#Dry bar: large cottage single-wall

[charleytakeabow]

Single Wall Home Bar

[blueskywalk]

Home Bar Single Wall in Oklahoma City Dry bar - large cottage single-wall medium tone wood floor dry bar idea with a drop-in sink, beaded inset cabinets, gray cabinets, wood countertops, white backsplash, quartz backsplash and gray countertops

[lemonysharkbait]

Love Potion - Revisited

Mo Guan Shan x He Tian 19 Days fic

Read on AO3

There's a witch in the woods. He doesn't make love potions. Not anymore.

-

“I need a love potion.”

“I don’t make those anymore.”

Whatever herb the redhead was picking smelled divine. He Tian watches the sweat bead on his neck. “But you are a witch?”

Guan Shan pauses for a second, then picks up his basket and brushes past He Tian. It was a long way to this little cottage in the forest and He Tian didn’t have much time to sneak away from the watchful eye of his family. But he was enchanted as soon as he walked past the threshold and onto the land. And he didn’t care how long he spent out here. He’d deal with the consequences later.

“I don’t have time to be giving rich city boys spells they don’t even know how to use.”

He Tian smiles, “It’s not for me.” 

“Well of course it’s not for you, that’s how most people assume love spells work. You give it to the person you’re infatuated with and whether they want it or not, they fall madly in love with you. But love is ugly business and I don’t meddle with it.” The red head scowls. “Not any more.” 

“Been scorned before?” He Tian asks the question teasingly but the witch blushes, pink dusting the freckles on his cheeks. They’re both inside the cabin now, which is impossibly larger on the inside than it is on the outside. 

Bundles of drying herbs hang from the ceiling and hundreds of glass vials and bottles line floor-to-ceiling shelves. He Tian runs his fingertips over the spines of books crammed amongst ingredients. A grey cat with piercing green eyes materializes out of some sleeping nook and purrs as it rubs against He Tian’s leg.

“Take a seat.” Guan Shan snaps He Tian out of his reverie with a brisk motion at a cluttered table. Two cups of hot tea send up steam. 

“Tell me the details of your need for a love potion and I’ll see what I can do.”

“He is beautiful and smart and kind.”

“Of course he is, they all are.” 

Not a start or a stutter or a mention of the unspeakable. No raised eyebrows at the mention of He Tian’s preferences. Red tongue, pink lips, honey tea. His brash reply is a relief.

“And rude.” 

That gets a raised eyebrow. “That ones new. Where’d you meet? Or are you one of those creeps who just looks?”

“We met during a bar brawl.” He Tian says.

“Did you talk? To him.”

“Yes. And he even talked back.”

“What did he tell you?”

“Things.” He Tian lifts a shoulder, easily noncommittal.

“You fucked.” 

He Tian chokes on his tea. “We were drinking. And strangers.” Guan Shan shifts and a floorboard squeaks. He Tian relents. “We kissed.”

There’s a bold scent like a night without the moon or being in a cathedral when no one else is there. A glare from the sun makes He Tian squint. It shouldn’t be slanting through the windows at this time of day. When had he come here? 

“There’s something you’re not telling me.” 

“There’s a lot I’m not telling you.”

The witch’s jaw slides. “Then get out.” 

He Tian leans forward and it shifts the sun’s glare out of his eyes. Something behind Guan Shan clatters. He Tian opens his mouth. Bird bones in a bowl. The cat licks its lips.

“You fix broken things. Your love potions do. And they,” He Tian drops his voice, he doesn’t know why. The room is all cool blue, right on the teetering edge of night. It bleaches the color from the witch’s features and He Tian wonders if there was a fire in the hearth at some point, tries to conjure the layout of the little cottage in his head but the thought drops like a stone. “They don’t have to be taken by the other person, the beloved.”

He reaches for his tea and it's perfectly hot. That bothers him for some reason and he frowns.

“Who told you that I fix broken things?”

He Tian blinks. “I did.”

Guan Shan rolls his eyes and stands up, arms uncrossing, legs graceful but it’s all perfunctory and sharp. He Tian notes the edge of the full moon outside. It makes sense that the cabin groans. It’s settling. Because it’s night. 

It makes sense that the floors creak and the walls pop as they walk through a library, then a greenhouse, a circular room with no pattern, a place where the books feel like they have eyes and they’re watching from the shelves. Finally, they stop in a room of white statues. With the blue light, He Tian can’t tell if their mouths are twisted open in ecstasy or pain.

Guan Shan sits on the large base of one, crosses one leg over the other and leans back on his hands. A single dangling earring glints from his ear.

He Tian falls to his knees like rapture. “Yes.” Bows his head to the floor and wonders which of them has spoken. The tile is cool and smells like dirt. 

“You’ve been seeking relief.”

“Yes.”

“Have you found it.”

He Tian pulls himself up from the floor, flushing and knowing the witch can see his cheeks heat in the stark white light of this cloudless day. He feels like he’s just done something embarrassing, something he shouldn’t have done. A fantasy of falling to his knees in a dark room flashes through his mind. He feels foolish. Thoughts like that aren’t for the bright light of day.

“You have good taste.” He Tian brushes off his cheek. The room is dusty.

“How would you know?” 

He Tian snorts. The statue Guan Shan is perched on is, from this angle, is unmistakable in its passion. Toned legs are positioned so one man is seated in the lap of the other, who is prone beneath him. As He Tian rounds to see their faces, the statue unfolds like a neat trick. Combat-locked arms wrap in a deadly hold. Neither man has a look of triumph. 

“So will you make it for me?”

“Make what.”

“The love potion.”

“I don’t make those anymore.”

-

“Just tell him you love him.”

He Tian sighs, leans against the counter.

The witch nudges him back. “You’ll get blood on your shirt.” 

He Tian doesn’t care. The rabbit on the counter is skinned clean except for the back feet. Those sit in a bowl, fur and all. 

“But your potion, when someone takes it, doesn’t force the other person to love them.” 

Guan Shan grunts.

“So, it won’t really, I’m already, it’s already,” words feel like the slick thick of guts squeezed during an episode of sick. “It won’t change anything.” 

“Then you don’t need a potion.” 

He Tian frowns. “But he doesn’t know.”

“Then tell him.” Each word is punctuated and slow. The rabbit is stuffed with garlic and rosemary. 

“I can’t.”

The metal knife clatters on the counter, a frustrated toss. “Why not?”

There’s a large meal waiting on the table and a beautiful sunset outside the window. He Tian lifts the fork to his mouth and wonders that he has never had something so good.

“Because. I wasn’t myself.” 

“You lied to him.”

He Tian carefully wipes his mouth. “I. I know you’re stringent but your work, your potion. It fixes broken things.” 

“Like you.”

The early morning light sets Guan Shan in pinks. He Tian feels pleasantly full. He palms the tablecloth of the empty table. “I tried to lie to him, but he saw right through me. So if, if I could just have the potion and fix this.”

“What do you think the potion does?”

“Makes you feel loved.”

-

When the witch shoves up from his seat, He Tian thinks it’s all fury. But it’s just to swat a cat off the table. 

“Why won’t you tell me his name? The man you love.”

He Tian shrugs. “He might not want to be,” He Tian chooses the word carefully “revealed.” 

He follows Guan Shan into the cabin’s interior, into quiet nooks and crannies carefully stacked with the mundane. Candles of thick wax spilling over window seats, vines growing in a room with no light, two hallways forming a perfect crossroad. The floorboards in that particular spot thump with something rhythmic but Guan Shan just thunks back at the sound with his heel and He Tian stares at the floor, feeling like there’s something that interested him a second ago but he can’t quite remember what it was.

When the witch stops it’s in a room of mirrors covered in dust and peeking out from poorly thrown drapes. He Tian peers into one but can’t see his eyes. He rubs them, looks again, still can’t see in the shadowed blue light that fills the room. It’s just slightly too dark. 

Guan Shan murmurs behind him. In the reflection of the mirror, he appears in front of He Tian, bright and clear, stooped and eyes sharp, peering directly into the reflection or rather, He Tian realizes calmly, the reflection is gazing out at them.

“Ah,” The voice issues from behind He Tian, but the reflection in front of him moves its lips. “You don’t want to see it.” 

“See it?”

The reflection tilts sideways and He Tian sees himself, fuzzy and impermanent, cozied up to a witch with fire-flame hair. They are closer than he remembers. Is that what I sound like? He Tian wonders dumbly as the memory plays and flickers. They talk, they drink, they kiss. It disgusts He Tian. 

His shape in the memory is that of another man, a different person, a cloak he slips on when he no longer wants to be himself, when he no longer wants to be the son of a rich lord. His lies fall slick from his lips, and the Guan Shan from this memory is sweet. The memory shifts and He Tian tries to close his eyes. But he can see them. All the times he slipped away to escape. Into pale arms dotted with freckles. Into a soft throat that arches with a moan. Into copper eyes and the smell of sage and butchered rabbit. In all of them, he is not himself, not his true shape. He’s a nameless lover with simple clothes and soft brown hair and green eyes. 

The mirror cracks and He Tian can see his eyes in one of the shards, clear and dark.

“See it.”

He Tian whips around. The room is dark as night. 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. You knew? I’m sorry. I just wanted,” He Tian stretches out, falls to his knees, the grass he hits is soft and smells like fresh summer rain. “I just, you don’t have to love it back.” And he is. He is an “it”, a thing that can change its shape however it wants. A thing of slick lies. “I just, if I could just have the potion. I could. It would.”

You could love yourself. 

-

There is a witch in the woods. He doesn’t make love potions, not anymore. He made one and it worked. 

[tortillastar]

Ribs

She drags the shoe across the linoleum tendu à la second. The offending stockinged leg stares back from the mirror. The creased turnout - just shy of 180 - the lemon-peel crease at the crook of her knee, the tumor bulge of her kneecap, and the limp left toes, hung out to dry like Sunday laundry. Slight, like a pimple dotting one’s brow, yet enough to give it the look of a crooked branch.

She shifts her gaze to the leg and gazes detachedly as the flesh constricts, pulling and stretching into the same strange crests and valleys traced by shadow. A heaviness presses upon her knee, a directive to point is lost in translation, and only then did she realize her feet were numb.

A few streaks of light claw the studio floor, slicing her leg like a loaf of brioche. She nudges her phone with the frayed corner of her pointe shoe. 8:10. Two hours she’d been in the empty studio tucked at the end of the hall, only the hawk-eyes and bitter laugh of the mirror for company.

For the past month, she’d taken to running the exam combinations in some pretense of preparing for the winter final. In ballet, no amount of midnight cramming would shuffle the pecking order. Anna would top the list, Svetlana and Maria eating at her heels a few miles removed. She would powder the bottom, placidly hanging on the brink of expulsion as only one who’d lived bare-necked beneath the guillotine for five years and four months could.

She hadn’t gotten past the first set of pas de bourrées, engaged in a staring contest with the knee she’d hammer straight, the bones she’d melt and remold, the feet she’d shape into the neck of a goose.

She peers at the face in the mirror, fixed with a melted and molded smile, like a wax mask worn in the sun. The janitor would be making his rounds soon. He was a stubby hunchback who reeked of greasy bacon and cottage cheese and picked his teeth with the rusted keys on his belt-sized keyring - one she preferred not to cross.

She wobbles over to her bags and collapses by them, a boney addition to the hobo pile. Practiced hands dig out the knot and unravel the ribbons. They leave red tracks crisscrossing her calves - she’d tied them too tight. Her nails absent-mindedly trace the straw-like veins, some purple, some blue along her feet, peeling off millimeter by millimeter each patch and piece of toe-tape. They pull at her skin and reveal the scabs, the welts, the splotches of red. She slips out the studio, leaving a foot-width slit as the teachers did, a silent dusting of her tracks.

The two-minute trek back to the dorms was enough to stain her exposed cheeks crimson and numb the fingertips poking out of holes in her winter gloves. The knob gives too easily.

No Anna, but the heap of dress and stockings, shed like a lizard's skin at the foot of the bed, confirmed her lurking presence.

Stealing food again.

At this, the girl allows herself a haughty flick of the lead eyebrows smeared to the crown of her forehead. The fading desk lamp huffs out a sickly-yellow glow on the knots of hair, specks of dust, bits of paper, and the torn sole of an unwashed stocking poking forth from beneath the bed. They invaded the edges of her vision, rubbing a crude line around the corners.

The girl picks up a corner of the lilac leotard, the sheer purple skirt would clumsily about the waist and noted with a bitter cornrow twist of the lip the xs tag, the letters faded and cracked, but the jeer no quieter. Hers was two sizes bigger - two sizes too big. A fist-sized patch of sweat bloomed at the chest. She smells in its sticky sweetness, browned toast, and poached eggs. Hands bring the damp clothing closer to her hankering nose. She stumbles at the rusty stutter of the doorknob and flings the dress back atop the pile with a flinch.

Anna slips in, lithe as a cat. She flips the lock shut with a blind hand, balancing in the other a plate piled with the usual - tattered cheese squares and soggy folded between slices of flaking bread heels.

“Back already?” The words are puffy and thick. Two folded sandwiches balloon from her cherry-petal lips; a scrap of ham flags the corner of her mouth. The lilt fills in the rest - given up already?

The girl hums, letting the implication roll off her like a raindrop caught on an umbrella.

Anna flops on her bed, sidestepping the strewn clothes and bunched skirts on impossibly high relevé. A few sandwiches flop open, but no creak of the headboards. A few sticky stabs of the remote control and a projection flickers to life on the far wall, bathing her form in a hazy-blue hue. It flecks her hair, mud brown and unbrushed, but pretty in that careless way only those who didn’t care their appearance seemed capable of. A white collarbone peaks out the collar of her nightshirt, paper-strip legs from the mouth of flared pajama pants. A flat chest and masculine frame suspended her at that blissful age where the body seemed an insatiable black hole, vanishing the food she ate without a trace. The girl stares at the way her kneecaps vanished into the line of her leg, and the natural doming of her foot, even unpointed, and subconsciously shoved her numb toes and bruised legs further beneath her bed.

She was the same once - wolfing down oil-crisp fries and cheese-dripping burgers at the KFC beneath her ballet class, shoving a bag of chips to the tail of the conveyor belt, being chased around the house by her grandmother, begging her to down the last gulp of soup.

It had come about gradually, imperceptibly, like the callouses about her big toe. A few arched eyebrows, a few frowns, and a simple “Katia switch with Sofya” relegated her to the spot by the exit door. The ones who occupied it never stayed long - dismissed, or crushed under the pressure of digging themselves out.

Her fork lingered over the beefsteak, wound an uneasy pirouette, and stabbed into the neighboring mound of greens. That had been easy. The academy canteen didn’t serve much red meat in the first place. Fish was harder, especially the cuts of smoked salmon she slapped on everything from burnt toast to insipid spinach leaves. Eggs went because she forgot to grab one breakfast. Then milk, because the skim milk pitcher had run dry one morning, and if she wasn’t drinking milk anymore why keep up with the yogurt.

She forced down finger-sized carrots, bitter brussels sprouts, and broccoli florets that sunk into her teeth. First with leftover dribbles of salad dressing, then fruit, then nothing at all. She gazed at the squares of beef steak wedged in others’ mouths, trying to taste the greasy, crumbly juices in her raw cucumber slices.

She took to keeping food and water on her person at all times - an orange bulging like a tumor in her clutch, a thermos tucked in the rooster pouch of a holey jumper. It was to avoid starvation, the dull cramp in her stomach that tugged down the corners of her lips and inevitably followed by overeating. She never ate the food but kept bringing it along anyway - on the two-minute walk from her dorm to the academy, the few hundred-step walk from cafeteria to class.

Partly, she derived some warped pride from the fact that she could eat, but would not. Partly, she came to enjoy voicing with a breathy, bogged-down sigh, “I’m too full, anyone want this?” when she spotted a teacher turning the corner, and answering calls of “I’m starving, anyone got a snack?” with granola bars, and too-large apples shoved in her classmates’ faces, smiling an evasive smirk when they accepted.

She scanned barcodes and tallied up the calories, grinning in triumph when she dragged herself through the day at under a thousand - net, of course, she was careful.

“Want one?” She realizes she’d been staring, and by the arch of Anna’s single crow-bar brow, for too long. Without shame, the girl raises her eyes to meet Anna’s pitch-black orbs, poised before an eye-roll she would probably share with her bed lamp.

“No thank you.” Creaks the automatic reply. “I don’t eat bread.” She adds to strengthen her conviction, though nobody would spare a glance at her plate at lunch to check if she’d kept her word.

“Your loss.”

A buoyant, techno tune draws her gaze to the projection. For the night, Anna had passed up the flabby American rom-coms she inhaled under the pretext of learning English. Instead, flappy, armless sleeves, squirming tuber dresses, and pendulum purses paraded down coffee-stained roads, easily avoiding the few puddling gulps dotting the curbs. Towering lampposts, shop signs, wobbly curbstones, each leaf bleached grey. A flap of bat’s wings and the occasional lilting bird whine completes a pretend eeriness ruined by the too-matte paint, the too-smooth roads, the too-new metal benches.

The camera whirled about, favoring a bottom-to-top shot that lent full view to jutting, crooked knees, and bowed legs. The girl frowns at their pastry-thin shoulders, chicken-wing spatula, and pigeon-toed walk. She sees in bed-sheet expressions not aristocratic coolness, but contemptible misery - a silent plea on weighted lips.

“You can become a model if you’re dismissed.” Her smacking lips pork chop the words, her mouth brimmed like her suitcase, its zippered mouth perpetually open in half-hearted surprise. She tears open the final sandwich, nails pressing crescent-moons into the holey bread pockets. The girl lifts a corner of her lip in a wan smile.

The words pick at hardened scabs, no more than a tickle. She’d been suspended on the chopping block from the moment she was accepted, and the sense of urgency had long since worn thin. The studio hours after class was fulfilled out of habit, not any imminent fear of dismissal.

The girl thought it was Anna’s brand of helping - disaster prevention through repeated exposure. They walked the no-man’s-land between friend and stranger on a scaffolding of convenience and pity.

“They have it easy. Just starve themselves, look miserable, parade around clothes slapped with some expensive brand name. And people shower them with praise.” She sucks the tips of her fingers with a pop.

“We have to starve ourselves and look happy doing it.” She stands up with the empty plate. A few dark specks had already seized on the leftover crumbs.

“You’re showering first.” A phrase stranded between question and demand.

The door croaks shut, and her wobbly “Yeah” sinks in the empty room. The bed groans as she stands. She wants to peel off the bark and tear the baseboards but glares dully woodgrains for a few beats before grabbing her shower duffel from the doorway.

The shared bathroom is conspicuously empty. The others had showered after class, she assumed. She twists off her jumper and lets the cold prick at her bare arms, observing each pimpling goosebump. Slowly, she peels off the lilac leotard and rejoices at the wrinkle of fabric bunched beneath the armpits. Cold fingers trace along the ribs, revealed one by one, pressing a chill to each angled, protruding bone. In the mirror - lustrous despite the grimy tiles and cracked sinks, copper wire lips bend into a smile.

[blarrghe]

Merry Christmas to Me they are going on a Date

The air was crisp, and perfectly still. The thunk of Dorian’s car door slamming shut sounded out soft, almost muffled by the quietness of the snow-covered street. There were no other cars parked in the tiny lot in the centre of it, which divided two rows of quaint little shops on either side. The street rejoined itself around the empty parking lot and wound away in either direction. The side streets that branched in awkward zigzagging patterns off of it, sparsely lined with picturesque little cottages with wide yards of snow between them, weren’t even plowed. The main road ran up and down; up, winding slowly through a forest of trees and disappearing into the mountainside, and down, towards a glowing town square lit up at its centre by a tall, festively decorated pine tree. 

Dorian watched his breath form a cloud of mist in front of him, and pressed the little button on his keychain. His car’s lights flashed, and the horn beeped once, obnoxiously loud against the silent scene. For a moment, he glanced up the road, and then lifted his head higher, arching his head way back to take in the peaks of the mountains overshadowing the quiet town. The sky was fading into sunset, and pink light glowed through the trees and sparkled off the snow in the distant mountaintops. The mountains loomed quietly, shining in orange and peach with dark evergreen trees blanketing around their roots, and among them little golden lights from mountainside cabins were glowing softly through the snow. It was beautiful and serene, like a scene directly out of a holiday card, and Dorian hated every single thing about it.

He sighed, breath forming a long whispering mist from his mouth and disappearing into the air, and rubbed his hands together. He scanned the shops on the street before him, windows all dark, signs all turned round to ‘closed’, and then with another, more irritated little sigh, looked at his watch. 

Half past four, said the large gold analogue contraption on his wrist. He sighed again, and strode forward across the street, his shoes slipping awkwardly against the packed down snow. He stepped up onto the sidewalk and frowned at the crunch of coarse salt under his foot. Then he glanced up and down the line of shops one more time, his eye landing on the only lit window on the whole street, and with one last heavy sigh, walked carefully towards it. 

The buildings looked old; stone foundations with thick wood or brick walls, mostly two stories tall with little apartments slotted in above, and topped with high-pointed dutch roofs complete with smoking chimneys. He passed a dark-windowed chocolatier with displays of intricate candy ornaments and gold foil wrapped chocolates in the window, and a bakery with windows decorated with paper snowflakes and quintessentially charming gingerbread houses. All closed as of four in the afternoon. 

"Ridiculous." He muttered aloud to the empty street. 

The open shop, when he came to it, had a large sculpture of a wooden bear in the window, and a tower of suede moccasins on display. Lavellan's Crafts, said a sign on the door. Looking in through the window he could see more display stands; postcards and keychains and little animal figurines. 

Fantastic, thought Dorian bitterly, a chintzy souvenir shop. Just what he needed. 

He pushed the heavy wooden door open, and it grunted on its hinges as his feet stomped over the welcome mat. And it was a Welcome! mat, woven out of coarse fabric and dotted with thematic pine cones and holly leaves, the happy greeting stencilled on in uncomplicated calligraphy. 

The warmth and the smell of the place washed over him immediately. The walls were left unpainted, beautiful old wood varnished and shining in the warm incandescent light from an intricate wooden chandelier that hung overhead. A nearby shelf littered with artisanal scented candles and boxes of "genuine" incense sticks wafted out a mix of bold scents; patchouli, sage, maple, pine. He moved away from it, scanning the other shelves and displays. 

Beaded decorations and wind chimes hung in one window, and further into the shop, past the little rotating displays of animal figurine keychains and greeting cards, larger items stood out with hefty price tags. He paused in front of a collection of large canvases displaying boldly painted landscapes of the local scenery in all seasons, and portraits of rustic looking elves engaging in various traditional activities. His eyes lingered on the paintings a little too long, caught up in the crisp lines and bright colours. The people all had joy on their faces; rosy cheeks and bright eyes, colourful dresses that very nearly looked to be moving. As he stood struck by their expressiveness, he almost forgot to remain unimpressed. 

He picked up a bar of handmade soap scattered with gritty bits of lavender, sniffed it, and put it back down. Then he wandered over to a display of wooden tree ornaments, and spun it absently, watching the little wolves and caribou and bears sway about. 

"Looking for something specific?" Said a soft voice out of a dark nook behind the counter at the back of the shop. 

Dorian turned to look with a start, and before he could think better of it, he complained.

"Got anything that says 'happy holidays, thank you so much for dragging me out to the frozen middle of nowhere to spend the holidays in some stuffy little cabin that doesn't even get cell service. Not that it matters, since the entire dull little village shuts down at four in the afternoon, and in all probability there won't be anywhere for miles to find decent company or even a decent brandy?’ " He asked. Then with a twinge of self-aware guilt for his attitude, he amended the rant with a vaguely apologetic "no offense". 

Behind the counter, the soft voice was laughing. Then an elf came into view, leaning his elbows over the counter and looking at Dorian with sparkling green eyes. He kept laughing, chuckling mildly under his breath and shaking his head so that golden light danced off the messy curls of his dark red hair. His face was tattooed, like the elves in the paintings, and they glowed against his warm toned skin. Dorian had never seen work like it in real life, and once again found his eye lingering a little too long.

"Sorry, I don't think so." The elf said finally, a sideways smirk resting on his full lips, "but the shop down the street sells chocolate truffles filled with brandy that are quite nice. They don't open again until ten tomorrow, of course. Can I interest you in a postcard of our dull little village, instead?" 

Dorian's cheeks burned, and not half because of the chiding tone of the shopkeeper's rebuttal. Mainly, he was busy getting hot at just how striking those eyes were; how they glittered across the room at him with perfectly patient bemusement. 

He sighed. "Apologies. Long drive." He muttered, quickly grabbing an ornament carved like two fish swimming after each other's tails, and a wintery postcard decorated with a photograph of the tree in the town square. He walked himself up to the counter and set the items down, hastily digging into his pocket for his wallet and avoiding the elf's still-penetrating gaze. 

"If it's for someone you don't like, you should go with the wolf." Remarked the elf, still leaning his elbows on the counter and making no moves to ring him up, or stop smirking. "Around these parts, we tell stories about a Dread Wolf who tricks tourists into getting lost in the mountains." His smirk broadened. 

"Then why put it on an ornament?" 

The elf shrugged. "They're good stories." His soft voice lilted with an accent Dorian couldn't place, musical and sweet, but there was still a good deal of cheek to his tone. "Actually, the wolf represents strength and loyalty. The Dread Wolf is just a local legend." Then he winked at him, and slid the postcard across the counter to the register. 

"Strength and loyalty." Dorian shook his head, "and fish?" 

"Balance." 

Balance. As in work-life? Ironic, given the intended recipient. "I'll stick with the fish." 

"That everything?" 

Dorian nodded. 

"Hold on, I think I have something in the back that might interest you." The elf disappeared into his dark little nook and through a storeroom door, the teasing smirk never once leaving his face. When he came out again he was holding a single gold foil wrapped chocolate, and he nudged it across the counter with a friendly nod. "Happy holidays." He said, and the smile on his face shifted into one that was somewhat less amused, and more sincere. 

Dorian took the chocolate tentatively, and finished paying for the ornament and card. It totalled more than he would have expected for some faux-Dalish tourist fare, and he took a second to properly look over the ornament before tucking it into his pocket. No factory logo, just the initials TL burned into the wood. So maybe it wasn't quite a chintzy souvenir shop. 

"This all local?" He asked, suddenly feeling a new wave of guilt over his earlier disparaging comments. 

The very obviously Dalish elf in front of him raised an eyebrow and nodded. "There's a collective." 

He plucked two business cards and a pamphlet out of the brochure stand in front of his cash register, and slid them across the counter. The business cards had gallery names on them, and the pamphlet advertised the services of a local community centre, including an ongoing holiday craft fair. Dorian glanced over the rest of the brochures in the stand. There were a few other business cards for local shops, and pamphlets for companies offering various adventure packages; mountain climbing, horseshoe tours, trail rides. 

The elf's gaze followed him with a faint degree of amused judgment, and the expression fell on his striking features in a way that made Dorian's throat dry. He cleared his throat, picked out a general ‘Village Businesses’ brochure from the stand and smoothed out his expression. It was entirely unfair, this striking elf looking at him like that. He could fix this. 

"Well, now I've made a fool of myself, might I more humbly ask for a recommendation?" He passed the brochure over the counter with a gracefully apologetic smile. 

The elf unfolded the page on the counter top. Then he grabbed a pencil from somewhere out of that mess of hair, and flashed him a quick, toothy grin before bending over it and beginning to circle and scribble away. 

"This might help keep you from getting bored, even without cell service. When do you leave?"  

Dorian's heart jumped at the retort, and the elf glanced up at him with another quick flash of taunting teeth.

“Two weeks.” He answered roughly, throat dry again. 

The elf passed back the brochure, and tucked the pencil back onto a braid behind his ear with a slight frown. “Not really enough time, but hopefully you can manage to enjoy some of it.” He said, leaning back and smirking again. Dorian went back to feeling flushed. “But we close in five minutes.” Of course you do. "If you want, I could show you where to get a good beer, if not good brandy.” Oh.

[aertifas]

Broken Mirror - Chapter 1

i. five years later...

It’s been five years, and Tifa still has nightmares.

Not every night--not anymore, at least.  But somehow, that makes them worse.  She can’t prepare for them now, because she never knows when they’ll happen.  When she falls asleep, it’s either a dreamless void, or a reenactment of the worst day of her life.

It always starts the same, with the fire.  Tifa runs down the stairs and out the door of our little cottage the moment she smells smoke.  She looks everywhere for her father, but the kitchen is already engulfed in flames.  The ceiling banisters come crashing down and block her way in.  She has to escape, and she hopes to God that he made it out before her.

The heat is so intense that she can feel it on her cheeks, even now.  That’s why, at first, she doesn’t understand that it’s all a dream.  It feels so real.  When she walks too close to the flames, they singe the ends of her long hair; when she breathes in too much smoke, it feels like her chest is on fire, and she struggles to take in air.  The smell is a combination of burning wood, blood, and something metallic and rancid: Mako.  They’d been smelling Mako from the broken reactor for days, but it’s even worse now.  It’s enough to make her choke.

Two Shinra guards lie, dead or injured, in the square.  The screams of the people--Tifa’s neighbors, her friends--echo across the plaza and suddenly stop.  She’s frozen.  She stops and thinks, Who could have done this?  Who could have killed all these people?  

And then, just like that, she already knows who it is.  Sephiroth.

But Tifa doesn't see Sephiroth.  She doesn't see her dad.  And then, like a knife through her heart, it all hits her.  The reactor.

She runs as fast as her legs can carry her.  Through town, up the mountain, across the bridge.  All the scenery speeds by in a flash, and suddenly she’s standing in front of the Mako reactor.  Someone broke through the door, leaving only a mangled piece of metal on the catwalk.  A clean, straight line cuts the metal in half.

Every part of her body is numb.  She stands there for just a moment, trying to make her body move forward.  But she’s so scared that she can’t move at all.

That’s when the SOLDIER approaches her, the one who escorted Sephiroth to the village a few days ago.  He’s got a massive sword slung on his back and hair like the night sky.  He grabs Tifa before she can step inside and shakes her, pleading, “Just get out of here!  You don’t know who you’re dealing with!”

But she doesn't listen to him.  She doesn't even really process what he’s saying.  She simply shakes loose from his tight grip on her shoulders and leaves him behind.

When she reaches the catwalk above the Mako pool, she sees her father on the other end, in a motionless heap on the floor.  She doesn't see the pool of blood and the deadly sword lying beside him until she steps closer.

She kneels down; she can’t even cry, because she’s in shock.  In a desperate attempt to grab at hope, she checks for a pulse--and nothing.

Tifa hears her voice out loud, like a matra, but she doesn't feel in control of her words.  “Sephiroth… SOLDIER… Mako… Shinra...”  She brushes her hand against the hilt of Sephiroth’s sword and grabs it so tightly that her knuckles turn white.  She thinks about the many people killed by this blade, the pain they must have felt.  The thought alone makes her hand shake uncontrollably.

“I’m sick of it all...” she whispers to herself.  “I’m ending it here.”

Tifa takes the sword and rushes to the next room to find Sephiroth there.  His presence is foreboding--she can feel the power in the room they’re standing in.  He’s dressed in all black, like the Angel of Death.  There isn’t a drop of blood on his clothes.  He must hear her come in, but he doesn’t turn around--not even when she yells, “Why did you do this, Sephiroth?”  Because Tifa is inconsequential to him--just something taking up space, something for him to mow over.

She feels a burning, searing anger well up inside her.  She can’t think.  She can’t feel.  And she attacks.

But it’s all for nothing.  As soon as she gets close enough, he wrestles the sword from her hands and turns it on her.  One swift cut across Tifa’s stomach and chest sends her tumbling back down the stairs.  When she lands, she tries to get up, only for her vision to blur.  She touches one hand to her stomach just below the sternum where she feels a siering pain and it comes back dark red.  

She hears the voice of that SOLDIER in the distance, but she doesn't ever see him; by then, the whole world has almost disappeared entirely.

Sephiroth didn’t even turn around all the way, and Tifa didn’t even put a single scratch on him.

But the dream doesn’t end in the reactor.  It doesn’t end in the town, or the Midgar hospital where she’ll eventually wake up.  

It ends with a color: blue, like the deepest part of the ocean.

And then, she wakes up.

************************************************************************

Another restless sleep.

On the days she has this nightmare, it’s hard for Tifa to even leave her bed.  For a long time, she just stares at the ceiling of her dingy apartment and focuses on her breathing.  In four… hold seven… out eight.  It’s an exercise Zangan taught her a long time ago, when she studied martial arts.  Every time she’d lose herself, or make a careless mistake, Zangan would yell, “Breathe, Tifa!  Breathe!”  And she’d do this very same ritual over and over again until she cleared her head.

In four… hold seven… out eight… 

Outside her door is the big city--Midgar.  When she lived in Nibelheim, she’d read about Midgar all the time in the papers.  About the wonderful Shinra reactors that blessed the whole city with light.  About the hustle and bustle of corporate men and women commuting to work by train.  About the feat of engineering, the 70-story monolith called the Shinra building that marked the heart of the city.

Never once did Tifa read about the slums--where she ended up.

In four… hold seven… out eight…

Tifa knows that she can’t stall forever.  She grabs blindly at her nightstand and finds Barret’s shopping list there.  In his scraggly handwriting, he’s written down items needed at the bar.  Soda.  Corel whiskey.  Napkins.  The night before, he’d asked Tifa to run these small errands as he had errands of his own--and Tifa knew better than to ask about his plans, when his face became somber like that.

Tifa’s bar Seventh Heaven, the only home she really has in the Sector 7 slums, serves as a front for Barret’s militia group, Avalanche.  Admittedly, Tifa doesn’t know very much about Avalanche.  They have two goals: the first is to save the Planet, and the second is to take down the Shinra Corporation.  Barret tells Tifa all the time that these goals are one and the same.  “Take Shinra down, and the rest will follow!” he’ll shout enthusiastically, from one end of the bar.  “They’re the ones suckin’ the Planet dry!”

Mako, planetology, the reactors.  It’s all foreign to Tifa.  But she remembers a time when she was small, and Mt. Nibel was alive with flowers, trees, animals.  Life.  Before Shinra built their reactor there.  Everything died, and the air in the town reeked with that undeniable Mako smell.

Tifa always agrees to help Barret and Avalanche.  Perhaps that’s her small way of getting revenge.

She gets ready quickly, efficiently.  There’s not much in her apartment, and she doesn’t have many clothes.  What she does have is essential and necessary; she can’t afford to splurge with the bar and the apartment always needing repairs.

She puts on her clothes standing in front of the full length mirror on the wall of her tiny studio.  She chooses something comfortable, breathable, and easy to move in.  As always, when she looks in the mirror, her eyes can’t help but gravitate toward the scar--a hard, discolored line of skin, six inches long, running from the center of her chest to the bottom of her rib cage.  When Tifa runs her fingers over it, she can imagine the sting, cold and unrelenting and siering, as if it’s happening to her now.  She should feel as if this scar is a badge of honor--after all, she lived.  She may be the only one.  But instead, she thinks of it as a brutal reminder.

Today, Tifa dons a coat to protect her from the harsh Midgar winter and heads for the station.

Midgar winters bring no snow--at least, they don’t underneath the plate.  When Tifa looks up, she can see the plate staring back at her, suspended three hundred meters above her head by gargantuan supporting pillars.  The plate looms like a shadow; it blocks the sun from resting warmly on her face and hides the sky behind mangled metal.  The only light that shines on the slums comes from the sun lamps, gigantic, harsh white lights that radiate down on them like spotlights.  In five years, Tifa can count on one hand the times she’s seen the sun; she’s seen the stars even less, since the lights from Midgar’s many buildings and structures wash them away.  Tifa misses the stars the most--back home, she loved looking up at the night sky and picturing what it’d be like to be among them.

Seventh Heaven is on Tifa’s route to the station.  Even this early, Barret is already awake, and he stands on the bar’s wooden porch as he gets Marlene ready for school.  Barret is tall, large, and intimidating--but Tifa knows him well, and deep down he’s got a soft center.  Especially when it comes to Marlene.  She’s his everything.  Tifa doesn’t know how Marlene came into Barret’s care, but it doesn’t really matter; whatever the circumstances, they’ve become a perfect little family.

Marlene spots Tifa first.  Clad in a pink dress, her backpack hanging from her shoulders, she shouts, “Tifa!  It’s time for school!”

“Sure is,” Tifa tells her, patting Marlene’s head when she gets close enough.  “You better hurry or else you’ll be late.”  When she says the word late, Tifa sneaks a cheeky glance at Barret, who returns it sheepishly.

“She said she wanted pancakes for breakfast,” explains Barret.  “How am I s’posed to say no to my little angel?”

Marlene takes off in the direction of the schoolhouse, which is within sight of the bar.  As soon as she’s inside, Barret turns his attention to Tifa.  “You gonna swing by the bar later?” he asks, sitting at one of the outdoor tables, laying his arm--the one augmented with a machine gun where his right hand should be--on the table’s surface.  Tifa doesn’t know the story of his gun arm, and at this point she knows better than to ask.

Tifa nods.  “Of course.  It’s Saturday night--busiest night of the week!”

Barret nods.  “Good.  If it wasn’t for you… I dunno how we’d keep the lights on in this place.”

Tifa thinks Barret gives her too much credit.  After all, Barret protects the place.  Jessie fixes leaks and broken pipes for free.  Biggs and Wedge hand out flyers all over town to get people to come in.

“We gotta talk to you,” adds Barret.  “Biggs, Wedge, Jessie, and me.  We wanna tell you about the plan going forward.”

Tifa’s smile wavers a little.  She nods at Barret.  “Okay.”

Of course, Tifa knows what he’s talking about--the reactor bombing.  Barret and the others have been planning for months.  Jessie sources explosives from a mole at Shinra headquarters, and had them delivered to the bar in the dead of night.  She took them into the bar’s secret basement level--accessible only by a rigged pinball machine-turned-elevator--and spends hours down there now crafting a bomb.  Wedge, too, began stockpiling assault rifles and ammunition for the fight ahead.  Some nights, when the bar is particularly empty, Barret and Biggs will sneak away into the kitchen and mull over a map of Mako Reactor #1, tracing routes in and out with chalk and erasing them until they’re satisfied.

A few weeks ago, it looked like the plan wouldn’t go through.  Barret’s talk with the higher-ups at Avalanche failed miserably; they vowed to separate Barret’s small Sector 7 sect from the bigger movement if Barret intended on going through with the attack, providing them with no support going forward.  Barret said afterwards, “We’re just too visionary for them!  They can’t see the bigger picture!”  For a while, Tifa hoped that maybe Barret and the others would be discouraged.  She wanted Shinra to get what they deserved, of course--but she couldn’t help thinking about the people of Sector 1, the normal people who don’t know any better but to live their lives in Shinra’s bubble.  She worried for their sake.

Unfortunately, it looks like Barret’s decided otherwise.

Tifa waves goodbye to Barret and makes her way to the station with greater haste.  She feels a knot in her stomach now that wasn’t there before.  She thinks, What if the power goes out on Sector 1?  How will all those people survive?  What about the hospitals?  The trains?  She knows what Barret would tell her.  He’d say, “Nothing worth fighting for was ever won without sacrifice!”  That’s his go-to line these days.

At the train station, a few workers dressed in suits and a Shinra train operator are crowded around the stairs.  Tifa doesn’t think much of it--after all, Midgar’s a big place, filled with rowdy people.  Commotions at the station, even this early in the morning, happen all the time.  In fact, Tifa nearly walks past it without a second glance.

But it’s when the crowd shuffles a little, and she’s finally able to see through it, that she finally stops to take one, curious look.

And that’s when she sees him.

She blinks a few times.  She doesn’t trust her eyes--why would she, after seven years of radio silence?  Why should she expect to see him here, of all places?  But the combination of traits, unique to only him, is undeniable.  Blond hair, styled into harsh spikes.  Slumped shoulders.  A chiseled jawline, almost harsh, coming to a sharp point at the chin.

She can’t believe it.  It really is Cloud Strife.

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Blog Introduction/Chapter Selection | Next Chapter

[lunarlooroo]

DAY THREE OF TWELVE DAYS OF FICMAS!

A new chapter of Fallen Leaves, a creature!verse where Harry is a banshee and Severus is a dryad. Hope you enjoy!

The bed was too warm.

Severus tossed around, irritated. No matter what, he could not find a comfortable spot. His arm stretched across the bed and found only empty space. He flipped the duvet off himself, sighing a little as the cool air kissed his skin. Faint light was streaming through the windows. Another early morning.

With a grunt, he sat up and left the comfort of his bed.

Splashing fresh spring water on his face was enough to wake him fully for the day. He was quick with his morning ablutions in the absence of any distractions. Walking back to the dresser, he ignored the bright-coloured clothing and reached straight for the midnight black robes. It took several minutes to button up and he struggled a little with the ones on his sleeves.

Breakfast was simple, just toast and honey.

The sounds of the forest accompanied the clinking of cup as he stirred a dollop of cream into his tea. The silence echoed in the large cottage.

He drained the rest of his tea, leaving only the dregs. He peered briefly into the bottom of the cup and hummed. Standing up, he brought the dishes to the sink. The tea leaves and crumbs he emptied into a little bin by the sink that would soon join the compost heap in the shed. Once had cleaned up after himself, he headed out to the garden to prepare for the coming storm.

He headed first for the treeline. The young cedar trees waved to him in greeting. Patting the trunk of the youngest among them, he conveyed his message. A wave of acknowledgement passed through him, along with a chill and a hint of a question. He shook his head and the branch overhead rustled. With one last pat, he walked towards the vegetable plot.

The carrots were coming along nicely, as were the potatoes. The lettuce still had a way to go yet and he sent a spark to help them along. The spinach beckoned him over and asked for more nitrogen. He went to fetch the fertiliser and sprinkled a spoonful of it into the soil. Its leaves brushed along his fingers in thanks.

The herb section reported nothing of note other than a potential aphid infestation in the verbena. He dealt with it quickly and looked over the affected plants. Some were drooping unhappily, prompting him to lean down. Taking a deep breath, he held it in his lungs for a good few seconds before letting it blow over the wilting leaves. He breathed the essence of life, warmth, vitality until the plants straightened, regaining their healthy glow. Leaving one last stroke along a firm stem, he ambled slowly to the border of his growing plots.

The storm was fast approaching and he needed to erect the barriers to shelter his fragile plants. First, he walked the whole border once, just taking measured breaths. The second walkaround, he murmured songs of safety and protection. The plants swayed, dancing to his tune. On the third round, he left an even trail of withered leaves in his wake, careful to lay an unbroken line along the whole of the border. These were the remains of the forebears of his young crop. Long dead, the last remaining wisps of energy they possessed would go into protecting their descendants.

This sort of magic was not something he would have thought possible. Not until he had been taught otherwise.

The ominous rumbling of thunder came just as he finished his ritual. Assured that his domain would be secure in the coming storm, he headed inside to seek his own shelter.

It was dark inside the cottage, sunlight blocked by dark thunderclouds. Feeling his way around carefully, he reached out a hand and brushed against silken soft petals. With some gentle coaxing, he tickled the bud open. A soft glow flickered in the darkness of the room. Slowly, the light from the lantern flower grew brighter in intensity. Its siblings began to wake as well, as dots of light sparked into existence. Across the room, the vines which lined the corners of the walls and the ceiling, started to light up. Eventually, the light was able to illuminate the whole cottage.

Outside, the first droplets of water had begun to fall, raining down sustenance upon the forest. He could feel his brethren rejoice, could taste the clear nectar of the skies with his roots.

Blinking, the feeling of soft, cool earth and strong winds retreated to the depths of his mind. He came back his plush sofa, the twinkling lantern flowers, the roof overhead keeping him dry.

He sighed. He was prone to losing himself in the absence of a grounding force. There was no distraction to be had, nothing he had to focus on. For lack of a better choice, he retrieved a book, something he had read before countless times. He tried to immerse himself in its pages, but he kept looking out the window, squinting for a shape in the distance.

It was perhaps hours later that he finally settled into the text, the heavy storm outside a distant cacophony.

A crackling whisper in the back of his mind had him looking up. There was a figure standing in the rain, looking up at the skies blankly.

The line of his shoulders tightened. With purposeful strides, he got to the door and swung it open. He watched the other from his position at the threshold. Slowly, their head turned to look at him. Woodenly, like they had forgotten how to move, they put one foot in front of the other, and again, until they were perched upon the doorstep.

“Harry…” Severus murmured.

He was utterly drenched. Rivulets of clear water ran down his face. Severus could not help but wonder if the water was not merely rain. Gently, he put a finger under the other’s chin and tilted it up. With great tenderness, he kissed the mixture of tears and water from closed eyes.

There was a little cupboard by the door that contained a change of clothing and a towel. After stripping Harry bare, Severus got out the towel and began to dry him. He stood passively, allowing Severus to manoeuvre him every which way. Once he was dry, Severus helped him put on a long tunic and guided him to the sofa.

When Severus tried to pull away, Harry dug his fingers in, refusing to let go. Jerking his head up, the other looked pleadingly at Severus, opening his mouth to protest. He was cut off by great, hacking coughs that wracked his whole body. The sound grated against Severus’ ears.

“Hush,” he said quietly, but firmly. With a stern look, he got Harry to relax against the cushions, which he did reluctantly. Severus was quick to retrieve the items he needed and return to Harry’s side.

Uncorking the bottle, Severus held it up to Harry’s lips. The other obediently opened his mouth to swallow every drop of the potion. He watched Harry lift a hand to massage his no doubt sore throat.

“It was a child today,” Harry said abruptly. His voice still held a hint of hoarseness, a testament to how utterly wrecked it had been before the potion.

Severus put a finger on Harry’s lips. They were dry and brittle, like the bark of a fallen tree. A single touch and they could crack and splinter. He got out the other potion he had brought with him and took a small dollop of it. Using his finger, he carefully spread the balm over every inch of Harry’s dry lips. Once he was satisfied with that, he sat down next to the other, tucking him into his side and throwing a knitted quilt over them both. He remained silent, letting Harry say his piece.

“His name was Colin. Colin Creevey. He loved drawing portraits of people, landscapes, animals, anything he thought looked cool,” Harry continued, staring idly down at the repetitive patterns of knitted wool.

Severus found his hand migrating up to Harry’s head of still slightly damp hair. He ran his fingers through it soothingly.

“I woke up this morning, before the sun even rose. I couldn’t fall back asleep. My mind was full of thoughts of a rushing river, wet mud, panicked cries. I couldn’t ignore the Call.”

Harry shivered violently, though not from the cold.

“I walked out of the cottage. I walked out the forest and followed the dirt path. A tickle started in my throat when I passed by the village. I turned into it. The farmers, those who had risen with the call of their crows, stared at me as I walked past. They shut their windows and barred their doors. My feet brought me to the other side of the village. By then, I was coughing and coughing.”

Both his hands had reached up to touch his throat, as if remembering the discomfort.

“The road led to the mountains. I trekked up the paths. They were steep and the soil was loose. I could feel water rushing in through my lungs, filling my lungs. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak, yet all I wanted to do was scream.”

Harry’s breaths came ragged now, with agitation. Severus turned to pull him closer, tugging his face to rest in the crook of his shoulders, gathering his trembling body within the circle of his arms. He ignored the immediately chill the action brought him, used to it by now.

“Colin and his family had stayed out last night to watch the stars. It had been his idea, to draw the scene of a night sky to hang up over his brother’s bed. He woke up early, urged by his full bladder. The trail was dark, he picked a random direction. He walked towards the river. The glimmering light of the water captured his attention. He wanted to paint the reflection of the sunrise upon the river’s choppy surface. He walked closer still to the river’s edge. He didn’t pay attention to the wet mud beneath his feet. One misstep, a tiny slip, and he was sucked into the rapid current. His tiny, tiny lungs filled so quickly with water. I could taste the algae on the back of my tongue, feel the panic and fear. I started wailing. My cries were so loud they woke the rest of his family. They had to hike down the trail. That’s where I was, at the lake where the river fed into. There was a still body floating near the edge of the lake. Its heart had long stopped beating.”

Nothing was said for a few moments as Harry tried to collect himself.

“I stayed at the spot, screaming and screaming and screaming. His mother had been louder than even me at one point. Colin’ soul still clung to his decaying body. I couldn’t stop. I continued to moan and wail and shriek. His father shouted at me, but I didn’t stop. It took hours upon hours. His body was retrieved and brought back to the village and still I followed after, screaming. I didn’t stop until his soul had been driven away into the Ether. It was a close thing. He had almost been able to resist me, but I couldn’t let him be corrupted. When he finally slipped past the Veil, I fell silent. The villagers were looking at me with fear, they flinched back when I so much as glanced in their direction. No one spoke until I left the gates.”

It never failed to irk Severus, how the humans treated Harry. They didn’t understand. They only saw how a banshee appeared when a death occurred and thought that it was the cause. They never realised that a banshee’s cries were the only thing stopping souls from being corrupted in the mortal plane.

Still, Harry did his best for them. Screaming himself hoarse, until he coughed up blood and tore his vocal cords. Coming back from a Call devastated by an unavoidable death. Sometimes, even injured by the viciousness of mourning humans.

It was those times that Severus most wished to rain the wrath of his forest on the idiotic mortals. It was only Harry’s pleading that stayed his hand.

It was utterly ironic how the humans practically worshipped Severus when if it were not for Harry, he would never bother to extend any aid to them when they came calling. It was just so characteristic of the selfish creatures, to come begging to them for help when they needed it, only to spur and shun them once they had what they had asked for.

Severus would like to see how the dunderheads dealt with an inferi the next time someone died without the cry of a banshee to guide their soul into the Ether.

Harry would never let that happen, however. He cared too much for those puny humans.

When he came back from a Call, inevitably, Severus would need to pour healing potions down his wrecked throat. Harry was a fool, but he was Severus’ fool. He was also remarkably stubborn, though he would call it ‘resilient’.

The death of this Creevey boy would weigh on Harry, but he would get up tomorrow with a smile on his face and face the future. And when the next Call came, he would answer it with the same determination he always did.

And all Severus could do was wait for him.

[appendixz]

144. Not only are there no hot-air registers, return air vents, or radiators, cast iron or other, or cooling systems—condenser, reheat coils, heating convector, damper, concentrator, dilute solution, heat exchanger, absorber, evaporator, solution pump, evaporator recirculating pump—or any type of ducts, whether spiral lock-seam/standing rib design, double-wall duct, and Loloss (TM) Tee, flat oval, or round duct with perforated inner liner, insulation, and outer shell; no HVAC system at all, even a crude air distribution system—there are no windows—no water supplies, drains, bathtubs, urinals, sinks, drinking fountains, water heaters, or coolers, expansion tanks, pressure relief valves, flow control, branch vent, downspout, soil stacks, or waste stacks, or fire protection equipment: smoke detectors, sprinkers, flow detectors, dry pipe valve, O.S. & Y. Gate valve, water motor alarm, visual annunciation devices, hose rack and hose reel whether a 2 1/2″ or 1 1/2′ valve, foam systems, gaseous suppression systems; nor any sign of daisy-chain wiring or star wiring or electrical metallic tubing (EMT), rigid conduit, wireways, bus ducts, underfloor ducts, a cellular floor, a raised floor, or for that matter wire of any sort, No. 36 to No. 0000 (#4/0), or electrical boxes—3 duct junction boxes etc., etc.— or plug-in receptacles, 3-prong grounded duplex or other, pots on pans or cans, or switch plates, switches, whether swing pole, dimmer or remote, or circuit breakers or fuses, whether lead, tin, copper, silver, etc., etc., with a voltage class from 12, 24, 125, 250, 600, 5000+, or even lights, whether electrical discharge, incandescent, or combustion, no flame arc or gas-filled, tipless, inside frosted, decorative, general service, 10,000 watt aviation picture studio, projection signal, Christmas tree, arc projector, photoflood, mercury, sodium, glow, sun, flash, black light, water cooled, germicidal, purple x, ozone, fluorescent, Slimline, Lumiline, Circline, rough service, Q coated, Bonus A-line, 75,000 watt, Quartzline, special service, DVY, DFC, iodine cycle, axial quartz, halogen cycle, bi-post, heat, brooder, red bowl therapy, silver neck brooder, quartz infrared, bent-end infrared, iodine cycle infrared, RSC base, red filter, Marc 300, Lucalox, multi-vapor, e-bulb mercury, 1,500 watt multi-vapor, Watt-Miser II, Magicube, Flash Bar, Flip-Flash, GE-500, composite, discharge forward lighting, Precise, 35.5 lumens, white Lucalox, standby Lucalox, high output Lucalox, Halarc 32 watt, Halarc 100 watt, Staybright XL, high intensity Biax, metal halide, to say nothing of communication systems such as public address, intercom, radio, TV, CCTV, SATV, VSAT, telephone, (PAX or PBX etc., etc.,) or data, signal multimedia designs, or BAS, BMS, BMAS automation; there are not even any moldings or other stylistic signatures such as casings, baseboards, or finished floors, linoleum, cement, whether fast setting, coloured, fiber reinforced, self-leveling, mortar, high early-strength, sand mix, silica sand, plastic, hydraulic, or sheet vinyl, tile, cork tile, terrazo, rubber, carpeting, epoxy, ceramic & stone, slate, aputit-siarvaq, or marble, whether white—Danby Imperial, Colorado Yule, or Carrara—or black or green; or hardwood, whether overlay, strip flooring with alternate joints, or herringbone, inlaid, basket weave, Arenberg, Chantilly, or Versailles parquet; in fact no wood anywhere, whether rewordd, treated western hemlock, yellow pine, cedar, wood-polymer, Engelmann spruce, pecan, southern magnolia, Colorado spruce, alpine fir, american beech, northern red oak, Canada Hemlock, red maple, sugar maple, eastern white pine, butternut hickory, shagbark hickory, american plane tree, eastern black walnut, ponerosa pine, white fir, northern catalpa, common bald cypress, american sweet gum, bur oak, California live oak, mahogany, Douglas fir, eastern cottonwood; nor any sign of a sub-floor, sheathing, drywall, any kind of insulating material, polyicynne or other; sills, sill plates, sill sealer, rebar, anchor bolts, let alone footings or foundation walls; or bricks, whether split paver or red bullnose, or wall studs, firestopping, or braces, nor evidence of floor joists, rafters, king posts, struts, side posts, ridge beams, collar ties, gussets, furring strips, or bed molding (at least the stairs offer some detail: risers, treads, two large newel posts, one at the top and one at the bottom, capped and connected with a single, curved banister supported by countless balusters) though among other things no wallpaper, veneer plaster, Baldwin locks, any sign of glass, whether clear, reflective, insulated, heat-resistant, switchable, tinted, bad-guy, antique; or even tin-plated steel, factory-painted steel, brass; or even a single nail and screw, whether sheet-metal, particleboard, drywall, concrete, drive, aluminum, silicon bronze, solid brass, mechanically galvanized, yellow-zinc plated, stainless steel, epoxy coated, black finish, Durocoat; to say nothing of the sheer absence of anything that might suggest a roof, whether pitched, gable, hip, lean-to, flat, sawtooth, monitor, ogee, bell, dome, helm, sloped, hip-and-valley, conical, pavilion, rotunda, imperial, or mansard; no westwork, ziggurat, brise-soleil, trompe l’oeil etc., fenestration, tierceron rib, coffering, tholos, strapwork, stoa, egg-and-tongue, sala terena, absidole, rotunda, revetments, reredos, flying buttresses, retablo, herm, bedevere, pavillion, pastas, narthex, lunettes, dormers, cottage orné, pendentives, cheek-walls, cavetto, abutment, nor vaulted chambers, whether quadripartite or lierne vaults, or Mihrab domes, turrets, minarets, minbars, porticoes, peristyles, tabliniums, compluviums, impluviums, atriums, alas, exceedras, androns, fauces, posticums, peristylums, vestibules, arcades, apses, naves, naos, pronaos, opisthodomos, nymphaeum, internal crepidoma, courtyards, paradegrounds, bailey, demilune, caponiere, tenaille, flank, postern, rampart, face, bastion, embrasure, curtain, keep, brattice, merlon, or battlement; nor—obviously—pilasters, pillars, friezes, entablatures, architraves, facades, pediments, stylobates, triglyphs, scotia, torus, fillets, finials, and flutes, capitals, whether Ionic, Doric, or Corinthian, with volutes, abacuses, rosettes, acanthus leafe, or metopes, guttas, mutules, acroterions, dentils, or modillions, or even tretoil, Tudor, stilted, horeshoe, ogee, lancet, or equilateral arches, most probably resembling basket handle though without any sign of a keystone, pier, spandrel, voussoir, springer, or import. Picture that. In your dreams.

— Zampanò, House of Leaves, Mark Z. Danielewski

[arplis]

Arplis - News: Australia Target Towel Rack

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Arplis - News source https://arplis.com/blogs/news/australia-target-towel-rack

[agilenano]

Agilenano - News: Luxurious Hanging Plate Rack

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Agilenano - News from Agilenano from shopsnetwork (4 sites) https://agilenano.com/blogs/news/luxurious-hanging-plate-rack

[treebananas]

Tale As Old As Time

Whoo y'all this fic took a lot out of me, but it is definitely one of my favorites that I've ever written.

Disclaimer: I do not own Maggie Steifvaters characters nor do I own any of the beauty and the beast plot. I've used lyrics from the songs, lines from the script, and a description for the beast, but they are not mine, they are the beauty and the beast production teams.

Summary: beauty and the beast au where Adam is belle, Ronan is the beast, blue is Maurice, and tad is gaston. Pynch week day 2: musical au Adam/Belle POV

Word count: 5507

Adam Parrish and Blue Sargent lived together in a small village in the town of Henrietta, Virginia. The two are the closest thing to family that they have. Blue had family, but left to pursue her own life. They worked together perfectly because they had a mutual interest in making things. Blue made clothes while Adam made inventions. The provincial village disliked the two of them and called them funny. Adam guessed they were. The village people and Adam and Blue had different views on living in general. They didn't like how Blue spoke her mind and wasn't as clean cut as the rest of the women. Blue wasn't a slave to her husband and she loved being single. Adam on the other hand needed to be more demanding in the people's eye. He has to be with Blue in a romantic relationship because living together without any relationship was sinful. Adam and Blue liked their situation because it suited them. Adam would never complain about the hateful town. It was heaven compared to his old life. The village people couldn't see that. They were uptight and rigid and their opinions couldn't be swayed, but the rent was cheap.

Adam started another long day by going into the crowded marketplace for the morning chores, but Adam had an early morning and Blue was working on a design for a fashion fair. The marketplace wasn't as bad this morning as it usually was. He could deal with the whispers and gossip that floods the streets as long as he could get his hands on his favorite book, Alice in Wonderland. Something about the book gives him the sense of childhood he had ruined for him.

Adam returned back to the cottage in about two hours with clean clothes, food for two days, and his favorite book.

He called out, “Blue, I'm home!”

He heard a returning, “I'm in the workshop. I need your help.” and ran to the room.

The workshop was the biggest and most important room in the house besides the room that Blue and Adam share for a bedroom. It's as colorful on Blues side as it is gray and monochrome on Adams side. It's full of the most useful invention and stylish clothing; it's also filled with impractical shit and hideous choices of colors. Blue and Adam worked side by side in this space creating the most marvelous goods. They would trade comments, test products, and listen to music through one of Adam's inventions as they worked.

Adam moved over to Blue’s colorful work table to see what she was working on. Blue was using one of Adams most effective inventions. It was a machine that did the sewing for Blue, so all she had to do was put fabric in and she could manipulate it to her desire.

“This ducking machine stopped working.” She barked.

Adam sorted and put the white thread in the right place and turned the wheel slightly. The foot moved briskly up and down placing the stitches in the right place.

She mumbled, “thank you,” and got back to work.

The clothing piece was turning out stunning; the colors were meshing together perfectly and made the piece tell a story.

Adam was brought out of his reverie by a knock on the front door. He jumped back and went to see who would interacts with ‘the crazies.’ At the door was Tad Carruthers, the town's most handsome bachelor, who had his eyes on Adam since Adam came into this village. Adam rolled his eyes secretly, but he let Tad in. Adam stood in the doorway, so Tad couldn't walk into the cottage.

He mustered the biggest, most fake smile and said, “Tad, what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Isn't it though.” Tad boasted. “Such a pleasure.”

Adam held back the scowl making its way onto his face and instead insisted, “It's always nice to have some conversation, but if it's not important, I have to get back to my inventions-”

“What are your thoughts on marriage?” Tad blurted.

Adam knew where this was going, but his eyes still bulged, “Marriage?”

“Yes, a handsome guy like yourself must have had thoughts about it. You are always thinking.”

“I can't say I've thought too much. All I have to say about it is that it will be at the right time and with the right person.”

“You're young, I'm young. What's a more perfect time?”

“Is this your way of asking me to marry you?”

So you are as dense as the village people say you are. Yes, Adam, I'm asking you to marry me.”

“Tad, I..I just don't deserve you.”

“The only other person that deserves me is me. You're a close second.”

“I'm sorry, I just can't.” Adam said, pushing Tad out the door.

When Adam told Blue this, she cried laughing.

“Could you imagine? He asked me to marry him. Me! The husband of that boorish, brainless…”

“Mister Carruthers!” Adam picked up a piece of some fabric laying around and draped it over his head. “Can't you just see it?!”

“Mister Carruthers!” He picked up a piece of scrap metal and pretend-shot it like a bow, “His other half!”

“No, Blue! Not me ! I guarantee it! I want much more than this bigoted life!”

He sighed, “I just want a different life than the village people, including Tad have planned.”

Blue exhaled and nodded, “Once I go to this fair, I'll be picked up by a fashion company and we can finally move to a better place with no snobs or fucking Tads. We can just..be.”

@    @   @

Blue left the next morning with her designs and a cart made of entirely Adams creation. It had everything Blue needed.

“It's just a few days,” Blue said as they hugged. “I'll be back before you know it.”

That was five days ago. Needless to say, Adam was worried. Sometimes Blue would stay a couple extra days if she liked the town or city, but they had an agreement to not stay five or more days. Adam decided to get out of the house and distract his mind from his anxious thoughts.

In the distance, he heard a horse whinnying. His eyes caught Gwenllian, Blue and Adams horse. Blue took Gwen to her fair and had Gwen pull the cart. Gwen wasn't connected to the cart or the harness appeared to be broken. She was waking up the entire village with how loud she was.

“Woah, girl calm down.” Adam tried to comfort, “Is Blue alright?”

At the sound of Blues name, Gwen cried out. Fear crept upon Adam.

Quickly, he said, “Alright, take me to her.”

He mounted Gwen and she took off galloping. She brought him last the village walls and into the deep forests that surround the town. She ran Blue normal path out of the woods until she turned a smaller, unknown path which took them deeper into the woods. Adam swore he could hear wolves howling in the distance. Through the woods, was a clearing. A huge, gray building was peering through the leaves. As they approached the building, Adam saw the turrets and grand steps. Not a regular building. Around the clearing all the trees and shrubbery was brittle and dry. Any architect would gape at the angles and smooth edges; Adam could draw it everyday and still find some new part of the exterior. Adams has dropped as Gwen continued to the castle.

“Wait here.” Adam told Gwen as he walked up to the unnerving castle steps.

He walked through the large door and called out, “Blue!”

He heard whispering around the main floor. Then, he heard coughing coming from a wing of the castle.

“Blue!” He screamed as he grabbed a neat candelabra and raced to the noise.

When he finally saw Blue, he saw the jail cell and threw himself down to meet her face.

She looked at him with a confused look on her face, “Adam?”

“Blue, I'm here. I'll get you out.”

“No, Adam. You have to get out of here and go home; forget about me. Quick, before he sees you!”

“Who sees me?”

A gruff voice called out, “What are you doing here?!”

A growl came from Adam's front left where he suspected the thing was lurking.”

“Let my friend go!” Adam demanded.

“Then who would pay her crimes?” The creature growled, “unless you would want to take her place.”

Silence came as Adam thought. “Come into the light.” He instructed.

Thee thing scoffed, but did as it was told. When the creature was illuminated, Adam saw the most hideous mix of a lion, buffalo, gorilla, boar, wolf, and beat. Adam flinched back, closing his eyes and reopening.

Adam mustered up his courage and clearly said. “Yes.”

Beside him, Blue cried, “Adam, no!”

“It is done.” The beast told, as he threw Adam in the cell and grabbed Blue.

“Don't hurt her!” He exclaimed, but it was no use.

He looked around at the cell walls and bars. This is where he would live forever. In his mind, Adam knew he should be rethinking his decisions, but he couldn't find one regret. Adam just hoped that there was a least a tiny bit of humanity in the talking creature that he would give Adam food. Unfortunately, it was fruitless to hope. These four walls were Adams future.

@   @   @

Adam woke up to sounds of creaky doors. This wasn't a dream. Adam thought to himself. He followed the sounds he heard and saw an open door, but no human to open it.

“Down here!”

Adam looked down to see the candelabra he picked up last night and a clock. He jumped back and screamed. He couldn't believe what he was seeing.

“What the fuck?” He muttered.

“Name’s Henry, this is Noah. We're here to show you to your room.”

“Ronan's not gonna like this.”

“How is this possible?”

“A heartbroken warlock.”

“We can't tell you more.”

“My room?”

“Did you really think we weren't going to give you a room?”

“No?”

“Ronan might not like it, but we’ll just sick Gansey on him.”

Henry and Noah showed him to the east wing of the castle. They told him it was Adam’s bedroom. His bedroom was a beautiful room that could fit five of Blue and Adams workshops. The decor was simple, a desk, wardrobe, and huge bed. It was a room fit for a duke.

“While you're here.” Noah spoke. “Know that some objects are cursed people, the wardrobe including.” And with that they left.

Curious to what Noah was saying, Adam sauntered over to the wardrobe. It was fancy and delicate plastered with the mint green theme of the room. Hesitantly, Adam knocked on its wooden doors. It sprung to life. One half seemed to shine like a sunshine. The other side stayed prim and proper.

A teenage boys voice filtered through one of the doors, “A human? Finally, it's been getting lonely.”

A silky smooth voice like the beasts carried through the other half, “Really? I'm having trouble believing that you're lonely when we share a wardrobe and have for gen years.”

“Shut up, Declan.”

“Matthew where are you're manners?”

“Up my wooden ass.”

“Matthew!”

“It's so nice to see something that has actual skin.”

Adam cleared his throat, “Well, that Beast is holding me prisoner forever, so you'll see me a lot.”

“I swear to g-d when I'm human again. I'll be the first to punch him.”

“Declan! Get in line.”

Adam cleared his throat again, “I have to ask, why are y'all cursed?”

“We can't tell you. Only Ronan can.”

“I'm Declan, the oldest brother and heir to the throne. My other half is Matthew, the youngest child and literal sun. Ronan, as you call the Beast, is the middle child.”

“Trust me, Ronan is just easily angered. He’all calm down.”

As in cue, loud banging shook Adams room. The beasts loud voice followed, “Get the fuck downstairs for dinner.”

Adam called out a response, “I'm not hungry.”

A moment of silence, then a sign, “will you come down for dinner?”

“No”

“I...would...love if you could...come down for dinner...please.”

“No, thank you.”

“Fine, then go hungry for all I care. If he doesn't eat with me, he doesn't eat at all.”

@   @  @

Moments later silent tears still ran down Adams face. Part of him wished to run after the beast and beg for forgiveness and maybe that way, the beast might take mercy and let her go. He knew he couldn't think about life back home with Blue, but his mind wandered. How was Blue? Was she thinking of him? Did she miss him as much as he miss her? He also thought to what Blue would do in his situation. The answer was quite clear. He had to find something good in this tragic place even if his home, his heart was too far away. He would also have to build walls around himself. He could do this for Blue as long as she was home and free.

A knock at his door startled him. In strolled a teapot and teacup on a cart.

The teapot spoke with a politicians voice, “Would you like a cup of tea?”

Adam smiled, “That would be lovely.”

The teapot poured itself into the teacup. Adam lifted the teacup to his face and took a sip. The tea warmed all the way to his heart and chest. On its way down, Adam heard an inhumane noise erupt out of the teacup. He looked closely and saw a face adorned on the teacup.

“That was such a brace thing you did for your friend.” The teapot admitted. “We all think so.”

“I like you! I'm Opal!” The teacup screeched.

The teapot and Adam laughed. “I'm Gansey.”

“And I'm Adam.”

“Say Adam how would you like some dinner?”

“But what about ‘if he doesn't eat with me, she doesn't eat at all.’”

Ganseys look said it all. The three headed downstairs awaiting the dinner.

@.  @.  @.

Adam walked down the grand stairs with Gansey and Opal by his side. They led him into a ginormous dining room where the chair pulled out and tucked Adam in by itself. On the table was Henry and Noah.

Henry spoke, “Ah Adam! What an honor it is for you to join us this evening. Now watch as the dining room proudly presents your dinner! Please dig in. Be our guest!”

Dinner was a long affair. Music filtered out of the piano in the corner and Henry and Noah did a dance routine that was wonderfully choreographed. Every so often, Noah would remind them to quiet down, so Rona didn't hear. The occupants made an amazing meal with a mysterious gray stuff that melted in Adams mouth. The food made Adam sleepy and full. Adam mentioned to Gansey that he wanted a tour of the castle before bed. Noah called off dinner immediately and went to join the group for the tour. Henry put on his best tour guide voice and showed Adam the library and lower parts of the castle.

When the reached a certain room, Gansey took over and asked, “Say Adam, what do you know about Welsh Kings?”

@.  @.  @.

At some point during the tour, the objects made intense eye contact, but did not mention the huge staircase leading up to the wing. Adam asked about the bathrooms and when he saw the objects turn, he ran.

The wing was dark gloomy. It was covered in cobwebs, ripped clothing, and claw marks. There were pictures along the walls, but only one Adam could make out what the picture depicted. It was a man and women with three children all in royal outfits and huge smiles. The man and two oldest children had black slicked back hair and features that could cut glass. The women and youngest child had unruly, but flowing blonde curls and soft faces. The whole family shared striking, clear blue eyes that matched the beasts eyes. Over the middle childs face were long, deep, slash marks.

Adam moved to the center of the room where the moonlight hit a pedestal that held a mirror and glass case. In the mirror, Adam saw his face clear as day. He saw something move, but nothing was there. In the glass case was a raven with the feathers falling off. At the bottom were several of the black feathers. He saw that the raven did not have many feathers left.

The Beast appeared suddenly and screamed at Adam, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT YOU COULD OF DONE?! YOU COULD OF DAMNED US ALL!! LEAVE, GET OUT!!”

The beast lunged at Adam, then observed the glass case. Adam screamed and ran. He high failed out of the west wing and bolted down the stairs to the door ignoring the screams from Gansey, Henry, and Noah.

He ran out of the haunted castle and rode Gwen into the thick woods. He was surrounded by trees and the pitch blackness of night. He didn't get very far when he stopped and heard the howling of the wolves. Their growls came from every direction and he knew he was screwed. He grabbed a stick as a weapon just as the first wolf attacked. He fought them as best he could, but he was outnumbered. He heard a deeper, more threatening growl and his first thought was shit more of them, but Adam was wrong. It was not more wolves, for it was the Beast coming to Adams rescue. There was the Beast, there was Ronan coming to protect Adam. Adam tried to help, but Ronan's growl at him told him to stay away. He took on several at once, throwing them away as if they were nothing. He finished 15 with ease, but the next wolf got a cheap shot at Ronan. He yelled out before finishing the rest of the wolves. Adam and him stared at each other over the piles of unconscious wolves. Adam was about to say something before Ronan's eyes became half lidded and he collapsed. Adam glanced at Gwen, then back at Ronan. He looked so vulnerable laying there in the cold snow. His wound was bleeding and he would die if Adam left him without help.

He crouched by Ronan's side and whispered, “I need your help. I need you to stand.”

Ronan shakingly obeyed and together they got Ronan on Gwen's back.

Together they would make it back to the castle.

@. @. @.

“Ow!”

“Stop fucking moving!”

“You're hurting me!”

“Well, I'm sorry, tough guy, but suck it up. And stop moving!”

Ronan pouts but hands his arm back to Adam. Adam looks at him, but applies water to his cuts anyways.

Ronan hisses and snatches his arm away, “This never would've happened if you hadn't run away.”

“I never would have run away if you hadn't of frightened me.” Adam said back.

“Well, you shouldn't have been in the west wing.”

“Well, you should learn to control your temper.”

Ronan humpfed  and turned over, showing Adam has wounded back. Adam got more water to clean them, but decided against it. He rings out the water and stands.

“I think we should all get some rest. See you tomorrow.”

Adam is almost out the door before he hears Ronan calling him.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

Adam smiles, nods, and walks back to his room.

@. @. @.

Days turned to months and Adam was still a prisoner at the castle. The days at the castle weren't as bad as to be expected. Ever since the wolf attack, Ronan hadn't been as hostile towards Adam. He could keep a conversation with Adam and they spent most meals together. Ronan was acting slightly more human like everyday. He would sit on chairs like a person and he and Adam made a compromise to sip from the bowl instead of attacking it or eating with a spoon. Adam would sometimes bring books from the library and read them during dinner.

Adam was delighted when he found Alice in Wonderland in the shelves. He brought it to the table and when Gansey came over to talk to Ronan, he pulled it out. He started reading from the beginning.

Ronan saw what Adam was reading and dropped his cup on the ground. Gansey ran to get someone to clean up the spill.

Adam asked, “Have you read this book before?”

“Alice was beginning to get very tired from sitting by the bank with her sister, and having nothing to do: once or twice she peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations on it…” Ronan recited.

Adams mouth gaped open. “You know it by heart?”

Ronan nodded, “It was my father's favorite. I used to go into your room and read it to Matthew and Declan because they couldn't read it anymore.”

And that was it.

One night, Adam came downstairs in some garments Matthew and Declan forced him in to find Ronan waiting at the bottom of the steps talking to Henry, Noah, and Gansey, but stopped at Adams arrival.

Henry whispered something to Ronan which he replied, “it's red?”

Henry and Noah groaned and Henry whispered something else in his ear. Ronan's eyes widened before nodding.

Ronan stepped closer to Adam, “Parrish you look...um...good. Nice red suit.”

Adam laughed, “Thank you, Lynch.”

The two lad shared more personal details together such as last names, but why the castle was cursed, Adam did not know.

Ronan cleared his throat, “Come on, Parrish, there's something I wanted to show you.”

They walked for fifteen minutes down an area of the castle Adam hadn't seen before which was surprising because exploring the castle had been Adam's new found hobby. The hallways looked like the rest of the hallways did, gray and slightly creepy. They turned into a room and Adam let out a gasp. It was an engineering workshop that put Adam and Blue workshop to shame. In the far corner, were engineering books and on the other wall were so many tools that Adam hadn't even heard of some of them.

“My father used to hire inventors to make sure the castle had the latest technology. No one ever uses it anymore, so it's yours.” Ronan broke the silence.

“Mine?” Ronan nodded, “you rarely talk about your parents. Are they some object I've never met before?”

Ronan's face dropped. “No...they died before the curse happened.”

Adam pulled out some of the chairs from the workshops tables, “Im so sorry. I never asked you, how did the curse happen?”

Ronan sat down and his shoulders dropped, “it was my fault. After my parents died, I was depressed. I shaved my hair, obtained some new scars on my wrists, fought with Declan. I was a mess. The only people who could me from not ending my life were Gansey, Matthew, Noah, and Henry, but I started talking to a commoner from another kingdom. His name was Joseph Kavinsky. We would meet up street race, drink, and would sometimes fuck. I thought it was no strings attached, but he didn't. He-he fell in love with me and I told him I didn't love him and that he was just a coping mechanism. I never knew he was a warlock. He told me he would place a curse on my castle and all who lived inside it, so I would be as heartbroken as I made him. If I find who loves me and actually loves me, then the curse would be broken. If I don't find someone who by the time the last feather falls from the raven, then everyone I love turns to antiques and I remain a beast.”

Adam was left breathless, “So that's why you got so mad at me when I was in the west wing. Ronan...I'm so sorry.”

Ronan clicked his tongue. “Nothing for you to be sorry over. It's not your fault.”

“It's not your fault either.”

“Parrish.”

“I mean unrequited love sucks, but that's no reason to curse an entire castle.”

Ronan smiled a real and genuine smile unlike his usually smirks that Adam had gotten used to. A moment passed between them where they just stared at each other smiling.

“Wanna make use of the ballroom tonight?” Ronan asked.

“Like dancing?” Adam questioned.

“You can say no.”

Adam thought for a moment. “Id like that.”

@. @. @.

The castle was filled with a sweet presence that came with a ballroom dance. Everyone was excited for the twos dance.

Matthew and Declan dressed Adam in the most amazing silk suit. Blue would have appreciated the yellow color. He felt confident in the form-fitting garment.

He felt flutters when he walked down the steps leading to the first floor. His breath stopped as he saw Ronan on the opposite set of stairs. Ronan's outfit fit him snug and he looked lost until his eyes met Adams. They walked down the steps maintaining eye contact. Ronan outstretched his arm and met Adams.

Music led them to the royal bedroom where Gansey, Noah, and Henry were waiting for them.

Ronan drew Adam into his arms as Gansey started singing. His voice was a little shaky from misuse, but accompanied the dance perfectly.

Ronan certainly knew how to dance from his royal days, but was surprised to learn Adam knew how to dance as well. They moved together in perfect rhythm.

There were stepped on feet and apologetic glances, but overall the night went perfect. The two moved to the balcony to get some air as Henry and his lover Jiang took to the floor and danced the night away.

Ronan let out a breath, “I haven't danced like that in years.”

Adam laughed. “Me either. When Blue and I first moved in together, she thought it was outrageous that I never learned to dance, so she taught me.”

“Do you miss her, Blue?” Ronan asked.

“More than anything. She was my first friend before all this happened.”

Ronan was silent for a moment before continuing, “There is a way to see her.”

“There is?”

“Yeah.” Ronan pulled out the plain mirror and handed it to Adam.

“Show me Blue.”

The mirrors glass shimmered away to show Blue being shoved into a black carriage, the villagers surrounding her with fire, Tad at front.

“Oh my g-d!” Adam shrieked. “Blue in trouble.”

Ronan took a deep breath in, “then you should go to her.”

“I should?”

“She needs help.”

“But what about…”

“You're not a prisoner here, Adam. You haven't been in a long time.”

“But…”

“But nothing. Go.”

Adam reached to give the mirror back. “No. Take it with you so you'll always have a way to look back and remember me.”

Tears welled up in Adams eyes, “I could never forget you.” He leaned forward and kissed Ronan on the cheek, “I'm coming Blue, don't worry.”

@. @. @.  

Adam heard Tads booming voice as soon as Adam entered the village. He seemed to be ruling the people up with his harsh words and thunderous voice. The people were following him blindly.

“Tad!” Adam screamed.

Tad let out a giddy smile at Adam arrival. It quickly turned mischievous in a split second, “Adam! It's so good to see you. I'm so sorry to hear about Blue.”

Adam furrowed his brows, “what about Blue?”

Tad put on a mask of remorse. “Blue went off the rails. You weren't here, so I took care of it. She'll be staying in a nice room at Monsieur Blacks asylum.”

“Blue isn't crazy; she's one of the most sane person I know.” Adam scoffed.

Tad whimpered in pity for Adam; the crowd followed. “But she is. She kept raving on and on about a beast.”

“But there is a beast.”

Tad sighed, “not you too.”

“And I can prove it.” Adam held up the mirror. “Show me the beast.”

Ronan's image flickered on the glass. When Adam showed Ronan, the village people gasped in fear.

“Is he dangerous?” One village person shrieked.

Adam replied almost immediately, “No he's very sensitive and gentle once you get to know him.”

Tad looked scandalized. “If I didn't know better, I'd say you have feelings for him.”

“You don't know me well enough to say that truthfully.” Adam retorted.

Tad sneered, “I may not, but I know monsters like that.” He turned to the crowd. “He’ll make off with your children, he’ll come after them in the night. I say we kill the beast.”

The crowd screamed approval while Adam screamed no.

Tad raised his hands up. “It's time to follow me.”

The village people grabbed torches and anything they could use as weapons. Some said prayers before they all took off towards the dark castle.

As soon as the last village was out of sight, Adam ran towards Blue who they forgotten about in the chaos. He threw his arms around her.

“Blue, I have to go warn Ronan.”

“Not without me you won't.”

@. @. @.

They arrived in the middle of the battle, objects vs people. Blue told him that she was going to help the castle and that he should go find the beast. He ran to the west wing as fast as he could in his yellow suit, dodging thrown plates, shovels, and miscellaneous objects. Adams heart was vibrating. What if he was too late?

He made it in time to see Tad leaning over Ronan, dagger in hand. Whatever he was saying to Ronan seemed to be the most painful thing Ronan ever heard. He looked like he was surrendering to Tads knife.

“Ronan!” Adam yelled.

Ronan opened his eyes. “Adam?”

Tad smiled murderously. “Adam! Just in time to see your lovely beast die.”

Ronan and Adam reached for each other as Tad plunged his knife into Ronan's chest.

“No!” Adam sobbed.

Tad took a step to the edge of the balcony to shadow over Ronan. Adam ran, knees buckling, and pulled Ronan's head into his lap.

Tad laughed, throwing his head back, “this is your fault Adam. If you had just married me, your precious Ronan would still be alive. Isn't it just a shame when things don't go exactly as planned?”

Tad laughed and laughed. He was laughing so much he didn't realize his feet went over the edge. Tad roared as he fell his death.

The two, finally left in privacy, stared at each other, tears running down Adams face. Ronan moved his paw to brush away the tears.

“You came back.” Ronan breathed.

“I wished I never left you.” Adam confessed.

“Maybe it's better this way.”

“Stop talking. Conserve your energy.”

“At least I got to see you one last time. Adam I…”

“Ronan? Ronan?”

Adam sobbed into Ronan matted fur.

“Ronan! Don't leave me! You're my home! I...I Love you!”

The castle grew eerily silent. Adam didn't see the last feather fall from the raven from his place in Ronan's chest.

He did see when a bright light washed over Ronan's body. It grew so bright that Adam had to look away. When he opened his eyes, he was met with a man dressed in a loose white dress shirt back tattoos and muscles visible. The man stared at his arms and sobbed with relief. He turned around and Adam could see his entire body. Adam lost his breath. He was by far the most gorgeous man Adam had ever seen, but where had he come from and where was Ronan?

He stepped closer to Adam and Adams stomach dropped. “Adam, look into my eyes.”

Adam did and was met with the most clear water blue. They were so bright, the punched a hole right through Adams guy just like…

“Ronan?” Adam gasped.

Ronan nodded and smiled so bright Adam had to smile back. Adam placed his hands on Ronan's snatched cheeks and looked into his eyes in awe. Tears sprang into his eyes for the third time that night, but this time Ronan cried with him.

Ronan moved closer to Adam, “May I?”

Adam laughed, but nodded.

They came at each other fast until their lips touched each other's. The kiss was chaste and gentle as if they were afraid to break one another. Adam could feel Ronan's tears mixing with his own. When they separated, their foreheads stayed glued shut and they nuzzled noses. They laughed again and hugged almost as a promise to never let go.

@. @. @.

They eventually made it downstairs to be greeted by Blue and villagers now remembering their beloved prince. Ronan and Adam were ambushed by human Gansey, Henry, Noah, and Jiang who pulled them into tight hugs. Opal announced her presence by letting out a inhumane noise and keeping into Ronan's arms. She was followed by Matthew who tackled Ronan's middle and Declan who ruffled Ronan's nonexistent hair. Adam pretended not to notice the looks Gansey and Blue were exchanging before going in to kiss his beautiful, human boyfriend.

[wildefiction]

L’Appel du Vide

WORD COUNT: 4,677

CHAPTER SUMMARY: With little to no information on what they could be hunting, Sam and Dean take to what they know best -- Sam to his books and Dean to the road. Madeline meets up with an old relative and Gregory realizes that whatever they're hunting is now hunting them as well.

CHAPTER WARNINGS: Swearing, Captured Dean, Crass-Attitude

THREE

Fingering the uneven strip of leather wound around her left wrist, Madeline glanced down at her own talisman, the single bear claw the sign of her ancestors. Everyone in her family had one, they acted as a sort of calling card if you could call it that. Old-world Europe and the countries of Scandinavia were home to several major clans, each of which had a certain look to their amulets - similar to how the Celts had family crests. You could tell a lot about a person by the talisman they wore - if you knew what to look for.

As long as Madeline had been alive, she'd yet to fully develop hers; the process of cultivating one known to take decades.

Most people in the modern world thought it was just some edgy charm bracelet if they bothered to say anything at all. Madeline let them think what they would, there was no use trying to explain something as complex as what was essentially her family lineage and traditions passed down through generations to people who couldn't focus on one thing for more than half a minute. Fucking technology bleeding people dry of what little intelligence they used to possess.

Rising from her squat, Madeline stilled as the fine hair on the back of her neck stood at attention. Curling her fingers into fists, she turned, bracing herself for seeing him - the first time she'd done so in years.

Madeline was not a short woman, her five-foot, nine inches rather tall for a female in this country.

Still, when she turned, it was into the broad chest of a man who towered over her by nearly a foot.

A throaty growl reverberated through the man's body, his lips turning up into a grin. Rather than a smile, it was more a baring of teeth and Madeline couldn't decide if she felt threatened or not.

"What are you doing here Einar?" The words were terse, but not entirely disrespectful, even she had more sense than to assume she'd win if it came down to an argument. Better to proceed with caution…

The man spoke with a heavy accent, but Madeline noted with interest that he responded in English rather than insisting on using their native language.

"Likely the same as you. I assure you, I wouldn't be in this Gods-forsaken country if it weren't entirely necessary."

"I assume you found it?" Einar looked down at Madeline with his pale eyes, the wild mane of hair framing his face and falling to just past his shoulders a striking mix of dark chocolate, silver and a true black.

Nodding, she side-stepped his large frame and sauntered back over to what remained of the woman who'd lived in this cottage. Even this far removed from civilization, it had found her. Though, to be fair - once you were this things' target, there seemed to be no escape. It mattered not how far you ran, or how well you hid or who you knew or what you could do - you couldn't cheat fate the way you could occasionally cheat death.

The pair walked back across the threshold, searching again through the rubble. Maybe there was something here that she'd missed, Madeline thought to herself. Even if not, perhaps the hulking man next to her could shed some light on the situation.

"Any ideas?" The woman watched as Einar peered closely at a dried substance flaking from the deep furrows of the splintered wood. Rubbing a bit of the charcoal through his fingers, his forehead creased in concern, disbelief clear on his face.

Rounding on her, Einar wrapped his free hand around Madeline's wrist and with a sharp tug, pulled her from the wreckage.

"You need to leave. NOW!" Get as far from this place as you can, if these signs point to where I think this world is fucked."

"You'll know if I find anything else. Tell those humans you love so much goodbye and come home - they don't deserve your loyalty."

With that, Einar turned, disappearing into the woods surrounding them.

For the first time in a while, Madeline was actually, truly afraid. If Einar was concerned enough to bring her home - something bad was on the horizon.

Still, it didn't feel right to just up and disappear. Sure, she'd sometimes go weeks without speaking to the Winchesters, but they'd saved her hide once or twice - the least she could do was warn them...problem was, she was no closer to having any real answers than she had been yesterday.

*****

Several thousand miles away, Gregory reclined in one corner of a dingy tavern, the sickly glow of a half expired tallow candle sputtering as a chill gust of wind swirled through the room.

Leaning forward with a sigh, he stared into the bottom of his empty glass - debating whether he wanted another.

The low hum of his phone vibrating in the pocket of his blazer distracted him from the stranger who'd just pushed through the crowd, a heavy fur cloak drawn about his shoulders, the oversized hood shielding his features from the patrons gathered around their own tables.

Slipping from his chair, Gregory ducked into the narrow hallway leading to a rickety staircase. The wood groaned under the weight of his polished black shoes as he climbed to the cluster of rooms the establishment offered to road-weary travelers.

Turning the iron knob and taking care to make no excess noise, Gregory closed himself in the room he'd rented.

Rented might've been the wrong word, as it insinuated he'd traded money or services for it. But, the wench at the bar apparently had a thing for preternatural patrons. All he'd done was quirk an eyebrow at her, his citrine irises swirling with gold and burnt amber. The tendrils of darkness playing about his feet had slid around her ankle, and climbed her leg, constricting around one of her thighs as she stared, open-mouthed, at his audacity.

In the end, he'd gotten the room he was after. Not that he slept, but having some semblance of privacy away from nosy strangers was welcome as he stewed. So far, he'd found nothing. Not a single hint of the devastation that had ransacked the small village he now stood in. Sure, it had been a few hundred years, but it appeared as if the people of this place had forgotten to include it in their history books. Forgotten...or simply chose to omit it. After all, ignorance was bliss.

Long fingers wrapping around the phone, he pulled it from his pocket. The screen illuminating his pale features, Gregory flicked through the stack of notifications; ignoring the several missed phone calls from the Winchesters. He'd been just about to respond to Madeline's text when a low rumble shook the floorboards beneath his feet, a shower of dust raining down upon his inky hair.

Narrowing his eyes, he took a step towards the single window on the far side of the room, the glass stained with years of inattention.

Flames licked along the frame of the tailoring shop next door, the carved wooden sign hanging by a broken link of rusted chain.

A group of people sat huddled outside, the wailing of a woman piercing the night as the rumble sounded again, the east wall of the building exploding in a shower of splinters and crashing beams.

“Great, this is just fuckin’ perfect.” Gregory turned and crossed the room in three-wide steps, the door slamming shut behind him as he went to investigate. The humans he could give a shit less about, the reason why the only tailoring shop for miles had just exploded out of thin air was far more interesting.

*****

Dean was on his fifth beer, Sam still trying (unsuccessfully) to get a hold of Gregory. Or Madeline. Hell, he’d take Crowley right about now. The witch was known for being aloof and not terribly forthcoming with her information, but if her text had referred them to Gregory, it didn’t bode well for the brothers.

Along with the text, Madeline had sent a couple of image files - but either she hadn’t had enough data for them to transfer properly, or the wifi in the bunker was being unusually spotty; the files were blank - tiny white text alerting Sam that the files were downloading. Problem was, there had been zero progress in the several hours it had been since he’d first received her message.

Shoving back from the table, Dean stood - the screeching of the chair against the polished floor alerting Sam. Frowning, concerned, when his brother reached for his jacket and took off towards the garage - Sam followed along behind, a book on ancient beings still clutched in his large hands.

“Did you, uh..-- where ya headed?”

Dean didn’t stop or turn around but instead threw some back-handed comment over his shoulder about figuring this damned situation out.

“I’ll be damned if I just sit here and wait for people to bring us information. Sure, Gregory has been helpful. And the girl has her uses too - but I can’t just sit here and wait for the world to implode - AGAIN.”

“I’ll let you know if I find anything.”

The heavy steel door closing behind the eldest Winchester left Sam in the bunker with nothing but his books and his thoughts - neither of which had helped up until this point.

Scrubbing his hands across his face, he yawned - dropping the book of lore on the war table, the tea-stained pages falling open to an entry on Berserkers. Sauntering off to his room, Sam had convinced himself that sleep was the answer and perhaps that’s all he needed to gain a fresh perspective. Hell, maybe he’d wake up and this entire situation will have just been a bad dream.

Problem was, Sam lived his nightmares every day - and he doubted any of that was about to change.

 “SWEET HOME ALABAMA BUH DUNNA DUN DUNNA!.... HM HM… HOME TO YOU!” Dean was thumping his hands against Baby’s steering wheel as he sang, his head bobbing as the rain outside slapped against the outside of his beloved car and her tires sending sprays of icy water toward the sidewalk that was abandoned in the storm. Dean had been driving for nearly ten hours now, and while he had no true destination in mind, he had been checking his phone at least once an hour for an update from Sam, or perhaps an answer from Gregory. “Son of a bitch…” Dean swore and tossed his phone in the place where his brother usually sat. He had no idea where he was going or what he was planning to do, but he hated sitting in idle waiting for someone else to solve his problems. Turning down the music now, Dean straightened himself in his seat as he drove and turned off county road that merged onto a highway that was eerily barren of travelers, his granny smith eyes narrowed on the dark stretch of asphalt ahead when a chiming from his phone took his attention away from the road for the briefest of moments.

[Good Witch]: Hey, sorry for the disappearing act. I need to go for a while. Back home. Keep out of this and lay low for a while. Something big is coming. Something bad and I think it knows we’re on to it. Take care of yourself, Deano

Narrowing his eyes, Dean swore and turned his attention back to the inky black stretch ahead of him, his foot heavy on the pedal and a roar sounding from beneath the Impala’s hood. “Lay low. Right. You can lay low, Witch. I’m going to find whatever’s doing this and I’m going to fucking kill--”

SCCCCREEEEEEEECH! CRASH!

A direct hit from the driver’s side of the Impala sent the vehicle flipping and spinning across the four-lane road and crashing through the guard rail on the other side. Dean’s head cracked off of his window and darkness loomed before his eyes, the last view of light was a pale hand reaching through the window and gripping the front of his jacket. He felt the pressure of being pulled briefly but the pain wracking his body and colours dancing before his vision quickly had Dean losing his state of consciousness.

**

Two hundred some odd miles away, Sam was nose deep in a book that was very roughly translated from an archaic, long dead language to English. It had been transcribed by the Men of Letters but whoever had done it hadn’t done a very good job of it. “This is nothing but… vague guesses and assumptions.” Sam sighed as he spoke to himself and let the weathered tome slap shut, the smell of aging parchment filling his nostrils as he did. Standing up and stretching from where he’d sat in one of the library’s plush leather chairs; Sam groaned and turned his head from side to side, the satisfactory popping of joints easing the tension in his neck and shoulders slightly, he was getting far too old for all of this shit. Easing his phone from his pocket again, Sam checked the screen and frowned. No missed calls and no new texts, this wasn’t like Dean and it had him worried.

“Dammit Dean... fuck it, maybe Ro knows something.” While Rowena hadn’t always been on team ‘Free Will 2.0’, after she had died, and then came back she’d adopted a vaguely different tune. While Sam didn’t completely trust her, it was better than relying on Crowley or trying to find Madeline again. If Sam knew Rowena, which he did, he knew that texting her was a moot point and thus opted to call, the phone held to his ear as a ringback tone that sounded like a rusty bagpipe screeched in his ear to the point that he held the phone away slightly. “And here I thought those things went out of style in 2006,” Sam muttered under his breath and sighed in relief when the melodic voice on the other end was more than just a voicemail.

“Ah, little Sammy, how are you darling?” Rowena’s voice was a purr, though it was far from sensual; if anything she was taunting him, trying to poke the proverbial bear.

“I’m fine Rowena. I need your help.” Sam knew he wouldn’t live down asking her for help but he’d run out of options since Madeline had stopped answering her phone hours ago after one very vague text about needing to go back home for a while.

“Ooh, is Sammy asking for my help? How delightful, of course, I’d absolutely love to help you. What with after you saved my wee little sausage and slammed the devil back into his box how could I not? What seems to be the problem, petal?”

Sam could hear the mirth in Rowena’s voice and he wanted nothing more than to hang up on her after offering the witch some very choice words, but as the old word went -- desperate times called for desperate measures, even Bobby -- who had come with them through the veil of the world that Dean not-so-affectionately called the ‘upside down’ -- had agreed to work with the witch on the condition that she stop calling him ‘Bobbykins’.

“Dean left a few days ago to try and track down that freak of nature that Crowley calls his nephew Gregory. I didn’t even know that Crowley had siblings in which to give him a Nephew but that is beside the point. I can’t get a bead on him and Dean stopped answering his phone. We’re up to our waist in deep shit and I’m worried that whatever we’ve been hunting might have found him first.”

Sam spoke in one large rush of air and when he finished he was greeted by the tinkling sound of Rowena’s ever-amused laughter, her accent lilting and soft. “Ah, I see, so Dean’s on a hunting trip and hasn’t been home in a few days, is that it, darling?” Rowena knew the words would slap Sam in the face and so she continued before her jab could really sink in.

“I can scry for him and that beast of a car that he drives. Are you at the bunker? I can be there in ten minutes. Bye, for now, ~” Before Sam could even ask her questions, the line had gone dead and he was left to swear and shove his phone back into his pocket before he grew the urge to throw it across the room.

“Perfect. Just perfect.”

**

As the flames licked into the obsidian sky, Gregory stood before the shop, gaze narrowed in suspicious scrutiny, rolling his eyes as a woman near him ran over to claw at his arm, he turned to meet her face and lifted a lip in a mocking snarl.

“What, woman. What?”

Startled by the clearly inhuman eyes that had met her own, the woman stumbled and tripped over her words, a tongue dragging nervously over cracked and bleeding lips. Even in the dark Gregory could see that she was filthy, her teeth the colour of tombstones and her eyes sunk into her skull.

“Please! My child is in there! You have to get him! Can’t you hear him crying?!”

The fact that Gregory had not picked up on anything other than the crackling fire and exploding support beams even with his keen hearing told him that whoever this woman was, she was lying and all it took was the flashing of his eyes to read the deception that played within her own.

“You mistake me for one of these humans, and doubly as someone who gives a shit about what’s happening here. This entire town could burn to cinders for all I care. But you, you’re not a human, you’re just hiding in the skin of one. Demons I can deal with but you fae will do all manner of nasty things to get your rocks off, won’t you? Make yourself scarce before I throw you into that burning building you set alight. And here I thought I had a clue.”

Sighing as the glamoured creature hissed and took off at an odd loping jog, Gregory narrowed his eyes at the rising flames and looked around; the humans that had once stood outside of the building had returned to their homes, the village small enough that the fire wouldn’t leap to another building and the fall season wet enough that the heavy clouds in the sky would open up with rain and douse the combustion before it could cause more harm. Glancing down at where the Fae had gripped the arm of his suit, Gregory was dismayed to find the material charred and blackened, a grip that would have normally seared a human to the bone.

“Always has to be the suit. Why is it always the fucking suit.”

Kicking a chunk of burning embers back toward the billowing inferno, Gregory turned and made his way back toward the inn, shadows enveloping him as he walked until he had disappeared from view -- leaving any who had seen the act full of questions that would never be answered.

“AHHHHHHH!” THUD

“Oh… god, my spleen. Why.”

Gregory landed on the other side of the summoning ring with a painful thud, a bruising ache blooming throughout his lower back and ass. Staring up at where he was, he noticed the intricate devil’s trap carved and gilded into the ceiling. Someone took their demonology very seriously.

“...Fancy meeting you here, Sam. Ugh… I think you broke my ass.”

“I’ll be breaking a lot more unless you tell me where my brother is and what your part in this hunt we’re stuck doing is. It’s funny how every time a new body pops up, you’re right there with it.”

Sam’s baritone voice echoed throughout the hidden holding cell within the bunker, pacing around the large devil’s trap that duplicated the one that had been carved into the ceiling with the help of Madeline’s magic several months ago.

“You think I’m killing all of these lily assed humans for shit and gigs? Really? Oh jesus, that smarts… ah..” Rolling onto one hip, Gregory slowly pulled himself to his feet. He was definitely way too old to be getting yanked around like a yo-yo without consent.

“All I know is it ain’t human and it’s not from my neck of the woods. Fae maybe, something extra fuckin’ spooky, even for your thrill-seeking asses.” Dusting off the tail end of his suit jacket, Gregory sighed and gave up on saving it, pulling the expensive silk-lined piece off and letting it fall to the floor, the sleeves of his black button-down rolled up over his elbows to reveal dark, surreal tattoos that covered every inch of his arms -- Sam was willing to bet that the demon before him was covered completely in ink like that.

“Alternatively, if you hadn’t ripped me halfway across the globe I probably could have texted you that there’s high supernatural activity even in Ireland where I just was before you -- again, I’ll repeat myself -- ripped me through a portal like a fucking lesser demon!” Gregory rarely raised his voice, but when he did it left an impact; Sam’s hair on the back of his neck standing up and a gut-deep spike of fear causing goosebumps to cover his arms. Gregory’s face had briefly morphed, a fearsome visage having replaced the almost boyishly handsome features he generally had.

“That being said. Sure, Sam, I’ll try to help you despite your utter lack of respect. But first, why is Rowena wearing a swanky ball gown in your dungeon? I’m not one to judge kinks but… well.” The impish smirk on Gregory’s face earned him a roll of Sam’s eyes, but from the corner, he heard Rowena choke back a small laugh, and that was good enough for him.

**

“Wakey wakey…that’s it, good boy.”

Dean’s eyes rolled and twitched beneath fluttering eyelids and he slowly regained consciousness, a bright light searing into his pupils when he finally opened them completely. “Sonova…” His voice was lacking its usual bravado in exchange for a hoarse, barely-there whisper and his windpipe felt like he had swallowed fire.

“Ah, the prodigal son returns to the land of the living.”

Glancing around as panic and anger set in, Dean growled and forced himself to sit up, his joints and muscles screaming at the pain that followed his hasty movement. “Where am I?” This time when he spoke, his words were a bit clearer; the pain in his chest ignored in lieu of glaring angrily out at whatever had been speaking to him. He couldn’t see in the dim lighting of the corridor but the walls were made of packed earth and the musty smell in the air told Dean that he was somewhere deep underground.

“Where are you? Oh, ah, a cave, of course, or… whatever it is you humans call these things. I would have taken you somewhere more open but the King gets what the King wants. Not sure what he wants with you, though, you’re awfully...pale.”

From the depths of shadows that strained against the torch-light, a tall creature with a complexion that was obsidian in it’s darkest form allowed himself to be seen. Eyes the colour of violets with the pupils of a serpent shone from the depths of black sockets and in the jumping light of the fire, Dean could see that this creature, whatever it was, had trails of opalescent, oil-slick scales highlighting his face, shoulders, and arms.

“You a shapeshifter? Never seen one be so ugly, gotta say.” Dean grunted out the insult and finally used the bars in front of him to pull himself to his feet. “Why am I here?” Dean had a sneaking suspicion but he preferred to play dumb in times like these, if for any reason than to rile up his captor.

“A shape...what? Ugh, you humans are so close-minded. Do I look like some skin-swapping mongrel from up above? No, I do not. You are here because you are very nosy, and his highness does not like it when nosy things stick their ugly little noses into his affairs.”

“Who are you calling’ ugly pal? You look like a piece of burnt toast and a pile of crap had sex and shit you out.”

Dean’s insult only served to make the creature laugh; the sound elegant and laced at its edges with a quiet, rasping hiss.

“You are a feisty one. I am beginning to see why he is so interested in you. In fact, sit tight, I will fetch him so that I can be rid of your fleshy stench.”

Dean watched as the willowy creature slipped back into the darkness, straining to hear and waiting for the sound of its footsteps to fade away completely.

“I’m getting too old for this shit,” Dean grunted and ran his hands over the makeshift cage, a knuckle-rapping against one of the bars, brows shooting up when he realized it was hollow. “Bamboo?” Shaking his head at the idea, Dean lowered himself to the floor and braced his weight with the palms of his hands before lifting both of his legs and striking his boots against the joints of the cage. It took several blows but slowly, the bamboo reeds snapped and splintered under his force. Shoving what he could out of the way, he scrambled to his feet and groaned as the real paint set in and shot its way through his weary legs. No matter how badly his body felt, he forced himself to keep moving, his hands used as a guide to lead him through the bowels of the dark caverns.

***

Just over four thousand miles away, Madeline shivered and pulled a thick, fur lined hood up and close to her features. The fur smelled of sage and cedar; most likely to hide the stench of the archaic methods of tanning used in the village that she stood in.

“Well girl, get inside, middle of fuckin’ winter and you’re out there shakin’ like an arctic hare hidin’ from an osprey!” Einar’s voice was deep and booming, a rare lilt of amusement dancing on the edges of his words. “Here, supper.” A heavy thud alerted Madeline to the large wooden bowl that had been set on an equally large table in the center of Einar’s tent. He had the largest in the village, the arcing supports made from the bones of whales and something even larger that had gone black with age.

“Right, yeah…” Shoving herself away from the entrance of the tent, she let the thick deer hide fall back over the opening and slowly shrugged herself out of the large fur coat that she had been given upon arriving.

“Everything looks exactly the same, like out of a picture. Gosh, it feels like it’s been forever since I’ve been here.”

From the other side of the table, Einar snorted and puffed at a carved bone pipe that was clamped firmly between his lips. “You’re barely over a century, girl, blink of an eye. Of course, nothing has changed. Now sit down and eat and we’ll talk about how to save those humans you seem to be so enamored with.”

Madeline wanted to argue and defend her friendship; she wanted to tell her grandfather that they were hardly friends, let alone something worth being enamored with but she knew if she told him that, their discussion would be off the table. Einar reserved his knowledge for those he thought were worth it, and if he caught air that Sam and Dean were hardly considered her friends, he’d sooner talk about the weather, or ask her when the last time she’d gone hunting for caribou was so with a sigh, she lowered herself into the hand made chair and pulled the bowl of rabbit stew closer to her. It smelled delicious -- she could at least give him that much.

“So, tell me about how these boys stumbled across something this old and angry?”

CHAPTER FOUR

TAGS: @jamielea81 @wings-of-a-raven

[nightmare-afton-cosplay]

Houses For Sale in Goshen, MA

Fuller Rd, Goshen, MA

Price: $50000

Beautiful mostly rectangular building lot on queiet country street. Nice site for your new home. Fifteen minutes to Northampton.

Overlook, Goshen, MA

Price: $4000

small wooded lot. town recognized as “residential undevelopable”. Walking distance to hammond Pond. lot 682

9 Overlook Rd, Goshen, MA

Price: $9900

>44 acre wooded lot. Town recognized as “Res Potentially Developable Land”. Lot 635.

18 W Shore Dr, Goshen, MA

Price: $979500

This Single-Family Home is located at 18 West Shore Drive, Goshen, MA. 18 W Shore Dr is in the 01032 ZIP code in Goshen, MA. The average listing price for ZIP code 01032 is $181,080. 18 W Shore Dr has 4 beds, 5 baths, approximately 4,000 square feet, and was built in 1952

75 S Main St, Goshen, MA

Price: $214900

Beautiful Large Cape,Large Wrap around deck W/ Fenced in Yard for your dogs. Almost 1700. Square Feet of living space. Plenty of bathrooms two full Baths & one 1/2 bath. First Floor Master BR, 2 Additional bedrooms on the 2nd Floor with a Full bath. Half Bath in Basement. Storage for outdoor equipment in basement. Hardwood Floors in good shape.A lot of House for the value.Close to the DAR State Park, 15 minutes to Florence Center. 22-25 Minutes to Easthampton.Schedule a showing Today !!

60 Main St, Goshen, MA

Price: $210000

Wonderful updated cape on almost 2 acres! Nice floor plan with hardwood floors through-out. Beautiful new full bath with ceramic tile floors. Dining room has pellet stove hook up. Gorgeous country style front porch, a huge yard full of perennials and Goshen stone work. Covered rear patio with hot tub. 2 Car detached garage with wood stove and an awesome finished room above, offering a dry bar! Garage also has 220 electrical, set up for three phase. Too many updates to list newer roof, hot water heater, oil tank and more. Located close to all area amenities, DAR state forest, trail sy stems for hiking, biking, atvs and snowmobiles. Easy commute to Northampton

West St, Goshen, MA

Price: $30000

Beautiful possible building lot. Level, with mature trees. Great country location on paved road. Small old cottage on property.

567 East St, Goshen, MA

Price: $229500

Large custom range abutting DAR state forest. Home features 2 newer tiled full baths, one with jetted tub,laundry room,2 pellet stoves, elm and butternut panelling in living room. Exterior has newer metal roof and goshen stone walls and walks,and 8 stall barn

17 Cemetery Rd, Goshen, MA

Price: $369000

Historic site of the "Goshen Tunnels"!** Exceptionally well built 3500+ s/f yet to be finished home tastefully sited on a beautiful 3.2 acre lot*. The exterior of the house is completed to weather but the interior is only sheetrocked, giving the buyer the flexibility of color choices. The current first floor plan is designed with a large eat-in kitchen a formal dining room and large living room that overlooks the expansive yard and an additional room that could be a first floor master suite. The 1200 sq. ft second floor plan is plumbed for a single full bath that could be part of a master suite with the potential for an additional one/two bedrooms or a large game room. There is also a renovated first floor wing that has a full bath that could be an "au-pair" or "mother-in-law" apartment. This property has enormous potential in it's capacity to readily adapt to the needs of the discriminating buyer while offering the ability to be flexible in the final fit-up for any number of scenarios all at a very reasonable price. The hard work has been done, now all you need to bring is your finish ideas.

202 S Chesterfield Rd, Goshen, MA

Price: $224900

Beautiful setting with frontage on Hammond Pond. Swim or paddle from your own private dock. This comfortable 3 bedroom cottage has knotty pine living room with a fireplace, newer furnace, replacement windows, Nice outside space with beautiful stone work.Community well is seasonal,May – October.

28 Birch Rd, Goshen, MA

Price: $115000

Cozy and delightful three-season summer cottage completely renovated in a relaxed, sophisticated style! Exposed beams and new wide-plank wood floors throughout bring a rustic warmth to this restful home-away-from-home. Three bedrooms and fully renovated kitchen and bath make it easy to accommodate family and guests. Extra large lot, patio and screened porch extend the living and entertaining space even further. Small annual association fee includes use of clean and beautiful private lake with many amenities.

149 Berkshire Trl W, Goshen, MA

Price: $153000

COUNTRY LIVING, COME CHECK OUT THIS HUD HOME. TWO BEDROOM, TWO BATHROOM CAPE STYLE HOME WITH OVER 1500 SQ FT OF LIVING SPACE. THIS HOME HAS LARGE FIRST FLOOR BATHROOM AND TWO DECKS OFF BACK TO OVERLOOK SURROUNDING PASTURES. HUD Home. Sold AS IS by elec. bid only. Prop avail 03-02-17. Bids due by 03-11-17 11:59 PM Central Time then daily until sold. FHA Case #251-297844. Insured w Escrow Rpr. Eligible for FHA, cash, conventional. Buyer to verify all info. Finance Terms: FHA, Cash, Conventional. Eligible for 203K .”Equal Housing Opportunity”

from http://www.theochomesearch.com/houses-for-sale-in-goshen-ma/

[jacks-tracks]

Beach Bar Hue

I try to alternate my city visits with quiet beach spots, and so am staying here at BBH. Booked for 4 days, and will stay 8.  The coast beyond Hue is divided by a 40 K island, bridged at both ends, and consisting of a tall narrow sandbar with dunes and casarina hills. The only road runs the length, lined with shops and backed by little cement villages. The remarkable feature of this landscape is that is the chosen spot for a vast cemetary, 10,000 tombs facing west, the last resting place for overseas Vietnamese who want to be buried in their homeland. Tombs range from simple cement posts to elaborate mausoleums. All graves are above ground, and cover the hillside in a miles long city of the dead.

   Beach Bar Hue.. is an off season resort, on the sea side beach. the main building is a huge Hacienda, surrounded by large villas. Lesser buildings were single cottages,but have been divided into 4 bed dorms. There are some bamboo huts for the overflow. As it’s the off season I have a small room to myself, stuffed with 4 bunks, but having an ensuite bathroom, hot shower, open to the sky. the kind staff replaced the brick mattresses with deluxe inner spring singles from the palace. There are mosquitoes at night, can’t think of a place where I haven’t been bitten in 3 months, but there’s a net. With good food, an empty beach stret

ching for miles in both directions, thatched shade hut to sling my hammock daily, and a large spotless swimming pool(bloody cold!), and a small surf rolling in (also bloody cold, I’ve not swam), it’s the ultimate chill.

     on my second day here i walked West, hoping for a longer walk and getting more than that. good shelling (and leaving) and watching the almost vertical sand bank erode in rivulets, the very fine white sand running like slow mud.What i had thought was a ruined pier proved to be the support pilings for a set of pipes leading to an abandoned aquaculture operation. A mile further on, looking for a way up the 20 foot bank, i came to another beached boat and an extensive erosion control embankment. Meter square cement blocks, covered the slope out to the low tide line and stretched 200 meters west. Effective, as this was the only place where the sea had not nibbled away at the dunes. Easy access up, and i found myself, via a little cement road, in a small village. According to my map, if I cut inland i would reach the Main road to the east.  Hmmm... map makers was a bit off. i did cut across the peninsula, anddid find the road, but nowhere near the indicated point. Happily i di find a little market, where 3 excited ladys sold me some fruit. One commented that i was in good shape for an old guy, “Not a Buddha belly”. Some English spoken as you can see. i lloked for a cafe and found one selling Sprite, a cold drink on what was now a hot day. Those Canada pins on my hat are invaluable icebreakers, giving the locals a chance to show their friendliness. I become an identifiable object. no one has a clue where Cananda is, though they know it’s very cold, and..that i am not from America.

   Still going West up the only street zipping with motorcycles, I saw a wedding party at a reception hall, a cemented civic park, and an opening in the buildings that gave me a view of the inner harbour. 60 foot dragger boats , rafted by 10′s, near bamboo roofed sampans , all in protected waters. The island forms a huge basin, 40 miles long. Alongside the road were occasional tombs. I went up the stairs to what i thought  was a temple,past the bronze cauldrons, 6 foot tall brass birds, the usual naga lined staircase, under the ceramic  decorated pillared arches to a top platform. A ceramic frescoed, red pillared, gold trimmed open sided building, held a marble tomb, fronted by a 6 foot marble plaque with a huge brass letter in Chinese. Not a temple, the final resting place of some very rich person.

   As I went West, looking for some signage indicating the road to BBH, I increasingly felt that I was going the wrong way. When i did find a sign, it pointed back the way i’s come..”400 meters”. like the map it was a bit inaccurate. i did everal 440 meters, and finally just took the first left up over the peninsula. Found myself in another village, where friendly people waved and suspicious dogs glared.  Asked for directions but got none tlll a fellow having coffee with his pals pointed East..”1 K”  It was all of that, along a little used road past the cemetery, finally rising up into the casarina forest. I came to the abandoned Aquaculture  project, 6 massive pits (20 by 40 meters, 10 meters deep) lined with plastic, laid with pipes and  sprinklers, dry and abandoned. Behind steel gated cement walls were an office block, machine shop, parking lot,warehouse and packing plant. some one spent millions. The pumps were rusted solid, generators yanked out of their sheds, and equipment stores looted down to odd lengths of pipe. Thousands of acres of the inshore estuary have been stripped of the mangrove forests, diked, netted and turned to fish and shrimp farming. no pumps, pipes, etc, just the tides. Cheap and an environmental disaster. Mind you the Aquaculture would have used fish feed from unsustainable ocean sources... so...    Leg weary but satisfied, i walked the short distance left back to my hotel gate..Phew!                                                                                                   

[biofunmy]

$400,000 Homes in California – The New York Times

Fresno | $409,000

A 1935 single-story house with three bedrooms and two bathrooms, on a 0.16-acre lot.

Taylor-Wheeler, a company founded in Fresno in 1927, built this Tudor-style cottage in what is now a residential neighborhood of vintage houses and gardens less than four miles northwest of downtown. Elementary schools, a high school, Fresno City College and Gazebo Gardens, a nursery that dates to 1922, are all within easy walking distance. A shopping mall is less than two miles east, and the Fresno Yosemite International Airport is a 15-minute drive.

Size: 1,996 square feet

Price per square foot: $205

Indoors: The seller, a designer, made infrastructural and surface improvements, inside and out, most evidently in the colorful custom wall and ceiling treatments, updated kitchen and bathrooms and refinished brick and hardwood floors. She also worked on landscaping and hardscaping the grounds to create continuity with the gabled, fairy-tale architecture.

Passing through a vestibule with an ornamental niche, you enter a living room with faux-finished plaster walls and ceiling and an elaborate tiled fireplace. An original pointed arched window with dozens of panes dominates the front-facing wall. Next to this room is a formal dining room, followed by a sunny breakfast nook with built-in cabinets, and a narrow kitchen. Both sides of the kitchen are lined in pale wood cabinets with decorative hardware and blue-and-white-tile countertops. Decorative tile is used on backsplashes, and the appliances include a Wolf range with six gas burners.

A breakfast bar divides the kitchen from a brick-floored sitting room with bead-board walls and a ceiling that are painted glossy white. French doors open to a den that can also serve as a third bedroom; the room has an electric fireplace and another set of French doors leading out to the backyard.

The master suite includes a bedroom with leaded glass double doors that open to a hallway with marble-and-terrazzo-tile floors. Doors along this corridor reveal a pair of closets (there is also a niche for a dresser). At the other end is the master bedroom, which includes double sinks set in a blue tile vanity top, a walk-in shower trimmed in floral tile and a bidet. A second bedroom has use of a hall bathroom with vintage aqua tile, patterned floral wallpaper, a combined tub and shower and a makeup vanity.

Outdoor space: A cottage garden ornaments the front, while the lush backyard includes a stone-and-brick patio and a gazebo-like outdoor kitchen with a grill, sink and refrigerator. A detached one-car garage and a fountain can also be found there.

Taxes: $4,908 (estimated)

Contact: Gene V. Gonzales, Iron Key Real Estate, 559-351-1645;

Fortuna | $440,000

A 1903 Victorian-style house with four bedrooms and two bathrooms, on a 0.2-acre lot.

This house, which is on the northwest side of town, two blocks from Main Street, has a rare amount of original detail — the flooring, woodwork, decorative glass and light fixtures have survived intact, and period patterns have been restored to the walls through hand painting. All of the mechanicals have been updated in the last 10 years, the foundation was reinforced and the roof replaced.

Fortuna is a city of more than 12,000 on the Eel River in Humboldt County, 10 miles east of the Pacific Ocean and 125 miles north of Mendocino. The area attracts lovers of redwoods and late-19th-century architecture. (Ferndale, a historic Victorian village, is 12 minutes southwest.)

Size: 2,843 square feet

Price per square foot: $155

Indoors: Passing through the front door, with its pane of original etched glass, you enter a living room with a wood-burning stove and several decorative wall patterns in paper, paint and tile. Millwork frames the windows and doorways from the floor to the carved ceiling cornices. To the right is a room with a bead-board wainscot that started out as a men’s parlor and is now used a study. Straight ahead is a central hall that includes a staircase with a spider web pattern carved into the base and a built-in sideboard. French doors on one side open to a hexagonal sunroom. On the other side is a formal dining room hand painted with green-, gold- and rose-colored floral borders. This room can be used as a fourth bedroom.

The central hall and dining room both connect to the kitchen, with its white-painted vintage cabinets and navy tile countertops. The central seating island is built around a four-burner range. Off the kitchen is a bathroom with a stained-glass window and a combined tub and shower.

The three upstairs bedrooms have carpeted floors and quirky configurations. The largest includes windows on five walls and a walk-in closet. The hall bathroom has a tub-and-shower combination.

Outdoor space: A rocking chair back porch looks out to a lawn bordered by tall hedges and planted with evergreens. The original carriage house has a restored foundation

Taxes: $5,500 (estimated)

Contact: Debi August, Coldwell Banker Six Rivers Real Estate, 707-498-6439;

Fort Jones | $429,000

A 1993 log home with three bedrooms and two bathrooms, on a 45.5-acre lot

Located 15 minutes southwest of Yreka, this Scott Valley house is in a county (Siskiyou) with 60 percent public park land and has views of Mount Shasta, about 50 miles southeast. Fort Jones, a city with some 700 people, is three and a half miles northeast and includes a market and several restaurants. A number of distilleries, breweries and eating places have opened in the surrounding area in the last several years, following in the tradition of the nearby Etna Brewing Company, which was founded in 1868.

Size: 2,001 square feet

Price per square foot: $214

Indoors: The seller bought the property three years ago and added built-in bookshelves, cabinetry and other decorative features in wood. Because the building faces south, it gets a great deal of winter sun.

The home can be entered from all four sides; the front door is near the parking area and opens to a hallway that leads to a large, double-height room at the back. This room has two sets of French doors opening to a covered deck that faces the mountains and windows that rise to a corrugated tin ceiling. A wood-burning stove sits between the French doors, and a kitchen with wood cabinets topped in granite occupies a corner. A staircase ascends to a lofted landing that contains a closet with a sliding barn door used to store recreational gear. French doors open from there to a bedroom and an en suite bathroom with wood floors and vaulted tin ceilings. The bathroom includes a claw-foot tub.

An additional two bedrooms with spruce log walls are off the downstairs hallway, along with a bathroom with a corner shower and a vessel sink attached to a retrofitted dresser with a mirror.

Outdoor space: The property includes rolling hills and usable dry pastureland.

Taxes: $4,700 (estimated)

Contact: Jim Peluso, Siskiyou Partners Real Estate, 530-340-1984;

For weekly email updates on residential real estate news, sign up here. Follow us on Twitter: @nytrealestate.

Sahred From Source link Real Estate

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[touristguidebuzz]

Wine Tourism Branches Out Beyond Tastings and Picnics

Vines at Rippon Vineyard on Lake Wanaka, Wanaka, Otago, New Zealand, represent one of a half-dozen lesser-known places for enjoying wine tourism that promise special thrills in 2018. Stuart Black / Bloomberg/robertharding/Robert Harding World Imagery

Skift Take: Like a helluva lot of other travelers, wine tourists want experiences and not just run-of-the vinery tastings. Sculptors, plunge pools, and lounges are just some of the relatively new samplings.

— Sean O'Neill

Wine tourism isn’t just expanding—it’s getting more creative in every corner of the globe, with more vine estates than ever wooing oenophiles with luxurious digs and experiences to indulge their grape-driven passions.

As always, superb wines and great estates are my first criteria for picking a region to escape to. But I try to look beyond wine cellar tastings and a chance to picnic in the vines; extra-special highlights include stunning and unusual landscapes to explore, delicious, creative, local cuisine to savor, and soothing rooms to sleep in when my taste buds need a break.

My crop of six destinations for 2018 delivers all of that – and more.

For Adventurers

Bodega Colomé, Salta, Argentina

Civilized Mendoza is the Napa Valley of Argentina, but adventure lurks in Salta Province, the high-altitude wine region tucked into the rugged northwest corner of the country—near Bolivia and Chile. It’s the epicenter for fragrant white torrontes, savory, concentrated malbecs, and a spectacular landscape of giant cacti, rust-colored rock formations, and the snow-topped Andes.

Remote Bodega Colomé, a 19th century winery purchased by Swiss multimillionaire and art collector Donald Hess in 2001 (he also owns Hess Collection in Napa), is the ultimate vine escape-from-it-all. A four-and-a-half hour drive from the city of Salta on teeth-rattling dirt roads, it’s a unique Shangri-La of wine, art, and 160,000 acres for hiking, biking, and oohing and aahing.

Besides producing a top malbec from a vineyard at an elevation of 10,207 feet, Hess has created a stunning museum devoted to the light installations of American artist James Turrell.

Starting Nov. 1, the winery is reopening Casa del Fundador, its 9-room luxury hotel (bodegacolome.com; reservas@bodegacolome.com; $250) in a typical tile-roofed estancia building. The large, airy rooms in earth tones open on a courtyard with a Zen-like fountain, and yes, there’s a fine restaurant.

For Wine Hipsters

Jackalope Hotel at Willow Creek Vineyard

World famous pinot noir and chardonnay vineyards alternate with white sand beaches, natural hot springs, towering gum trees (and three of the country’s top 10 golf courses) in this easy-to-get-to wine region only an hour from Melbourne.

The new draw is the curated-cool Jackalope Hotel at Willow Creek Vineyard (jackalopehotels.com; from $500), which opened earlier this year and has already won awards for its sumptuous design. Picture a smart, urban vibe with eerie neon hallways, an electric blue billiard table, black infinity pool, and deep-soak stone Japanese baths—as well as delicious wines. Those wanting to be ahead of the pack take note: Many superb local wineries are little known outside Australia now, but their wines will arrive internationally soon.

Other wineries to visit: Moorooduc Estate, Paringa Estate, experimental Quealy Winemakers, and especially Two Minutes by Tractor, which also has an award-winning wine list in its restaurant.

For Drama Seekers

Mt. Etna, Sicily, Italy

A romantic, smoking volcano to climb, unusual grapes, Greek temple ruins, pristine beaches, and some of today’s hottest great wines combine to make this vino destination packed with drama and history. Researchers have just discovered that wine has probably been made for 6,000 years in Sicily, the largest island in the Mediterranean just off the toe of Italy’s boot. Until recently, though, its reds, whites, and rosés got little respect.

Now, despite the looming possibility of periodic eruptions, the Mt. Etna region has become the symbol of Sicily’s wine resurgence. The unique lava and ash terrain has drawn dozens of top winemakers from Italy and around the world. Key wineries to visit include Benanti, Tenuta delle Terre Nere, Vino di Anna, Planeta Sciara Nuova.

My pick for a place to stay is Monaci delle Terre Nere (monacidelleterrenere.it; $250 to $750), a romantic former monastery that’s now a chic, 40-acre eco-bio retreat on Mt. Etna’s slopes that offers yoga overlooking the vines, rooms with lava stone walls, and views of both Mt. Etna and the sea.

For Foodies

Single Thread Farm in Sonoma, California

Sonoma’s laid-back vibe is often overshadowed by Napa’s glitz and glamor. But Sonoma definitely tops its twin when it comes to diversity of wines, with superb chardonnays, pinot noirs, syrahs, and a dozen other varietals. Dozens of gourmet farms, craft breweries, cideries, and distilleries make it a paradise for good foodie living.

The reason to visit now is much buzzed-about Single Thread Farms, a combo restaurant, inn, farm, and tiny winery that opened last December in Healdsburg. It takes Sonoma’s relaxed wine luxury to a new level.

Set in a former post office building off Healdsburg’s charming central plaza, the restaurant and inn are also the perfect spot to explore nearby wineries in Russian River, Dry Creek, and Alexander valleys, and new sophisticated tasting “lounges” around the square.

The crown jewel of Single Thread is its restaurant, where chef Kyle Connaughton’s 11-course Japan-meets-California menu uses ingredients sourced from the Single Thread farm. The five rooms (singlethreadfarms.com; from $900; dinner $295) reflect a Japanese ryokan-inspired aesthetic, and include a Teforia Leaf tea infuser in your room.

Best nearby wineries to visit: Ridge Lytton Springs, J Vineyards, Ramey Wine Cellars, Jordan, Copain.

For Nature Lovers

Central Otago, New Zealand

Apparently everyone in the U.S. wants to travel to whistle-clean nature haven New Zealand—tourism visits in 2017 are up 24 percent over last year. But what visitors may not know is that there’s more to the country’s wines than sauvignon blanc, and there are so many gorgeous wine regions it’s tough to single out one. For sheer grandeur of scenery—stunning mountains, pristine blue lakes—and proximity to such extreme sports as bungee jumping or ziplining, it’s hard to beat pinot noir-centric Central Otago. Near Queenstown, it’s also the gateway to the famous Milford Track, rated the finest walk in the world.

This is the kind of place where a tiny winery, Mount Michael, offers private heli-tastings on a mountaintop instead of in a tasting room; last year the winery opened the region’s only luxury boutique B&B among the vines.

The ultimate luxury place to stay, though, is Azur Lodge, which has nine chic private villas with superb lake and mountain views. [From $850; www.azur.co.nz]

Squeeze in visits to these wineries: Peregrine, Rippon, Burn Cottage, Mt. Difficulty, Two Paddocks, Quartz Reef, and Felton Road.

For Fans of Art and Rosé

Chateau La Coste, Provence, France

If you think Provence and its rosés are ho-hum clichés, think again. The region is as movie-set beautiful as ever, and art and wine estate Château La Coste near Aix-en-Provence offers a new reason to go: sophisticated Villa La Coste, a 28-suite hotel with views of its organic vineyards that was finally finished this year (chateau-la-coste.com; from $800).

When Irish developer and art collector Patrick McKillen bought the 600-acre estate 15 years ago, he began inviting A-list sculptors and architects to create works for sites in the woods and alongside the vines. Big names include Frank Gehry, Tadao Ando, Ai Weiwei, Renzo Piano, Damien Hirst, Jean Nouvel, Tracey Emin, and many more.

The hotel’s elegant minimalist rooms open onto spacious private terraces with expansive views of the vines. Live-fire cooking maestro Francis Mallmann opened a restaurant there this summer, while a three-star French chef cooks up French classics for a more formal dining room.

You could visit other local wineries, but with a “visionary” spa, art walks, private plunge pools, library bar, winetasting courses, films screened in the vineyard, and cutting-edge cuisine, face it: There’s really no reason to leave.

©2017 Bloomberg L.P.

This article was written by Elin McCoy from Bloomberg and was legally licensed through the NewsCred publisher network. Please direct all licensing questions to legal@newscred.com.