; the repugnant taste of vomit coated the back of your throat and your arms shook. You could barely see the sienna of Zeppeli’s cloak – just a few metres away now – through the tears clouding up your goggles. 

[Those riders made the choice to follow you, though they’d heard the announcement about the broken bridge just like you. It was nothing more than luck that Personal Jesus was chosen.]  

Depeche Mode’s flippant reasoning was shaky at best. Nothing more than luck . Sure, the vast majority of horses would’ve baulked at the sight of a half-stable bridge – no matter if they saw another horse speed past on it. It required a great deal of trust of the rider by the horse to even attempt such a dangerous feat – which probably made this so much worse. 

Your eyes burned with regret and sudden exhaustion. No, you couldn’t change this; you couldn’t turn back time once more, not when you hadn’t prevented the President taking the corpse yet. 

Move forward . 

If you were to survive a cut-throat race like this, you’d have to change your mindset. No longer were you the scientist who made sure each procedure was ethical – no, you were a jockey fighting tooth-and-nail for victory. It hadn’t been on purpose, yet your debut certainly was bloodthirsty. 

Fuck . Your resolve was rapidly dwindling. 

Now, your body was practically on autopilot; it was a strategic retreat into the depths of your mind while you continued to hold on for dear life. The dried-grass terrain turned to but a blur in the hazy trails of vision that occasionally processed in those tired neurons. 

“– Gyro Zeppeli is going off course – look, he’s veering to the side to tackle that dense brush head-on!”

Groggily, you blinked – and there it was. A dense thicket (a dense bush by all rights) absolutely teeming and bristling with deadly branches and gnarled roots. They rose – a rich brown against the dust of the sky – like outreached fingers. Just like the Devil’s Palm . High on Group Four, your flesh rose up in goosebumps, even in the blaze of the sun.  

Insistently, you tugged on your left rein; yet the stubborn Appaloosa didn’t budge. Rather, you watched in horror as she charged the dense forest with a determined snort, like she was challenging you to stop her taking a shortcut. 

“– and Mr Brisk-and-Irate seems to be following him ! Watch as the two jockeys attempt to shave off a good thousand metres off the route by taking this treacherous choice! The sky’s the limit when it comes to risks taken today–” 

Focus . If that’s what Group Four decided to go for – really, that horse was too competitive for her own good – you’d let her take control. Perched high on the mare, you leaned low over her neck and held onto the horn of your saddle for dear life. The pungently sweet odour of sweat flooded your nostrils, and you adjusted your bandanna with a too-warm glove that was absolutely covered with white and brown fur from her coat. 

“–watch how two followers break from the main to follow the two death-defying riders! Will they succeed in being as lucky? Will the elusive Mr Brisk-and-Irate and Gyro Zeppeli make it themselves? Or will their luck fail them today?” 

Once more, you tuned the commentators out with a determined exhale; though, you briefly glimpsed back to see a flash of pale blue and a striking orange. Behind them thundered a veritable mass of other riders, all hell bent on touching the same glory within your reach today. Stupid, stupid, stupid , you wanted to plead. Save yourselves . 

Didn’t they know ? Your luck wasn’t your own . 

“–Seven, no, eight horses! Are they all accepting the challenge? There’s more, right there, following this lethal gamble!”

You knew that. There, holding on to Group Four for dear life as she swept through the undergrowth, you fought down the acrid bile that clung to your throat and squeezed your eyes shut. It was stupid, and something Vincent had warned you against again and again, but you couldn’t help it. Your cheek pressed up to her dark mane and you rocked and swayed in tandem with her bounds. 

Trust . 

You’d place your trust in the horse, who in turn had trusted you with her life at that bridge. 

The sprawling forest was thick with trunks and muffled by the foliage that stretched across in an endless canopy; you saw none of it as you clung on in blind hope that you’d make the deadly pass alive. All around you, yells and whoops echoed in the space surrounding you; you heard none of it as you concentrated on the drumming of your tattoos and heartbeat working against each other, all in an arrhythmic pattern. 

Even the sickening crunch of broken bones and death-wails couldn’t force your eyes open, pressed flat against the upper body of Group Four that you were. With the wind streaming and billowing through your embroidered carmine jacket – settling onto your fevered, sweat-soaked body – you felt unburdened for the first time since you came here. Adrenaline served as your nectar, recklessness as your ambrosia; its sweet taste left you reeling with breathlessness as you entrusted your very life to someone else. 

You kept your eyes tightly shut, until you saw the red sunlight dapple your lids once more – rather than the murky shadows of the canopy. Victory crowed and sang within your flesh as you broke free from that treacherous domain – though, looking back, somebody was tailing several metres away. His skin shone a deep brown in the burning sun, and his clothes had that orange you’d seen just a few minutes prior. Trailing behind the man were the strings of his yellow hat – their flowing motion left you transfixed. 

“–three’ve come out of the forest! Brisk-and-Irate, Zeppeli – and a fourth! Number A-777, the underdog and someone who started the race late but caught up nonetheless: Pocoloco! What a bundle of surprises this first stage is coming out to–”

Pocoloco . You stared hard and long at the man riding fast behind you – not only had he won the Steel Ball Run in the timeline you’d disrupted, but he was one of the few customers you’d remembered from the bar; his order always remained as a flagon of juice and bowl of soup. 

You turned forwards once more, only to catch Zeppeli’s surprised expression as he gazed at the two of you incredulously. Had he remembered you from the crowd on the morning of registration? You’d witnessed the bloody end of that thief, after all. 

“I fell off my horse back in the forest,” Pocoloco commented nonchalantly as he rode shoulder to shoulder with you – effectively, he stole away your attention, and Zeppeli was momentarily forgotten. Warily, you eyed him as he continued. “Guess I’m just really lucky.”

He said it with no particular inflection, but that word resonated with you. Lucky . Beneath you, Group Four surged with a new life that surprised even you. Lucky . The two of you had such similar reactions that – for the first time – you felt you and your equine companion were finally one unit. 

“Really,” you replied all too dryly – it was all you could do to suddenly hold on tighter as she sped up. 

“I got hit by a tree branch and got knocked back into my saddle! It’s true!” he crowed out, fixing you with a jovial beam. You stared at the man; something pulsed, and you realised it was both of your tattoos singing out with a fervour you’d never quite felt before. 

[There’s something about him.]

Yeah , you affirmed. If you squinted through your goggles, you could almost sense the sparks of energy rolling off him like waves. It wasn’t like Zeppeli’s rotating spheres, but something much too similar to the thrum of Depeche Mode in your soul. Could Pocoloco possibly have–

“–the Devil’s Downhill lies up ahead! On top is still Gyro Zeppeli, closely flanked by both Irate and Pocoloco in a madman’s chase! The downhill area they’re rapidly approaching has around a fifty metre height, with some areas being roughly thirty degrees; no matter how good of a horseman you are, it’s imperative that you slow down. Endure the slower pace , before your horse’s legs give out!”

The commentator was right; despite their earlier bumbling words, you had to focus on the steep decline below you. This, like the dried river, had to be crossed with utmost care – one wrong move and you could risk losing both your horse and your life. Concentrate . You leaned back in your saddle to balance the shift in weight, and your hands threaded tightly in the reins and pulled back : all to slow the Appaloosa down. 

All your attention was focused on maintaining balance – maybe that was why you hadn’t seen nor heard the entity calling out to Pocoloco. Rather, you only noticed something when a hand shaped shadow sunk into the flesh of his exposed arm; it was too quick to see something substantial . You shook your head in exasperation; maybe it was the same thing as Depeche Mode (or maybe it wasn’t) but now wasn’t the time to speculate whether he’d be a possible ally or not. 

“Guy in the front! You! Is that all you can do?” Pocoloco proclaimed cheerfully to Zeppeli. The casual provocation made your blood freeze, and your eyes were instinctively drawn to those lethal weapons resting at his hips. “You will never take the lead from me once I pass you! I, Pocoloco, swear this – fall behind, you freak !”

“Did you say something?” Zeppeli flashed a smile backwards. Briefly, his eyes slid over you, yet they snapped back to Pocoloco when you met his gaze. Even if he did recognise you from the crowd that witnessed the execution of that thief, at least you were on a different plane then that bartender. Not once had your guard slipped, and not once it would slip. With characters like him in the race, you’d have to play by different rules to make it out alive. With people like him and Brando, ethics were no longer an intrinsic law, but rather a dubious afterthought. 

Change . 

“Were you talking into my ass?” Zeppeli continued with a sardonic grin, one that stretched widely and shone gold. “‘Cause I can’t hear anything with my ass.”

Your brows lowered in exasperation. Had you not witnessed the altercation on the registration morning, you’d have already signed him off as another clown in this ramshackle circus. He was a killer , and practically a walking corpse – there was no point in trying to appear amiable. 

[Aren’t they all walking corpses?]

Hello? The President ?

[My point stands. The rest are dead.]

You ignored its wheedling, pedantic voice; in your mind’s eye, you could already see its clock-hand eyebrows drawn up in a smug expression. You’d missed Pocoloco’s response, but you hadn’t missed what happened next.

The horseman surged past Zeppeli.

“–amazing! 777 flew out in front and is now ahead of both Brisk-and-Irate and Zeppeli! What a stroke of fate! His name is Pocoloco, he’s twenty-one and from Georgia–”

With the sudden success of Pocoloco, you could hear the thundering of horses accelerating behind you. Then, the screams began. Just like before, riders grew too confident in their abilities and were charmed by the possibility of a win – something that brutally crashed and burned before them as their horses collapsed. You could hear the gory details yelled by the commentators: how one was crushed under his horse, how another’s horse had collapsed dead on the hill. Can they shut up ? Your mouth was set in a grim line as images flashed through your mind; any exhilaration was killed instantly at the bloody background. 

Then, Pocoloco’s horse tripped on the rolling hill that emerged before you. It happened as if in slow-motion – he flew forward and was lost behind a peak, something which relaxed Zeppeli’s shoulders (something that didn’t escape your notice). You held your breath – it was with a grim preparation that you steeled yourself to see the poor man’s body lying by his horse’s. 

But rather than seeing his silhouette there on the ground, the dust cleared and you could see his horse crouched on the sliding carcass of a cow with Pocoloco balanced on the top of it all. What the hell ? While his horse rested, he was still moving . You whistled lowly in surprise, but you couldn’t fault the man for his ingenuity – in your wildest dreams, you’d never seen someone grass-surf with a dead cow. 

Zeppeli wasn’t having it. Being significantly closer in proximity to him allowed you to see the exact moment he grabbed a steel sphere once more. 

“ Shit – by the time we get to the final stretch, his horse’s legs will have healed completely! I don’t know what the rulebook says…” his voice trailed off as he gripped the sphere and it spun in his grasp with an audible whir. You could see the irritated hunch of his shoulders, and you imagined his face was screwed up in that piercing glare too. “..but I’m pretty sure this is a race where you ride horses ! I can’t let you ride a dead cow!”

[Either he’s got astonishingly poor memory, or he’s completely ignoring the jockey on that camel.]

You hummed your agreement, but your eyes were too lasered in on his form to really acknowledge the snarky comment. The ball whizzed past and lodged itself into a rock; it dislodged , and a man tumbled off the broken slab with an expression of abject surprise. Judging by Zeppeli’s stiffened shoulders, it seemed he hadn’t expected the newcomer either. 

From the brief view you got of him, this stranger had a rather handsome face (though, at the time, it had widened in shock as his takeoff was interrupted) – with clear-cut features rising in smooth planes out of his bronzed skin. He sported two braids from the front of his hair, while a snake tattoo proudly emblazoned his left shoulder. But before you could look at him further, he quickly recovered and bounded forward on steady, quick feet. 

“–who is he? That person running – Sandman! His name is Sandman according to the registration! This race is getting well nigh impossible to predict – Sandman is in first as we continue down to the final stretch!”

Sandman . He was having a much easier time with the boulders blocking the clear path to the finish than any of the horses. While a steep, cliff-like hill with huge slabs of rock formed a wall against a straight path, he simply took them in stride – leaping and running with a speed and agility that might’ve robbed even Hermes of anything to say. 

[ Incredible. ]

For once, you wholeheartedly agreed with that abomination of a floating head. It wasn’t often you were so astonished, yet that highly efficient use of momentum and energy was amazing to witness in real life. It really was incredible, any way you looked at it. Can he potentially be an ally ? 

“After Sandman, it’s Pocoloco, then Zeppeli, then Mr Irate! The rest have also finished coming downhill – at this moment in time, thirteen kilometres have been crossed! How can we even begin to dictate this race?” 

Rather than seeming dejected, Zeppeli hunched over his horse with a renewed vigour. You eyed this fresh determination uneasily – what the hell could he be planning to do? His spurs glinted silver as the horse rushed forward, overtaking the man with luck on his side: Pocoloco himself. Your eyes bugged at this new development – were your goggles clouded, or was this reality ?

“Gyro has picked up the pace once more! He’s really accelerating – even if there’s still one-and-a-half kilometres left! And the straightaway is still coming up – will this ambitious rider make it?”

You held your breath as Group Four made the turn – surrounding the long pathway to the stone church were masses upon masses of people, all waiting to taste the shared glory of the winner of this stage.  No , you couldn’t focus on that. 

Depeche Mode, is there any way to return lost energy to Group Four ? It was a stupid question, but you asked regardless – the Appaloosa's bridle was flecked with a barley-green foam, and her coat was shiny with rivulets of sweat. Maybe she still had some vitality left in her reserves, maybe she didn’t , but you really couldn’t risk it. 

[No. The exchange of energy is something natural, you dolt. Did you learn nothing in school?]

See, you knew it was pointless to even ask. Law of the Conservation of Energy – it really sucked at this very moment, where you were about to drop from exhaustion into the horseshit on the blurring ground. 

Whooping cheers and shouts drew your attention, but it was what was said next that made your blood run cold. 

“H-hang on! Hold your – horses, haha – did you guys notice? There, pulling ahead in the group of stubborn tailers, is Diego Brando ! It’s unbelievable – coming from way behind and gaining on them is the Prince of Jockeys! How the hell did he gain all that ground back?”

You could feel the fear seeping into your flesh and pressing up against your skin – until all you could focus on was the roaring beat of your heart, as it raced past the thrums of your tattoos. No – it was inconceivable, it was impossible . Group Four, as if energised by the sudden adrenaline coursing through your very capillaries, sped up into a long-striding gallop. And you furiously urged her on; once more, you sat perched on the saddle like a bird, as your sanguine jacket whipped and blazed around you in the biting windstream. 

Come on, come on , you prayed silently. 

“–Pocoloco has once more challenged Zeppeli! Everyone’s speeding up for the final stretch – no longer holding their horses back at all! From Gyro down to the bottom of the mountain, there’s an entire sea of jockeys on the move–”

“ Please , Group Four, you can do this,” you murmured amidst all the collapsing riders in the rear. You could feel her through the saddle – her exhaustion mirrored yours, but beneath it thrummed an ambition and determination that you couldn’t hope to match. She gave an exasperated snort – ‘ you really think I’m tired ?’ – and sped up marginally, until it was a lethal battle against the shortcomings of the jockeys behind you. 

“And here’s Sandman rejoining the group – with his muscles near-exploding, he’s a full eight lengths in front of Zeppeli! And now, Dio’s out – wait, he’s been overtaken – no, nevermind – and they’re lined up! With a whole troupe of riders behind him, Sandman is maintaining the brutal pace of forty kilometres per hour!” 

With a newfound vigour you hadn’t thought possible, you matched the unforgiving pace of Zeppeli and Pocoloco; you clung to the reins and urged Group Four on with a muttered cajoling that seemed to do some good – for she, too, found a spurt of energy that allowed her to lengthen her stride even further. Here, the cheers of the crowds were deafening; all wanted to partake in feeling the addictive sensation of victory. 

No , wait! Pocoloco had sprang forward suddenly, using that dead tree in his path – no, wait – it was Zeppeli who nosed past both Pocoloco and Sandman, until it was irrefutable. Zeppeli, once more, held the laurels! 

“Johnny Joestar,” Zeppeli looked back to the jockey next to you with that characteristic grin – it was that flash of blue you’d spotted earlier before you entered that forest. His teeth flashed a shiny gold in the blaze of the sun – in that moment, they were like the medals given to triumphant athletes. “I’m amazed – you did well at catching up to me. You ever been on a ship? This wind – this headwind from Mexico – has been on my side all along.”

You saw it then: the billowing of his cloak that resembled the sails on an old-fashioned ship, and those steel balls that spun to keep the fabric in place. Zeppeli – that living corpse – was rapidly closing in on the goal! 

[30 metres!]

You swore, and leaned even further to make it a nose length ahead of Brando and that Joestar. 

And he crossed . 

With a gruelling determination, Zeppeli had scored first after all. 

“– it’s a sweeping victory – a whole five lengths ahead! And the champion of the first stage is Zeppeli – this is truly the birth of the leader of the Steel Ball Run!”

In front of you, Pocoloco and Sandman crossed the chequered line in tandem with each other, and you thundered just a half-length in front of Brando. The crumbling stones of the abandoned Santa Maria Novella church rose to greet you, as did the churning mass of people. You’d done it. You’d done it . 

Against all odds, you crossed the finish line of the first stage. 

. 　⁺ ✦

[arantiques]

From the Antique Armoires Collection: Marriage Armoires

In the 19th century, marriage armoires served as elaborately crafted and decorative storage units specifically designed to house a newlywed couple's belongings. These large, freestanding wardrobes were not only functional but also symbolic of the union between two individuals.

The primary purpose of a marriage armoire was to store the couple's clothing, linens, and personal items. It often featured spacious compartments, drawers, and hanging rods to accommodate a variety of garments. The ornate designs and craftsmanship reflected the cultural and social significance of marriage, showcasing the couple's wealth and status.

Additionally, marriage armoires were considered heirloom pieces, passed down through generations, making them integral to family traditions. The intricate carvings and detailing on these pieces often incorporated symbols of love, fertility, and prosperity, reinforcing their symbolic role in the marital journey.

These armoires were more than mere furniture; they were cherished possessions that celebrated the union of two individuals and the creation of a new family. We have a beautiful example in our antique armoires collection. Visit our website to have a look.

[indiatrendzs]

Stories of Antique Indian Doors, Rustic Carved Teak Doors

Antique Indian doors and rustic carved teak doors are truly captivating pieces that carry with them the rich tapestry of Indian craftsmanship and history. Each Antique door serves as a timeless portal to a bygone era, showcasing intricate carvings, vibrant hues, and a deep-rooted cultural significance. Facebook @mogulinteriorr Follow us on Instagram @mogulinterior  These majestic doors have…

[yolandagrayantiques]

Here is a fine quality antique English Regency linen press, constructed from top quality mahogany, circa 1790, in good condition. Price: £1,950 Free UK delivery For more info: https://yolagray.com/product/antique-english-georgian-flame-mahogany-linen-press-wardrobe-cupboard-circa-1790/?v=79cba1185463 #yolagrayantiques #newarrival #freshstock #forsale #antique #furniture #countryhouse #interior #design #antiquedealersofinstagram #armoire #bedroom #chest #clothes #compactum #cupboard #drawers #english #flamemahogany #gentlemens #georgeiii #georgian #hanging #linenpress #wardrobe (at Tarporley, Cheshire) https://www.instagram.com/p/ByziygfH56I/?igshid=14rkodloy1n5t

[givefangapuppy]

The Robe

I've been thinking about the things it's paired with and what they mean.

When we see it at the beginning of ep 7, it's part of a morning ritual for Stede, bringing Ed his tea and having a chat - this seems to be first thing in the morning, maybe pre-breakfast? So you could be forgiven for assuming that Stede is just wandering around in his nightclothes. But he isn't. This is a carefully put together outfit, with a flattering, tucked in shirt and formal pants. He's even done his hair, but consciously NOT fully dressed for the day. This is a choice he's made because he knows he looks good - and, crucially, because he wants (consciously or not) to express his happiness through his clothes (see David's tweet from ages ago on how the robe in its first appearance is about how Ed has literally brought colour into Stede's life).

We can contrast this with ep 8, where it's paired with actual nightclothes and mussed hair, because Stede was caught unawares by the early morning destruction of his antique armoire - and later, because he has to quickly march out to the deck to put a stop to Jack. There have been other great posts about how wonderful it is that when Stede is at his strongest and most Captainly, defending his crew and giving Jack the boot, he's dressed in this very effeminate (to modern eyes) way, the very same way he was dressed when Jack greeted him with "who's the big gal?" that morning. I think we can take that a step further and talk about how there's a layer to this scene about being SEEN - Stede, in this robe, in these bright colours and in the vulnerability of nightclothes, but also in the strength of his conviction, is more himself than he's even been thus far - and that's because of Ed seeing him. To pair that with Ed's "you were always going to see what I am" is not only devastating, but is also an indicator of the different stages of the self acceptance and self expression journeys that they're on.

It's also worth noting that Stede is still wearing the robe when he's obsessing all night about Jack and Ed - it's still a symbol here of authenticity, of his true feelings - but maybe also a way to cling to the happy domesticity it represented until just the day before?

And, of course, the last time we see the robe is when Ed wears it. It's pretty key that he's both shirtless and wearing what seem to be the khaki military pants under it (correct me if needed but they're the only thing that makes sense to me?) - he's stripped bare, wearing only items that connect him to Stede. One item that's all about them being together (the pants) and another that's infused with all this symbolism of Stede's authenticity, happiness, and strength. Going straight from this outfit to the darkest, most covered up (the gloves, the makeup), most over-the-top, costumey Blackbeard getup yet - and taking the time in such a packed episode to take us through the dressing montage - is a deeply significant transition, Ed's retreat from both Stede and self expression all the way back into the darkest corner of the Blackbeard persona, so far as to almost become the illustrated caricature he bemoans in ep 4.

[leiascully]

OctoberFicFest Day 13: Crystal

"I’ll just be a minute,” Scully assures him as she unlocks her door.

“Take your time,” he says.  She ushers him into the apartment and disappears into the bedroom.  He gazes around the place as if he hasn’t been here a hundred times.  It’s his birthday.  He would have been happy to ignore it altogether, but Scully insisted that he let her take him to dinner.  He can’t deny her anything these days.  He can’t risk a world without her in it.  Not that he imagines that world turns on the strength of one dinner, but he’s lost enough time to turn down the chance to make it up, especially when she’s offered to drive.

On the sofa table next to her phone is a tray he hasn’t seen before.  It’s wooden, antique-looking, portioned out into irregular spaces.  Each compartment is lined with dark red velvet and occupied by a crystal or three.  He stirs them with a fingertip.  Hematite, rose quartz, amethyst, pyrite.  Bloodstone. A bronzey tiger’s eye.  A tiny opal or two, glinting hypnotically against the crimson floor of their compartment.

“Okay,” Scully says, coming out of her bedroom.  She sounds a little bit breathless.  She’s changed her skirt suit and blouse for slacks and a sweater and put on perfume to cover the vague eau de morgue that’s trailed after her all afternoon.  He doesn’t really mind it anymore, but the perfume is nicer.  She grabs a jacket from the armoire by the door.  When she turns, shrugging it onto her shoulders, she’s also holding a nicely wrapped present.

“Didn’t take you for the crystal type,” Mulder teases.  “In fact, I seem to recall you telling me on several occasions that crystals are nothing but a focus for the energies of overwrought minds and are, in fact, unable to heal, purify, or absorb anything that can’t be explained with equal facility by the placebo effect.”

“Oh,” Scully says, and a wistful little smile creases the corners of her eyes.  “They were Missy’s.  Mom found them in a box of Missy’s things that got sent on from an old address and she thought I might want them.”  

“Scully, I didn’t...” he begins, but she shakes her head.

“It’s all right.”  She picks up a tiny cloth bag with a drawstring and holds it out.  Mulder cups his palm to receive it.  

“I was going to put that one in your coat pocket,” Scully says.  “See how long it took you to notice it.” 

He opens the bag and tips the stone into his hand.  It’s a piece of quartz, shadows swirling in its translucent heart.  

“Smoky quartz,” he says.

“Missy’s notes said it was for protection and healing,” Scully tells him.  “Also that it would detoxify your spirit and balance your humors, so I’d take that with a grain of salt.”  She tucks her hair behind her ear and smiles at him.  “Given our particular habits, I thought it wouldn’t hurt.  Besides, with your luck, it would deflect a bullet or choke a monster or be the key to unlocking an ancient puzzle.”

“You think I’m lucky?” he asks.

The look she gives him is as dry as good champagne.  “Nothing else explains your longevity.” 

“Nine lives, Scully,” he says.

“I always figured you for a dog person,” she says, and checks her watch.  “We should go.”

“I thought I had another present,” he says, pretending to reach for the gift in her hand.  

“Good things come to those who wait,” she says. 

“So I hear,” he says.  He slips the quartz back into its bag and puts it in his pocket.  He doesn’t believe strongly in the power of crystals, but he does believe in the power of Scully’s good wishes.  He might have the luck, but she has the strength of will to shift the universe from its appointed course.  The quartz in his pocket is proof of her regard.  He’s pleased to carry a tangible reminder of it, the rounded pressure of it against his thigh, as firm as the stern blue look she flashes at him.

“After you,” he says, and opens the door.

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Well, it’s white, but it’s such an interesting layout, and it’s an artist’s house that has a lot of interesting decor. Notice the rusty metal stairs in the entrance that lead to a loft-like 2nd level.

The building also goes down 3 steps to a lower level. A vintage armoire stands in the foyer to store some clothing.

The building is in the Netherlands, and looks like a factory conversion. Doesn’t it have an interesting layout?

On this level is the living room, dining area, and kitchen. The living room is tucked into a corner.

The kitchen island is made of cement, specially formed to fit a small antique chest, and cut out to accommodate seating, so it can be used as a desk.

Large industrial table surrounded by mismatched chairs.

Along the back wall, by the living room corner is a window and stepdown entrance to a bedroom and bath. Above, is the mezzanine.

The bedroom is low to the floor- a night stand low enough to accommodate the mattress on the floor was made  by simply placing a board on top of a small cabinet. 

Upstairs, a room off the mezzanine serves as the artist’s atelier. 

https://www.vtwonen.nl/binnenkijken/