#Dithering Dandelions
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thecurioustale · 1 year ago
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My Use of Alliteration in Writing Prose
When I returned to Tumblr last week I mentioned that I would really appreciate some suggested topics that people would be interested in hearing about, and was prompted by the excellent @fipindustries with several ideas. One of them was my relationship with alliteration in my fiction—something I had talked about in the past and which can perhaps be expanded upon today.
When I was in high school, senior year I believe, we read a good amount of Beowulf, which I found to be a very inspiring story because when I was young I loved old-timey Celtic mythology and folklore. Gregor, one of the Guards of Galavar in The Curious Tale, got his entire species name, heathodwarf, from the heathobards of Beowulf, and there were not one but two characters in ATH the RPG named Grendel.
Anyway, one of the things we were taught about Beowulf is that it makes extensive use of alliteration as a literary device. Together with some audio readings I heard a few years later of the legendary Seamus Haney reading Beowulf, I became convinced of the power and beauty of alliteration as a storytelling ornament. Ever since then, I have been both liberal and deliberate in my application of alliteration, as well as the related techniques of consonance and assonance, throughout ATH. I consider it aesthetically pleasing if the same sound occurs two or more times in close proximity together, especially if the rhythm of the spacing of these instances is thoughtful and itself pleasing of figure.
What makes alliteration (and its ilk) aesthetically pleasing? That's mostly subjective, but I like it because it creates structure out of structurelessness. In generic writing, there is no attention paid to the sounds of words. Indeed, the medium itself is meant to be as transparent as possible, coloring the substance of the words not at all. Alliteration draws a little bit of the reader's attention back into the artifice of the medium—the physical words. And I find I like this. That little bit of coloring...is just pleasant on its own.
In turn, this deliberate...let's call it an "opacity" (as distinguished from the transparency of generic prose)...this deliberate use of opacity in places also becomes able to be used for other literary purposes: namely, for drawing attention not just to individual words themselves but to certain ideas in the text through the focus on those words.
For instance, take the phrase "dithering dandelions." It sounds sort of like a Looney Tunes euphemism, doesn't it? But put that aside for the moment and consider the following passage:
The morning was sunny but cold as stone, and a biting wind crossed the field of dithering dandelions.
I made this up for demonstration purposes, but here the invocation of the alliterative term "dithering dandelions" is meant to make the coldness and windiness of the morning more visceral to the reader by virtue of drawing special attention to itself through alliteration and then leveraging that attention to emphasize and deepen the image of the dandelions shaking violently in the wind, as if they were trembling with cold (which is one of the meanings of the word "dither"). Odds are that you've been in such a morning at some point, cold and windy and buffeting the young spring flowers. And if you can remember that image, then you can feel it all the better here and now.
There is other consonance in that passage: The occurrence of the "s" sound in "sunny," "stone," and "crossed" can be selected, if desired, as focal points for one's enunciation when reading out loud (or when reading silently but imagining the sounds of the words). The word "crossed" in particular is the most powerful word in the sentence and deserves any and all attention you want to give it, and it also makes consonance with the word "cold."
If read thoughtfully, the alliteration (and consonance) present in this sentence can elevate the text, making the imagery come alive in the mind's eye.
So I like alliteration both as an aesthetic end in itself and also as a subtle tool of emphasis to reward readers who engage with the text using more of their own faculty.
I especially lean into this in The Curious Tale, whose fantasy world tonality lends itself more easily to romantic prose. In Galaxy Federal, with its more literal tonality, I still do employ alliteration more than most writers would use in their works, because that's just a hallmark of my voice at this point, but it is noticeably lesser than in The Curious Tale. In particular, the really heavy alliteration—with multiple instances of a single alliterative line, often interwoven with one more other lines simultaneously—is quite rare in my science fiction, while being merely uncommon in my fantasy.
I don't know if I lean into it so heavily that scholars would bother to mark it as a key characteristic of my writing, the way they do of Beowulf. Probably not; I probably have other esotericisms and eccentricities that stand out more baldly. But I should be very pleased indeed if I were noticed by readers for my use of alliteration, and all the more if they appreciated it.
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limerental · 1 year ago
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ficletvember 2023 - day 5
After accept the witcher's company into her ranks, Meve has no idea what to make of them. But she does find cause to relate to bed-bound Milva.
contains spoilers for the end of Baptism of Fire, referenced miscarriage, stillbirth, and focus on child loss. also, implied past marital rape and a moment of explicit sex.
Meve could not make head nor tail of the freshly-recruited witcher's company. 
Sir Geralt was stronger and faster and cleverer than any ordinary fighter among them. Even Reynard, who was unfailingly critical of every new recruit, had nothing but praise for his discipline and skill. But the witcher seemed distracted by his own private business, asking often during military briefings how directly that road or another led to the druid camp he sought. 
The soldier who'd arrived in Nilfgaardian armour claimed to have pillaged it from a corpse, but nevertheless, he spoke with a far southern accent. 
The poet had so far spent each night drinking to excess with the Mahakam detachment and had submitted an official request to the quartermaster for an alarming amount of parchment, claiming he had designs to write a detailed account of the Lyrian army's valiant fight against its oppressors.
And the fourth man in their company had been the source of strange unease. Gascon himself had expressed his distrust of the man, claiming the rangy mutt ever at his heels had not once been wrong about someone's nature. And the dog's hackles stood on end, a low growl rumbling in its throat, any time the seemingly pleasant barber-surgeon was nearby. 
She had far too many other things occupying her to spend much time puzzling them out. 
Only the girl's plight seemed simple to her. 
As the dust had settled after the battle, her men had dithered around an explanation for the bed-ridden girl's difficulty, but Isbel had said it simply, uninterested in dithering. 
"A lost babe, Your Grace," Isbel explained outside the haphazard row of infirmary tents. "Not far along. Some risk of infection but the main ailment now may be of the mind."
"I know," said Meve, and the old sorceress lay a hand on her arm.
Only her late husband and the court physician knew that Villem had not been her firstborn. There had been three others, two lost early and one born still. Her firstborn babe had had a crown of hair soft and pale as cornsilk, still flushed pink when the body was pressed into the cusp of her arms, fading grey and cold as the silent moments passed. A girl. 
Meve had not named her. The girl would be notated in no family lineage. History would remember only her sons, though how charitably was yet to be seen.
She understood. What such a thing cost.
Though her mountain of responsibilities should not have allowed it, each night Meve visited Maria Barring in the infirmary. If asked, she aimed to give the excuse of her own healing injuries for her presence there, but none ever asked.
Given there were few of her sex among the partisans (barring the dwarves who were apparently equally divided despite the seeming lack of notable differences), the girl had been given a tent all to herself.
Maria strongly disliked being addressed as such, insisting on Milva. Her accent was hard to place. She cursed in mumbles of Elder Speech and seemed to hold no knowledge of courtly decorum, addressing Meve so informally that the queen could only laugh with no attempt made to correct her.
If Milva were an ordinary citizen, she may have wondered why the queen herself deigned to visit her sickbed, but she seemed to think nothing of it. She greeted her each night with an informal handshake and clasp of her shoulder. 
"Have my lads embarrassed themselves yet?" she asked, grinning. 
"That poet of yours had to be asked to stop sarcastically heralding the witcher's every move," said Meve. Notably, a tipsy Dandelion had announced a lilting declaration that the most honourable Sir Geralt of Rivia was off to take a knightly dump.
Milva cackled. "I reckon he's mopin' over the lack of soarin' praise for his role in that battle."
"He claims sole responsibility for your company's morale and vigour."
"I'll show him some vigour. Once that old bat lets me out of this bed."
Meve did not bother to remind Milva that she should have her lashed for such disrespect toward the sorceress. She knew that Milva's insults arose from frustration rather than maliciousness. 
And perhaps sorrow. Though the girl had yet to speak of what had happened to her.
On the fifth night, Meve finally endeavoured to address it. 
"Isbel said your body is healing well," she said, voice low.
Dark had fallen only a short while ago, curfew not yet called, and the sounds of the army carried from around dozen of campfires beyond the thin canvas of the infirmary tent. Moths fluttered against the magical lantern that hovered near the ceiling.
"Your mug's not lookin' so bad yourself," said Milva, smiling almost flirtatiously. "Still a beauty."
Meve's stomach warmed. It no longer pained her to speak, and she had adjusted to the stiff twist of her mouth. Without Isbel's involvement, she may have still been laid up in bed, head swaddled in bandages. 
"How are you faring otherwise?" she asked. "Some may claim there's no cause to mourn such a small thing, but I don't agree."
Reginald had said so. His advisors had declared that it would not do to announce a time of royal bereavement. Not so close to the harvest. Meve had agreed, seeing the logic in it, and may have agreed the same even if she were sole ruler. 
There was no sense in such an interruption for a child who had never drawn breath. Her daughter had been quietly laid to rest in the royal plot, her stone bearing no inscription.
"You?" asked Milva, her face changing only a little.
"Yes. Many years ago now," said Meve. "I must confess that I haven't spoken of it since. But sometimes, I've found myself wondering if she–"
She would have just aged seventeen years. A nightmarish age for a young girl. Precocious and opinionated. Flaxen-haired. Beautiful. 
"They'd have had to leave me somewhere if things had–" Milva took a steadying breath. "If things had continued. I'd have been left behind by the company. It's better that–"
"It's not better or worse," Meve said as she lay a hand on Milva's trembling arm. "It's alright to grieve."
Quietly, Milva told the story then, though Meve had the sense that many details of the conception had been carefully left out.
"Part-elf," Milva admitted with unusual bashfulness. "A bastard. Elven father likely long dead to boot. Even if I hadn't– Life would have been cruel to a child like that."
"Imagine a kinder world then," said Meve.
"I didn't want it," Milva whispered. "Do you think that might've caused–"
"No," said Meve, thinking of her cold marriage bed. Her sworn duty. Her fear as her body changed. Her grown sons, all but strangers. 
Would history claim that her failure as a mother had doomed her kingdom? Perhaps if she had wanted it more, had more innate maternal softness, then–
"You've done nothing wrong," Meve said, and that was at last what inspired the hitch of the girl's breath as she gave to sobs. Though it was improper, the queen leaned close to hold her close through her fit of tears. Damn any potential intruders who questioned her.
Seventeen years past, she had been alone with the grief in the dark of her chambers. It had been only a fortnight before Reginald came to her. The pain and grief then had fought to eclipse one another.
Meve took far greater care with Milva. 
Hushed and gentle, they embraced in the dark. Their slow kissing was cautious of Meve's fresh scar, and she caressed Milva's body with a tenderness she had no longer thought herself capable. The girl's hardened body had not had a chance to soften at the middle, but her breasts were achingly tender, forced to clutch a hand against her mouth as Meve's tongue worried a nipple.
She had learned how to pleasure a woman, had learned that a woman could feel such pleasures at all, in a Cintran bedchamber tucked close to Calanthe, to her Cali. That memory carried its own sort of grief. To think that both she and her dearest friend should lose their kingdoms and their children to the same cruel power. 
It was said that young Cirilla had been betrothed to the Emporer.
As surely as her Villem was. 
It was a cruelty.
That for all their efforts to distinguish themselves as capable, independent rulers, both she and Calanthe may be remembered not for their own achievements but for the products of their wombs. 
The next night, Meve had been busy debating whether or not to return once more to the infirmary, what excuses could be made for her momentary lapse in judgement that did not diminiah its weight, when she received a report from the flustered quartermaster that his stores had been raided by the deserting witcher's company.
"Shall we pursue them, Your Grace?" Reynard asked, hand on his sword. "I'll go after th' bastards myself."
"No need," Meve demanded. "We have greater worries than the loss of a few soldiers and a mule."
"Very well, Your Grace." Her general was clearly displeased, having had hopes of utilizing the witcher strategically. And perhaps being a touch enamoured with him as well.
She waved a hand in dismissal.
Meve had had her own hopes of the chance to fight at Milva's side. Her ferocity and skill would have proved useful in battle, her lack of decorum would have scandalized Reynard in amusing ways, and her nightly companionship would be sorely missed. 
To a kinder world, she thought, raising a quiet toast to that dream.
May you find that world in this life, Milva Barring, Meve thought, knowing how unlikely such a thing truly was.
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primordialpaper · 2 years ago
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Just something I’ve been working on recently. The premise is Gray has just been stabbed with a magic spike that goes deeper when you try to pull it out. Wendy deals with it as only an Enchantress can.
“It needs to come out,” Wendy murmured, scraping together the pieces of her composure. She couldn’t heal him with the vengeful spike still in his chest. “His lung’s punctured, and he’s losing blood, and fast. But if I try to pull it out, it’ll just go deeper. It’s still going deeper.”
What was she supposed to do? She’d memorized pages upon pages of healing texts, consumed countless medical encyclopedias, poured over even the most basic and rudimentary first-aid tips, and none of that knowledge could help her deal with a wound that was capable of fighting back. What was she supposed to do?!
Abruptly, gauntleted hands came to rest atop her own. Looking up, Wendy found herself the subject of the famously steady gaze of Erza Scarlet.
“The spike needs to be removed,” Erza agreed, voice firm and placid. “you just might have to do so more thoroughly than you initially planned. Don’t focus on excising it from Gray’s body. Focus on removing it from existence entirely. Unmake it, Wendy.”
Wendy’s gaze slid down to the metal barb cruelly lodged in her friend’s sternum, her senses attuned to its progress beneath his skin where she couldn't see. In merely these past brief moments, it had worked itself a few dangerous millimeters deeper, on course to skewer Gray’s heart within minutes.
Unmake it... What a ridiculous proposal. Matter could not be created or destroyed, only changed. 
The old adage, a relic from her lessons under Porlyusica, rose to the surface of her thoughts amidst the caustic analysis of just how long Gray’s wound would permit her to helplessly dither.
Not created or destroyed, but changed... Before her mind’s eye, Wendy could still picture the bevy of swords jutting from the ground, neatly arranged into the shape of a flower. With little more than a tap from a wooden staff, the blades all dissolved, scattering in the wind like dandelion seeds. Was that what Irene had done? Changed them? Had she affixed her power to the swords, and, rather than bolstering their might, instead plucked apart the blades in her grip at their basest level? 
Could Wendy do the same?
A choked, feeble gurgle from Gray informed her that she didn’t have the luxury of uncertainty.
Blue light flickered across her fingers, which was Erza’s cue to remove her hands, and let Wendy get to work bending this small bit of reality to her will.
(At any other moment, the gravity of such an undertaking would likely have more of an impact on her. It would be humbling, sobering, to recognize how expansive her powers had become. From chasing away poisons and bolstering allies in battle, to altering the very existence of something in her grasp.
This was the kind of power, she thought, that had helped make Irene into what she’d become. Someone unmoored by the world and people around her, never willing to deny herself anything, because she had the ability to contort all of it to her liking.
The woman herself had claimed the two of them shared a likeness, something that normally sent a shiver down her spine. Now, though, Wendy could only hope her assessment had been correct.)
With hands ruthlessly rid of even the faintest tremble, Wendy directed her magic towards the spike. She enveloped it, let her power crawl over every inch of cold or blood-warm metal, until the whole thing was pulsing with her signature cerulean glow.
She could feel it, like some vile substance coating her hands, the malignant intent affixed to this object. Its sole purpose was to kill, to worm its way through its hapless victim until it reached their heart. There was no telling how many lives this weapon had claimed.
But it would not claim this one. Nor any other ever again. Wendy would make certain of that.
It felt like trying to move her fingers through stone, or ice, as she slowly began to curl them inwards. She was fighting to compress everything this spear was, every nuance and facet of its existence, into something she could crush in her fist. It was only logical such a task wouldn’t be easy to accomplish.
But Wendy had seen what an Enchantress’s hands were capable of. She liked her chances.
Tighter, she pressed against the spear. Harder. The tendons on her hands were starkly visible, fingers developing the slightest tremor, as she enforced her will over the weapon on the ontological level.
You are no more, was her edict, delivered coldly and with severe finality. You will cease to be. Your form is dismissed and your presence a memory. Begone!
The spear, for all the heartache it had wrought in the brief time since Wendy had first laid eyes on it, was helpless to resist the crushing authority of her command, the sheer force of her insistence that it cease to be.
The light of her magic became blinding. Space shuddered and folded. Time seemed to redouble, knocked briefly off balance by her desperate meddling. Reality gave an ominous rumble. Wendy, distantly, felt something crumble into irrevocable nothingness as her fists closed around air.
And then she was kneeling in the mud, hunched beside a friend who was now bleeding copiously from the empty hole in his chest.
She’d never been so thrilled to see such an open wound.
“Gray!” it felt... strange, almost, to call healing magic to her hands. Like in the past few minutes she’d somehow forgotten she was capable of such a thing.
Thankfully, years of ardent practice meant Wendy was capable of going through the motions largely on autopilot. 
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maelstroms-blog · 3 months ago
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Part 3...i think
Thank you again to @tringstarruuu for drawing and giving me permission to write for their AU
Enjoy
Hob grunted as he sat up, followed by a swear and a sigh. Blearily, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, ignoring the rough texture of his face. It was just his nightmare, leaking into reality, but, when he looked down at his hand, it was wrinkled, sprouting with grey hairs. The nightmare was real. Hob covered his face, tracing the new grooves on his cheeks, balling his fists into his hair. In the pale morning light, his hair took on the colour of dandelion seeds, and that sent a jolt of pain into his heart.
He let out a watery sigh, trying to stop the heaving in his chest before it started. His old, weak chest, his every breath rattling. Flinging the blankets off, he swung out his legs, shivering as his bare feet touched the floor.
'That wizard,' he rasped, noting his changed voice, 'That damn, beautiful wizard.'
Surely, he would have the cure for this. Of course, that would mean travelling into the Waste-the very thought dampened his resolve. The Waste was a no man's land where the wickedest witches and wizards traversed. Cursing whoever and whatever they came across for fun, or fighting each other in some bid for new magic. No mortal dared to cross that land. Luckily, Hob had nothing else to lose. He would either end up lifting his curse, or dying. Win-win honestly. With a grunt and a worryingly creaking sound, he got up, looking out his window as he did.
The town was slowly waking up, bakers lighting up their fires, fishermen heading down to the pier, and over the bustling signs of life, his eye was drawn to the horizon, or, more accurately, the hulking mass of metal creeping over the landscape. The wizard Dream's castle.
Hours passed, and Hob was no closer to reaching that damn castle. Yes, the terrain was rough, craggy rocks dotted the non-existent path that an able-bodied person would struggle with. In Hob's current state, every step felt like it could be his last. He had to take more and more breaks, breaks that did nothing but fuel his irritation. The ache in his legs another nail in his coffin. It was his sixth break when he was seriously considering just staying there. keeping still until nature took over. The grass would spread to his extremities like a rash, roots would burrow into his flesh, maybe his skull could become a home to a family of birds. Eleanor would have liked that.
Before he could fall down that particular hole again, his fingers found something smooth. Polished wood. Hob turned, sticking out of a thorn bush was a stick. Dark, knobbled, with a shine that meant it was varnished. A cane, and it was a sturdy looking one.
'Are the fates finally smiling down on me?'
Wiping his hands on his shawl, he grabbed hold. It took an embarrassingly long time to free the stick, the tangle of thorns stronger than it looked. Then, with a sound like ripping fabric, the cane was finally free. Hob paused to take a breath, a breath he wasted on a cry of surprise.
A face was staring down at him, an eerie face. Black, triangle eyes with a crooked smile, carved on a big pumpkin, complete with a tattered suit and hat. Hob took another breath, trying to calm his racing heart, thumping against his tender chest. It was just a scarecrow. He released it, waiting for the inevitable clatter. It never came. Hob blinked and turned his head. The scarecrow, still standing upright, still stared him down with empty eyes. Hob blinked again, the thing didn’t even sway in the wind.
Suddenly, it turned on the spot, shoving its outstretched hand in his face. Hob jumped back, tripping over his own feet. This thing was bewitched, much like him. Someone obviously tried getting rid of the thing, and here comes Hob, dithering like an idiot, and frees the damn thing.
The fates had changed their minds.
Hob turned to run, not that he would get far, when something touched his shoulder. For some reason, Hob glanced back, not knowing what to expect. Hanging out of the scarecrow's sleeve was a stick, a proper stick. Hob just blinked, and it finally clicked.
'Are you-Are you giving me a stick?'
The scarecrow wobbled, its way of nodding,
'Oh.' Hob's cheeks flushed in embarrassment.
It was the perfect size for him. It took the strain off his knees, he almost felt like he could run, if it weren't for his back.
'Thank you,' Hob smiled, dropping it when he saw the scarecrow without an arm. Its empty sleeve flapped in the wind, its big, orange face staring down in silence. Before, he would have felt a twinge of sadness for the thing, instead, he felt nothing.
'Thanks again,' he clutched his shawl tighter, 'A place to stay would be more useful, though.' His tone was sharper than he meant, and the scarecrow turned its back, almost hitting Hob's face with its sleeve. The tapping of the stick gradually faded, leaving Hob alone once again, nothing but the wind and his thoughts for company.
'Well,' he sighed, 'That killed a few minutes.'
Now, back to the arduous task at hand, his knee was already protesting again. As he took the first step, the chill of a sudden fog crept in. Its cold fingers trailing down his neck. The dank, grey fog crawled down the hill like some lumbering beast, blocking his view of the horizon. Hob pushed through his groaning knees, lost in his thoughts a sound broke through. He thought it was his heart pounding in his ears, struggling with the extra strain. No, this was more wooden.
Hopping back into view was the scarecrow, trails of fog clung to him like cigarette smoke. Hob dropped the stick in shock, not at the sight of the pumpkin head, but at the huge machine behind him. Dream's moving castle, and it looked rough.
From where he stood, he heard the groaning creaks, just like his knees. The castle, though Hob was loathe to call it that anymore, was a wreck, there was no other way of putting it. Red rust covered the thing like moss, uneven patches were stuck to the metal, and the windows, what few there were, were cracked. Hob was embarrassed to even look at it. How the hell could this be a castle? If this was his only hope for a cure, he better get used to having a bent back. He shot a glare at the pumpkin headed scarecrow, even though it was only trying to help.
Still, even though he didn’t like it, it was here now. He staggered towards the would-be castle, pain stabbing his chest as he hurried. He huffed and puffed, the scarecrow hopping just a bit in front, goading him on. Hob would've cursed if he had the breath to spare. He reached out, straining to grab the rail. His fingers brushed against cold metal, stretching until his shoulder popped, and he had it. Almost dragging himself down in the process. He was on the steps with a terribly awkward hop, clutching onto the sought after rail. He waited to get his breath back before turning around,
'Come on, Pumpkinhead! Hop like your life depends on it!'
The scarecrow was in hopping distance, Hob reached out for him, but a bang came from above them. A torrent of black smoke spilled into the air, and the machine picked up speed. Hob had to grip the railing with both hands. The tapping faded; Hob looked up just in time to see Pumpkinhead swallowed up by the fog. He tried not to feel sad; it was just a scarecrow he told himself, and yet, he stood there, waiting for it to appear again.
With that over, Hob turned back to the little door, its awkward shape forcing him to duck his head. The handle clunked as he turned it, the hinges loudly resisting as it opened. Despite that, it snapped shut behind him, like he was an animal in a trap. Hob shivered, ears ringing from the abrupt silence. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, a spark drew his attention, the hearth came to life. The sudden light burning his eyes. The first thing he noticed were the books, piles upon piles of heavy tomes surrounded him. The dusty smell of paper making his nose wrinkle. Then, he found a chair, and nothing else mattered.
He fell into the chair, letting out an almost sinful moan. His knees and back cried out in relief. Closing his eyes, he let his head fall back, the warmth enveloping him like a blanket. He didn’t even bother removing his shawl. He could feel slumber calling to him, the promise of a dreamless sleepHe could feel slumber calling to him, the promise of a dreamless sleep enticing him. He could hear its voice clearly, a chirping male voice,
'HEY!'
Hob started, wincing at the sudden movement. He blinked, finding himself staring into a face, coming out of the flames, no, it was made of flames. The flickering flames were like puffed up feathers, two burning coals peered into his soul like eyes, its golden beak making it look like a crow. Hob blinked again, yawning,
'Um…hello? Are you a crow?'
The fire crow blazed brighter, its beak clicking in annoyance,
'What's it look like?'
'…You look like a crow, a burning one.'
The fire crow huffed, light dimming.
'I'm not supposed to open the door to strays,' his eyes were the definition of a burning glare.
Hob, too tired and sore to argue, just sighed, 'Throw me out then,' he settled further in his chair, 'If you can.'
'I would if I could,' the flames swirled, sending out a wave of ash from the hearth, 'As you can see, I'm cursed, much like you.'
The words broke through the fog in Hob's brain, 'You know I'm-,' his jaw clicked shut before he could utter the word, Hob frowned, straining to unhinge his jaw. Luckily, the fire understood.
'Hard not to,' the fire crow tutted, he got brighter, leaning in close to look at him. Hob squinted at his light.
'And, brother, you got a bad one,' he hummed, the sound making an ember spark, 'Almost as bad as mine.'
With another crack, the fire crow was inches from Hob's face,
'Perhaps we can make a deal?'
Hob brought a hand up to his face, as if that would shield him from the heat,
'What?'
'A deal,' the grin obvious in his voice, 'You help me, and I help you,'
Hob scoffed, 'I may be old, but I'm not stupid,' he breathed out, watching the flames shy away,
'The one rule around these parts is never to make deals with demons,' Hob leaned forward, exhaling deeply. The fire crow cringed,
'And that's what you are, isn’t it?'
The flames flickered sullenly, '…It's not all I am.'
Hob sat back, shaking his head, amused, 'Right…'
'No, really, I know I'm a demon, but I'm cursed just like you,'
Hob sighed, rubbing a hand over his wrinkled face,
'Even if that's true, how am I meant to help? Look at me, I'm no use to you.' The words didn’t hurt as much as they once did. The old adage was true, Time heals all wounds.
'Why doesn’t the wizard Dream help you?'
The fire crow blazed, turning white hot, and hissing,
'You think I haven’t thought of that?! He's cursed too!'
That made Hob stop. He assumed Dream had trapped the fire demon. He thought he was so powerful that curses would bounce from him like water off a duck's back. But no, like a plague outbreak, each of them was infected with a curse. Just like that, what little hope Hob had was snuffed out, like a hearth doused in water. Something bubbled up inside him, an emotion, not the familiar bitter tang of grief, or metallic taste of rage, this was something else. A sound slipped from his mouth before he could stop it, followed by another, and another. Laughter. It had been so long he forgot the sound. It wrenched its way out of his throat, painful yet freeing. His only shot at returning to normal, and it was gone. He laughed louder. Leaning forward from the force, hurting his sides. Glancing at the fire, tilting his head like the bird he resembled.
'You alright?'
The question sent him into another fit, he flapped tiny flames in alarm.
'Alright? Alright!' He slapped his thighs, grinning at the demon,
'I'm screwed!' He chuckled, fresh tears springing to his eyes. He didn’t know what kind.
'Now, Mr fire/crow-whatever you are, if we're done here, I'm going to sleep and try to dream of happier times,' he waved his hand, 'Try to keep your flickering down.'
The fire grumbled, 'My name is Matthew…'
'Ok.' Hob sleepily shrugged. With that, he closed his eyes, and dreamed of nothing. Of course. Thank you, fates.
Thank you for reading, hope u enjoyed
Check out @tringstarruuu blog
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Dreamling as Howl’s moving castle AU
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wren-again · 3 years ago
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Fandom: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion Characters: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Additional Tags: BDSM, Dom Jaskier | Dandelion, Sub Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Season/Series 02, Humiliation, Dirty Talk, unconventional spanking impliments, questionable understanding of witcher biology, Begging, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Self-Worth Issues, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Angry Jaskier | Dandelion, Anal Sex, Teasing, Edgeplay, Top Jaskier | Dandelion, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, jaskier can't decide on a pet name so he just uses all of them, Bickering, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is a Mess Word count: 9219 Summary:
“I don’t dither.” “You fucking well do. You do nothing but dither. You’re the grand ditherer of dither island in the land of dither. You-” he cut himself off, laughing ruefully at himself, “I’m the one dithering now. What I was trying to say was; Geralt, all guilt aside, without any of the extenuating circumstances, would you still, genuinely, want to fuck me?” “No,” Geralt breathed, frowned, looked up at Jaskier, at the way his body tensed and his expression darkened, then grinned a wolfish grin, “I want you to fuck me."
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genvieve-of-the-wood · 3 years ago
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Shelf Life
We rot,
some become sweeter,
some become bitter
with this knowledge,
with the process.
Meat sacks having chemical
reactions all day,
the packaging,
the presentation,
the shelf life
makes us afraid
of our cosmic commodity,
since we left consciousness
in some other warehouse,
afterlife afterthought
delivered as soon as we
are born into pain.
Are you this year’s version
of fuckable?
The consumers need fuckable,
fertile, peak edible
to remind them that the fruit
in the Garden of Eden
never spoiled,
that somehow they’ll always
be ripe
and not withering, dithering
or die.
Desire and Death
are always on the same tight rope.
If one falls, I, who
is she,
but not before
being me,
will fall from maiden
to mother
to crone
into one giant ascent
into assumption
without a net.
The secret of spoilage,
of Desire,
and the dance to Death
is that Desire
can choose how it falls,
with a bloody splatter
or like a dandelion seed floating
and spinning with just breath,
air
to keep it going
until it finally lands and takes root
in the crack of a sidewalk,
in every star, every new universe
born.
We all need new labels
that say,
“Expiration date: physical: day, month, year
metaphysical: undetermined “
You can find me,
on sale at the nearest
quantum market.
@genvieve-of-the-wood June 30, 2021
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fandom-puff · 4 years ago
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If you don’t mind, can you please write a fluff alphabet for Remus Lupin? 🥺👉👈 Thank youuuu!
Hi! I hope you enjoy this 💕💕
Remus Lupin Fluff Alphabet
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A = Attractive (What do they find attractive about the other?)
He is a SUCKER for a good smile. He loves when you smile spreads to your eyes Lighting up all your features as you grin and laugh
B = Baby (Do they want a family? Why/Why not?)
We all know what went down in Deathly Hallows. Remus would like to have children with you at some point but there’s always the worry in the back of his mind that he may pass on his lycanthropy onto the child.
C = Cuddle (How do they cuddle?)
Remus makes an excellent big spoon. He’s a VERY heavy sleeper, so good luck wriggling away from him when he’s holding onto you :)
D = Dates (What are dates with them like?)
He loves to take you to small cafés and bookshops, tucked away and calm, so it’s just the two of you. He’ll but the tea and you buy the cake or samdwiches as you sit in squashy armchairs. You often end up nuzzled next to eachother on one chair, sipping tea and feeding eachother bits of cake 
E = Everything (You are my ____ (e.g. my life, my world…))
You’re Remus’s sweetheart.
F = Feelings (When did they know they were in love?)
He first knew he was in love with you when you found out about his lycanthropy. You were accepting and calm and asked if there was anything you could do to make his transformations more bearable. It made his heart swell and he was reminded of the marauders, all those years ago
G = Gentle (Are they gentle? If so, how?)
Remus is a very gentle man, from his voice to his touch. He will wrestle you occasionally and tickle you mercilessly if he is not drained of energy
H = Hands (How do they like to hold hands?)
He loves to hold hand all the time, lacing his fingers with yours and holding you close to his side
I = Impression (What was their first impression?)
His first impression of you was comfort and trustworthiness. He felt more relaxed than normal around you
J = Jealousy (Do they get jealous?)
Not so much jealous, more so insecure. He sees himself as broken and impure and a monster, and when younger, more human people chat you up, he can’t help but worry that you’ll leave him for someone you deserve
K = Kiss (How do they kiss? Who initiated the first kiss?)
It was a mutual thing. You were both snuggled up, thd conversation died down and tentatively, you both leaned in. Granted, you bumped heads, but nothing is perfect. Your first kiss was giggly and gently, and he kissed your forehead afterwards by way of apology
L = Love (Who says ‘I love you’ first?)
You do. He was in one of his moods, ranting about how you ought to see someone younger and human etc etc, and you yelled at him “why can’t you just see? I love you, remus! Please don’t push me away!”
You locked yourself in your bedroom, crying out your frustrations while he paced. Biting the bullet, he went upstairs and knocked on the door, and let out a sigh of relief when the lock clicked and you let him in
M = Memory (What’s their favourite memory together?)
Coming into the living room while you were staying at his and spotting you curled up on his armchair, bundled up in one of baggy jumpers and clutching his cushion as you snoozed. “Sorry,” you had mumbled. “Made tea, didn’t wanna wake you... must’ve dozed off,”
N = Nickel (Do they spoil? Do they buy the person they love everything?)
Remus would give the the universe if he could, but he can barely afford new clothes. You don’t mind though- he always has plenty of chocolate and cuddles to share
O = Orange (What colour reminds them of their other half?)
Yellow. Not super neon, though. It just reminds him of the time he caught you watering the sunflowers and gathering dandelions to weave into something pretty
P = Pet names (What pet names do they use?)
Sweetheart, darling, love, pet
Q = Quaint (What is their favourite non-modern thing?)
He loves muggle photographs, the kind that DONT move. They allow him to relive the entire scene, not just the little snippet that plays over and over
R = Rainy Day (What do they like to do on a rainy day?)
Couch. Book. Snuggles. Sorted.
S = Sad (How do they cheer themselves/others up?)
He’ll brew hot chocolate and sit on the couch, staring into space. If you come within a foot of him, he’ll wrap his arms around your waist and pull you close, hiding his face in face in your chest or neck, eyes closed.
T = Talking (What do they like to talk about?)
With you, anything. From over-tired midnight ramblings to discussing the news to sharing knowledge on the most obscure things...
U = Unencumbered (What helps them relax?)
A hot drink and a good book that he’s read at least 4 times before (that way he doesn’t have to THINK about the plot because he know what happens) the familiarity soothes him.
V = Vaunt (What do they like to show off? What are they proud of?)
Remus is a modest man. He’ll happily show you off in his own way, by holding your hand and kissing your cheek, behaving like a real gent, though he refuses to parade you like an object
W = Wedding (When, how, where do they propose?)
He proposes when you’re tucked up in bed together, your head resting on his chest as he stroked your hair. He tilted your chin up gently and took a deep breath before murmuring “YN... you make me the happiest I’ve been in a long time, and each day with you I get happier and happier. Please... would you do me the honour of becoming my wife?”
You sit bolt upright and stare at him for a moment, before grasping his face and kissing him lovingly, your tears splashing into his face. “Of course I will, remus,”
X = Xylophone (What’s their song?)
Summer of ‘69 by Bryan Adams. It just makes him feel nostalgic, remembering simpler times when his friends were alive and the biggest worry in his mind was Filch catching them lacing his office with Dumgbombs
Y = Yes (Do they ever think of getting married/proposing?)
Remus knows you’re The One, though he dithers about how and when to propose, before the events of W
Z = Zebra (If they wanted a pet, what would they get?)
He doesn’t really need a pet. He’s got a Sirius and that is ENOUGH for anyone.
Tag list: @obsessedwithrandomthings @haphazardhufflepuff @diksy1112 @zodiyack @axriel @hiddensapphic @samnblack @tinylumpiaa @in-slytherin-we-trust
Wanna be on my tag list?
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writermuses · 7 months ago
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The entire time at the ranch without Dominic had been new and interesting. Jude seemed happier than he'd ever been. She'd carried him around the front of the house, soaking up the sun and letting him hold a dandelion while they watched a bunny and some birds dither around the quiet space. The silence beyond Jude's coos and babbling left her with time to replay the day in her head. Sure, she'd learned some terrifying things, but she'd also seen the spark between her and Dom wasn't gone. Then she'd quickly found some comfort in Mary's company too. By the time Mo and the baby boy were tucked in for his nap on Dominic's bed she'd touched her cheek countless times, recalling his touch. Physical touch was her love language and she wondered if he remembered that.
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The heavy sleep that came with being in a safe place and comforting smells had been so rare that Mo thought she was still dreaming when she heard her name. Her big blue eyes blinking open to see Dominic in the doorway. With a racing heart she slowly processed where she was. "Sorry, I hope you don't mind us taking over your bed again. It was his nap time and if I don't sleep when he does then I never get to sleep." It was the curse of single parenting and an unfortunate additional reason as to why she couldn't hold a job, one too many oversleeping incidents when her body finally gave out on her. "Is it time to do the pew-pew training?" Caitriona rubbed her eyes and sat up slowly, Jude completely undisturbed by the talking and movement as he laid out in the middle of the bed.
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"That's not confidence, hun. It's pure spite." Dominic chuckled. "The woman hates my guts, but we grew up together so she's stuck with me." Dominic and Mary were born in the same town, went to the same elementary school. When Dominic was about 12 though, Mary and her family moved to California and never came back. Years later, when Mary's husband started working for him, they met again. They've been close confidants since.
Dominic understood where she was coming from. He was scared too. Now having a little boy who depended on them, the idea that they would not be able to protect him scared the living daylights out of Dominic. The man clicked his tongue. His hand fell on her cheek, an unfamiliar gesture for the man but, a needed one. His thumb rubbed the skin of her cheek slowly. "You're not a bad mother." Caitriona had never abandoned Jude, never left him in an abusive environment. The amount of times Dominic asked God to make it stop, only to receive silence, had created a man eager to keep the walls he's built from crumbling.
"You did what you could with that you had. Everything you ever did was for that boy..." even leaving Dominic was a choice made to protect him.
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Dominic cleared his throat. "We'll teach you everything you need to know. So come on, I have to meet with some people so I'll just drop you off at the ranch."
---
TIMESKIP
Dominic stepped into the house, hands instinctively going to the keypad. He jotted down the security code, and the system was ready to go for the night. A small box was on the side, with a note. 'Dinner leftovers :) - Mary.' The man grinned, grabbing the box and locking the door behind him.
"Caitriona? You in here?"
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no6secretsanta · 5 years ago
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Snowflakes and Starlight - pigeonsimba for celebrian
Snowflakes and Starlight
By @pigeonsimba for @aowyn
The snow floats and falls like dandelion fluff on the wind. Shion’s canine escort frisks about in the muddy snowbank just to his left, chomping occasionally at snowflakes that err too close to her eager muzzle. Although the dog looks laughable in moments like this, Inukashi assures him she’s a scrapper when it comes to confrontation. It’s been weeks since the run-in with the Disposers, so Shion isn’t sure he still needs the dog’s protection, but he’s glad to have her company on the solitary walks home from dog washing. He means to name the piebald mutt, but he hasn’t settled on the right one just yet, and he wants to make sure he gets Inukashi’s approval first.
The snow has been constant the last week. There’s so much that Shion is convinced that if you cut the snow banks open like a cake, you’d get a graduated slice, starting from black muck at the bottom, rising to grayed slush, and ending at the sugar white of fresh snow. The layers just beneath the top are fully frozen and treacherous if one doesn’t mind them well. Nezumi reminded Shion that sweet as the snow may seem the first day it comes down, it makes hell out of the ground in the days that follow. It’s especially bad when the snow compounds day after day, hiding the freezing sheets beneath clean coats. It is like walking on a pretty powdered minefield.
Shion picks his way carefully down the dark, narrow lane of the main street where the snow is less dense. This small sliver of road has not been cleared so much as stomped into submission. Though the residents of West Block do have shovels and other rudimentary means of cleaning the snow, they don’t have the luxury of time to do it, nor do they have the temperment. Inclement weather or not, the people trudged on, opening shops, hawking wares, swearing, sweating, and cursing until the dark brought them indoors again. To claim that one can’t perform their regular duties due to dangerous conditions is ludicrous; conditions are chronically dangerous in West Block.
So Shion sets out every other day to wash dogs, and Nezumi goes to the playhouse, or wherever else he gets off to when he isn’t home. It is a way of existence that Shion could never have conceived of in his old life. In No. 6, the streets would have been paved clear within the first hours of snowfall, and icy sidewalks would be a rarity, if not an impossibility. If the meteorologists predicted a winter squall headed their way, the populace would be warned to stay inside, work and class would be canceled, and families would sit inside their warm homes, sipping hot chocolates and watching the elements wail and blur outside their windows.
Shion no longer lives in No. 6, and it’s possible he never will again, but he doesn’t regret his life in West Block. Although he hopes he might be able to see his mother and Safu again one day, he doesn’t miss the city itself. Nothing ever felt real there. West Block, however, is excruciatingly real.
When Shion returns from dog washing, he feels the result of that work in the deep ache of his muscles and the fog of fatigue clouding his brain. And when it snows, he feels the sharp burn of the wind on his cheeks, the searing cold ripping in and out of his lungs, and he appreciates the warmth of his home that much more for it. Pain and discomfort are humbling teachers, and Shion feels blessed to have the chance to learn from them.
The dog hops off the top of the snowbank and into Shion’s path. She flops her thin brown tail and rubs up against his side, nosing his gloved hand. Shion laughs and pauses to give her head a good scratch.
“Sorry, am I walking too slow for you? I know it’s cold.”
The dog chuffs and the vapor ghost of her breath dances skyward. The snow is tapering off, and the fat gray clouds move slowly across the sky to inundate other places. When Shion finishes petting the dog, he gives her flank a pat and continues on. The dog follows along for a few strides but then stops and perks her ears.
“What is it, girl?” Shion sidles a bit closer. His dog escorts rarely dither or pause, so Shion pays special attention when they do.
The dog’s ears swivel, and she turns and trots down a side street. Shion follows without hesitation. He trusts the dog would not lead him into danger, and besides, it doesn’t seem that this alley sees much traffic. Shion’s legs sink mid-calf into the untrod snow and he shivers at the chill pressing at his skin through the fabric of his pants.
The alley lets out onto another street, which lays quiet but for a gray building two doors down. Conversation buzzes from the cracked doorway and Shion can see the faint amber glow of candlelight from the upper windows. The dog stops in front of the building and plops down onto her hindquarters. She gives a light bark and wags her tail.
Shion studies the exterior and realizes that the building is not gray, but faded green, a few shades shoddier than the carpet in the underground room. The snow around the building is heavily trodden, so much that Shion can actually make out the sporadic cobblestones that make up the streets of West Block. Whatever this place is, it’s popular.
Shion glances at the dog, wondering what drew her here. Then, he hears it:
A voice rises above the hubbub and the noise ceases, snuffed like a candle. The voice flutters in song, and though Shion stands outside and the sound is muffled, goosebumps prickle his skin. The song is crisp, clean, and clear, the singer’s timbre pure as the reverberation of struck crystal. Shion closes his eyes and lets the beauty of it wash over him for a moment.
“Nezumi,” he breathes. Shion would recognize that voice anywhere.
He doesn’t recognize the song, though, and after a moment more of listening, Shion rakes his teeth over his lower lip. This must be the playhouse Nezumi works at. Shion had been strictly barred from Nezumi’s performances, and he has never had a chance to seek out the playhouse. But now that he’s here already….
Shion reaches a hand toward the cracked door and glances down at the dog, as if she could advise on whether this is a good idea. The dog stares back with her liquid brown eyes and wags the tip of her tail. Shion figures she must approve, since she led him here, and pushes the door open.
The air inside the entrance is stuffy from the bodies packed into the room beyond. Shion can see the backs of men and women through the open doorway, and the sound of Nezumi’s song floats over their heads like fairy music—Shion can’t help but gravitate toward it.
“Hey!”
Shion jolts. An elderly woman glares at him from behind a small table at the side of the room. Nothing is on the table except her gnarled hands and a dun colored lockbox.
“You got a ticket?” she rasps. The woman looks like an ancient oak tree come to life, and her voice is dry and rough as bark.
“Oh. Uh, no,” Shion says, coloring a little at the raw dislike on her face.
“Got any money, then?”
“Oh! Yes, I…” Shion roots around in his pockets for a few seconds before he remembers he hasn’t been paid yet. Inukashi always pays him at the end of the week, and it’s only mid-week now.
Shion fists his empty hands at his sides and cranes his neck in an attempt to see into the room beyond. Nezumi’s voice tapers off on a sad, sweet note, and the room erupts into claps and cheers.
“Well?” The woman holds out her hand, her fingers curled like the legs of a dead spider.
“I’m sorry, I don’t have any money after all.”
“Then get out!”
Shion flinches at her vitriol. He hasn’t closed the door behind him and the cold outside air whispers over the back of his neck.
“But couldn’t I just—”
“No!”
The woman pushes up from her chair with a series of worrying pops and shuffles toward him. Shion backs out the door and the old crone slams it in his face.
He sighs and leans against the wall, as close to the window as he can get. Nezumi has started another song, this one more lively than the last. The spectators inside laugh and clap along.
“Maybe this is the universe telling me I shouldn’t betray Nezumi’s trust?” he asks the dog, who hasn’t moved since she’d parked herself in front of the playhouse. The dog cocks her head at Shion’s question and he gives her a small smile. “Well. Thanks for bringing me here anyway. It’s nice to know where Nezumi works.”
Shion tilts his head back and watches pieces of the night sky peek through the clouds. It looks like they’ll have clear skies tomorrow. Shion’s chest fills with relief; snow has long lost its novelty.
He turns back to the dog. “I think I’m going to wait and walk back with Nezumi. You can go home; I don’t want to make you stay out in the cold.”
The dog’s ears perk and her eyes seem to narrow, as if she’s judging whether he can be trusted to stand against a building without being accosted. Her skepticism reminds him so much of Nezumi that he can’t help but laugh. The dog must decide he can manage well enough alone, because she stands, stretches, and gives his glove a lick before turning back the way they came.
Shion attempts to make a mini snowman while he waits for the night’s performances to end. The top layer of snow is quite powdery, but it holds together in a ball well enough to stack. He hears the gathering break up just as he’s adding the finishing touches: Black pebbles for eyes and two cigarette butts for arms. His slumped and mouthless creation looks more like a warning for the dangers of reckless living than the jolly, happy soul Shion envisioned, but he is proud of it nonetheless.
Shion steps aside as the playhouse door tears open and its occupants elbow their way out. The warm air they carry with them is thick with sweat, alcohol, and the odd whiff of grilled meat. Few pay Shion any mind, but he keeps his gaze low to the ground to avoid attracting the attention of anyone rowdy or drunk enough to begin something over eye contact.
When the last of the patrons files out and disperses into the night, Shion raises his head and peers into the playhouse. Nezumi didn’t come out with the crowd, but Shion hadn’t expected him to. He imagined Nezumi would want to avoid his fans and come out only when they were gone.
He could see into the main room of the playhouse clearly now through the doorway. It’s an open space with no seats that he can see, but the stage at the front is sizeable enough for a play. The stage has only one small spotlight, its bulb still glowing faintly from use. There are no microphones and no orchestra, nor any stage equipment.
Shion waits a few minutes, but Nezumi doesn’t appear. A few minutes more and still no Nezumi, and he decides to brave the crotchety old lady again.
“Um. Hi.” The woman spears him with an acidic leer, but he gives her a close-lipped smile and pushes on. “Has Nezumi left yet?”
“Who?”
“Nezumi? Or, ah, Eve?”
“Oh. Another Eve fanboy,” she scoffs. “No, Eve isn’t here. He left a while ago, secretly, like he always does to avoid hangers-on like you. Now get out!”
Shion pulls the door shut and twists his mouth to the side. He should have guessed Nezumi would have a back way out. If he hurries, maybe he can catch up to him on the path. Shion steps over the trampled corpse of his snowman and heads in the direction of the underground room.
Luck is on his side that night: Once Shion leaves the town behind and is on the lonely path winding its way home, he spots a familiar silhouette ahead.
“Nezumi!”
Nezumi frowns as Shion trots to his side. “What are you doing out here?”
“I’m heading back from dog washing.”
“At this hour?”
“Well… I made a detour to the playhouse.” Nezumi’s grey eyes flash as they narrow, but Shion pretends he doesn’t notice and continues, “I waited for you, but you had already left. I caught up, though. Obviously.”
“Obviously,” Nezumi echoes dryly and resumes walking. “Where’s your four-legged babysitter?”
“I sent her home. I couldn’t hear you well when you were performing; what songs did you sing?”
Nezumi clicks his tongue. “Some holiday garbage. That’s all the audience wants when it snows. Tis the season and all that.”
“That’s nice,” Shion says with a smile. “No. 6 doesn’t keep a good record of songs from before the Babylon Treaty, but I think there are still a few from Christmastime… The ones about snow, at least.”
No. 6 doesn’t have any holidays apart from Holy Day, and there is nothing cheery about it. No songs, no dancing, and the only decorations allowed are banners of No. 6’s emblem. All celebrations with religious significance, no matter how loosely associated, were done away with when the city-state was established. Still, Shion has a basic understanding of what the holidays had meant to the people who celebrated them more than a decade ago.
“But even though we don’t have the winter holidays anymore,” Shion muses aloud, “I think people still feel their pull… There’s something about the cold that brings people together.”
“Yeah, it’s called fear of freezing to death.”
Shion shoots Nezumi a wry look. “You know I meant in the metaphorical sense,” he sniffs. “Winter… equalizes people. Everyone is affected by the cold—no matter who you are or how you live—and it reminds us that life is precious. And that makes you remember what’s actually important.”
“And that is?” Nezumi prompts as he kicks a snow drift. Powder explodes into their path like fine fog.
“Well, like family,” Shion answers, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “And friends.”
“And food, and shelter.”
Shion presses his lips into a line. Nezumi isn’t looking at him—hasn’t been looking at him since they started walking—but the smug amusement in his tone is enough to make his skin itch.
“Oh, but let’s not forget peace on earth, and goodwill to men,” Nezumi chirps. Shion scowls at the sharp edge of his patronizing smile. “Those are very important metaphorical things to cherish this holiday season.”
“Right,” Shion huffs. “Those too.”
Nezumi finally turns to him. “What happened to your good cheer?” he says with mock surprise. “Don’t tell me you’re done waxing poetic. I was really starting to see the vision.”
Shion stops and exhales noisily through his nose. “Why do you always have to pick apart the things I say? It’s childish.”
“Because you always speak carelessly,” Nezumi snorts. “Ninety percent of what you say is fluff—there’s no meaning behind it, no depth. The world is a shitty place, but you always act like everything is just perfect. Talking to you is like staring at that wall:”—Nezumi flings his hand at the shadowed silhouette of No. 6—“Pleasant at face value, but dig a little deeper, and it’s just empty platitudes.”
Shion curls his hands at his sides. The comparison stings, as it always does. Nezumi despises No. 6, and no matter how much Shion tries to assimilate and adapt to his new life, Nezumi never misses an opportunity to remind him that he will always be tainted by his connection with the city. He holds it over Shion’s head like it’s a critical flaw in his personality, drives it like wedge through their relationship and blames Shion when it causes splinters.
Shion hates it. He hates when Nezumi lashes out and criticizes him for being the catalyst, and he hates that Nezumi makes him hate him.
Nezumi lifts his chin and meets his gaze with a knowingness that causes Shion’s skin to feel too tight. 
Nezumi’s mouth twitches up into a smug smile. “Say something worthwhile, and I’ll be glad to listen like an adult.”
Then Nezumi turns and walks away.
Shion leers at his back, blood boiling. He feels small and impotent, and although he knows the feeling will pass and reason will soon be within his grasp again, at present, he wants to harness his anger to lash back at Nezumi. He knows, though, that the West Block resident is impervious to verbal assault, and Shion is no match for him physically.
Shion’s gaze drops to the snow sucking at his ankles. He kneels and packs together two hard, fist-sized snowballs, and stands again. His body buzzes with the sweet anticipation of payback.
“Nezumi!” he shouts, then takes two skipping steps, and launches one of the snowballs.
He means to hit Nezumi square in the back—even with his judgement hazed in irritation, Shion can’t conceive of doing any real harm—but Nezumi twists around, and the snowball hits him perfectly where shoulder meets neck, the edge of it just grazing his chin.
Nezumi freezes as the snowball bursts, its shattered ice crystals clinging like gems to the coal black superfibre cloth around his neck. Shion revels at the shock on his face—only for the triumph blazing in his chest to sputter when Nezumi’s gaze meets his.
Nezumi is always beautiful, but outrage lends an otherworldly element to the sharp planes of his face. His eyes gleam like quicksilver: liquid, cold, and deadly. When Nezumi is like this, Shion can conceive of how people looked upon the mutable gods of old with a commingling of fear and reverence, why even when they knew the price of transgression, they raged and loved and sacrificed for a mere moment of their attention.
Nezumi brushes the snow from his person with fastidious fury, and Shion’s body tingles with an exquisite combination of wonder and dread.
“Shion,” Nezumi says, and takes a step toward him.
Shion chucks the second snowball. It’s a fear-propelled knee jerk reaction to the low warning in Nezumi’s voice, and it’s a mistake. Nezumi sidesteps the missile easily and it evanesces into a snowbank. 
Bereft of projectiles, and with no way to make more as Nezumi approaches, Shion decides to retreat. He flees off the well-trodden path and into the field alongside it. His boots punch through the hitherto undisturbed snow, but it takes an obscene amount of effort to run in the calf-deep drifts, and Shion’s legs burn after only a few strides. Fortunately, Nezumi does not follow him in—probably because he noted Shion’s trouble wading through and does not want to sacrifice his dignity by trudging after him in a slow motion chase.
The mental image brings a smile to Shion’s face. He stops and turns to Nezumi, and they assess each other across the snowy expanse.
“You’re being ridiculous,” Nezumi says. “I’m not going to chase you around. Get back here.”
“You still look mad. I’m not coming out until you’ve calmed down.”
“Now who’s acting childish? You started this.”
Shion cocks an eyebrow. “Debatable.”
Nezumi’s gaze sweeps over the field dividing them, trying to gauge if it might be surmountable after all. The intense aura about him has the same energy as that of a cat surveying a fishbowl. Shion laughs and Nezumi’s eyes flick back up. His mouth tilts mulishly and he takes a step into the snow.
Shion readies to turn and flee again, but the snow holds onto his foot when he tries to lift it and the boot gets caught on the side of his other leg. A squeak of surprise slips from Shion’s throat as he pitches backward and lands with a crunchy whump in the snow. His breath whooshes out and clouds above his head.
Nezumi appears above him a moment later. “Klutz,” he scoffs, but his brow is pinched in concern.
Shion stares up at the blue-black sky and pulls a slow, silent breath through his parted lips. The clouds have migrated somewhere else, and the stars shimmer in their place. Calm washes over him, muting the icy press of the snow against his skin and banishing every thought. There is only the epiphany of now, of this single moment, and the infinity of stars above him.
“Shion?”
Shion grabs Nezumi’s pant leg and tugs. “Lie down.” He doesn’t take his gaze from the sky.
“What? No.”
“You have to see this.” Shion gives Nezumi’s pant cuff another tug and drops his hand back to his side. “You won’t regret it.”
Shion’s eyes find the moon, and he stares until he can see the specter of the luminescent circle on the back of his eyelids every time he blinks.
Nezumi growls under his breath, and the snow shifts as he drops down beside Shion. He’s sitting, not lying down, but Shion takes it as a victory nonetheless. “I already regret this. It’s freaking cold.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“What?” Nezumi mutters, incredulous. “The stars?”
“Yes.” Shion swallows. “There are so many of them.”
“…You didn’t hit your head, did you?”
“No.”
“It does, however, occur to me,” Nezumi says slowly, “that even if you did hit your head, I might not be able to tell the difference. You speak nonsense either way.”
Shion sighs. “I’ve lived my whole life under this sky, and I’ve never once appreciated the stars.”
“Is that a poem of some sort? Shion, really, what are you talking about?”
“This!” Shion flings his hand skyward. “This is exactly what I was talking about. This is what’s important, appreciating the things around you. I never did that when I lived in No. 6.”
In No. 6, life is led with your shoulders hunched and your eyes no higher than government mandate. You take the job the city thinks you’re good for, go where you’re told to go, and you don’t dare run your mouth for fear of saying the wrong thing. Shion had lived sixteen years like a machine, and although he was never satisfied, he convinced himself he was at least content.
Then he was torn from that world of paranoia and monotony and thrown into West Block, the polar opposite of the Holy City. West Block is loud, dirty, lawless, unmonitored—freeing.
For the first time in his life, Shion doesn’t have to hold his feelings in; he can speak truthfully, and he might be disagreed with, but he can disagree right back and there is no penalty for doing so.
That’s why Shion talks so much. That’s why he tends toward happy and idealistic. Because he can finally speak his mind. He’s finally free to think and imagine and desire things for himself, and sometimes he can’t help but get carried away with the wonder of it.
Shion shakes his head. “I was so busy keeping my head down, I never noticed everything I was missing. I mean… Look at the world we live in.”
The wind whispers through the barren trees, trailing icy dust in its wake like gossamer threads. The stars wink in and out of focus in the silken blackness. Somewhere down the way, a wooden door creaks, followed by children’s laughter. Shion and Nezumi lie still in the midst of a vast snowscape, but life flows on around them, unconcerned with their participation.
“It’s beautiful. Not perfect,” Shion says softly, and turns to meet Nezumi’s gaze, “but still beautiful. Don’t you think?”
The expression Nezumi wears now is one that Shion has seen more and more as of late. Nezumi is not so much looking at him, as into him, as if he is desperately trying to reconcile what Shion’s saying with who Nezumi thinks Shion is. It’s a consternation reserved for magic tricks and puzzle boxes with no discernable seams.
Shion’s not sure why Nezumi has such a hard time figuring him out, but he enjoys when he makes Nezumi consider him more seriously.
“I guess,” Nezumi huffs at last.
“Thank you for acknowledging it,” Shion says with a smile.
“At this point, I’ll agree to any of your harebrained notions if it means we can get up and go home. My ass is freezing.”
“Alright,” Shion laughs. “Since you were good enough to humor me.”
Shion peels himself from the ground. His hair is cold and wet from lying so long and a shiver judders down his spine.
Nezumi brushes off the back of his pants with a sour look. When he’s done, he glances up and frowns. “Shion, you have something on your shoulder.”
“Hm?” Shion tilts his head to look.
A snowball smashes into the side of his face and Shion stumbles back a step. He turns, mouth agape.
“What, did you think I wouldn’t pay you back?” Nezumi says pleasantly. He tosses a snowball up and down in his left hand—the glove of his right is slick from the first he pegged Shion with.
Shion has no idea how Nezumi made two snowballs without him noticing, but he realizes he’s in danger.
Nezumi stops juggling the snowball and smirks. “You know how I am with debts.”
“Right.” Shion swallows. Icy droplets slip down the collar of his coat and melt into his sweater. “You got me. We’re even.”
Nezumi’s smirk morphs into a genuine smile. “Oh, but I don’t think you appreciated the snow nearly enough when you were in No. 6. Here, let me help you with that.”
“Hey—” The second of Nezumi’s throws hits Shion in the nose. He coughs and swats the snow out of his face. “Nezumi, no more. This is too much revenge—I only hit you once!”
“Not my fault you’re a lousy shot.” Nezumi walks backwards toward the path home. “By all means, hit me again. If you can manage it, that is.”
“Tempting,” Shion calls.
But as he joins Nezumi on the path, he decides it’s not worth retaliating. A hundred new tangents and observations are already queued on his tongue, and he wants to get Nezumi’s reluctant opinion on all of them.
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brachyurans · 5 years ago
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current TW3 moods
already only 7 cards away from finishing velen in my gwent book!
have any quests been completed? monster nests been cleared out? no. gwent
me at every merchant, dithering over essential gear upgrades: but if i buy these i might not have enough coin for gwent cards later...
i finally have enough unit cards to run a Nilfgaard deck! it would be a shitty deck because it’s literally just the first 22 units i came across, but i could do it if i so desired. aesthetically, i desire this very strongly. in practice i am not good enough at gwent to give up playing clear skies foltest.
please say i get to play against emhyr at some point. i have not looked this up because if im gonna be disappointed i want the game to be the one to let me down but i want the white flame dancing on the graves of his enemies to beat my ass at gwent so badly.
conversely, i see dandelion and i just want to dunk on him mercilessly, so i would like this dunking to extend into the realm of gwent as well
it’s only 452 coins to get the complete nilfgaard DLC set from the crow’s perch quartermaster and i need a decent early game armor set and that one won’t require me to scavenge half the continent for the diagrams and the nilfgaard uniform is so fucking attractive. i am trying my best not to compromise geralt’s morals by giving in to my ginormous evil empire weakness but it is HARD, my pain is REAL
if not i’m going for the cat set because it too is hot and also i appreciate the cat style of ‘get in and get out as fast as possible’. rip cat school sorry you filled up with a buncha soulless mercenaries you were pretty cool otherwise. i am waiting for that Aiden questline it’s not for ages but i crave that witcher/witcher drama
i was having SO much trouble with velen initially until i figured out that like, you have to upgrade from the initial Kaer Morhen armor. i hadn’t changed it out for any of the stuff i was finding because i was too fucking vain. WHOOPS.
i’m still having trouble but much less trouble now. however, i feel my competence is strongly undermined by how stupid my gear looks.
like, can everyone not just TELL that i looted this junk off of some soldier’s corpse, it’s obvious that Mr. Cat-Eyes over here was never in the fucking army
i trust keira not even half as far as geralt could probably throw her and i’ve been avoiding going to meet up with her to start her first quest because i feel like there are TRAPS in there.
unrelated but i hate specters and particularly wraiths so fucking much. i also hate nocturnal necrophages. fight me in the daytime you BASTARDS.
letho of gulet nearly murdered me in one shot with his stupid crossbow traps but on the other hand, he cleared out a whole bunch of wraiths so i didn’t have to, and i really appreciate that in a guy
the botchling wraith fights rattled me so bad i accidentally set the baron on fire instead of casting Axii. thankfully he was immune to fire damage, it was fine
speaking of i’m actually REALLY BAD with signs i had to suddenly flee an outpost because my finger slipped and I Axii’d a nilfgaardian soldier unintentionally. they weren’t super thrilled about that
doesn’t really help that i can only reliably identify Igni and Yrden by symbol the rest of those little fuckin triangles i have to read the label for
still don’t know how to use potions, am utterly BAFFLED by decoctions (so...specific...), but sword oils are pretty sweet. i’m going to go on a personal quest to unlock all of the oils. 
geralt spends 90% of his time with me staring at the fucking question marks on the fucking map mostly because i have no sense of direction and also can never decide which question mark to commit to. they’re really stressful question marks because if i fuck up and it’s too high a level geralt has to book it on foot and he’s not that fast. i could use roach but i don’t take roach within 100 paces of a monster nest if i can help it. i know she can’t die or take damage but i LOVE her, okay, i don’t want her to be scared ever
how do boats work
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manascoundrel · 8 years ago
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Trophy- Chapter 2
by Yarking Fandom: Dragon Age (general) Summery: Two troubled children meet at the Minrathous Circle. One is a magister’s heir, groomed to be the blood mage general of Seheron, without fear or mercy. Hopefully, that will keep people from noticing how very much an elf he is. The other is last born, least loved and most of his emotions involve academics and cadavers. They love each other, even if they’re not terribly good at it. Warnings for this chapter: child abuse (physical/magical/emotional), character death, (argumentatively) torture
Tertius separated a lock of his mama’s long, black hair into three bunches. The pink tip of his tongue poked out between his lips, pursed in concentration. Carefully- labouring against the natural clumsiness of a five-year-old’s hands- he lifted one bunch and crossed it over the adjacent one.
“Like this?” he asked, doing the same to the other side. He looked up her with wide, pale eyes.
She smiled, warm against her wan, thinning face. Careful not to move her head too much. It had been days since she carded her fingers through the long, inky hair Tertius had inherited from her, kissing the top of his head as she braided and rebraided the long, black tail. Mama had been tired. Tertius’ hair was now mussed and tangled past the root of the black ribbon that kept it back. It hadn’t been brushed since she had last done it. “Just like that, precious.”
His face went alight, like an owlet proud of his first gliding down to the forest floor. Tertius returned to the braid, working with his usual single-minded focus. He hummed a song she would sing him, melody wandering in a way his attention did not.
“I think that’s enough,” she murmured gently as he ended his first plait. “It’s time for a nap.”
“I’m not tired,” Tertius said. It’s true, he wasn’t, and what he was tired of was naps. He hadn’t needed one in a year. They were boring.
“I know. But I am. You can stay and play, or read, if you want,” she said, sliding back deeper under the sheets. The braid stretched out on the pillow between them. “You have your book with the horses on the table there.”
Tertius scrunched his nose as his mama pulled up the covers and looked at him knowingly. He looked at his book resting open at the bedside table, a woodblock print of a patchy horse illustrating one side. Looked back at her, and scooted forward, nestling into the bed beside her.
Naps were boring, but he was patient. The look of favor on her face as she looked down at him was worth the tedium. He shut his eyes, content, and felt the burst of warmth in his chest as she pulled her frail arm around him.
He fell asleep to the smell of perfume, sweat and laudanum, and the rhythm of her breathing.
The bright sunset sliding across the bed and into his eyes woke him, and he mumbled groggily in the glare. His head hurt, and the pang of hunger in his belly told him they had slept too long. His hands went to his face, rubbing his eyes and keening against the pain in his head from oversleeping.
Blinking, he noticed his mama’s face, usually pale, now dazzlingly white against the black of her hair and deep plum of the sheets. Still. He nudged her.
“Mama?”
Nothing. He looked up into her face, brow knitting. Touched her cheek. Her skin was soft. A little cold. It was early fall. The tip of his nose was cold too. They could use another blanket.
He wiggled out from under her arm, careful not to wake her, and slid to the edge of the bed. His skinny legs swung over and he hopped up, whispering over his shoulder in case she was awake and just too comfortable, “I’m getting the fuzzy yellow one.”
That one was his favorite.
He opened the door carefully, crank inside the knob sounding loud as things did when trying not to wake someone, and shut it behind him. The thump of the door on its frame made Tertius startle, but he didn’t hear stirring from inside, and so plodded down the hall and to his room.
The blanket was there over his pillow where he had left it, folded by one of the slaves that would tidy behind him, and he fumbled to drag it onto the floor as it unfurled. It trailed behind him, bundled in his arms as he returned to the hallway, but his stomach rumbled fiercely.
It was late in the day. He should have had dinner by now. Tertius dithered, pouting as he thought. It wasn’t really that cold. He decided to take something from the kitchen before going back. The detour wasn’t far, but when he peeked in to look for scraps one of the cooks swooped in to chastise him.
“Where were you earlier?” he asked, turning from a pile of flour-speckled dough to gripe at Tertius. The flour puffed at the slave’s hips where he planted his hands testily, dusting into the air like pretty clouds. “You know I work all day to make a nice dinner and you- aw, now don’t even try it!”
The cook’s words were falsely cross, hiding his amusement, presumably at how Tertius had pulled his blanket over his head and hid beneath it like a dandelion-colored ghost to avoid the lecture. He groused all through scavenging Tertius’ impromptu dinner. Tertius pulled the blanket back over his shoulders and accepted the plate the slave prepared, leaning into the hand that rested on his head just a moment before ruffling his hair and shooing him from the room.
The bread he had been given was baked that morning, its crust toughened since then and harder to chew through. Tertius tore and growled, playing like the hunting dogs Papa’s friend in the senate had, or the elves in the basement he wasn’t supposed to talk to. It was a fun game, but the tugging made one of his teeth wiggle and it felt strange. He wasn’t supposed to poke at it. He poked at it.
He was balancing the plate with the extra chunk of bread he saved for Mama in one hand and fidgeting with his loose tooth with the other when he reached the hall to his mother’s room once more.
The door was ajar unlike how he left it, and voices of slaves and what he could recognize as Papa came from inside. Tertius drew up more slowly, not liking the stiff words even before he could make out what they were saying.
His hand rested on the cold knob and he peeked through the narrow gap between the door and its frame. He could see Papa inside, palm covering his mouth and a drawn, concentrated look on the visible half of his face. Papa was silent and still, the only indication that he wasn’t a statue being the tension around his dry, colorless eyes as he inspected where Mama was sleeping.
“I want an autopsy before the cremation. The usual poisons, and any rot that might have come from the list of spells I will supply you,” he said at last, hand dropping to reveal the twisted, thin-lipped frown that finished his expression as icy fury.
“Yes, master.”
Tertius nudges the door open further and further until the creak of hinges snapped the attention of everyone in the room except his mother.
His papa’s words were spiny and clipped. “Get out, Tertius.”
“She needs a blanket,” Tertius reasoned, shrugging his blanket up over his shoulders like a demonstration.
“Get out.”
“You’re mother… she’s gone, young master,” one of the slaves, a matronly lady with a kind face and round ears. She reaches out to Tertius, ready to place a withered hand on his head. “I’m so sorry.”
Tertius stepped back. He didn’t want to be touched by a liar. “She’s right there,” he said, and moved to climb back into bed. “She’s just cold.”
Nearby, Papa exhaled sharply and the anger rolling off him made Tertius slow, cowering instinctively. “Tertius, get out now,” he commanded. Then, hissing at his entourage, “Someone get him out of here.”
Younger slaves leave him on either side, reaching forward and taking Tertius by his arms, pulling him back off the bed. Mama remained still and silent in her slumber, and the strangeness of how deep she was sleeping to ignore the elves manhandling him left a streak of uncertainty in Tertius, and he kicked out and flopped as dead weight. One of the elves yelped as he bucked her in the face and the other eased back, giving Tertius the chance to scramble back.
“She’s right here, liar!” he accused, wrapped in his blanket and puffing from his tantrum, before the slaves returned in earnest, dragging him back again. They held him by his ankle this time, and there was little leverage for him to kick them away again. He resorted to thrashing and screaming, reaching out to grab a handful of his mother’s nightgown. “Wake up! Wake up!”
Something was wrong. She remained still, and Tertius shrieked and tried to bite one of the young slaves that had tried prying open his hand. She needed to wake up now. He wanted her awake. He needed her. He screamed.
Under his yelling, he still managed to hear Papa’s sharp breath, and saw out of the corner of his eye Papa’s long, black claws disappear under his own skin. When the black claws reappeared, spread wide like a swatting cat, they were filmed to the quick with blood. It stained his fingertips a bright orange-red and then suddenly vanished, too close to Tertius’ neck for him to see.
The hand was only at his throat for a moment, but he felt the blood magic injected into him like a single drop of paint into a glass of water, foreign and bright.
The magic spread.
It sealed his throat and fogged into his head, first prickling his skin into goosebumps and then the sensation of the skin being too tight- of his face being asleep. A cold that burned- the numbness was replaced by pain, overwhelming and inescapable. It ate at his mind, until his vision dimmed inward, blinded and shrieked.
Was he on the ground? He had to be. His hands stretched out, finding smooth and jagged- what? His mind couldn’t place the feeling, and soon after the capacity to reach out and feel left him altogether.
Tertius struggled to breathe, his mouth locked hard and throat tight in pain. There he remained for an unknowable length of time, moment after moment after moment, until he awoke rocking and faint on the floor of his room.
He heaved himself up onto his hands, needles prickling where his palms met the carpet, and watched the pillars of his arms as he swayed on their tenuous support, wondering at how the rhythmic rocking stilled his mind and gave him a measure of peace. Distantly. A large part of him not thinking at all.
His mother.
Tertius’ throat clapped tight, his breathing a frail, struggling thing, whistling through his snot and fear. They had lied- they would take her! Where and why he didn’t understand, but- but they would take her.
He plopped forward, trying and failing to coordinate a crawl on his hands and knees, and ended up shimmying and wriggling the distance to the door. One foot. Another. His small fingers planted on the door jam, scratching up and-
And it was locked. He tried again. He curled his hand around the bar and let his weight drop into turning the handle down- and out- but it remained still. A final, desperate jiggle. Nothing.
Tertius tried to open his mouth. He tried to pry open his jaws and scream for help, demand and explanation. Tried to unstick his tongue from the top of his mouth, breath deep and scream for his mother. He failed. He tried again. He failed. Tertius managed a thin, shrill noise that splintered at his throat, but the sound was hardly loud enough to reach his own ears in the deafening silence, and could hardly breach the door before him.
He clawed at the edge of the door, where it met the jam, and rocked.
--
A slave found him the next morning when they came to change his sheets.
He had fallen asleep at the door, and fell onto her feet when she swung it open, waking to her startled scream. He screamed back in his own, whispered way, tongue pressed still against the roof of his mouth, jaw viciously tight, and when she noticed straightaway his strange shaking and the strangled, squeaking sounds he made between breaths she brought him swiftly to the house’s physician.
The physician was a white-haired man, who peered at him like he was small. Which he was, but it felt more apparent with the looming. Tertius worked to eke out a plea, exhausted and scared at his voicelessness.
“His father,” the man directed after the most cursory examinations. He turned to sit on his quarters’ bed, the sparse furnishings giving Tertius the option of standing or the floor. He pitched slowly on his feet, the encroaching blankness preferable to the seemingly distant memory of the glinting orange-red of blood. The memory of the spell felt old and weathered, despite happening precious few waking hours ago. Everything felt old and weathered. The very room he swayed in felt grey and unreal and remote.
Perhaps it had been a nightmare? But then, what could account for his speechlessness?
He rocked, and focused on the blankness and the hope his mother’s stillness had been a bad dream.
People were speaking.
“It should have worn off by now.”
“Well, evidently, it did not.”
Tertius turned his head and tried to focus. There was Papa. Had it been a dream? Hadn’t it? His hand lifted as he considered his chances, extended and reached for Papa. How far away was he? He had to focus. His hand closed around air.
A hand encircled Tertius’ throat, and Tertius breathed in one long, shaky gasp.
Papa’s hand dropped away as Tertius let out a pained moan. His head pulsed with his heart, and the stream of light brought tears to his aching eyes. After so long with only sips of air, Tertius’ chest didn’t seem to know what to do with the surplus now as it spasmed and fluttered and rejected the great, jagged gasps.
But the room was real again.
“P-,” he tried.
His tongue stuck. “P-... Puah-... Puh…”
His papa paused where he had drifted to leave the seemingly-resolved problem. Half turned. Looked at him with narrow, raptor eyes.
“Say that again, Tertius.”
Tertius felt small. He felt so small, scrunching his face up and forcing out around his resisting mouth a eventual, hard won, “Puh.”
His papa turned the rest of the way to face him, coursing down. “I removed the spell. You can speak freely now. Don’t be petulant.”
Tertius tried again, but when his mouth refused and he could endure the uncertainty no longer, his small hands curled into fists and pressed against the side of his head. “Mmma. Mmma.”
“You want to see your mother?” Papa asked, voice going strange and sweet.
Tertius nodded as hard as he could, teetering a little as he spoiled his own shaky balance with the motion. Papa extended a taloned hand and took Tertius’ own in it, holding it with a surprising lightness as he brought Tertius with him.
This bad dream was over. With the incoming promise of his mama, Tertius suddenly felt all of the exhaustion in his tiny body, each step plodded and ending with his knee buckling, stumbling forward. He wouldn’t say no to a nap with her today.
Papa brought him past the kitchen hall, past his room, past his mother’s room and to the main atrium. To the mantle above a low, popping fire. To an urn.
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ginnyzero · 5 years ago
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Completely Harmless Ch. 14
Completely Harmless An SSO SilverGlade Re-imagining Story (Or Fix it Fan Salt fic) By Ginny O.
When Lily and her friends wanted to buy horses and were directed to the Silverglade Manor and its myriad of problems, they didn’t expect to start a revolution. They were just a bunch a stable girls. Completely harmless. Right?
A/N: Things are only canon if I say they’re canon. Pre-Saving the Moorland Stables compliant for the most part. Posted in its entirety on my website. Posted in 2000 to 4000 word bits here. Rated T for Swearing Word Count 177,577
Chapter Fourteen Anastasia in Charge
They finished the front gardens and the reflecting pool/waterfall just in time, because the next day Antonia sent Lily a frantic text that she had a meeting with Anastasia in Jorvik City at Leonardo’s with Aaron Silverglade.
Lily wasn’t sure why the tough sounding woman needed her and Pauline but if it reassured her, then Lily was willing to join the meeting. Plus, ice cream.
Anastasia made a small noise about their outfits when they arrived. But it wasn’t like they had anything better than the Silverglade Clan outfit! But she didn’t say anything else. They all ordered ice cream.
Antonia shuffled her papers. She had a pile of her recipes and suppliers along with a trial layout of the menu and some pictures of different ceramic and glassware.
Anastasia raved about the food. “Classic and flavorful, and light, perfect for a summer menu. The cardamom in the rizogallo was the perfect touch. And you say you got everything locally, my mother is so proud of the resources in the Silverglade area. You are perfect for this position.”
Antonia smiled, pleased. “Local and fresh is essentially for a quality restaurant.”
Anastasia raised her hands. “I believe I have the perfect name, darlings; The Silver Glade, Fine Mediterranean Cuisine.”
“You’re the boss,” Lily said.
Antonia nodded. “My vision for the upstairs and downstairs dining areas is modern, fresh and young,” she said and laid out her photographs. “Upstairs the most important way to convey this will be with the place settings. I’ve brought several choices.”
“Going up and down those stairs, the servers are going to want comfortable shoes,” Pauline made a face.
Lily put a finger on a photograph. “What about those? They’re sufficiently modern and the white won’t interfere with the food.” The dishes in question had white on white Greek keys done intaglio style around the edges.
“That would be the Wedgewood set,” Antonia said with a wince.
Anastasia pounced. “Wedgewood is classic. Yes, I believe that will be perfect.”
Lily and Pauline rolled their eyes at each other.
“Now, Aaron has a plan to use the birches around the property to make birch syrup. The Silver Glade itself has a lot of birches we could tap as well.” Anastasia said. “Once we get that going, we’ll want to find ways to use it in the restaurant as well as, do you have a name for your little ice cream bar yet, brother dear?”
“I’m working on it,” Aaron fidgeted.
“I’m sure we can find something to use birch syrup in, such as the drinks or the ice creams and desserts,” Antonia reassured him. “That sounds fascinating.”
Aaron smiled at her and looked at his hands.
Antonia gave Anastasia a mild glare. Aaron was trying.
“And it will be something to sell at the Farmer’s Market,” Lily said.
“Farmer’s Market,” Antonia pounced.
“Yes, um,” Lily pulled out her phone. “We have a sister club called the Summer Chipmunks based in Silverglade Village. They have claimed the four local tenant farmers, Landon is a sheep farmer, Marley does potatoes, Steve grows grains and keeps dairy cows and Barney also has crop fields such as carrots, beets, and turnips. They found an area that’s relatively centralized to put in a farmer’s market. They’ll be using the pavilion we used for the taste testing. It’s near the Golden Fields.”
“Really? That’s wonderful.”
“They’re hoping to get farmers from all over the county, like MoonRiver honey and the Sunfield’s dairy,” Pauline said. “They’re looking into finding who owns the apple orchard in Firgrove.”
“The spot is near the Golden Fields, but they can’t figure out why they’re called that. I don’t know why the Silver Fields are called that either, they’re just useless expanses of grass that rich people call lawns,” Lily drawled out.
“Buttercups?” Pauline asked with a shrug. “I don’t know.”
“Maybe it was dandelions.”
“Mrs. Holdsworth would like that and dandelions are at least useful,” Pauline tilted her head. “You can eat the flowers, the leaves are good for salads, the roots make a bitter tea and can be added to coffee, I think it was dandelions.”
“It’s probably not important,” Antonia said.
Lily texted the President of the Summer Chipmunks a message. “Oh, they looked into it, they used to be canola fields. It doesn’t seem right that the Silver Fields aren’t silver. I suppose if we must, we can do something about it ourselves.” She sent another text.
Pauline gave her an odd look.
Lily put her phone away. “How did you want to decorate?” She asked Antonia. “We have plenty of miniature roses left over for the upstairs restaurant if you want them.
“I was thinking round tables and roman style chairs? If there is such a thing. And of course, we’d want candles in the middle with flowers from the gardens. Or even table lamps we could put flowers around. I don’t want it too fussy.”
Pauline brightened. “Agnetha has had globe style lamps made for the gardens already and commissioned benches.” She pulled out her phone. “Okay, Linda has been posting pictures on her Jorvikgram and I took a bunch.” She passed the phone over. “So, similar to that?”
“Yes, yes,” Antonia looked relieved. “Maybe a bit more modern. But we could do something similar for the interior, that is, I don’t know how much your mother wants to make over for a downstairs rainy and cold day dining area.”
“Mother has given me free reign to make this a success.” Anastasia waved a hand. “Aaron, where is your computer, let’s have a better look at these pictures.”
Aaron retrieved his computer and chicken pecked in his password. He nudged it towards Pauline.
Pauline input Linda’s JorvikGram and scrolled through the pictures and the pictures were captioned with who had actually done the pieces.
“Linda believes in fair attribution for the artists,” Pauline explained. “She wants them to get more business.”
“And they will,” Anastasia said.
By the end of the session, they at the very least had some ideas for lamps, place settings and silverware. The Wedgewood sets even had flower vases.
Lily and Pauline were sent off with orders to leave at different businesses to be shipped to Silverglade. (Where Lily knew that they’d have to pick them up and bring them to the Manor.)
Anastasia also made one more request. She needed the measurements of all of the girls. She had plans it appeared. Lily and Pauline promised to get them for her.
Aaron was still dithering over what to call everything. “I’m not that inventive,” he said plaintively. The girls promised to think about it for him.
“Anastasia went the easy route,” Lily told Pauline on the name for the restaurant as they left for Aideen’s Plaza.
Pauline snorted. “You’re up to something.”
“Really?” Lily batted her eyes at Pauline.
“Why do you care so much about the Baroness’ lawn anyways,” Pauline twisted to look at her on the trolley.
Lily shrugged. “It seems like a waste. I mean, lawns are all about conspicuous consumption. They came to be because rich people had so much land and money that they could afford to have large swaths of it doing nothing. See my big tracts of grass that doesn’t grow food or flowers or feed animals. Lawns are dumb. And, the grass isn’t silver, so the name only makes sense if you know it’s the property of the Silverglade’s and, maybe I have something against grass.”
Pauline giggled.
So Pauline pretended not to notice that Lily and Iris had a furtive exchange at Iris’ shop. They placed the orders they needed with the artisans Agnetha had found. They weren’t too surprised. Rumors were rampant about things happening out around the Baroness’ Manor.
No doubt many of them were created by Anastasia herself.
They returned back to the Manor to report to the others who were washing a new set of ducks. Brittany was frantic over a black one.
“Uh, Brit, I think he’s supposed to be that color.”
Brittany held the black duck upwards, it reflected purple in the sun. “Are you sure?” She sounded panicked.
“Okay, vet time!”
They took the duck to the vet.
“It’s a Jorvegian Aubergine Black Duck,” the vet reassured her. “It’s supposed to be black.”
“Some poor fool named this duck after an eggplant,” Regina moaned.
They giggled.
Brittany cuddled the duck. “Okay, as long as he’s supposed to be this way.”
“They’re known for their deep black feathers, orchid sheen and purple bills and feet,” the vet explained.
“We have added a rather large water feature to the manor,” Regina told her.
“It may be attracting other Jorvegian duck species. The South Silver Waters also border the Baroness’ lands and many wild ducks like to swim in the shallows. Keep your eyes open for Jorvegian Purple Mallards and Jorvegian Purplebills. They’re both native wild species.” The vet said. “But don’t be surprised if others turn up if you’re making the Manor hospitable to them.”
The girls nodded.
“Thanks!” Brittany called out to her as they left, the duck safely tucked in her saddlebag.
They returned to the manor and since all the chores were done for the day, they rode around with Pauline trying to decide on races.
“I’m not sure I like this, we’ve been so busy and doing nothing is boring,” Melody said.
“Don’t say that,” Grace groaned. “You’ll jinx it.”
“Well, Antonia the Chef is going to be moving to Silverglade from New Hillcrest soon. She owns a Scooter, so she might need help moving. And well, the restaurant is going to need to be decorated and everything.”
So, they decided to poke their noses around to see what was going on with the restaurant and kitchen.
They tramped up to the roof of the manor again and spread out.
“Well, this is fine and all for a warm summer day,” Elsa observed. “But there has to be a room that we can use in the Winter. You can’t let it sit for most the year wasting money. You don’t want to lose employees!”
“It doesn’t look like it needs that much sprucing up.” Jennifer added. “If there was furniture you could start tomorrow.”
“If,” Tyra said. “There is a room downstairs for the restaurant, I think. I mean, it’s past the stairs.”
“Forward is the library,” Lily said as they went back downstairs. “That leads to the Baroness’ dining room.”
“I think her kitchen is supposed to serve both places,” Linn scratched her neck.
“That’d actually make sense,” Stacy said.
“So, it’s this door here,” Lily said and put her hand on the handle. She cracked it open. It was a big empty room. “Yeah, I think this is it.” She opened it more and they filed inside to look around.
“It isn’t very,” Abigail shrugged. “Memorable.”
Lily took pictures and sent them to Anastasia and Antonia, asking Anastasia if this was the room in question.
They checked the door leading into the house. “Okay, yeah, that’s the kitchen,” Tyra said after peeking inside. “I don’t think there is anyone there.”
“Doesn’t her butler do most the cooking?”
“Maybe she has a private chef.”
Lily put a finger to her lips, ducked inside and took more pictures for Antonia. She left without touching anything. It wasn’t a huge space. It didn’t have to be.
“Just a big empty room,” Regina bit her lip.
“What does a stylish Mediterranean Restaurant look like anyways?” Linn asked.
“That sounds like an internet search!” Elsa said.
They retreated to the library and took out their phones and searched. They showed each other different pictures.
“I think this is the closest we can do with the room,” Regina said and brandished her phone to show them pictures of the Le George restaurant at the George Four Seasons Hotel in Paris.
They did all agree. They didn’t have quite the same type of architecture, because the Le George definitely had a glass sunroom type area. So, again, Lily forwarded the pictures to Antonia and Anastasia mentioning something similar could work for the Silver Glade and that surely they could use the Roses instead of orchids.
But they didn’t want to copy it exactly.
That and if there wasn’t purple, the Baronness would be upset. Anastasia knew a decorator and informed Lily that she’d be there tomorrow with materials and that they better be available to her.
They all rolled their eyes and agreed.
“Better warn Agnetha,” Lily mumbled and went to do just that.
Then, they went for a ride in the Silver Fields. Lily passed out a bunch of seed packets from Iris for them to scatter of wild Carnations. They didn’t grow more than three to five inches high and were colored white with bits of pink on the inside or plain white.
Pauline rolled her eyes
The rest of the girls just giggled.
Lily hummed as she scattered seeds. She was sure that Agnetha would agree with her that big lawns of grass, grass, and more grass were nothing but a waste.
FOR THE ACCOMPANYING IMAGES PLEASE DO NOT REMOVE MY WATERMARK AND CONTACT INFORMATION. THANK YOU. I get it. Some of you might get excited and want to see this stuff in the game, especially the clothes, tack, and pets. However, the only way I want to see this in the game is if I get paid for it. If I see it in the game and I’m not paid for it, there will be hell to pay. You think I’m salty. I’d be angry. Personally, I’m not going to send this info to SSO. If you do, leave my contact information there! Don’t give them any excuses to steal.
Now, I’ll know you haven’t read this note if you leave me comments about how ‘salty’ I am about the game and if I hate it so much I should do something else. I am doing something else. It’s called Mystic Riders MMORPG Project. Mystic Riders however is a very baby phase game. You can check out our plans on the game dev blog. (Skills, Factions, Professions, Crafting, Mini-Games, 25+ horse breeds!) If you know anyone who would be interested and has money or contacts about game making, direct them to the blog.
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anneedmonds · 6 years ago
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My Three Key Hair Styles | AD
The smell of Elnett hairspray is the smell of my twenties. The smell of my entire modelling career, really, wherever in the world it has taken me. Because I can’t think of many photoshoots I’ve been at where there hasn’t been a cloud of Elnett escaping through the door of the hair and makeup room; it’s one of the fashion shoot sensory staples, along with the sound of the clothes steamer and the frightening feeling of cold metal on your eyelids as the lash curler clamps down.
Mr AMR (who has been a photographer for far longer than I’ve been a model) didn’t know that we were shooting these pictures for an Elnett feature, but recognised the smell straight away. It’s just so nostalgic, I suppose, if you’ve worked in the fashion industry – it reminds me of those crazy, heady days in London or in Milanese or Parisian studios, rushing through the final shot with a motorbike waiting outside, ready to speed me to the airport to catch a flight to New York or Berlin or wherever it was I needed to go next.
But enough of the reminiscing; it’s not the nostalgic smell of Elnett I’m supposed to be talking about, or even the fact that it must be one of the most iconic beauty products in existence. It’s the versatility of this non-crunchy, lasting-hold spray that makes it as useful for taming flyaways as it is for creating dramatic avant garde hair sculptures.
I’ve put together three looks – and by “looks”, I mean very easy hairstyles that I wear on rotation – for three different occasions.
You can probably tell that the first is my most casual – this is what I go for when I seriously can’t be bothered to do any hair styling whatsoever. The ballerina bun with hair scraped back tightly and any loose sections pinned up with hairgrips. Ironically, this style is the easiest to do but requires the most Elnett – because I have regrowth from my postpartum hair-loss, there’s a whole mane of short baby hairs around my face. It looks ridiculous, like I’m a dandelion, and I have to virtually lacquer the baby hairs to my head.
With a very chic, scraped-back look it’s always the flyaways that ruin the overall effect, so even if you don’t have baby hairs or regrowth you’ll need a bit of hairspray. You can either mist the Elnett lightly over your head and then pat down the offending hairs or spray your fingers and smooth down that way. The resulting graphic kind of sleekness is well worth the few seconds’ effort.
(Bag: Chanel (let’s not speak of it again, there’s a post on it here), Star Sweater: Hush*, Star Shorts: Hush*, Pale Grey Trainers: Adidas at ASOS*, Elnett: online here*.)
Ta-dah! From sleek and shiny to cute and wavy, I like to think that this is what I’d wear to an afternoon tea at Kensington Palace if I ever went to afternoon tea at Kensington Palace. There’s something a bit Alice in Wonderland about this whole get-up, but bear with; I’m trying not to wear jeans so much at the moment which means a bit of a departure from the norm in the wardrobe department.
At any rate we’re concentrating on the hair, here (here hare here, name the film!) which has been gently tonged to create low-key curls that look soft and relaxed. If you have hair that easily drops when you curl or wave it you can spray each strand very lightly with hairspray before using the wand or tongs and then, once you’ve done the whole head, do a once-over misting to set everything into place.
The joy of Elnett is that it brushes out very easily, so you can have strong hold for as long as you want it but then change your style quickly without being left with loads of crunchy, sticky residue.
(Dolls House Cabinet: Andrew Martin here, Bag: Chanel as before, Dress: Boden*, Coral Patent Court Shoes: LK Bennett*. Elnett: online here*.)
And then if you want to turn up the volume and drama a bit, it’s as easy (almost) as tipping your head upside down and spraying the Elnett into your roots. Warning: this is not for the faint-hearted – you will get maximum lift and volume!
Here I’m in my evening attire (swanky drinks at a hipster bar) and I’ve gone a little bit rock and roll with the old barnet. By adding the volume to the roots, I’ve given the whole head of hair a messier look but I’ve also used Elnett on my fingertips to give a bit of definition to some of the top strands so that I don’t just look like Stig of the Dump. (Do you remember that book from school? I used to love it! Cultural references aplenty in this post, don’t say I never learn you nothing.)
I’ve also parted my hair quite far down on the side of my head so that the top section sweeps across in a sort of faux fringe. It feels a bit Debbie Harry and the mussy texture stops it from looking too heavy. What do you think? Do you prefer crazy volume and a sexy bedhead vibe or the more prim and proper girl-next-door curls? I think my favourite (and this is controversial, because it’s not really showing off my hair at all!) is the sleek ballerina look. Mainly because I’m lazy and it requires no thought, but also because I like the way it makes my face look.
Favourite style in the comments below, please – you can find Elnett here* online and at most good retailers. A quick note on this Hush playsuit* which is the comfiest thing in the world; it’s soft, unstructured and would look equally good with heels as it does with flat summer sandals. A brilliant holiday staple. If you’re dithering on sizes then go larger rather than smaller – the 10 was a little short in the body for me!
(Summer Playsuit: Hush here*, Elnett Hairspray: online here*.)
This post contains an advertorial for L’Oreal Elnett.
  The post My Three Key Hair Styles | AD appeared first on A Model Recommends.
My Three Key Hair Styles | AD was first posted on May 24, 2018 at 7:49 pm. ©2017 "A Model Recommends". Use of this feed is for personal non-commercial use only. If you are not reading this article in your feed reader, then the site is guilty of copyright infringement. Please contact me at [email protected] My Three Key Hair Styles | AD published first on https://medium.com/@SkinAlley
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bushwickdkrm · 7 years ago
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An Evening of Performance presented by Natasha Steinbach
Night of Unique New Music Duos- This intriguing night of new, original, composed and improvised music will feature performances by: James Moore & Andie Springer SLEEPTALK (David Grollman & Natalia Steinbach), Leah Asher & Natalia Steinbach Berrow Duo (Thea Merisow & Leia Slosberg) Tickets are $10 at the door Proceeds will go to the musicians Described as "model new-music citizens" by the NY Times, JAMES MOORE & ANDIE SPRINGER enjoy active careers as performers in New York's thriving creative music scene. James and Andie started their duo while on tour with the production of playwright Richard Maxwell's Neutral Hero. Traveling to venues around the world, they would follow up their evening theatrical performances with late-night sets at underground music and art venues. They have since built a a unique repertoire of contemporary music for violin and steel-string resonator guitar, and collaborated with a diverse community of composers, writers, actors, and visual artists. Their critically acclaimed debut album Gertrudes was released on New World Records in 2015, featuring original compositions and pieces written for them by Robert Ashley, Lainie Fefferman, Paula Matthusen, Larry Polansky, and Ken Thomson. jamesandie.com ANDIE SPRINGER is a violinist and performer. Her audio visual album “Dandelion” will be released in the spring of 2018. She is the cofounder and musical director of Wild Shore New Music, now in it’s sixth year as Alaska’s premier new music festival.  She has toured internationally as a company member of the New York City Players and has served as a multi-instrumentalist in theater groups Object Collection and New Paradise Laboratories. Musical collaborations include a duo with guitarist James Moore and new music ensembles Hotel Elefant and Transit. She has performed at LA Opera, The Kitchen, The Pompidou, and Carnegie Hall. Springer is faculty at Larchmont Music Academy and St. Lukes School. Her work has been reviewed by the New York Times, New Sounds Live, and The Wall Street Journal.  "The best joining of human and machine since RoboCop." - I Care If You Listen “Right 99% of the time,” - Richard Maxwell, 2018 andiespringer.com JAMES MOORE is a UCSC alumnus who has been active on the East Coast since 2004, building an eclectic career in New York as a guitarist, mulit-instrumentalist, composer and bandleader. James is a founding member of the electric guitar quartet Dither, and performs with his acoustic group The Hands Free and the rock band Forever House. James's first solo recording, a new interpretation of The Book of Heads, John Zorn’s bizarre collection of guitar etudes, was released on Tzadik in 2015. Other recent projects include playwright Richard Maxwell’s theater production The Evening; choreographer Susan Marshall and composer David Lang’s collaborative dance work PLAY/PAUSE; and Mason Bates's The (R)evolution of Steve Jobs with the Santa Fe Opera. jamesmooreguitar.com Violinist/violist, composer, and visual artist LEAH ASHER is an avid performer of contemporary music and creator of new artistic works. Leah has performed throughout the U.S. and Europe with artists and ensembles such as Jennifer Torrence, Sanae Yoshida, Mary Auner, AJO ensemble, NOSO Sinfoniettaen, The Arctic Philharmonic, The Lucerne Festival Academy Orchestra, eighth blackbird, ICE, and The Rhythm Method. She has been featured as a concerto soloist with NOSO Sinfoniettaen and Oberlin’s Contemporary Music Ensemble. A passionate collaborator, Leah has worked closely with composers such as Lewis Nielson, Rebecca Saunders, Frederic Rzewski, Edward Hamel, Phillipe Manoury, and Christian Wolff. Leah formerly served as solo violist of the NOSO Sinfoniettaen and co-principal viola of the Arctic Philharmonic. She joined as a violinist of The Rhythm Method in 2016. As a composer of graphic scores, Leah has been commissioned by ensembles such as andPlay, Chartreuse, NorthArc Percussion group, The Contingency Plan, and solo artists such as Meaghan Burke, Tristan McKay, Kallie Ciechomski, and Jennifer Torrence. leahasher.com SLEEP TALK is an experimental and improvisational duo formed in 2016 comprised of percussionist/performer David Grollman and violinist, vocalist, and sleep talker, Natalia Steinbach. The two improvise upon a theme composed of an extensive library of Natalia’s sleep talking recordings. Using their instruments, objects, and voices, David and Natalia create an unpredictable, enigmatic, and imaginative performance. http://www.squidco.com/miva/merchant.mvc?Screen=PROD&Store_Code=S&Product_Code=22973 DAVID GROLLMAN is a percussionist from NYC who performs freely improvised music. He performs in art galleries, tiki bars, and venues of curious ambience made more curious by his mongrel sounds. David bows, scrapes, blows, slaps, rubs, caresses, abuses, and generally tests the limits of his instrument. Anything is game. Anything may be a participant if the musical conversation calls for it. Artist, instrument, audience, and environment become ambiguous terms, conspiring in a theatrical exploration of chance dynamics and serendipitous exchanges. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eSb92rzNeYo&app=desktop NATALIA STEINBACH is a violinist, vocalist, composer, educator, and visual artist specializing in classical, experimental, contemporary, and improvisatory music. She performs music for solo violin and voice as well as collaborates with other musicians and artists from all over the world. Her recent projects include her solo noir/theatrical/neoclassical works as WaterLynx, experimental/improvisational duo SLEEP TALK with percussionist David Grollman, compositional/improvisational and new music duo with violinist/violist/composer Leah Asher, and the experimental, classical, and performance art duo Naked Roots Conducive with cellist/vocalist Valerie Kuehne. Steinbach recently finished recording her solo album, The WaterLynx EP this past year. The album features Natalia’s melancholic and ferocious pieces, layered intricately with passionate vocals and violin and will include a series of her paintings in the album’s pamphlet. Natalia studied at the Oberlin Conservatory of Music with Gregory Fulkerson as well as with Airi Yoshioka at University of Maryland Baltimore County. nataliasteinbach.com BERROW DUO is the dynamic combination of flute and cello committed to the creation of new works. New York City-based performers LEIA SLOSBERG, flute, and THEA MESIROW, cello, bonded over their desire to push traditional playing boundaries with the incorporation of text and extended techniques in instrumental music. Together, they focus on the promotion of women and femme-identified composers and artists to create new works through close collaboration. Berrow Duo is passionate about experimentation, exploration, and the expansion of expression in instrumental music. leiaslosberg.com theamesirow.com
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isabellelambert1975 · 7 years ago
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20 best vegetable varieties to grow
I’m creating a super-list of the best vegetable varieties to grow.
Out of curiosity, I threw myself on the mercy of Twitter. I asked the garden and allotment bloggers which one vegetable variety they wouldn’t be without. It should be easy to grow and tasty.
The answers were really surprising. I expected a roll call of familiar old favourites, but I’ve also discovered several unusual, delicious and easy-to-grow vegetables.
And I found some very interesting new posts on growing veg in the process.
Best tomato varieties to grow
Richard of the Homeallotment.com blog votes tomatoes as his favourite veg, and particularly loves ‘the fantastically named Japanese Black Trifele. It grows well as a cordon, either outside or in the greenhouse, and just needs the usual feeding and watering. They’re good either raw or cooked.’ Available from Brown Envelope Seeds.
Richard is also a Seed Guardian with the Stroud Community Seed Bank, and has written a very interesting post on 5 Reasons Why I Sow Seeds.
Richard’s Japanese Black Trifele Tomatoes
And The Chatty Gardener recommends Tomato ‘Costoluto Fiorentino’. It’s an old-fashioned big tomato, cordon-grown and an RHS AGM winner.
And because tomatoes are really one of the most popular home-grown vegetables, there is a third recommendation. Daily Mail gardening writer Constance Craig Smith says that ‘Sungold’ tomatoes are at the top of her list: ‘Irresistible!’
Best vegetable varieties you’ve never heard of…
There were some really exciting new recommendations. Professional gardener Joff Elphick of the Pot and Cloche Garden Podcasts loves growing puntarelle and agretti/barba di frate. ‘Puntarelle is something of an obsession in Italy. And I remember taking agretti to the Wilderness Festival and the chefs couldn’t get enough of it. I was backwards and forwards picking it to keep up with demand.’
Agretti or barba di frate is otherwise known as Salsola soda, Friar’s Beard or saltwort. It is a delicacy with a taste somewhere between seaweed and spinach. Serve in salads, stir-fries or lightly steamed.
Puntarelle is a variant of chicory, with light green stems and dandelion shaped leaves. It can be served raw or cooked. For stockists of both, see the end of the post.
The tastiest potatoes….
Once again, there were some unexpected recommendations. Robbie Cave of the Clockhouse Nurseries says that Spunta is one of their most popular sellers. Clockhouse Nurseries have 91 seed potatoes in their list. They don’t do mail order, so if you live too far away, there are suppliers at the end of this post.
New blogger, the Country Cottage Gardener, says she tried four seed potatoes last year, and loved Jazzy. And Julieanne Porter of Gwenfars Garden blog says that ‘ Sante is a good all-rounder and the most divine baked potato I’ve ever grown.’ Available from the Organic Gardening catalogue. She added that she’d like to nominate sorrel, too. ‘It’s a perennial, needs almost no work and rewards you all the year round.’ See her post on sorrel. 
Beetroot is a must-have…
One of the great bonuses of growing your own veg is to be able to enjoy unusual varieties. Many people mentioned beetroot as a top vegetable to grow. Steve Mercer (@stevemercer4) is a member of the RHS Veg Trials Forum and he says that ‘Boldor, a golden beetroot, is always on my list.’
Richard Chivers of the allotment blog Sharpen Your Spades also recommends a golden beetroot, Burpees Golden. ‘It’s much sweeter than the reds’.
Everybody loves garlic…
I was amazed by how many people had garlic on their ‘must-grow’ list. I’ve tinkered with growing garlic myself, but not wholly successfully. I was about to give up. However, I am freshly inspired by everyone’s recommendations. Gigi Allen writes a blog on interiors, art, gardens and all things flowery. She says she ‘wouldn’t be without elephant garlic. It’s milder, roasts beautifully and is delicious alone, on kale, or in fish, roasts or pasta. And it does well in my clay soil.’
My last garlic harvest was two bulbs, but everyone has inspired me to have another go.
…and cavolo nero?
Kale and cavolo nero cropped up in many recommendations. Liz of Hay Bulbs, a private botanical collection, says that her family’s health has improved enormously since she started growing cavolo nero, due to its high calcium and magnesium content.
Magnesium is associated with a number of benefits – it aids circulation, helps restless legs and calms horses (my words not hers). When my daughter was heavily involved with riding, I was curious to discover that people were giving their horses magnesium to calm them down. There certainly wouldn’t be any placebo effect on horses!
Personally, I am wedded to kalettes. The whole family loves them, even the kale haters. But maybe this is the year to try cavolo nero.
And other green leaves…
My own personal recommendations of the best vegetable varieties to grow include Swiss chard. I prefer the silver variety, but others like the Rainbow colours. If you pick around the sides, then one plant will crop for months, often during the winter.  Travel and lifestyle blog Fossils in my pockets agrees: ‘Swiss chard for me – stir fry, Sunday lunch, spanakopita, Thai curry, soup, pasta sauce, salad…keeps on trucking all winter and always there when you need it.’
I also adore komatsuna or Japanese mustard spinach. It is like spinach, but is easier to grow and less watery.
Komatsuna and Swiss chard are two of my top, easy-care, versatile green veg.
No veg patch should be without beans…
Brighton allotment holder and artist Pemblebee Art says ‘borlotti beans for me. They’re easy to grow. I just leave them on the vines to dry and when the weather starts to turn, I lay them out to finish drying on a tray in the window. But you could just pod them and eat them fresh or freeze them.’
New blogger Katharine from The Tea Break Gardener says that ‘Cobra’ climbing French beans are her must-have. ‘They look so pretty, with lilac flowers, bountiful green beans and grow up a wigwam so take up very little space.’ Cobra is one of my favourites, too, so that will go on the list.
And an unusual, delicious squash..
I was just going to wrap this up when one more tweet came in from ‘allotment geek and unusual veg enthusiast’  Modern Veg Plot. ‘Winter squash is a must-have for me, and Black Futsu is my favourite variety. It has a nutty flavour, firm flesh and stores well over winter.’ Available from Plant World Seeds.
Where to buy…
No single supplier stocks everything recommended here. I have included stockists for the most unusual ones, such as Japanese Black Trifele tomato and Black Futsu squash, in their entries above.
Amazon stocks a good selection – eleven out of the twenty recommendations. (I am an affiliate, so if you buy I may get a small fee): Sungold and Costoluto Fiorentino tomatoes, sorrel, Spunta seed potatoes, puntarelli, beetroot Burpees Golden, Kalettes, Cobra and Borlotti beans, elephant garlic , komatsuna and Swiss chard.
Mr Fothergill’s also stocks eleven: kalettes, Sungold tomatoes, Jazzy potatoes, agretti,  sorrel, beetroot Burpees Golden, Elephant garlic, Swiss chard, komatsuna, Cobra climbing beans and Lingua di fuoco borlotti beans.
Thompson & Morgan have Beetroot ‘Boldor’, kalettes, borlotti beans, Swiss chard,  Jazzy potatoes, Sungold tomatoes, Elephant garlic and sorrel, as well as lots of other veg. I particularly like the look of their four variety All Season Long Kale Mix which includes cavolo nero. They also have a ‘5 packets of seeds for the price of 4’ offer on at the moment.
Franchi Seeds of Italy have agretti, puntarelle, sorrel, Costoluto Fiorentino tomatoes, Spunta potatoes and more.
Start the adventure now…
I’ve placed my orders. To buy seeds or seed potatoes for everything in this list cost me around £85 in total, including shipping. Although my maths is not brilliant and I did have to buy from about five different companies so that figure is approximate. I’ll let you know how it all goes (so do subscribe if you’re new here).
It’s really quite exciting to have other people decide what I will grow, rather than dithering over seed catalogues myself. Although, of course, I’ve done my share of dithering, too.
PS: February’s Garden of the Month on the Middlesized Garden YouTube channel is Posy Gentles’ long narrow urban garden. She is mapping out a few changes so if you have a thin town garden, do pop across to see what she’s doing:
youtube
Pin for reference:
 The post 20 best vegetable varieties to grow appeared first on The Middle-Sized Garden.
from The Middle-Sized Garden http://www.themiddlesizedgarden.co.uk/15-best-vegetable-varieties-to-grow/
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rembrandt-von-hel-blog · 7 years ago
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Hi, my name is...
Welp, I’ve not been here for a while, nor have I really done much worth merit, so let’s start now.
Hi, my name is the first few words I say that you probably won’t bother to remember.
My favorite color is nil, because I simply lack the personality to be anything more dynamic than none of them.
I’m not so pessimistic in person, honest, it’s simply that this medium we call the “web” (or at least I do) places me in a sort of ennui, as I realize that though I am popular (relatively), I am also rather lonely.
A common trope espoused by the generations older and, self-purportedly, wiser among the human population is that online, we have many friends and yet no friends.
And yet still knowing this conceit, I’ll have neither the desire nor take the initiative to correct this loneliness, too addicted to this medium to ever let it go; ensnared.
Perhaps this is why they call it the “web.”
Where do I come from? Hmm, who knows?
Such a question feels like a euphemism for “where were you raised?” or “where do you place your loyalty?” 
In truth, I was never truly raised anywhere.
As if a dandelion in the breeze, I am whisked to and fro to nations new and never before begot, at least to a child.
Born in my native XXXX, and visiting - never truly living - in other countries, my “home” has always simply been the last room I’ve confined myself to.  
Which doesn’t portend well to a normal childhood, with friends and the like.
No matter. I found friendship elsewhere.
Within the worlds of fiction and literature, I found many friends. Strong friends, smart friends. People to whom - though fictional - embody attributes that I would come to aspire as a youth. 
Willful and brave Arthur; daring and noble Lancelot; wise and clever Merlin; these were my first best friends, a list that would span stories, genres, universes - even space and time itself.
More and more, I grew invested in these characters, and even greater did my dependency on their worlds increase. 
Their homes are where I was truly raised. Their homes are to where I owe my truest loyalty.
Again, I promise I’m not such a wet rag all the damn time, it’s simply the current mood I’ve found myself in.
And just as in real life, one cannot truly help the mood in which one makes an introduction.
So properly, now, while the renaissance of youthful memory dithers between melancholy and joy,
Hi, my name is...
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